10754	----	New Colored Toys LITTLE SARAH [Illustration: Front Cover] [Illustration] Little Sarah she stood by her grandmother's bed, "And what shall I get for your breakfast?" she said; "You shall get me a Johnny-cake: quickly go make it, In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it." So Sarah she went to the closet to see If yet any meal in the barrel might be. The barrel had long time been empty as wind; Not a speck of the bright yellow meal could she find. [Illustration] But grandmother's Johnny-cake--still she must make it, In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it. She ran to the shop; but the shopkeeper said, "I have none--you must go to the miller, fair maid; For he has a mill, and he'll put the corn in it, And grind you some nice yellow meal in a minute; But run, or the Johnny-cake, how will you make it, In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it?" [Illustration] Then Sarah she ran every step of the way; But the miller said, "No, I have no meal to-day; Run, quick, to the cornfield, just over the hill, And if any be there, you may fetch it to mill. Run, run, or the Johnny-cake, how will you make it, In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it?" [Illustration] She ran to the cornfield--the corn had not grown, Though the sun in the blue sky all pleasantly shone. "Pretty sun," cried the maiden, "please make the corn grow." "Pretty maid," the sun answered, "I cannot do so." [Illustration] "Then grandmother's Johnny-cake--how shall I make it, In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it?" Then Sarah looked round, and she saw what was wanted; The corn could not grow, for no corn had been planted. [Illustration] She asked of the farmer to sow her some grain, But the farmer he laughed till his sides ached again. "Ho! ho! for the Johnny-cake--how can you make it, In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it?" The farmer he laughed, and he laughed out aloud,-- "And how can I plant till the earth has been ploughed? Run, run to the ploughman, and bring him with speed; He'll plough up the ground, and I'll fill it with seed." [Illustration] Away, then, ran Sarah, still hoping to make it, In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it. [Illustration] The ploughman he ploughed, and the grain it was sown, And the sun shed his rays till the corn was all grown; It was ground at the mill, and again in her bed These words to poor Sarah the grandmother said: "You shall get me a Johnny-cake--quickly go make it, In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it." [Illustration: Back Cover] 
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20699	----	SOPHIE MAY'S LITTLE FOLKS' BOOKS. _Any volume sold separately._ =DOTTY DIMPLE SERIES.=--Six volumes. Illustrated. Per volume, 75 cents. Dotty Dimple at her Grandmother's. Dotty Dimple at Home. Dotty Dimple out West. Dotty Dimple at Play. Dotty Dimple at School. Dotty Dimple's Flyaway. =FLAXIE FRIZZLE STORIES.=--Six volumes. Illustrated. Per volume, 75 cents. Flaxie Frizzle. Little Pitchers. Flaxie's Kittyleen. Doctor Papa. The Twin Cousins. Flaxie Growing Up. =LITTLE PRUDY STORIES.=--Six volumes. Handsomely Illustrated. Per volume, 75 cents. Little Prudy. Little Prudy's Sister Susy. Little Prudy's Captain Horace. Little Prudy's Story Book. Little Prudy's Cousin Grace. Little Prudy's Dotty Dimple. =LITTLE PRUDY'S FLYAWAY SERIES.=--Six volumes. Illustrated. Per volume, 75 cents. Little Folks Astray. Little Grandmother. Prudy Keeping House. Little Grandfather. Aunt Madge's Story. Miss Thistledown. LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS. BOSTON. [Illustration: "MISS PATTY, ISN'T THIS THE LONGEST NIGHT YOU EVER SAW?"--Page 161.] DOTTY DIMPLE STORIES BY SOPHIE MAY. ILLUSTRATED DOTTY AT HER GRANDMOTHER'S LEE & SHEPARD BOSTON _DOTTY DIMPLE STORIES._ DOTTY DIMPLE AT HER GRANDMOTHER'S. BY SOPHIE MAY, AUTHOR OF "LITTLE PRUDY STORIES." Illustrated. BOSTON LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 10 MILK STREET Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, BY LEE AND SHEPARD, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. TO _SARAH G. PEIRCE_ CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. DOTTY'S PIN-MONEY, 7 II. PLAYING KING AND QUEEN, 23 III. THE WHITE TRUTH, 42 IV. DOTTY'S CAMEL, 57 V. A SAD FRIGHT, 68 VI. MAKING POETRY, 94 VII. A DAY ON THE SOFA, 109 VIII. WASHING THE PIG, 122 IX. A DARK DAY, 139 X. "THE END OF THE WORLD," 156 XI. CRAZY DUCKLINGS, 170 XII. "THE CHARLIE BOY," 182 DOTTY DIMPLE AT HER GRANDMOTHER'S. CHAPTER I. DOTTY'S PIN-MONEY Everything was very fresh and beautiful one morning in May, as if God had just made the world. The new grass had begun to grow, and the fields were dotted over with short, golden-topped dandelions. The three Parlin children had come to their grandmother's much earlier in the season than usual; and now on this bright Sabbath morning they were going to church. Dotty Dimple, otherwise Alice, thought the fields looked like her Aunt Maria's green velvet toilet-cushion stuck full of pins. The spiders had spread their gauzy webs over the grass, and the dew upon them sparkled in the sunshine like jewels. "Such nice tablecloths as they would have made for the fairies," thought Dotty, "if there only were any fairies." "The world is ever so much handsomer than it was a week ago," said Prudy, pointing towards the far-off hills. "I'd like to be on that mountain, and just put my hand out and touch the sky." "That largest pick," said Dotty, "is Mount Blue. It's covered with blueberries, and that's why it's so blue." "Who told you that?" asked Susy, smiling. "It isn't time yet for blueberries; and if it was, we couldn't see them forty miles off without a telescope." "Jennie Vance told me," said Dotty; "and she ought to know, for her father is the judge." By this time the children had reached the church, and were waiting on the steps for the rest of the family. It was pleasant to watch the people coming from up and down the street, looking so neat and peaceful. But when Jennie Vance drew near with her new summer silk and the elegant feather in her hat, Dotty's heart gave a quick double beat, half admiration, half envy. Jennie's black eyes were shining with vanity, and her nicely gaitered feet tripped daintily up the steps. "How d'ye do?" said she, carelessly, to Dotty, and swept by her like a little ship under full sail. "Jennie Vance needn't talk so about her new mother," whispered Prudy, "for she gives her fifty-two new dresses, one for every Sunday." Dotty's brow darkened. Just now it seemed to her one of the greatest trials in the whole world that the dress she wore had been made over from one of Prudy's. It was a fine white organdie with a little pink sprig, but there was a darn in the skirt. Then there was no feather in her hat, and no breastpin at her throat. Poor Dotty! She did not hear much of the sermon, but sat very quiet, counting the nails in the pews and the pipes in the organ, and watching old Mr. Gordon, who had a red silk kerchief spread over his head to guard it against the draught from the window. She listened a little to the prayers, it is true, because she knew it was wrong to let her thoughts wander when Mr. Preston was speaking to God. When the services were over, and she was going to her Sabbath school class, she passed Jennie Vance in the aisle. "Where are you going, Jennie?" said she. "Going home. My mamma says I needn't stay to say my lessons and miss a warm dinner." Jennie said this with such a toss of the head that Dotty longed to reply in a cutting manner. "It isn't polite to have warm dinners on Sunday, Jennie Vance! But you said your father had a _step-wife_, and perhaps she doesn't know!" "I didn't say my papa had a step-wife, Dotty Dimple." But this was all Jennie had time to retort, for Dotty now entered the pew where her class were to sit. Miss Preston was the teacher, and it was her custom to have each of her little pupils repeat a half dozen verses or so, which she explained to them in a very clear manner. The children did not always understand her, however; and you shall see hereafter how Dotty's queer little brain grew befogged. The last clause of one of her verses to-day was this:-- "The Lord loveth a cheerful giver." "Suppose," said Miss Preston, "there were two little girls living in a beautiful house, with everything nice to eat and wear, and there should come a poor man in rags, and beg for charity. One of the little girls is so sorry for him that she runs to her mamma and asks, as a favor, to be allowed to give him some of her Christmas money. The other little girl shakes her head, and says, 'O, sister what makes you do so? But if you do it _I_ must.' Then she pours out half her money for the beggar, but scowls all the while.--Which is the 'cheerful giver?'" "The first little girl. O, of course, Miss Preston." Then Dotty fell to thinking:-- "I don't have much to give away but just pieces of oranges; but I don't scowl when I do it. I'm a great deal more 'cheerful' than Jennie Vance; for I never saw her give away anything but a thimble after the pig had chewed it. 'There, take it, Lu Piper,' said she, 'for it pinches, and I don't want it.' I shouldn't think _that_ was very cheerful, I am sure." Thus Dotty treasured up the lesson for the sake of her friend. It was really surprising how anxious she was that Jennie should always do right. Now it happened that before the week was out a man came to Mr. Parlin's back door begging. Dotty wondered if it might not be the same man Miss Preston had mentioned, only he was in another suit of clothes. She and Jennie were swinging, with Katie between them, and Susy and Prudy were playing croquet. They all ran to see what the man wanted. He was not ragged, and if it had not been for the green shade over his eyes and the crooked walking-stick in his hand, the children would not have thought of his being a beggar. He was a very fleshy man, and the walk seemed to have taken away his breath. "Little maidens," said he, in gentle tones, "have you anything to give a poor tired wayfarer?" There was no answer, for the children did not know what to say. But the man seemed to know what to do; he seated himself on the door-step, and wiped his face with a cotton handkerchief. Little Katie, the girl with flying hair, who was sometimes called 'Flyaway,' looked at him with surprise as he puffed at every breath. "When um breeves," said she to Dotty, "seems's um _whissils_." "Come here, little maiden," said the beggar, pointing to Dotty; "you are the handsomest of all, and you may take this document of mine. It will tell you that I am a man of great sorrows." Dotty, very much flattered, took the paper from his hands. It was greasy and crumpled, looking as if it had been lying beside bread and butter in a dirty pocket. She gave it to Susy, for she could not read it herself. It was written by one of the "selectmen" of a far-away town, and asked all kind people to take pity on the bearer, who was described as "a poor woman with a family of children." Susy laughed, and pointed out the word "woman" to Prudy. "Why do you smile, little ladies? Isn't it writ right? 'Twas writ by a lawyer." "I will carry it in to my grandmother," said Susy; and she entered the house, followed by all the children. "Who knows but he's a _griller_?" said Jennie. "Lem _me_ see paper," cried Katie, snatching at it, and holding it up to her left ear. "O, dear!" sighed she, in a grieved tone; "it won't talk to me, Susy. I don't hear nuffin 'tall." "She's a cunning baby, so she is," said Dotty. "She s'poses writing talks to people; she thinks that's the way they read it." Grandmamma Parlin thought the man was probably an impostor. She went herself and talked with him; but, when she came back, instead of searching the closets for old garments, as Dotty had expected, she seated herself at her sewing, and did not offer to bestow a single copper on the beggar. "Susy," said she, "he says he is hungry, and I cannot turn him away without food. You may spread some bread and butter, with ham between the slices, and carry out to him." "What makes her so cruel?" whispered Dotty. "O, Grandma knows best," replied Prudy. "She never is cruel." "What makes you put on so much butter?" said Jennie Vance; "I wouldn't give him a single thing but cold beans." Dotty, whose Sunday school lesson was all the while ringing in her ears, looked at the judge's daughter severely. "Would you pour cold beans into anybody's hands, Jennie Vance? Once my mamma gave some preserves to a beggar,--quince preserves,--she did." Jennie only tossed her head. "I'm going to give him some money," continued Dotty, defiantly; "just as cheerfully as ever I can." "O, yes, because he called you the handsomest." "No, Jennie Vance; because _I_ am not stingy." "Um isn't stinchy," echoed Katie. "I've got some Christmas money here. I earned it by picking pins off the floor, six for a cent. It took a great while, Jennie, but _I_ wouldn't be selfish, like _some_ little girls." "Now, little sister," said Prudy, taking Dotty one side, "don't give your money to this man. You'll be sorry by and by." But there was a stubborn look in Dotty's eyes, and she marched off to her money-box as fast as she could go. When she returned with the pieces of scrip, which amounted in all to fifteen cents, the children were grouped about the beggar, who sat upon the door-step, the plate of sandwiches before him. "Here's some money, sir, for your sick children," cried Dotty, with an air of importance. "Blessings on your pretty face," replied the man, eagerly. Dotty cast a triumphant glance at Jennie. "Ahem! This is better than nothing," added the beggar, in a different tone, after he had counted the money. "And now haven't any of the rest of you little maidens something to give a poor old wayfarer that's been in the wars and stove himself up for his country?" There was no reply from any one of the little girls, even tender Prudy. And as Dotty saw her precious scrip swallowed up in that dreadfully dingy wallet, it suddenly occurred to her that she had not done such a very wise thing, after all. "Why don't you eat your luncheon, sir?" said Jennie Vance; for the man, after taking up the slices of bread and looking at them had put them down again with an air of disdain. "I thought, by the looks of the house, that Christians lived here," said he, shaking his head slowly. "Haven't you a piece of apple pie, or a cup custard, to give a poor man that's been in prison for you in the south country? Not so much as a cup of coffee or a slice of beefsteak? No. I see how it is," he added, wiping his face and rising with an effort; "you are selfish, good-for-nothing creeters, the whole of you. Here I've been wasting my time, and all I get for it is just dog's victuals, and enough scrip to light my pipe." With this he began to walk off, puffing. Dotty longed to run after him and call out, "Please, sir, give me back my money." But it was too late; and summoning all her pride, she managed to crush down the tears. "Tell the people in this house that I shake off the dust of my feet against them," wheezed the stranger, indignantly. "The dust of my feet--do you hear?" "What a wicked, disagreeable old thing!" murmured Jennie Vance. "Dish-gwee-bly old fing!" cried "Flyaway," nodding her head till her hair danced like little tufts of corn-silk. "I'm glad I didn't give him any of _my_ money," said Jennie, loftily. "So am I," returned Susy. Prudy said nothing. "I didn't see him shake his feet," said Dotty, changing the subject; "and the dust wouldn't come off if he did shake 'em." "Have you any more Christmas money left, Dotty," said Jennie, twirling her gold ring on her finger. "O, yes, ever so much at home. And I shall soon have more," added Dotty, with a great effort to be cheerful; "for people are always dropping pins." "I've got any quantity of scrip," pursued Jennie; "and I don't have to work for it, either." "O, dear," thought Dotty, "what's the use to be good? I 'sposed if I gave away my money _cheerfully_, they'd all feel ashamed of themselves; but they don't! I wish I had it back in my box, I do!" CHAPTER II. PLAYING KING AND QUEEN. "What are you hunting for on your hands and knees, Alice?" said grandmamma, next day. "O, nothing, only pins, grandma; but I can't find any. Isn't this a _hidden-mist_ carpet?" "No, dear; a _hit-and-miss_ carpet is made of rags. But what do you want of pins?" "She has given away what Aunt Ria paid her for Christmas," said Prudy, speaking for her; "she gave it all to the beggar." "Yes, she did; one, two, free, four, nineteen, tenteen," said Katie; "and the gemplum didn't love little goorls." "Why, Alice! to that man who was here yesterday?" Dotty was frowning at Prudy behind a chair. "Yes, 'm," she answered, in a stifled voice. "Were you sorry for him?" "No, ma'am." "Did you hear me say I did not believe he was in need of charity?" "Yes, 'm." Grandma looked puzzled, till she remembered that Alice had always been fond of praise; and then she began to understand her motives. "Did you suppose Jennie Vance and your sisters would think you were generous?" asked she, in a low voice. Dotty looked at the carpet, but made no reply. "Because, if that was your reason, Alice, it was doing 'your alms before men, to be seen of them.' God is not pleased when you do so. I told you about that the other day." Still the little girl did not understand. Her thoughts were like these: "Grandma thinks I'm ever so silly! Prudy thinks I'm silly! But isn't Jennie silly too? And O, she takes cake, all secret, out of her new mother's tin chest. I don't know what will become of Jennie Vance." Mrs. Parlin was about to say more, when Miss Flyaway, who had been all over the house in two minutes, danced in, saying, "the Charlie boy" had come! It was little lisping Charlie Gray, saying, "If you pleathe, 'm, may we have the Deacon to go to mill? And then, if we may, can you thpare uth a quart 'o milk every thingle night? Cauthe, if you can't, then you muthn't." Deacon was the old horse; and as Mr. Parlin was quite willing he should go to mill, Harry Gray came an hour afterwards and led him away. With regard to the other request, Mrs. Parlin had to think a few minutes. "Yes, Charlie," said she, at last; "you may have the milk, because I would like to oblige your mother; and you may tell her I will send it every night by the children." Now, Mrs. Gray was the doctor's wife. She was a kind woman, and kept one closet shelf full of canned fruit and jellies for sick people; but for all that, the children did not like her very well. Prudy thought it might be because her nose turned up "like the nose of a tea-kettle;" but Susy said it was because she asked so many questions. If the little Parlins met her on the street when they went of an errand, she always stopped them to inquire what they had been buying at the store, or took their parcels out of their hands and felt them with her fingers. She was interested in very little things, and knew how all the parlors in town were papered and carpeted, and what sort of cooking-stoves everybody used. Dotty hung her head when her grandmother said she wished her to go every night to Mrs. Gray's with a quart of milk. "Must I?" said she. "Why, grandma, she'll ask me if my mother keeps a girl, and how many teaspoons we've got in the house; she will, honestly. Mayn't somebody go with me?" "Ask me will I go?" said Katie, "for I love to shake my head!" "And, grandma," added Dotty, "Mrs. Gray's eyes are so sharp, why, they're so sharp they almost prick! And it's no use for Katie to go with me, she's so little." "O, I'm isn't _much_ little," cried Katie. "I's growing big." "I should think Prudy might go," said Dotty Dimple, with her finger in her mouth; "you don't make Prudy do a single thing!" "Prudy goes for the ice every morning," replied Mrs. Parlin. "I wish you to do as I ask you, Alice, and make no more remarks about Mrs. Gray." "Yes, 'm," said Dotty in a dreary tone; "mayn't Katie come too? she's better than nobody." Katie ran for her hat, delighted to be thought better than nobody. The milk was put into a little covered tin pail. Dotty watched Ruth as she strained it, and saw that she poured in not only a quart, but a great deal more. "Why do you do so?" said Dotty. "That's too much." "Your grandmother told me to," replied Ruth, washing the milk-pail. "She said 'Good measure, pressed down and running over.' That's her way of doing things." "But I don't believe grandma 'spected you to press it down and run it _all_ over. Why, there's enough in this pail to make a pound of butter. Come, Katie." "Let me do some help," said the little one, catching hold of the handle, and making the pail much heavier. Dotty endured the weight as long as she could; then, gently pushing off the "little hindering" hand, she said,-- "And now, as we go along, we might as well be playing, Flyaway." "Fwhat?" "Playing a play, dear. We'll make believe you're the queen with a gold crown on your head." Katie put her hand to her forehead. "O, no, dear; you haven't anything on your head now but the broadest-brimmedest kind of a hat; we'll _call_ it a crown. And I'm the king that's married to you." "O, yes, mallied." "And we're going--going--" "Rouspin," suggested Flyaway. "No; great people like us don't go raspberrying. Sit down here, Queenie, under this acorn tree, and I'll tell you; we're going to the castle." "O, yes, the cassil?" "Where we keep our throne, dear, and our gold dresses." "Does we have any gold dollies to the cassil?" "O, yes, Queenie; all sizes." "Does we have," continued Flyaway, winking slowly, "does we have--dip toast?" "Why, Queenie, what should we want of that? Yes, we can have dip toast, I s'pose; the girl can make it on the gold stove, with a silver pie-knife. But we shall have nicer things than ever you saw." "Nicer than turnipers?" "Pshaw! turnovers are nothing, Queenie; we shall give them to the piggy. We shall live on wedding cake and strawberries. Tea and coffee, and such low things, we shall give to ducks. O, what ducks they will be! They will sing tunes such as canaries don't know how. We'll give them our tea and coffee, and we'll drink--what d'ye call it? O, here's some." Dotty took up the pail. "You see how white it is; sugar frosting in it. Drink a little, it's so nice." "It tastes just like moolly cow's milk," said Flyaway, wiping her lips with her finger. "No," said Dotty, helping herself; "it's nectar; that's what Susy says they drink; now I remember." "Stop!" said a small voice in the ear of Dotty's spirit; "that is what I should call taking other people's things." "Poh!" said Dotty, sipping again; "it's grandpa's cow. When Jennie Vance takes cake, it's wicked, because--because it is. This is only play, you know." Dotty took another draught. "Come, Queenie," said she, "let's be going to the castle." Katie sprang up so suddenly that she fell forward on her nose, and said her foot was "dizzy." It had been taking a short nap as she sat on the stump; but she was soon able to walk, and shortly the royal pair arrived at the castle, which was, in plain language, a wooden house painted white. "So you have come at last," said Mrs. Gray, from the door-way. "They don't milk very early at your house--do they?" "No, ma'am, not so _very_." "Have you seen anything of my little Charlie?" "No, ma'am, not since a great while ago,--before supper." "How is your grandfather?" "Pretty well, thank you, ma'am." "No, gampa isn't," said Katie, decidedly; "he's deaf." "And what about your Aunt Maria? Didn't I see her go off in the stage this morning?" "Yes, 'm," replied Dotty, determined to give no more information than was necessary. "She's gone off," struck in Katie; "gone to Dusty, my mamma has." "Ah indeed! to Augusta?" repeated Mrs. Gray, thoughtfully. "Any of your friends sick there?" "No, ma'am," replied Dotty, scowling at her shoes. "She's gone," continued Katie, gravely, "to buy me Free Little Kittens." Mrs. Gray smiled. "I should think your mother could find kittens enough in this town, without going to Augusta. I thought I saw Horace on the top of the stage, but I wasn't sure." Dotty made no reply. "Hollis was," cried Katie, eagerly; "he goed to Dusty too. I fink they put Hollis in jail!" "In jail!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray, throwing up her hands. "He stealed, Hollis did," added Katie, solemnly. "Hush, Katie, hush!" whispered Dotty Dimple, seizing the child by the hand and hurrying her away. Mrs. Gray followed the children to the door. "What does she mean, Dotty! what can she have heard?" "She doesn't mean anything, ma'am," replied Dotty, beginning to run; "and she hasn't heard anything, either." Dotty's behavior was so odd, that Mrs. Gray's curiosity was aroused. For the moment she quite forgot her anxiety about her little Charlie, who had been missing for some time. "What made you say Horace stole?" said Dotty, as soon as they were out of hearing. "Hollis did," answered Katie, catching her breath; "he stealed skosh seeds out of gampa's razor cupbard." "What did Horace want of squash seeds?" "He eated 'em; I sawed him!" "There, you're the funniest baby, Katie Clifford! Now you've been and made Mrs. Gray think your brother's carried to jail." This was not quite true. Mrs. Gray had no idea Horace had been taken to jail; but she did fancy something had gone wrong at Mrs. Parlin's. She put on her bonnet and ran across the road to Mrs. Gordon's to ask her what she supposed Horace Clifford had been doing, which Dotty Dimple did not wish to hear talked about, and which made her run away when she was questioned. "I can't imagine," said Mrs. Gordon, very much surprised. "He is a frolicsome boy, but I never thought there was anything wicked about Horace." Then by and by she remembered how Miss Louise Parlin had lost a breastpin in a very singular manner, and both the ladies wondered if Horace could have taken it. "One never can tell what mischief children may fall into," said Mrs. Gray, rubbing her cheek-bone; "and that reminds me how anxious I am about my little Charlie; he ought to have been at home an hour ago." While Mrs. Gray was saying this in Mrs. Gordon's parlor, there was a scene of some confusion in Mr. Parlin's door-yard. "Who's this coming in at the gate?" cried Dotty. It was Deacon, but Deacon was only a part of it; the rest was two meal-bags and a small boy. The meal-bags were full, and hung dangling down on either side of the horse, and to each was tied a leg of little Charlie Gray. It was droll for a tiny boy to wear such heavy clogs upon his feet, but droller still to see him resting his curly head upon the horse's mane. "Ums the Charlie boy," said Katie; "um can't sit up no more." "Ah, my boy, seems to me you take it very easy," said Abner, who was just coming in from the garden, giving some weeds a ride in the "one-wheeled coach," or wheel-barrow. "Why don't you hold your head up, darling?" said Dotty. "O, bring the camphor," screamed Susy; "he's fainted away! he's fainted away!" "Not exactly," said Abner, untying the strings which held him to the bags. "Old Deacon has done very well this time; the boy is sound asleep." As soon as Abner had wheeled away his weeds, he mounted the horse and trotted to Mrs. Gray's with the meal-bags, singing for Katie's ear,-- "Ride away, ride away; Charlie shall ride; He shall have bag of meal tied to one side; He shall have little bag tied to the other, And Charlie shall ride to see our grandmother." The little boy stood rubbing his eyes. "Why, Charlie, darling," said Prudy, "who tied you on?" "The man'th boy over there. Hally didn't come cauthe he played ball; and then the man'th boy tied me on." Charlie made up a lip. "Let's take him out to the swing," said Prudy. "That will wake him up, and then we'll make a lady's chair and carry him home." "Don't want to thwing," lisped Charlie. "What for you don't?" said wee Katie. "Cauthe the ladieth will thee me." "O, you's a little scat crow!" "Hush, Katie," said the older children; "do look at his hair; it curls almost as tight as dandelion stems." "Thee the dimple in my chin!" "Which chin?" said Prudy; "you've got three of them." "And the wuffle wound my neck! Gueth what we've got over to my houthe? Duckth." "O, ducks?" cried Dotty; "that's what I want to make me happy. There, Prudy, think of their velvet heads and beads of eyes, waddling about this yard." "People sometimes take ducks' eggs and put them in a hen's nest," said Prudy, reflectively. "O, there now," whispered Dotty, "shouldn't you think Mrs. Gray might give me three or four eggs for carrying the milk every single night?" "Why, yes, I should; and perhaps she will." "I gueth my mamma wants me at home," said Charlie, yawning. Prudy and Dotty went with him; and in her eagerness concerning the ducks' eggs, Dotty quite forgot the secret draughts of milk she and Katie had quaffed under the acorn-tree, calling it nectar. But this was not the last of it. CHAPTER III. THE WHITE TRUTH. Dotty continued to go to Mrs. Gray's every night with the milk. Sometimes Katie went with her, and then they always paused a while under the acorn-tree and played "King and Queen." Dotty said she wished they could ever remember to bring their nipperkins, for in that case the milk would taste a great deal more like nectar. The "nipperkins" were a pair of handled cups which the children supposed to be silver, and which they always used at table. Dotty knew she was doing wrong every time she played "King and Queen." She knew the milk was not hers, but Mrs. Gray's; still she said to herself, "Ruthie needn't give so much measure, all pressed down and run over. If Queenie and I should drink a great deal more, there would always be a quart left. Yes, I know there would." Mrs. Gray never said anything about the milk; she merely poured it out in a pan, and gave back the pail to Dotty, asking her at the same time as many questions as the child would stay to hear. One night Dotty begged Prudy to go with her; she wished her to ask for the ducks' eggs. When they reached the acorn tree Dotty did not stop; she would never have thought of playing "King and Queen" with Prudy; she was afraid of her sister's honest blue eyes. I am not quite sure Mrs. Gray would have given the eggs to Dotty, though Mrs. Parlin promised her several times the amount of hens' eggs in return. Mrs. Gray did not think Dotty was "a very sociable child;" and then so many people were asking for eggs! But Mrs. Gray could not say "No" to Prudy; she gave her thirteen eggs, with a hearty kiss. "Now whose will the ducklings be?" asked Dotty on the way home. "Yours and mine," replied Prudy; "half and half. Six for each, and an odd one over." "Then," said Dotty, "we'll give that 'odd one over' to Katie." "But they may not all hatch, Dotty." "O, dear! why not? Then we can't tell how many we shall have. Perhaps there will be two or three odd ones over; and _then_ what shall we do, Prudy?" Prudy laughed at the idea of "two or three odd ones." The eggs were put in a barrel under the white hen; and now began a trial of patience. It seemed to all the children that time stood still while they waited. Would the four weeks never be gone? One day Dottie stood with Katie by the back-door blowing bubbles. The blue sky, the white fences, the green trees, and even the people who passed in the street, made little pictures of themselves on the bubbles. It was very beautiful. Dotty blew with such force that her cheeks were puffed as round as rubber balls. Katie looked on in great delight. "See," she cried, "see the trees a-yidin' on that bubbil!" Dotty dropped the pipe and kissed her. "Dear me," said she, the next minute, "there's Miss Polly coming!" Katie looked along the path, and saw a forlorn woman tightly wrapped in a brown shawl, carrying a basket on her arm, and looking sadly down at her own calf-skin shoes, which squeaked dismally as she walked. "Is um the Polly?" whispered Katie; "is um so tired?" "No, she isn't tired," said Dotty; "but she feels dreadfully all the whole time; I don't know what it's about, though." By this time the new-comer stood on the threshold, sighing. "How do you do, you pretty creeturs?" said she, with a dreary smile. "Yes, 'um," replied Katie; "is you the Polly, and does you feel drefful?" The sad woman kissed the little girls,--for she was fond of children,--sighed more heavily than ever, asked if their grandmother was at home, and passed through the kitchen on her way to the parlor. Mrs. Parlin sat knitting on the sofa, Mrs. Clifford was sewing, and Miss Louise crocheting. They all looked up and greeted the visitor politely, but it seemed as if a dark cloud had entered the room. Miss Polly seated herself in a rocking-chair, and began to take off her bonnet, sighing as she untied the strings, and sighing again as she took the three pins out of her shawl. "I hope you are well this fine weather," said Mrs. Parlin, cheerily. "As well as ever I expect to be," replied Miss Polly, in a resigned tone. Then she opened the lids of her basket with a dismal creak, and took out her knitting, which was as gray as a November sky. Afterwards she slowly pinned a corn-cob to the right side of her belt, and began to knit. At the end of every needle she drew a deep breath, and felt the stocking carefully to make sure there were no "nubs" in it. She talked about the "severe drowth" and some painful cases of sickness, after which she took out her snuff-box, and then the three ladies saw that she had something particular to say. "Where is your little boy, Maria?" She always called Mrs. Clifford Maria, for she had known her from a baby. "Horace is at Augusta; I left him there the other day." "Yes," said Polly, settling her mournful black cap, "so I heard! I was very, very sorry," and she shook her head dolefully, as if it had been a bell and she were tolling it--"very, very sorry!" Mrs. Clifford could not but wonder why. "It is a dreadful thing to happen in a family! I'm sure, Maria, I never heard that stealing was natural to either side of the house!" "Stealing!" echoed Mrs. Clifford. "What in this world can you mean, Polly Whiting?" said Aunt Louise, laughing nervously; for she was a very lively young lady, and laughed a great deal. Miss Whiting thought this was no time for jokes. Her mouth twitched downward as if there were strings at the corners. Mrs. Clifford had turned very pale. "Poll," said she, "do speak, and tell me what you have heard? It is all a mystery to me." "You don't say so," said Miss Whiting, looking relieved. "Well, I didn't more than half believe it myself; but the story is going that your Horace stole his Aunt Louise's breastpin, and sold it to a peddler for a rusty gun." Miss Louise laughed merrily this time. "I did lose my pearl brooch," said she, "but Prudy found it yesterday in an old glass candlestick." "What an absurd report!" said Mrs. Clifford, quite annoyed. "I hope the children are not to be suspected every time their _Aunt Louise_ misses anything!" "They said you had decided to take Horace to the Reform School," added Miss Whiting, "but your friends begged you to leave him at Augusta in somebody's house locked up, with bread and water to eat." "Now tell me where you heard all this," said Aunt Louise. "Why, Mrs. Grant told me that Mrs. Small said that Mrs. Gordon told _her_. I hope you'll excuse me for speaking of it: but I thought you ought to know." Miss Polly Whiting was a harmless woman, who went from family to family doing little "jobs" of work. She never said what was not true, did no mischief, and in her simple way was quite attached to the Parlins. "I heard something more that made me very angry," said she, following Miss Louise into the pantry. "Mrs. Grant says Mrs. Gray is very much surprised to find your mother doesn't give good measure when she sells milk!" Aunt Louise was so indignant at this that she went at once and told her mother. "It is a little too much to be borne," said she; "the neighbors may invent stories about Horace, if they have nothing better to do, but they shall not slander my mother!" The two little girls, who were the unconscious cause of all this mischief, were just returning from Mrs. Gray's. "O, grandma," said Dotty, coming in with the empty pail; "she says she don't want any more milk this summer, and I'm ever so glad! Come, Prudy, let's go and swing." "Stop," said Mrs. Parlin; "why does Mrs. Gray say she wants no more milk?" "'Cause," replied Dotty, "'cause our cow is dry, or their cow is dry, or Mrs. Gordon has some to sell. I don't know what she told me, grandma; I've forgot!" "Then, my dear, she did not say you brought too little milk?" Dotty winced. "No, grandma, she never." "Ruth," said Mrs. Parlin, "you are sure you have always measured the milk in that largest quart, and thrown in a gill or two more, as I directed?" "O, yes, ma'am, I've never failed." "Then I'm sure I cannot understand it," said Mrs. Parlin, her gentle face looking troubled. "Unless the children may have spilled some," remarked Mrs. Clifford. "Dotty, have you ever allowed little Katie to carry the pail?" "No, Dotty don't; her don't 'low me care nuffin--there now!" cried Katie, very glad to tell her sorrows. "She's so little, you know, Aunt 'Ria," murmured Dotty, with her hand on the door-latch. There was a struggle going on in Dotty's mind. She wished very much to run away, and at the same time that "voice" which speaks in everybody's heart was saying,-- "Now, Dotty, be a good girl, a noble girl. Tell about drinking the milk under the acorn tree." "But I needn't," thought Dotty, clicking the door-latch! "it won't be a fib if I just keep still." "Yes, it will, Dotty Dimple!" "What! When I squeeze my lips together and don't say a word?" "'Twill be _acting_ a fib, and you know it, Alice Parlin! I'm ashamed of you! Take your fingers out of your mouth, and speak like a woman." "I will, if you'll stop till I clear my throat.--O, Grandma," cried Dotty, "I can't tell fibs the way Jennie Vance does! 'Twas we two did it, as true as you live!" "Did what, child? Who?" "The milk." "I don't understand, dear." Dotty twisted the corner of her apron, and looked out of the window. "Drank it--Katie and me--under the acorn tree." "Yes, she did," chimed in Katie; "and 'twasn't nuffin but moolly's cow milk, and her 'pilled it on my shoe!" Grandmamma really looked relieved. "So this accounts for it! But Dotty, how could you do such a thing?" "I telled um not to," cried Katie, "but her kep' a-doin' an' a-doin'." "Ruthie gives too much measure," replied Dotty, untwisting her apron--"'most two quarts; and when Katie and I ask for some in our nipperkins, Ruthie says, 'No,' she must make butter. I was just as thirsty, grandma, and I thought Mrs. Gray never would care; I did certainly." "Yes, gamma, we fought Mis Gay would care; did cerdily!" "My dear Dotty," said Mrs. Parlin, "you had not the shadow of a right to take what belonged to another. It was very wrong; but I really believe you did not know how wrong it was." Dotty began to breathe more freely. "But you see, child," interposed Aunt Louise, "you have done a deal of mischief; and I must go at once to Mrs. Gray's and explain matters." Dotty was distressed at the thought of Mrs. Gray, whose nose she could seem to see "going up in the air." "Don't feel so sorry, little sister," said Prudy, as they walked off with their arms about each other's waist; "you didn't do just right, but I'm sure you've told the real white truth." "So I have," said Dotty, holding up her head again; "and mother says that's worth a great deal!" CHAPTER IV. DOTTY'S CAMEL. Matters were soon set right with Mrs. Gray, who was sorry she had not spoken frankly to Mrs. Parlin in the first place, instead of going secretly to the neighbors and complaining that she did not receive her due allowance of milk. Perhaps it was a good lesson for the doctor's wife; for she ceased to gossip about the Parlins, and even took the pains to correct the wrong story with regard to the pearl breastpin. After this Dotty and Katie carried the milk as usual; only they never stopped under the acorn tree any more to play "King and Queen." Not that Dotty felt much shame. She held herself in high esteem. She knew she had done wrong, but thought that by telling the truth so nobly she had atoned for all. "I am almost as good as the little girls in the Sunday school books," said she; "now there's Jennie Vance--I'm afraid she fibs." Jennie called one day to ask Dotty and Flyaway to go to school with her. "Jennie," said Miss Dimple, gravely, as they were walking with Katie between them, "do they ever read the Bible to you?" "Yes; why?" "O, nothing; only you don't act as if you know anything about it." "I guess my mother is one of the first ladies in this town, Miss Dimple, and she's told me the story of Joseph's coat till I know it by heart." "Well," said Dotty, looking very solemn, "it hasn't done you any good, Jennie Vance. Now, I learn verses every Sunday, and one is this: 'Lie not one to another.' What think of that?" Jennie's black eyes snapped. "I heard that before ever you did." "Lie not one to another," repeated Dotty, slowly. "Now, I'm _one_, Jennie, and you're _another_; and isn't it wicked when we tell the leastest speck of a fib?" "Of course 'tis," was the prompt reply; "but I don't tell 'em." "O, Jennie, who told your step-mother that Charlie Gray was tied up in a meal-bag? I'm afraid," said Dotty, laying her hand solemnly on little Katie's head as if it had been a pulpit-cushion, and she a minister preaching,--"I'm afraid, Jennie, _you_ lie one to another." "One to anudder," echoed Katie, breaking away and running after a toad. Jennie knitted her brows. "It doesn't look very well for such a small child as you are to preach to me, Dot Parlin!" "But _I_ always tell the white truth myself, Jennie, because God hears me. Do _you_ think much about God?" "No, I don't know as I do; nobody does, He's so far off," said Jennie, stooping to pluck an innocent flower. "Why, Jennie, He isn't far off at all! He's everywhere, and here too. He holds this world, and all the people, right in His arms; right in His arms, just as if 'twas nothing but a baby." Dotty's tones were low and earnest. "Who told you so?" said Jennie. "My mamma; and she says we couldn't move nor breathe without Him not a minute." "There, I did then!" cried Jennie, taking a long breath; "I breathed way down ever so far, and I did it myself." "O, but God let you." Dotty felt very good and wise, and as she had finished giving her benighted friend a lesson, she thought she would speak now of every day matters. "Look at those little puddles in the road," said she; "don't they make you think of pudding-sauce--molasses and cream, I mean--for hasty-pudding?" "No," said Jennie, tossing her head, "I never saw any pudding-sauce that looked a speck like that dirty stuff! Besides, we don't use molasses at our house; rich folks never do; nobody but poor folks." "O, what a story!" said Dotty, coloring. "I guess you have molasses gingerbread, if your father _is_ the judge!" Dotty was very much wounded. This was not the first time her little friend had referred to her own superior wealth. "Dear, dear! Wasn't it bad enough to have to wear Prudy's old clothes, when Jennie had new ones and no big sister? She's always telling hints about people's being poor! Why, my papa isn't _much_ poor, only he don't buy me gold rings and silk dresses, and my mamma wouldn't let me wear 'em if he did; so there!" By the time they reached the school-house, Dotty was almost too angry to speak. They took their seats with Katie between them (when she was not under their feet or in their laps), and looked over in the Testament. The large scholars "up in the back seats," and in fact all but the very small ones, were in the habit of reading aloud two verses each. This morning it was the nineteenth chapter of Matthew, and Dotty paid little heed till her ear was caught by these words, read quite slowly and clearly by Abby Grant:-- "Then said Jesus unto his disciples, Verily I say unto you, that a rich man shall hardly enter the kingdom of heaven. "And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God." Dolly's heart gave a great bound. That meant Judge Vance just as sure as the world. Wasn't he rich, and didn't Jennie boast of it as if it was a great thing? She touched her friend's arm, and pointed with her small forefinger to the passage; but Jennie did not understand. "It isn't my turn," whispered she; "what are you nudging me for?" "Don't you see your papa isn't going to heaven?" said Dotty. "God won't let him in, because he's rich." "I don't believe it," said Jennie quite unmoved. "O, but God won't, for the Bible says so. He can't get in any more than a camel can get into a needle; and you know a camel can't." "But the needle can go into a camel," said Jennie, thoughtfully; "perhaps that's what it means." "O, no," whispered Dotty. "I know better'n that. I'm very sorry your papa is rich." "But he isn't so very rich," said Jennie, looking sober. "You always said he was," said Dotty, with a little triumph. "Well, he isn't rich enough for _that_! He's only rich a little mite,--just a little teenty tonty mite," added Jennie, as she looked at Dotty's earnest face, and saw the rare tear gathering on her eyelashes. "But _my_ father isn't rich the least bit of a speck," said Dotty, with a sudden joy. "Nobody ever said he was. Not so rich, at any rate, Jennie, but you could put it through a needle. You could put it through a needle just as easy." Jennie felt very humble--a strange thing for her. This was a new way of looking at things. "Of course _he'll_ go to heaven, you know," said Dotty; "there's no trouble about that." "I s'pose he will," sighed Jennie, looking at her beautiful gold ring with less pleasure than usual. She had been in the habit of twirling it about her finger, and telling the little girls it was made of real "carrot gold." But just at this moment she didn't care so much about it; and it even seemed to her that Dotty's little hand looked very nice and white without any rings. Perhaps people had not admired the glitter of her forefinger so very much, after all. How did she know but they had said, "Look at Judge Vance's little daughter. Isn't she ashamed to wear that ring when it's a sign her father is rich, and can't go to heaven?" The child began to wish there would come holes in her father's pockets and let out the money; for she supposed he kept it all in his pockets, of course. "I shall tell my mother about it," mused she; "and I don't believe but she'll laugh and say, 'That Dotty Dimple is a very queer child.'" But just at this time little Katie began to peep into Jennie's pockets for "candy-seeds" (that is, sugared spices), and to behave in many ways so badly that Miss Prince said she must be taken home. So the girls led her out between them; and that was the last Jennie thought of the camel. But Dotty remembered it all the way home. CHAPTER V. A SAD FRIGHT. But the next afternoon, as the two little girls were walking home together, Dotty said to Jennie, with a very wise face,-- "Grandma has told me what the Bible means. Now I understand every single thing." Jennie did not seem as much delighted as had been expected. "She says God can get that camel through a needle." "O, I remember," said Jennie; "you mean that Bible camel." "There isn't anything He can't do," continued Dotty; "the richest men, richer than your father, can get to heaven if God's a mind to take 'em." "Not bad people," said Jennie, shaking her head. "I don't know about that; she didn't say," said Dotty, looking puzzled. "O, no, I s'pose not. God wouldn't be a mind to. For don't you see, Jennie Vance, it's just _like_ a camel. There can't anybody go through themselves unless God _pulls_ 'em through." I don't know what Grandma Parlin would have thought if she had heard her words chopped up in this way; but it made very little difference to Jennie, who paid no attention at all. "You're father'll get there," added Dotty; "so I thought I'd tell you." "Your shoestring's untied," said Jennie, coolly. "And I don't care now if you are the richest," said Dotty, stooping to tie the string; "for God loves me just as well when I wear Prudy's old things; and so do all the good people in this town, and the minister too; grandma said so. I don't care how much you talk about our old Deacon, or our eating molasses. That isn't anything! Grandma says its harder for rich children to be good, and I told her I was real glad I was half-poor." "You're stepping right in the mud," cried Jennie. "And then Grandma said that it didn't make any difference any way about that, if I only loved God; but if I didn't love God, it did." "There," said Jennie, "I haven't heard half you've said; and I guess you've forgotten all about going strawberrying." "I almost know grandma won't be willing," replied Dotty; "we've got company, too; see those ladies in the window." "All the better," replied Jennie, cheerily. "You go in and behave as beautifully as ever you can, and your grandma'll be so busy talking, she'll say yes before she thinks. That's the way my mamma does. Say 'Crossman's orchard,' remember, but don't tell which one." So Jennie staid outside while Dotty entered the parlor softly, and stood by her grandmother's chair, waiting the proper time to speak. "Strawberrying, did you say?" asked Mrs. Parlin, presently. "Yes, grandma; the berries are just as thick." "O, just as fick!" repeated Katie, clapping her hands. "In the Crossman orchard," added Dotty. "Prosser Horcher," put in Katie, choking a little at the large words. "May her, gamma?" Now, Dotty knew, as her grandmother did not, that there were two orchards; and the one she meant was a mile and a half away. "Yes, you may go, Alice; it is only a few steps; but put on an old dress, and don't stay late; you know you are hardly well since your sore throat." Dotty had not actually told a wrong story, but for almost the first time she had deceived, and she knew the sin was the same. While she was exchanging her pretty pink frock for one of dark calico, her conscience pricked so painfully that she almost wished to stay at home. "Just as soon as we get out of the village," said Jennie, "I'm going barefoot; mother said I might." "How splendid your mother is!" sighed Dotty. "Grandma's so particular! But any way I'm going without my stockings; I declare I will. My throat's so far away from my feet, what hurt will it do?" "Children, obey your parents," said the troublesome voice. "Grandma isn't my parent," thought Dotty, tugging away at her boot-lacings. They went out through the kitchen, to get Dotty's red and white picnic basket; but they crept like a pair of thieves, lest Ruthie, who was mixing waffles, should hear them, and take notice of Dotty's bare ankles. Once out of the village, it did not take long for Miss Dimple to slip off her boots and tuck them in her pocket. "O, how nice and cool!" murmured she, poking her little pink toes into the burning sand; till presently, a thorn, which appeared to be waiting for that very purpose, thrust its way deep into her foot. She sat down in the middle of the road and screamed. Jennie tried her best to draw out the thorn, but only succeeded in breaking it off. Then, with a clumsy pin, she made a voyage of discovery round and round in the soft flesh of Dotty's foot, never hitting the thorn, or coming anywhere near it. "O, dear!" said Jennie, petulantly; "we've wasted half an hour! What's the use for you to be always getting into trouble? A great many berries we shall have at this rate! and I was going to ask my mamma to let me have a party." "There!" said Dotty, bravely, "I'm going right along now, and no more fuss about it." It was hard work; Dotty limped badly; and all the while the cruel thorn was triumphantly working its way farther in. The Crossman orchard was not very far away now; but when they had reached it, and had crept under the fence, why, where were the strawberries? What the boys had not gathered they had trampled down; and the truth was, there had been very few in the first place. There was nothing to do but pluck here and there a stray berry, and make the most of it. "This is what I call a shame," sighed Jennie; "and look at the sky; it's growing as black as a pickpocket." "Why, yes," moaned Dotty; "how fast that sun has gone down!" But this was a mistake. It was only six o'clock. The sun, understanding his business perfectly, had not hurried one jot. The clouds were merely spreading a dark background for some magnificent fireworks; in other words, a thunder-shower was coming up. "Let's go right straight home," said Jennie; and Dotty was glad to hear the words, for in her own brave little heart she had determined not to be the first to surrender. "Let's go across the fields," she replied; "it's the nearest way home." By this time heavy drops were pattering down on the long grass, and making a hollow sound on the little girls' hats. "Why, it's raining," remarked Dotty. "You don't say so," sniffed Jennie, whose temper was quite upset, "perhaps you think you're telling some news." Then came the frightful boom of thunder. "What's that?" whispered Dotty, with white lips. "I'm afraid, Jennie; I certainly am." "For shame, Dotty Dimple! I thought you were the girl that knew all about God and the Bible. I shouldn't think you'd be afraid of thunder!" "O, but I am!" was the meek reply. "I'm as afraid as I can live." "There, hush up, Dotty! When you've been and got us into a fix, you'd better keep still." "I, Jennie Vance? I never! What a story!" "You did, Miss Dimple; you spelt it out in the Reader,--'straw-bry;' or I shouldn't have thought of such a thing." "Well, I didn't care much about going, now truly, Jennie; for I don't feel very well." "You _seemed_ to be very much pleased. You said, 'How nice!' as much as twice; and didn't you almost laugh out loud in the spelling class? Hark! what a clap!" "I should think you'd be ashamed," said poor Dotty, hopping on one foot. "When I laughed it was to see Charlie Gray make up faces. And should I have gone barefoot if it hadn't been for you?" "Well, there, Dotty Dimple, you're a smart little girl, I must say! I don't mean to ask you to my party, if my mother lets me have one; and I've a great mind not to speak to you again as long as I live." "I shouldn't think you'd dare to quarrel, Jennie Vance, when you may die the next minute. Let's get under this tree." "Lightning strikes trees, you goosie!" "O, Jennie Vance! isn't there a barn anywhere in this great pasture?" "Men don't keep barns in their pastures, Dot Dimple; and lightning strikes barns too, quicker'n a flash!" Dotty covered her face with her hands. "You don't seem to know scarcely anything," continued Jennie, soothingly. "I don't believe you know what a conductor is." "Of course I do. It's the man on the cars that takes your ticket." "No; that's one kind; but in storms like this a conductor is a--a conductor is a--why, I mean if a thing is a conductor, Dotty,--why then the thunder and lightning conducts it all to pieces, and that's the last there is of it! My father's got a book of _hijommerty_ that tells all about such things. You can't know for certain. Just as likely as not, now, our baskets are conductors; and then again perhaps they are _non_; and I don't know which is the worst. If we were sure they were _either one_, we ought to throw 'em away! that's a fact!" "Yes, indeed!" cried Dotty, tossing hers behind her as if it had been a living scorpion. "Do you s'pose _hats_ will conduct?" "Nonsense! no. I didn't say baskets would, did I?" returned Jennie, who still held her own dangling from her arm. "Yours was a perfect beauty, Dot. What a fuss you make!" As Dotty had all this while been stifling her groans of pain, and had also been careful not to express a hundredth part of her real terror of lightning, she thought her friend's words were, to say the least, a little severe. "Why, this is queer," cried Jennie, stopping short. "It's growing wet here; haven't you noticed it? Now I've thought of something. There's a bog in this town, _somewhere_, so awful and deep that once a boy slumped into it, don't you think, up to his waist; and the more he tried to get out the more he couldn't; and there he was, slump, slump, and got in as far as his neck. And he screamed till he was black and blue; and when they went to him there wasn't a bit of him out but the end of his nose, and he couldn't scream any more; so all they could do was to pull him out by the hair of his head." "Is that a true story, now, honest?" cried Dotty, wringing her hands. "How dreadful, dreadful, dreadful! What shall we do?" "Do?" was the demure reply; "stand as stock-still as ever we can, and try not to shake when we breathe. Next thing we might slump." "I do shake," said Dotty; "I can't help it." "Don't you say anything, Dotty Dimple. I never should have thought of going across lots if you hadn't wanted to; and now you'd better keep still." So even this horrid predicament was owing to Dotty; she was to blame for everything. "Stock-still" they stood under the beating rain, their hearts throbbing harder than the drops. Yes, there certainly was a bottomless pond--Dotty had heard of it; on its borders grew the pitcher-plant which Uncle Henry had brought home once. It was a green pitcher, very pretty, and if it had been glass it could have been set on the table with maple molasses in it (only nobody but poor people used molasses). O, there _was_ a deep, deep pond, and grass grew round it and in it; and Uncle Henry had said it was no place for children; they could not be trusted to walk anywhere near it, for one false step might lead them into danger. And now they had come to this very spot, this place of unknown horrors! What should they do? Should they stand there and be struck by lightning, or try to go on, and only sink deeper and deeper till they choked and drowned? Never in all Dotty's little life had she been in such a strait as this. She cried so loud that her voice was heard above the storm, in unearthly shrieks. She didn't want to die! O, it was so nice to be alive! She would as lief have the sore throat all the time, if she might only be alive. She said not a word, but the thoughts flew through her mind like a flock of startled swallows,--not one after another, but all together; and so fast that they almost took her breath away. And O, such a naughty girl as she had been! Going barefoot! Telling a story about Crossman's orchard! Making believe she never fibbed, when she did the same thing as that, and she knew she did. Running off to play when grandma wished her to stay with Flyaway. Feeding Zip Coon with plum cake to see him wag his tail, and never telling but it was brown bread. Getting angry with the chairs and tables, and people. Doing all manner of wickednesses. Dotty was appalled by the thought of one sin in particular. She remembered that in repeating the Lord's prayer once, she had asked for "daily bread and butter." Her mother had reproved her for it, but she had done the same thing again and again. By and by, when her mother positively forbade her to say "butter," she had said "bread and molasses;" "for, mamma," said she, "you know I don't like _bare_ bread." "I s'pose Miss Preston would say that was the awfulest wickedness of all, and I guess it was. O, dear!" Well, if she ever got home she would be a better girl. But it wasn't likely she ever should get home. "Why, Jennie," said she, speaking now for the first time, "here we are; and when we stand still we don't move at all; we don't go home a bit, Jennie." "Of course not, Dotty Dimple; that's a very bright speech! I've thought the same thought my own self before ever you did!" Another silence, broken only by the pitter patter of the rain; for the thunder was growing less and less frequent. "But we must go home some time," cried Jennie with energy. "If it kills us to death we must go home. Just you put your foot out, Dotty dear, and see if it sinks way down, down. I thought it was beginning to grow a little soft right here." "O, dear, I don't dare to!" groaned Dotty, shaking with a nervous chill; "you put your foot in your own self, Jennie Vance, and see where it goes to. I don't want to slump down up to my hair any more'n you do. What do you s'pose!" "Fie! for shame, Dotty Dimple! I always thought you were a coward, and now I know it! What if I should give you my ring, made of all carrot gold, would you do it then? Just nothing but put your foot out?" "_Would_ you give me the ring now, honest?" said Dotty, raising her little foot cautiously; "certain true?" "Why, you know, Dotty, if I said I would, I would." [Illustration] A sudden thought was darting across Dotty's mind, like another startled swallow; only this one came alone, and did not take her breath away; for it was a pleasant thought--Where were they? Whose field was this? Why, it was Mr. Gordon's pasture. And Johnny came here for the cow every night of his life. And, as true as the world, there was the Gordon cow now, the red and white one, standing by the fence, lowing for Johnny. "A great deal of bottomless pond this is, and so I should think!" said Dotty to herself with a smile. "Where a cow can go I guess I can go with my little feet. Soft? why, it isn't any softer than anybody's field is after it rains." So, without saying a word, the little girl put her foot out, and of course it touched solid earth. "There!" she cried, "I did it, I did it! You said I was a coward; and who's a coward now? Where's your gold ring, Jennie Vance?" "Why, the ground is as hard as a nut, I declare," said Jennie, walking along after Dotty with great satisfaction. "I didn't much think there was a swamp in this field all the time. Only I thought, if there was, what a scrape it would be! Come to think of it, I believe that bottomless pond is in the town of Augusta." "No," replied Dotty, "it's on the other side of the river. I know, for Uncle Henry went to it in a boat. But where's my ring?" "I don't know anything about your ring; didn't know you had any." "I mean _yours_, Jennie Vance; or it _was_ yours; the one on your forefinger, with a red stone in it, that you said you'd give to me if I'd put my foot in it." "Put your foot in what?" "Why, you know, Jennie Vance; in the mud." "Well, there wasn't any mud; 'twas as hard as a nut." "You know what I mean, Jennie," exclaimed Dotty, growing excited. "So you needn't pretend!" "I'm not pretending, nor any such a thing," replied Jennie, with a great show of candor; "it's you that are making up a story, Dotty Dimple. I didn't say I'd give you my ring. No, ma'am; if 'twas the last words I was to speak, I never!" "O, Jennie Vance! Jane Sidney Vance! I should think the thunder and lightning would conduct you to pieces this minute; and a bear out of the woods, and every thing else in this world. I never saw a little girl, that had a father named Judge, that would lie so one to another in all the days of my life." "Well," said Jennie, coolly, "if you've got done your preaching, I'll tell you what I said. I said, 'What if I should;' so there! I didn't say I would, and I never meant to; and you may ask my father if I can get it off my finger without sawing the bone in two." "Indeed!" replied Dotty, poising her head backward with queenly dignity; "indeed!" "I didn't tell a story," said Jennie, uneasily. "I should think any goosie might know people wouldn't give away jewels just for putting your foot out." "It's just as well," said Dotty, with extreme dignity; "just _precisely_ as well! I have one grandmamma who is a Quakeress, and she don't think much of little girls that wear rings. Ahem!" Jennie felt rather uncomfortable. She did not mind Dotty's anger, but her quiet contempt was another thing. "I think likely I may go to Boston next week," said she; "and if I do, this is the last time we shall go strawberrying together this summer." "O, is it?" said Dotty. After this the two little creatures trudged on in silence till they reached Mr. Parlin's gate. Jennie ran home in great haste as soon as she was free from her limping companion; and Dotty entered the side-door dripping like a naiad. "Why, Alice Parlin!" said grandmamma, in dismay; "how came you in such a plight? We never thought of you being out in this shower. We supposed, of course, you would go to Mrs. Gray's, and wait till it was over." "We were nowhere near Mr. Gray's," faltered Dotty, "nor anywhere else, either." "I should think you had been standing under a water-spout," said Aunt Louise. "Grandma, can't you put her through the wringer?" asked Prudy, laughing. Dotty sank in a wet heap on the floor, and held up her ailing foot with a groan. "Why, child, barefoot?" cried Aunt Louise. Dotty said nothing, but frowned with pain. "It is a cruel thorn," said her good grandmother, putting on her spectacles and surveying the wound. "Yes, 'm," said Dotty, finding her tongue. "I almost thought 'twould go clear through, and come out at the top of my foot." Katie took a peep. "No, it didn't," said she; "it hided." "There, there, poor little dear," said grandmother; "we'll put her right to bed. Ruthie, don't you suppose you and I can carry her up stairs?" Not a word yet about the naughtiness; but plenty of pity and soft poultices for the wounded foot. "She's a very queer child," thought Ruth, coming down stairs afterwards to steep hops for some beer; "a very odd child. She has something on her mind; but _we_ shan't be any the wiser till she gets ready to tell it." CHAPTER VI. MAKING POETRY. But when Prudy had come to bed, Dotty could talk more freely. "O, dear," said she, hiding her face in her sister's bosom; "I don't want them to laugh at me, but I've lost my boots and my basket, and been dripped in the rain, and got a thorn in my foot too, till it seems as if I should die!" "But you'll never do so again, little sister," said Prudy, who could think of no other consolation to give. "And lightning besides, Prudy! And she made me throw away my beautiful picnic basket, and she kept hers, and it never hurt her a bit! Don't you think she was just as mean! What makes grandma let me go with her, do you s'pose? I shall grow real bad! Won't you tell her to stop it?" Dotty moaned with pain, and between her moans she talked very fast. "And all this time," said she, "we haven't any ducks!" Prudy, who was dropping off to sleep, murmured, "No." "But it's real too bad, Prudy. I never saw such a lazy old hen--did you? Prudy, _did_ you?" Presently, when Prudy thought it must be nearly morning, there was a clutch upon her shoulder, and a voice cried in her ear,-- "I don't see what makes you go to sleep, Prudy Parlin, when my foot aches so bad! And O, how I want a drink o' water!" Prudy thought she should never find the match-box; but she did at last, and lighted the lamp after several trials. It was dreary work, though, going down stairs with those sticks in her eyes, to get the water. Dotty drained the nipperkin at two draughts, and said it wasn't half enough. "O, you shall have all you want, little sister," said Prudy, kindly; "you may drink up the whole barrel if you like." So down she went again, and this time brought a pitcher. On her return she found Dotty weeping in high displeasure. "You told me to drink up that whole barrel, you did," cried the unreasonable child, shaking her head. "Did I?" said Prudy; "well, dear, I didn't mean anything." "But you _said_ so--the whole, whole barrel," repeated Dotty rocking back and forth; "you talk to me just as if I--was--black!" "Hush!" said Prudy, "or you'll wake grandma. Let me see; do you want me to tell you a conundrum? Why does an elephant carry his trunk?" "I don't know; I s'pose he can't help it; it grows on the end of his nose." "That isn't the answer, though, Dotty; it's because--because he's a traveller!" "An elephant a traveller? Where does he travel to? I don't believe it." "Well," replied Prudy, "I can't see any sense in it myself. O, stop a minute! Now I know; I didn't tell it right. This is the way; 'Why is an elephant like a traveller? Because he carries a trunk!' Isn't that funny?" "I don't care anything about your elephants," said Dotty; "if you don't try to please me, Prudy Parlin, you'll have to wake up grandma, and call her in here, or I shall cry myself sick!" Patient Prudy crept into bed, but left the lamp burning. "Suppose we make up some poetry?" said she. "Why, you don't know how to make up poetry--do you?" said Dotty, leaning on her elbow, and looking with dreamy eyes at the engraving of Christus Consolator at the foot of the bed. "I love poetry when they read it in concert at school. Don't you know,-- 'Tremendous torrents! For an instant hush!' Isn't that splendid?" "Very splendid, indeed," replied Prudy, pinching herself to keep awake. "I think Torrence is _such_ a nice name," pursued Dotty; "don't you tell anybody but when I'm married and have some boys, I'm going to name some of them Torrence." "Not more than one, Dotty!" "O, no, I couldn't; could I? There mustn't but one of them have the same name; I forgot. 'Tremendous Torrence!' I shall say; and then he'll come in and ask, 'What do you want, mother?'" Prudy suddenly hid her face under the sheet. The absurdity of little Dotty's ideas had driven the sleep out of her eyes. "It would do very well for a name for a very queer boy," said she, stifling a laugh; "but a torrent _generally_ means the Niagara Falls." "Does it?" said Dotty; "who told you so? But I guess I shall call him by it just the same though--if his father is willing." Dotty looked very much interested. "What will you call the rest of your boys?" asked Prudy, glad to talk of anything which kept her little sister pleasant. "I shan't have but two boys, and I shall name the other one for his father," replied Dotty, thoughtfully; "I shall have eight girls, for I like girls very much; and I shall dress them in silk and velvet, with gold rings on their fingers, a great deal handsomer than Jennie Vance's; but they won't be proud a bit. They never will have to be punished; for when they do wrong I shall look through my spectacles and say, 'Why, my eight daughters, I am very much surprised!' And then they will obey me in a minute." "Yes," returned Prudy; "but don't you think now we'd better go to sleep?" "No, indeed," said Dotty, drawing herself up in a little heap and holding her throbbing foot in her hand; "if you don't make poetry I'm going to make it myself. Hark!-- 'Once there was a little boy going down hill; He leaped, he foamed, he struggled; and all was o'er.' "Do you call that poetry?" said Prudy, laughing. "Why, where's the rhyme?" "The rhyme? I s'pose I forgot to put it in. Tell me what a rhyme is, Prudy; _maybe_ I don't know!" "A rhyme," replied her wise sister, "is a jingle like this: 'A boy and a toy,' 'A goose and a moose.'" "O, is it? how queer! 'A hill and a pill,' that's a rhyme, too." "Now," continued Prudy, "I'll make up some real poetry, and show you how. It won't take me more than a minute; its just as easy as knitting-work." Prudy thought for a few seconds, and then recited the following lines in a sing-song tone:-- "When the sun Had got his daily work done, He put a red silk cloud on his head, (_For a night-cap you know,_) And went to bed. He was there all sole alone; For just at that very time the moon (_That isn't a very nice rhyme, but I can't help it,_) Was dressed and up, And had eaten her sup- Per. 'Husband,' said Mrs. Moon, 'I can't stop to kiss you good by; I've got to leave you now and go up in the sky.'" "O, how pretty!" said Dotty; "how it jingles! Did you make that up in your own head?" "Yes, indeed; just as fast as I could knit once round. I could do a great deal better if I should spend more time. I mean to take a slate some time and write it all full of stars, and clouds, and everything splendid. I shall say, 'What a pity it is that a nice husband and wife, like the sun and moon, can't ever live together, but have to keep following each other round the sky and never get near enough to shake hands!' I'll pretend that it makes the moon look very sober indeed, but the sun isn't so tender-hearted; so he can bear it better. O, Dotty, don't you let me forget to put that into poetry! I can jingle it off, and make it sound beautiful!" "I should think you might put my verse into poetry, too. Can't you say 'a pill rolled down hill?'" said Dotty. "O, I can make poetry of it easier than that. You don't need to change but one word:-- 'There was a little boy going down hill, He leaped, he foamed, he struggled;--and all was _still_.'" Dotty repeated it several times with much delight. "That's beautiful," said she, "now honest; and I did almost the whole of it myself!" After this she began to grow drowsy, and, forgetting her troubles, fell asleep, to the great relief of poor sister Prudy, who was not long in following her. Next morning Prudy awoke at nearly the usual time; but her sister was still in the land of dreams, and she stole out of the room without disturbing her. "Grandmamma," said she, "Dotty has had an awful night! I've had to be up with her, and trying to pacify her, most of the time." "A whole hour," said grandma, smiling. "O, grandma, it was nearly all night, but there didn't anybody know it; we talked low, so we needn't disturb you." Grandmother and Aunt Maria smiled at each other across the table. "I dare say, my dear," said Aunt Maria, "you thought you were as quiet as two little mice; but I assure you you kept everybody awake, except grandpa and Susy." "Why, Aunt 'Ria!" "But we learned a lesson in poetry-making," said Aunt Louise, "which was worth lying awake to hear. Don't you suppose, Maria, that even prosy people, like you and me, might jingle poetry till in time it would become as easy as knitting-work?" Prudy blushed painfully. "I thought," said Grace, "the sun must look very jolly in his red silk night-cap, only I was sorry you forgot to tell what he had for breakfast." "Nothing but cold potatoes out of the cupboard," said Horace; "he keeps bachelor's hall. It's just as well the old fellow can't meet his wife, for she's made of green cheese, and he'd be likely to slice her up and eat her." A tear glittered on Prudy's eyelashes. Horace was the first to observe it, and he hastened to change the subject by saying his johnny-cake was so thin he could cut it with a pair of scissors. By that time Prudy's tears had slyly dropped upon her napkin, and she would have recovered her spirits if Aunt Louise had not remarked carelessly,-- "Seems to me our little poetess is rather melancholy this morning." Prudy's heart was swollen so high with tears that there would have been a flood in about a minute; but Horace exclaimed suddenly,-- "O, mother, may I tell a story? Once there were two old--two maiden ladies in Nantucket, and they earned their living by going round the island picking up the 'tag-locks' the sheep had left hanging to the bushes and rocks. Now, you wouldn't believe, would you, mother, that those two women could get rich by selling tag-locks?" "I certainly should not," replied Mrs. Clifford, smiling fondly on her young son; for she saw and approved of his kind little scheme for diverting his cousin's attention. "Well, mother, they lived to be more than sixty years old; and when they made their wills, how much money do you suppose they had to leave? I wish you'd try to guess." "Dear me," said Mrs. Clifford, "I'm sure I can't imagine: I shall have to give it up." "So must I," said grandmamma; "I make such poor work at guessing: I suppose they lived very frugally?" "A thousand dollars?" suggested Grace. "A million?" said Susy. "A shilling?" chimed in Aunt Louise. "_Not one cent!_" replied Horace. "Well, well," said grandmother, "you've caught us napping this time." But only she and Aunt Maria appreciated Horace's gallantry towards his sensitive cousin Prudy. CHAPTER VII. A DAY ON THE SOFA. When Dotty Dimple awoke that morning, she was very much astonished to see the sun so high. "The sky looks very clean," said she, "and I should think it might after such a washing." She did not know it, but for some reason the pure blue of the heavens made her feel dissatisfied with herself. Since she had slept upon it, her last night's conduct seemed worse to her than ever. All this while her grandmamma's forgiveness had not been asked. Must it be asked? Dotty hung her proud head for shame. Then she offered her morning prayer, and promised God that henceforth she would try to be good. "If Jennie Vance only stays away," added she, meekly. The fact was, Dotty was losing faith in herself. She had boasted that she never told a lie; she had "preached" to Jennie Vance; and now, behold, what had she been doing herself! The child was full of good resolutions to-day, but she began to find that her strongest purposes did not hold together any longer than her gingham dresses. Her foot was so lame and swollen that she made believe the staircase was a hill, and slid down it accordingly. As she hobbled by the parlor door, she saw her Aunt Maria seated on the sofa sewing. It must be very late, she knew. Little Flyaway, who had been chasing the cat, ran to meet her, looking very joyful because her cousin had overslept herself. "It's half past o'clock," said she, clapping her little hands; "half past o'clock, Dotty Dimple!" Dotty felt quite ashamed, but her grandmother assured her that although it was nearly ten o'clock, she was perfectly excusable. She seated her in an easy chair, and gave her a cracker to nibble; for Dotty said she was not hungry, and did not care for breakfast. There was one thought uppermost in the little girl's mind: she must ask her grandmother's forgiveness. Some children might not have seen the necessity, but Dotty had been well instructed at home; she knew this good, kind grandmamma was deserving of the highest respect, and if any of her grandchildren disobeyed her, they could do no less than acknowledge their fault. But Dotty was a very proud child; she could not humble herself yet. Mrs. Parlin dressed the lame foot, and pitied it, and was very sorry the little girl had any soreness of the throat; but not a word of reproach did she utter; she was waiting to see if Dotty had anything to say for herself. Susy and Prudy had gone to Aunt Martha's and, till "the Charlie boy" came, there was no one at home for company but little Katie. Dotty did not wish to think; so she made the best of the little ones, and played "keep school." Black Dinah was the finest-looking pupil, but there were several others made of old shawls and table-covers, who sat bolt upright, and bore their frequent whippings very meekly. Katie and Charlie each held a birch switch, and took the government of the school, while Dotty did the teaching. "Spell _man_," said Dotty, sternly, pointing with a bodkin at Dinah. Dinah was sulky, and kept her red silk mouth shut; but Dotty answered for her: "m, a, n, man." "To," said she to the black and white shawl: "t, o, to." "Put," to the green table-cover: "p, u, t, put." "We 'shamed o' you," said Katie, beating the whole school unmercifully. "Why don't you mind in a minute? Let _me_ spell 'em! Hush, Dinah! Say put! T, o, put!" "I think," said Dotty, laughing, "it is time now for Dinah to take her music lesson." "Yes," said Katie, "lady wants um to packus." So the colored miss was set on the music stool, and both her kid hands spread out upon the keys. "Don't um packus booful?" said Katie, admiringly. But next moment Charlie was punishing the pupil because she didn't "breeve." "Kady wanth her to breeve when her packithith." As it was an ingrain misfortune of Dinah's that she could not breathe, she showed no signs of repentance. "Stop!" said Dotty; "she looks faint; it is rheumatism, I think." "O, O, roosum-tizzum! Poo' Dinah!" said Katie. "We must pack her in a wet sheet," said Dotty. Katie was sent to the kitchen for a towel and a basin of water; and very soon Dinah's clothes were removed, and she was rolled up in a pack; like the boy in the swamp, with "not a bit of her out but the end of her nose." "Ow! Ow!" cried Katie, in a tone of agony, speaking for Dinah. "Ow! O, dear!" This was what the black patient would have said, no doubt, if she had had her faculties. Aunt Maria came in, a little alarmed, to inquire what was the matter with Katie. "Nuffin, mamma, only we _suffer_ Dinah," replied the child, dancing round the patient; "her wants to ky, but her can't. Gets caught in her teef comin' out!" "Very well," said Mrs. Clifford, kissing the small nurse, "you may 'suffer' Dinah as much as you like, but please don't scream quite so loud." "Is grandma busy, Aunt 'Ria?" said Dotty; "because I'd like to see her a moment." The child had seized her knitting-work. Her face was flushed and eager. She thought she felt brave enough to open her heart to her grandmother; but when Mrs. Parlin entered the nursery, her face beaming with kindness, Dotty was not ready. "O, grandma," stammered she, "are there any ducks hatched? Don't you think that hen is very slow and very lazy?" Mrs. Parlin knew her little granddaughter had not called her out of the kitchen merely to ask about the poultry. She seated herself on the sofa, and drew Dotty's head into her lap. "Please look at my knitting-work, grandma. Shall I seam that stitch or _plain_ it?" "You are doing very well," said Mrs. Parlin, looking at the work; "you seamed in the right place." Dotty cast about in her mind for something more to say. "Grandma, you know what fireflies are? Well, if you scratch 'em will they light a lamp? Susy says they have _fosfos_ under their wings, like a match." "No, Alice; with all the scratching in the world, they could not be made to light a lamp." Dotty sighed. "Grandma, there are some things in this world I hate, and one is skeetos." "They are vexatious little creatures, it is true." There was a long pause. "Grandma, are skeetos idiotic? You said people without brains were idiotic, and there isn't any place in a skeeto's head for brains." "Dotty," said grandma, rising with a smile, "if you sent for me to ask me such foolish questions as these, I must really beg to be excused. I have a pudding to make for dinner." "Grandma, O, grandma," cried Dotty, seizing her skirts, "I have something to say, now truly; something real sober. I--I--" "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Parlin, encouragingly. "I--I--O, grandma, which do you think can knit the best, Prudy or I?" "My dear Dotty," said the kind grandmother, stroking the child's hair, "don't be afraid to tell the whole story. I know you have a trouble at your heart. Do you think you were a naughty girl last night?" [Illustration: DOTTY AND "THE CHARLIE BOY."--Page 113.] Dotty's head drooped. She tried to say, "Yes, ma'am;" but, like Dinah, "the words got caught in her teef comin' out." "We didn't go where you thought we did, grandma," faltered she at last. "Mr. Crossman has two orchards, and we went to just the one you wouldn't have s'posed." "Yes, dear; so I have learned to-day." "I deceived you a-purpose, grandma; for if I hadn't deceived you, you wouldn't have let me go." There was a sorrowful expression on Mrs. Parlin's face as she listened to these words, though they told her nothing new. "Has you got a pain, gamma?" said little Katie, tenderly. "I did another wickedness, grandma," said Dotty, in a low voice; "I went barefoot, and you never said I might." "Poor little one, you were sorely punished for that," said grandma, kindly. "And another, too, I did; I threw my basket away; but that wasn't much wicked; Jennie made me think perhaps 'twas a non." "A what?" "A _non_, that catches lightning, you know; so I threw it away to save my life." Grandma smiled. "And now," continued Dotty, twirling her fingers, "can you--can you--forgive me, grandma?" "Indeed I can and will, child, if you are truly sorry." "There now, grandma," said Dotty, looking distressed, "you think I don't feel sorry because I don't cry. I can't cry as much as Prudy does, ever; and besides, I cried all my tears away last night." Dotty rubbed her eyes vigorously as she spoke, but no "happy mist" came over them. "Why, my dear little Alice," said grandmamma, "it is quite unnecessary for you to rub your eyes. Don't you know you can _prove_ to me that you are sorry?" "How, grandma?" "Never do any of these naughty things again. That is the way I shall know that you really repent. Sometimes children think they are sorry, and make a great parade, but forget it next day, and repeat the offence." "Indeed, grandma, I don't mean ever to deceive or disobey again," said Dotty, with a great deal more than her usual humility. "Ask your heavenly Father to help you keep that promise," said Mrs. Parlin, solemnly. CHAPTER VIII. WASHING THE PIG. After her grandmother had left the room, Miss Dotty lay on the sofa for five minutes, thinking. "Then it doesn't make any difference how much anybody cries, or how much they don't cry. If they are truly sorry, then they won't do it again; that's all." Then she wondered if Jennie Vance had asked her step-mother's pardon. She thought she ought to talk to Jennie, and tell her how much happier she would feel if she would only try to be a good little girl. "That child is growing naughty every day of her life," mused Miss Dimple, with a feeling of pity. There was plenty of time to learn the morning's lesson by heart, for Dotty was obliged to keep very quiet all day. The thorn had been removed from her foot, but the healing must be a work of time; and more than that, her throat was quite sore. It seemed as if Susy and Prudy would never come; and when at last their cheerful voices were heard ringing through the house, it was a welcome sound indeed. They had brought some oranges for Katie and Dotty, with sundry other niceties, from Aunt Martha's. "Did you know," said Dotty, "I haven't had any breakfast to-day? I've lost one meal, and I never shall make it up as long as I live; for I couldn't eat two breakfasts, you know." "I'll tell you what we'll do," said Aunt Louise, laughing; "if you'll wake me up at twelve o'clock some night, I'll rise and prepare a breakfast for you, and that will make it all right." Dotty looked at her auntie as if she did not know whether to take her in earnest or not. "I've been sick at home all day, Prudy," said she; "and I s'pose _you've_ been having a good time." "Splendid! And Lightning Dodger brought us home." "Who's Lightning Dodger?" "Why, Aunt Martha's horse; don't you know? They call him that because they say he goes so fast the lightning don't have time to hit him." "O, you don't believe it--do you?" cried Dotty; "I guess that's poetry." "Little sister," replied Prudy, speaking in a low voice, "don't say 'poetry' ever again. There's something about it that's very queer. I thought I knew how to make poetry, but they all laugh at me, even grandma." Dotty looked greatly surprised. "Yes," continued Prudy, with a trembling voice; "I can rhyme verses and jingle them; but there's something else I don't put in, I s'pose, that belongs there. Some time I'll look in the big dictionary and see what it is." "Is Prudy telling about the party?" asked Susy, from the corner. "What party?" cried Dotty, dancing on her well foot. "There, now, don't feel so happy, darling, for you can't go; its a family party, and Cousin Lydia wrote she hadn't room for the two youngest; that's you and Flyaway." Dotty looked as if she had received a blow. True, she knew nothing about Cousin Lydia, who lived twenty miles away; but if that individual was going to have a party, of course Dotty wished to go to it. "Uncle John is going, all _his_ wife and children," said Prudy; "and I don't see why Dotty can't." Uncle John was Aunt Martha's husband, and "all _his_ wife and children" meant only Aunt Martha and Lonnie. "Cousin Lydia wanted to make me cry," exclaimed Dotty, her eyes shooting out sparks of displeasure; "she 'spected I'd cry, and that's why--Katie," added she, drawing the little one up to her, "Cousin Lydia won't let you come to her house." "What _for_ she won't?" cried Katie, looking defiant. "If I good would her put me in the closet? I don't like her tall, tenny rate." This was the strongest expression of wrath Katie dared use; and when she said she did not like a person "tall tenny rate," it meant that she was very, very angry. "Has Cousin Yiddy got some heart?" asked she indignantly. "Not a bit," replied Dotty, fiercely. Mrs. Parlin now tried to explain. She said Mrs. Tenny did not intend any disrespect to the two youngest ones; but she really had no room for them, as her guests were to spend the night. "The mistake she made was in asking Susy and Prudy," said Aunt Louise; "but I suppose she was curious to see our little poetess." Prudy blushed, and hid her face behind the curtain. "Poor little sister," thought she, "how she feels!" For Dotty sat in the rocking-chair, as stiff as a jointed doll, looking as if she loved nobody and nobody loved her. Her beautiful eyes had ceased to shoot sparks of fire, and now appeared hard and frozen, like thick blue ice. In fact, a fit of the pouts was coming on very fast, and gentle Prudy dreaded it. She had been so happy in the thought of riding to Bloomingdale; could she give up that pleasure, and stay at home with Dotty? Nothing less, she knew, would satisfy the child. All her life Prudy had been learning to think of the happiness of others before her own. She cast another glance at the still face. "I'm not going to Bloomingdale," sighed she, behind the curtain. But when she told Mrs. Parlin so, that night, her voice was very tremulous. "You dear little girl," said grandma, giving her a hearty kiss; "you need not make any such resolve. Your sister Alice must learn to bear disappointments as well as you. You are going to Bloomingdale with us, my child; so bring your blue dress to me, and let me see if it is in order." Though Prudy's offer to remain at home had been made in all good faith, and though she was really sorry to think of leaving Dotty alone, still I cannot say her heart did not bound with delight on being told she _must_ go. Thursday morning came clear and bright, and with it Miss Polly, downcast and sad, in a mournful brown bonnet, the front of which, as Prudy said, was "making a courtesy." Miss Polly was, however, in as good spirits as usual, and had come to keep house with Ruth, and help take care of the children for this day and the next. Till the last minute Prudy and Dotty walked the piazza, their arms about each other's waist. "I s'pose," said Dotty, sullenly, "when you are at that old Cousin Lydia's, having good times, you won't think anything about me and Katie, left here all alone." "Why, little sister!" "Maybe," continued Dotty, "the ducks will hatch while you're gone. I saw the white hen flying over the fence with one of those eggs in her mouth." "A piece of the shell?" "O, no, a whole egg, right in her bill," replied Dotty, who supposed she was telling the truth. "And you know those big strawberries that cost a cent apiece, Prudy; you'll be sorry you couldn't be here to help eat 'em in cream." Perhaps Dotty hoped, even at this last moment, that Prudy would be induced to stay at home. If so, she was doomed to be disappointed. "Well," said Prudy, "I'm glad you'll have such nice times, Dotty." "O, it won't be nice at all. Something will happen; now you see if it don't," said Dotty, determined to be miserable. After the two carriages, with the horses "Deacon" and "Judge," had driven off, and grandpa had given his last warning about fire, and Horace and the girls had waved their handkerchiefs for the last time, Dotty proceeded to the kitchen to see if she could find anything wherewith to make herself unhappy. Ruth stood by the flour-board kneading bread, and cutting it with a chopping-knife in a brisk, lively way. Polly sat by the stove sighing and rubbing silver. "Dear me, child, what are you doing with my starch?" said Ruth as she saw Dotty with the bowl at her lips, and a sticky stream tickling down her apron. "Starch?" cried Dotty, in disgust; "and you never told me, Ruthie! How did I know it wasn't arrow-root?" "You see, Polly," said Ruth in a discouraged tone, "just what we are to expect from these children to-day. Next thing we know, that morsel of a Katie will be running away. They are enough to try the patience of Job when they both of them set out to see what they _can_ do. And if Jennie Vance comes, the house will be turned upside down in five minutes." Ruth might have known better than to complain to Polly, who always had something in her own experience which was worse than anybody else had known. "We all have our trials," sighed that sorrowful woman; "if it isn't children, it's aches and pains. Now, for my part, I've been troubled for ten years with--" Here followed a list of diseases. Ruth shut her lips together, resolved to say nothing more about her own trials. "They don't either of them like me," thought Dotty. "I'm going off in the barn, and perhaps they'll think I'm dead. Katie," said she, sternly, "I'm going off somewhere, and you mustn't try to find me." Then there was some one else who felt quite alone in the world, and that was little Katie. Her cousin had pushed her one side as if she was of no value. Katie was a very little child, but she was old enough to feel aggrieved. She went into the parlor, and threw herself face downwards on the sofa, thinking. "Somebody leave me alone. O, dear! Some naughty folks don't think I'm any gooder than a baby." Then the poor little thing ran out to "breve the fleshy air." No, she wasn't quite alone in the world after all, for there was Charlie Gray at the gate. "Is um _you_?" she cried gleefully. Charlie said it was. "You didn't came to see big folks--did you? You camed to see Katie. I love you deely." Then she tried to kiss him; but Charlie drew away. "O, is your face sore?" asked the little girl. By this time they had got as far as the seat in the trees, and Charlie had found his tongue. "I didn't come thee _you_," said he. "I came thee your grandpa'th pig." "O," said Katie, perfectly satisfied. Off they started for the pig-pen. [Illustration: WASHING THE PIG.--Page 137.] "I'm glad Dotty Dimble goed away," said Katie, swinging Charlie's hand; "her's stinchy and foolidge." "Good girlth don't thay tho," said sweet little Charlie rather shocked. "Well, I do; stinchy and foolidge!" repeated Katie, as severely as if she had known what the words meant. The pig was not expecting any visitors, and when he found that Charlie and Katie had brought him nothing to eat, he did not seem very glad to see them. "How you do, piggy?" said Katie, swinging a stick through the opening by the trough. Piggy ran away, looking very unamiable; and then he came back again, rolling his little eyes, and grunting sulkily. "He don't look pleathant," said Charlie. "No," replied Katie, archly; "I guess um don't want to be kissed." Piggy winked his pink eyes, as if to say, "Ah, but I do." "Does you?" said Katie, kindly, "then I'll frow you one;" and she did it from the tips of her clean fingers. "But piggy's velly dirty," said she, wiping her lips on her apron. "Don't they wath him?" said Charlie; "they wath theep." "Um isn't a sheep," returned Katie; "um's a pig." "But your gwampa could wath him." "No, gampa couldn't; gampa's deaf. I'll tell Ruthie, and Ruthie'll wash him with the toof brush." "I with thee would," sighed Charlie; "thee ought to. O ho!" he added, a bright thought striking him; "you got a mop?" "A mop?" "Yes; a bwoom 'thout any bwoom on it; only wags." Katie knew what he meant in a minute; and soon her hair was flying in the wind, as she ran into the house for her handled mop. She looked first in the parlor, and then in the front hall; but at last she found it in the wash-room. She was very sly about it, for she was not sure Ruthie would approve of this kind of housework. Then Charlie tugged out a pail of water, and dipped in the mop; and between them both they thrust it through the opening of the pen, upon piggy's back. But the dirty creature did not love clean water. When he felt the mop coming down, he thought the sky was falling, and ran as fast as Chicken Little frightened by the rose-leaf. It was of no use. The mop was wilful, and fell into the trough; and there it staid, though the children spent the rest of the forenoon in vain attempts to hook it out. When Ruthie went that noon to feed the pig, she found the trough choked with a mop, a hoe, a shovel, and several clothes-pins. She did not stop to inquire into the matter, but took the articles out, one by one, saying to herself, with a smile,-- "Some of that baby's work. I couldn't think what had become of my mop; she's enough to try the patience of Job. And now," added Ruth, throwing her apron over her head, "I may as well look up Miss Dimple. There's not a better child in the world than she is when she pleases; but deary me, when things do go wrong!" Just then a wagon drove up to the gate, and Ruth said, as she saw a burly figure alight from it,-- "Why, that can't be Uncle Seth? I'm afraid something has happened at our house!" CHAPTER IX. A DARK DAY. Meanwhile Dotty was lying on the hay in the barn scaffold. It is very easy to be unhappy when we particularly try to be so; and Dotty had arrived at the point of _almost_ believing that she _almost_ wished she was actually dead. And, to add to her gloom, a fierce-looking man, with a long horse-whip in his hand, came and peeped in at the barn door, and screamed to Dotty in a hoarse voice that "Ruth Dillon wanted her right off, and none of her dilly-dallying." And then, on going into the house, what should she learn but that this man had come to take Ruth home, because her mother was sick. The children--so Ruth said--must stay with Polly and be little ladies. O, dear, it was as lonesome as a line-storm, after lively Ruth had gone away. Dotty began to think she liked her brisk little scoldings, after all. "Does you feel so bad?" said little Flyaway, gazing on her sober cousin with pity; "your mouth looks just this way;" and, putting up both hands, she drew down her own little lips at the corners. "Yes, I feel bad," said Dotty. "You needn't talk to me; where's your orange?" "I squoze it," replied Flyaway; "and falled it down my froat. But I didn't had enough. If you pees, um, give me some more." "Why, what an idea!" said Dotty, laughing. But when she began to divide her own orange into sections, Katie looked on expectantly, knowing she should have a share. Dotty ate two quarters, gave one to Katie, and reserved the fourth for Polly. She longed to eat this last morsel herself, but Polly had praised her once for giving away some toys, and she wished to hear her say again, "Why, what a generous little girl!" But when she smilingly offered the bite, what was her surprise to hear Polly say in an indifferent tone,-- "Well, well, child, you needn't have saved such a tiny piece for me; it doesn't amount to anything!" At the same time she ate the whole at a mouthful. Dotty felt very much irritated. Did Miss Polly think oranges grew on bushes? What was the use to be generous if people wouldn't say "thank you?" "I don't feel much better than I did when I gave the beggar my money. But I didn't do my 'alms before men' this time, though," said she, looking at her little fat arms and wondering what her grandmother meant by talking of her giving _them_ away. "I s'pose it's my _fingers_ that grow on the ends of my arms, and that's what I give with," she concluded. On the whole she was passing a dismal day. She had been told that she must not go away; and it happened that nobody came, not even Jennie Vance. "If Prudy had been left alone, all the girls in town would have come to see her," thought the forlorn Miss Dimple, putting a string round one of her front teeth, and trying to pull it out by way of amusement. "O, dear, I can't move my tooth one inch. If I could get it out, and put my tongue in the hole, then there'd be a gold one come. But I can't. O, dear!" "Where is your little cousin?" said Miss Polly, coming into the room with her knitting in her hand. "I thought she was with you: I don't wonder they call her Flyaway." "I don't know where she is, I'm sure, Miss Polly. Won't you please pull my tooth! And do you 'spose I can keep my tongue out of the hole?" "Why, Dotty, I thought you were going to take care of that child," said Miss Polly, dropping her knitting without getting around to the seam-needle, and walking away faster than her usual slow pace. "There's nothing so bad for me as worry of mind: I shall be sick as sure as this world!" Dotty knew she had been selfish and careless. She not only felt ashamed of herself, but also very much afraid that something dreadful had happened to Katie, in which case she would be greatly to blame. She anxiously joined in the search for the missing child. I am sure you would never guess where she was found. In the watering trough! Not drowned, because the water was not deep enough! "I was trying to srim," said she, as they drew her out; "and THAT'S what is it." Even Miss Polly smiled at the dripping little figure with hair clinging close to its head; but Flyaway looked very solemn. "It makes me povokin'," said she, knitting her brows, "to have you laugh at me!" "It would look well in you, Dotty," said Miss Polly, "to pay more attention to this baby, and let your teeth alone." Dotty twisted a lock of her front hair, and said nothing; but she remembered her grandmother's last words,--"Alice, I depend upon you to amuse your little cousin, as your Aunt Maria told you. You know you can make her very happy when you please." "Seems to me," thought Dotty, "that baby might grow faster and have more sense. _I_ never got into a watering-trough in my life!--Why, how dark it is! Hark!" said she, aloud; "what is that rattling against the windows?" For she heard "the driving hail Upon the window beat with icy flail." "That is hail," replied Polly--"frozen drops of rain." "Why Miss Polly," said Dotty, giving a fierce twitch at her tooth, "rain can't freeze the least speck in the summer. You don't mean to tell a wrong story, but you've made a mistake." "Her's made a 'stake," said Katie. "Now, look, Polly, it's stones! They're pattering, clickety-click, all over the yard. Dear, dear! The grass will look just like the gravel-path, and the windows will crack in two." "Never you mind," said Polly, knitting as usual; "if it does any harm, 'twill only kill a few chickens." Upon this there was another wail; for next to ducks Dotty loved chickens. But lo! before her tears had rolled down to meet her dimples, the patter of hail was over. "Come and see the rainbow," said Polly, from the door-stone. It was a glorious sight, an arch of varied splendor resting against the blue sky. "That isn't a rainbow," said Dotty; "it's a hail-bow!" "What a big, big, big bubbil!" shouted Katie. "She thinks somebody is blowing all that out of soapsuds, I s'pose," said Dotty; "I guess 'twould take a giant with a 'normous pipe--don't you, Polly?" "There, now," said Miss Polly, "I just want you to hold some of this hail in your hand. What do you call that but ice?" "So it is," said Dotty; "cold lumps of frozen ice, as true as this world." "And not stones," returned Polly. "Now you won't think next time you know so much better than older people--will you?" "But I don't see, Miss Polly, how it got here from Greenland; I don't, now honest." "I didn't say anything about Greenland, child. I said it was rain, and it froze in the air coming down; and so it did." "Did it? Why, you know a great deal--don't you, Miss Polly? Did you ever go to school?" Polly sighed dismally. "O, yes, I went now and then a day. I was what is called a 'bound girl.' I didn't have nice, easy times, like you little ones. You have no idea of my hardships. It was delve and dig from sunrise to sunset." "Why, what a naughty mother to make you dig! Did you have a ladies' hoe?" "My mother died, Dotty, when I was a creeping baby. The woman who took me to bring up was a hard-faced woman. She made me work like a slave." "Did she? But by and by you grew up, Miss Polly, and, when you had a husband, he didn't make you a dog--did he?" "I never had a husband or anybody else to take care of me," said Polly. "Come, children, we must go into the house." They all three entered the parlor, and Miss Whiting fastened the window tightly to exclude the air, for it was one of her afflictions that she was "easy to take cold." "I don't see," queried Dotty, "why your husband didn't marry you. I should have thought he would." "He didn't want to, I suppose," said Polly, grimly. Dotty fell into a brown study. It was certainly very unkind in _some_ man that he hadn't married Miss Polly and taken care of her, so she need not have wandered around the world with a double-covered basket and a snuff-box. It was a great pity; still Dotty could not see that just now it had anything to do with Polly's forgetting to set the table. "I'm so hungry," said she; "isn't it 'most supper time?" "It's only five; but you appear to be so lonesome that I'll make a fire this minute and put on the tea-kettle," replied the kind-hearted Polly. "What does your grandmother generally have for supper?" "Cake sometimes," answered Dotty, her eyes brightening; "and tarts." "And perjerves," added Katie; "and--and--yice puddin'." "She keeps the cake in a stone jar," said Dotty, eagerly; "and the strawberries are down cellar in a glass dish--cost a cent apiece." "The slips they grew from cost a cent apiece; that is what you mean," said Polly; "you hear things rather hap-hazard sometimes, Dotty, and you ought to be more careful." [Illustration: A DARK DAY.--Page 154.] The tea-kettle was soon singing on the stove, and Dotty forgot her peculiar trials when she saw the table covered with dainties. She was not sure grandma would have approved of the cake and tarts, but they were certainly very nice, and it was a pleasure to see how Polly enjoyed them. Dotty presumed she had never had such things when she lived with the "hard-faced woman." "It wasn't everywhere," she said, "that she saw such thick cream as rose to the tops of Mrs. Parlin's pans." She poured it freely over the strawberries and into her own tea, which it made so delicious that she drank three cups. Then after supper she seemed to feel quite cheery for her, and, taking Katie in her arms, rocked her to sleep to the tune of "China," which is not very lively music, it must be confessed. "Aunt 'Ria puts her to bed awake," said Dotty. "She's going to sleep in my bed to-night." "Very well," said Polly, "but you will sleep with me." "Why, Miss Polly! what if Katie should wake up?" "She won't be likely to; but I can't help it if she does. I may have the nightmare in the night." "What is the nightmare?" "It is something perfectly dreadful, child! I sincerely hope you'll never know by sad experience. It's the most like dying of any feeling I ever had in my life. I can't move a finger, but if I don't move it's sure death; and somebody has to shake me to bring me out of it." Dotty turned pale. "Miss Polly, O, please, I'd rather sleep with Katie!" "But how would you feel to have me die in the night?" "O, dear, dear, dear," cried Dotty; "let me go for the doctor this minute!" "Why, child, I haven't got it now, and perhaps I shan't have it at all; but if I do, I shall groan, and that's the way you will know." Dotty ran into the shed, threw her apron, still sticky with starch, over her head, and screamed at the wood-pile. "O, if grandma were only at home, or Ruth, or Abner!" "Why, what's the matter, little Goody-Two-Shoes?" said a manly voice. Abner had just come from his day's work in the meadow. "Polly's here," gasped Dotty. "She's afraid she's going to die in the night, and she wants me to shake her." Abner leaned against a beam and laughed heartily. "Never you fear, little one! I have heard that story about Polly's dying in the night ever since I can remember; and she hasn't died yet. You just say your prayers, dear, and go to sleep like a good little girl, and that's the last you'll know about it till morning." So saying, he caught Dotty by the shoulders, and tossed her up to the rafters. The child's spirits rose at once. It was such a comfort to have that strong Abner in the house in case of accidents. She said her prayers more earnestly than usual, but it was nearly five minutes before she fell asleep. The last thing she heard was Miss Polly singing a very mournful hymn through her nose; and, while she was wondering why it should keep people alive to shake them, she passed into dreamland. Very little good would such a heavy sleeper have done if Miss Polly had had an ill turn. It was Polly who was obliged to shake Dotty, and that rather roughly, before she could rouse her. "Where am I? Who is it?" said she. "O, Miss Polly, are you dead?" "Hush, child; don't speak so loud; or you'll wake Abner. Little Katie is sick, and I want you to stay with her while I go down stairs and light a fire." CHAPTER X. THE END OF THE WORLD. Dotty shuddered. It seemed so unearthly and horrible to be awake at night; to see a lamp burning, and Katie looking so very white. It was the strawberries which had made her ill, as Miss Polly confessed. When that good but ignorant woman had gone down stairs, Dotty had much ado to keep from screaming outright. "I thought somebody would die," said she to herself; "but I didn't s'pose it would be Katie. O, Katie, Katie Clifford! you're the cunningist child. We can't have you die!" "Somebody leave me alone," moaned Katie; "and 'twas you'n the Polly woman. I don't love anybody in this world!" "Darling! I didn't mean to," said Dotty, "now honest. Polly said, 'O, dear! she was going to die'; but I might have known she wouldn't. She told a wrong story--I mean she made a mistake." "You was naughty," said Katie, "velly naughty; but you didn't mean to." "No, Katie; 'twas Polly that was naughty." "The krilt got off o' me," said Katie, picking at the tufted coverlet; "and then I was sick." "Miss Polly said it was the strawberries, darling; and the cream poured over them so thick." "And getting into the watering-trough," added Dotty to herself, uneasily. "Yes," sighed Katie: "'twas the stawbollies. Did _I_ ask for the stawbollies? No, but the Polly woman gave 'em to me. Didn't want 'em; I wanted to be well." After two weary hours, which seemed as long as days almost, poor little Katie was easier, and fell asleep. Dotty, who had taken several naps in her chair, would now have gone to bed again; but Miss Polly was dressed, and said she could not close her eyes if she tried; she meant to go down stairs to her knitting. Dotty was afraid to stay alone. She was always a little timid, and to-night her nerves had been considerably tried. The lamp cast frightful shadows, and the newly-risen moon shone through the white curtains with ghostly light. She could "preach" to Jennie Vance about God's "holding the whole world in his arms;" but she could not always remember it herself. She put on a white wrapper of Susy's, and, looking like a wimpled nun, followed Polly down stairs. If she thought of wee Katie at all, she thought there were good angels in the room to guard her; but she could not trust _herself_ with them; she would rather keep close to Polly. "I think," whispered Polly, unlocking the back door and looking out at the sky, "it must be very near morning; but the clocks have both run down, and I can only guess at the time by my feelings." Then Polly made a brisk fire in the stove, and set the tea-kettle to humming. "Now I will get the milk-pail," said she, "and you may put on the tea-pot. I am faint for want of something to drink." It was one of Polly's peculiarities that she always talked to children as if they had as much judgment as grown people. Dotty did not know where to look for any tea-pot except the very best one, which stood on a shelf in the china closet; that she brought and set on the stove, empty. "Let me go too, let me go too!" cried she, as Polly was walking out with the milk-pails. The daisies, with "their little lamps of dew," seemed still asleep, and so did all the "red-mouthed flowers" in the garden. The cows looked up with languid surprise at sight of their visitors, but offered no objections to being milked. Dotty gave one hasty peep at the white hen sitting on the venerable duck's eggs; but the hen seemed offended. Dotty ran away, and took a survey of the "green gloom" of the trees, in the midst of which was suspended the swing, looking now as melancholy as a gallows. "O, what a dreadful night this is!" thought the child, standing bolt upright, lest she should fall asleep. "Where's the sun? He hasn't taken off his red silk night cap. He hasn't got back from China yet. Only think,--if he shouldn't come back at all! I heard somebody say, the other day, the world was coming to an end. Miss Polly," said she, aloud, re-entering the barn, "isn't this the longest night you ever saw in all the days of your life?" "Yes, it has been considerable long, I am free to confess," replied Polly, who thought she had had a very hard time keeping house, as was indeed the truth. "Do you s'pose, Miss Polly, that some morning the sun won't rise any more?" "O, yes," replied Miss Polly, who was always ready with a hymn:-- "'God reigns above,--he reigns alone; Systems burn out, and leave His throne.' "Why, yes, dear; the world will certainly come to an end one of these days; and _then_ the sun won't rise, of course; there won't be any sun." And Miss Polly began to hum one of her sorrowful tunes, beating time with the two streams of milk which dripped mournfully into the pail. "She is afraid this is the end of the world," thought Dotty, with a throbbing heart, and a stifling sensation at the throat; "she don't believe the sun is ever going to rise any more." The music suddenly ceased. "These are very poor cows," said Polly, in a reflective tone; "or else they don't give down their milk. I understood you to say, Dotty, that Ruth milked very early." "If everything's coming to an end, it's no wonder the cows act so," said Dotty, to herself, but she dared not say it aloud. They went into the house, the trail of Susy's long wrapper following after little Dotty Dimple like the closing feet in one of Polly's long-metre verses. Still the moon shone with the same white, ghostly light, and the sun continued to keep away. "This beats all," said Polly, mournfully; as she washed her hands, strained the milk, and set the pans away. "If I judged by my feelings, I should say it must be six o'clock, or very near it. At any rate, I'm going to have a cup of tea. What's this smell?" On the stove stood a pool of something which looked like liquid silver, and proved to be the remains of the best tea-pot. At any other time Dotty would have felt very sorry; but now the accident seemed a mere trifle, when compared with the staying away of the sun. Who could tell "if ever morn should rise?" Even Miss Polly, with her constitutional gloom, was not just now so miserable as Dotty, and never dreamed that it was anything but sleepiness which made the little girl so sober. Dotty was not a child who could tell all the thoughts which troubled her youthful brain. "Well, well," said Polly, giving another inquiring glance at the sky; "not a streak of daylight yet! I'll tell you what it is, Dotty; we might as well go to bed." But hark! As she spoke there was a loud report as of a pistol. It seemed to come from the cellar. Miss Polly clapped both hands to her ears. Dotty shrieked, and hid her face in her lap, and shrieked again. "It has come! It has come!" cried she,--meaning the end of the world,--and stopped her ears. "What, what, what!" whispered Polly, in sore affright, walking back and forth, and taking snuff as she went. It was certainly startling to hear a pistol go off so unexpectedly, at that solemn hour, under one's very roof. Polly naturally thought first of housebreakers. She had barred and double-barred every door and window; but now she remembered with dreadful remorse she had not fastened the outside cellar door. No doubt it had been left open, and burglars had got into the cellar. O, what a responsibility had been put upon her! and why hadn't somebody particularly warned her to attend to that door? Perhaps the burglars were stealing pork. But they would not have fired a pistol at the barrel--would they? O, no; they were trying to blow up the house! Polly took three pinches of snuff, one after the other, as fast as she could, slipped off her shoes, went to the kitchen window, and peeped through the blinds. Not much to be seen but moonlight, and the deep shadows of the ragged trees. Another pistol-shot; then another. The sound came from that part of the cellar called the soap-room, directly under Polly's feet. She did not wait for further warning. Every moment was precious. She meant to save what lives she could, for Polly was strictly conscientious. She took the nearly frantic Dotty into the china closet, dragging her like a sack of meal, and turned the key. "Stay there, child, if you know when you're well off," whispered she through the keyhole. "The house is blowing up. I'm going to call Abner." In her consternation Polly had not reflected that Dotty was as likely to be blown up in the closet as anywhere else. The unfortunate little girl screamed and struggled in her prison in vain. There was no way of escape. Night of horrors! As far as she was concerned, there were two ends to the world, and they were coming right together. Her agony is not to be described. Abner came very soon; but it seemed an age. Being a brave man who had served three months in the army, he had the courage to walk down cellar and face the enemy. He found nothing worse, however, than a few bottles of beer which had blown off their own heads. He brought them up in his arms. "Here," said he, "are your burglars, with their throats cut from ear to ear." "Well, if I ever had such a fright in all the days of my life!" cried Polly, staring at the bottles, and catching her breath. Abner poured some of the beer into a goblet, and drank to the health of Miss Dimple, who climbed upon his knee, and felt as if the world had suddenly stopped coming to an end; and she was greatly relieved. "But who fired the guns?" said she, not understanding yet what it all meant. "It was only the beer coming out to get the air," said Abner, taking another glass. "You couldn't expect beer with the spirit of a hop in it to stay bottled up with a stopper in!" "I never had such queer feelings," exclaimed Polly, rolling up her eyes; "and now it's all over, I feel as if I was going to faint away." "I wouldn't advise you to," said Abner, coolly. "The enemy is routed, and victory is ours. Drink a little beer, Polly; it will revive your spirits. But what is the object, may I ask, of your prowling about the house with this poor little girl at this hour of night?" "Why, what time is it? I thought by my feelings it must have been daybreak long enough ago." It was Abner's private opinion that Polly would do well to think less of her "feelings" now and always; but he only said, consulting his watch,-- "It's just one o'clock, ladies; time for respectable people to be in bed." Polly said she had never felt such surprise before in her life. She was afraid she should be sick; for sitting up in the night was always too much for her. Dotty said her prayers over again, and fell into a sleep "sweeter than a nest of nightingales." And with her last waking thought she thanked God the round red sun was not worn out yet, and the world had not come to an end. CHAPTER XI. CRAZY DUCKLINGS. When the family came home, Miss Polly had a most doleful story to tell about Katie's experiment in the watering-trough, the child's illness, the explosion of the beer, and her own fright and "dreadful feelings." Mrs. Parlin regretted the loss of the tea-pot; Miss Louise said she had heard of "witches making tea," and perhaps this was the way they did it. In return for Miss Whiting's laborious services in taking care of the children, Mrs. Parlin gave her various articles of food to carry home; for Polly had one room in Mr. Grant's house, which she was accustomed to call her home, though she did not stay there very much. Polly sighed her gratitude, put on her dark bonnet, and said, as she went away,-- "Now, Mrs. Parlin, if it should so happen that you should all go away again, don't fail to ask me to come and keep house. You have always been so kind to me that I feel it a privilege to do any such little thing for you." But in her heart poor Polly thought it was anything but a "little thing," and it cost her a great effort to promise to undertake it again. Mrs. Parlin thanked Miss Polly very politely; but for her part she thought privately it would be a long while before they would, any of them, be willing to trust such a nervous person with the care of the children a second time. "Good by, all," said Polly, going off with her double-covered basket on her arm; "remember me to Margaret when you write." "What a funny thing to say!" remarked Prudy; "how can we remember people to anybody, or forget them to anybody either?" "O, it was awful," said Dotty, linking arms with Prudy and walking her off to the seat in the trees. "Miss Polly scared me so I don't believe I shall ever be afraid of lightning again!" Little Flyaway ran after them, holding her nipperkin of milk close to her bosom, to keep off the flies, as she thought. "I was defful sick," said she; "and did I ask the Polly woman for the stawbollies? No, she was naughty; _I_ didn't want 'em. She gived me stawbollies and stawbollies." Prudy had to hear over and over again the trials which both the children had suffered. She had had a delightful time herself, as she always did have, wherever she was. She told Dotty and Flyaway of several interesting events which had happened; but, best of all, she had brought them a quantity of beautiful shells, which they were to divide with Ruthie. The brisk Ruth had come back again as energetic as ever. It proved that her mother had not been so very ill, after all. "Bless that Prudy's little white heart," said she, kissing her on both cheeks; "she never forgets anybody but herself." Ruthie did not praise children as a general thing; but she loved Prudy in spite of herself. Aunt Maria had brought Dotty a beautiful doll. "Because," said she, "I knew you would try to take good care of my little Katie." "O, thank you ever so much, Aunt 'Ria," cried Dotty, handing the dolly at once to Prudy to be admired. But next minute her conscience pricked her. She had no right to a present. True, Katie ought to have known better than to try to swim; still, as Dotty acknowledged,-- "I needn't have felt so sober, I s'pose, and then I should have taken care of her." Dotty was learning to pay heed to these little pricks of conscience. Slowly and sadly she walked back to her Aunt Maria, who was standing on the piazza training the clematis. "I s'pose, auntie, you thought I took care of the baby; but I didn't. I let her swim. Miss Polly said _she_ had the 'blues,' and so did I." Aunt Maria smiled. "Very well," said she; "then keep the doll as a recompense for the suffering you have endured. I hope you will not see two such gloomy days again during the summer." "O, you darling auntie! May I keep the dolly?" There was no sting now to mar Dotty's pleasure in her new possession. Her troubles seemed to be over; life was blossoming into beauty once more. "Good news! Good news!" she cried, rushing into the house, her head, with its multitude of curl-papers, looking like a huge corn-ball. "Two duckies have pecked out!" "You don't say so!" said Susy, coolly. "High time, I should think!" So thought the patient and astonished old hen, who had been wondering every day for a week if this wasn't an uncommonly "backward season." But at last the eggs, like riches, had taken to themselves wings. The soft, speckled creatures found plenty of admiring friends to welcome them as they tried their first "peep" at the world. They did not see much of the world, however, for some time, it must be confessed, on account of the corn-meal dough which the children sprinkled into their eyes. "We won't let you starve, our ony dony Ducky Daddleses," said Dotty. "Our deenty doiny Diddleses," said Katie after her, running hither and thither like a squirrel. It was a time of great satisfaction. Dotty regretted that Jennie Vance had gone to Boston, for it would have been pleasant to see Jennie envious. What were gold rings compared to ducklings? The blunt little beaks pecked out very fast. As soon as they were all out, except the two eggs which were addled, the step-mother hen gathered her family together and went to house-keeping, gipsy fashion, in the back yard. She clucked to the ducklings, and they followed her, their little feet going pat, pat, on the soft grass. A nice time they had, no doubt, eating picked-up dinners, with now and then a banquet of corn-meal dough. There were eleven ducklings, five for Dotty, five for Prudy, and one for Katie, the little girl with flying hair. After they had been alive two days, Prudy thought they ought to have a bath; so she took the large iron pan which Ruth used for baking johnny-cakes, filled it with water, put the tiny creatures in, and bade them "swim," to Madam Biddy's great alarm. They did it well, though they were as badly crowded as the five and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. Katie wished the Charlie boy to see the ducklings, which were "velly difrunt from a piggie;" but dear Charlie was very ill, and when the children went with the milk, they were not allowed to see him. I may as well give you here the history of the ducklings. The next morning after their "swim" there were only ten left, and Dotty's lamentations could be heard all over the house. It was Katie's odd one, she said, that was gone, the one with a black picture on his back that looked like a clover. Next morning there were nine; and on the tenth day there was but one solitary duckling left to pipe out his sorrows all alone. The anguish of the children was painful to be behold. Dotty's grief affected her somewhat like the jumping toothache. Who could have carried away those dear, dear little duckies? Who indeed? About this time the unprincipled old cat was found in the cellar, wiping her lips and purring over a little soft, speckled down. "It was you that did it, was it, you wicked mizzable kitty?" burst forth the bereaved Dotty behind the swinging broomstick. "I must strike you with the soft end. I will! I will! If I'd known before that you'd eat live duckies! O, pussy, pussy, when I've given you my own little bones on a plate with gravy!" "Whose little bones did you say, my dear!" asked Abner. "Chickens and turkeys, and so forth!" replied Dotty, dancing about in her rage. "Why, dear little damsel, do I really understand you to say you eat chickens? Then you are as bad as the cat." "Why, Abner!" "And worse, for you have no claws." "No claws?" "No--have you? If you had, I should conclude they had been made to tear little birds and mice in pieces." "Is that what kitty's claws were made for?" "So I am told. The truth is, she behaves much better for a cat than you do for a little girl." Dotty scowled at her feet and patted them with the broom. "And better than I do for a young man." "But she ate my duckies--so there!" "And Prudy's too," said Abner. "But Prudy doesn't beat her for it. It isn't pleasant to see nice little girls show so much temper, Dotty. Now I'm going to tell you something; all those ducklings were a little crazy, and it didn't make much difference what became of them." "Crazy?" "Yes, their minds were not properly balanced. There's one left, I believe. I'm going to make a lunatic asylum for him, and put him in this very day." Dotty calmed herself and watched Abner as he made a pen with high stakes, and set in one corner of it a pan of water for swimming purposes. The "speckling," as she called him, was Dotty's own; and when he was put into this insane hospital, all safe from the cat, his little mistress was in a measure consoled. "I am sorry he is crazy," said she; "but I s'pose the hen didn't hatch him well. Maybe he'll get his senses by and by." All this while dear little Charlie Gray was very ill. But I will tell you more about him in another chapter. CHAPTER XII. "THE CHARLIE BOY." Dotty heard of Charlie's illness every day; but, like all young children, she thought very little about it. Some one said he was "as white as his pillow." Dotty was amazed, for she had never seen any one as white as that. Then she heard her grandmother say she was "afraid Charlie would die." "Die?" It sounded to Dotty like a word heard in a dream. She only knew that people must die before they went to heaven, and when they died they were very, very cold. [Illustration: DOTTY IN THE SWING.--Page 189.] One night, when she went with the milk, Mrs. Gray was weeping. She asked Dotty if she would like to see little Charlie "once more." Dotty entered the darkened room with a strange feeling of awe. There he lay, so still she hardly dared to breathe. Darling, darling Charlie! But when she had touched the little hot hand and kissed the sweet wasted face, her heart grew lighter. What had made them think he was going to heaven? He did not look any more like an angel now than he had always looked. His face was not as white as the pillow; no, indeed; and he was not cold; his lips were warmer than hers. "He used to have three chins once," whispered Dotty, "darling Charlie!" "You love my little Charlie--don't you, darling?" said Mrs. Gray; and then she clasped Dotty in her arms and sobbed over her; but Charlie did not seem to notice it. "Yes, 'm, I do love him," said Dotty; "Prudy says he's the cunningest boy there is in this town." And then she softly kissed Mrs. Gray's cheek, though she had never kissed her before, and did not know why she was doing it now. "When he gets well, won't you let him come to our house and play croquet? We play it now with marbles, a teenty-tonty game, and the wickets are made of hairpins spread out wide." Dotty spoke very low, and Charlie did not pay the least attention; but Mrs. Gray sobbed still more, and held Dotty closer in her arms, saying,-- "_Don't_ talk so, dear!" "How sorry you do feel to have him so sick! He won't grow up, I s'pose, if he can't play. When he stays in bed it makes him grow littler and littler! Why, how little his neck is! It looks like a dandelion stem!" "Don't, _don't_, dear child! Every word you say strikes right to my heart!" Dotty looked up in Mrs. Gray's face with surprise. What had she said that was wrong? Perhaps she ought not to have talked about dandelions; she would not do it again. "Dotty," said Mrs. Gray, looking sorrowfully towards the bed, "when fathers and mothers are not very wise, and do not know very well how to take proper care of their families, sometimes the Saviour calls their little children away." Dotty knew what she meant now. She meant that Charlie was really going to heaven. "O, Mrs. Gray," said she, "how Prudy and I will feel!" She would have said more, but was afraid she should make another mistake. She kissed the unconscious little sufferer good by, though still it all seemed like a dream. Was this the same boy who had tried to wash the piggy? The same who had meal-bags tied to his feet? "A long kiss is a heart-kiss," she repeated to herself; and somehow she wondered if Charlie couldn't take it to heaven with him. Then she walked home all alone with her thoughts. Next day they told her Charlie was dead. Dotty sat on the sofa for a long time without saying a word; then she went into the nursery, and staid by herself for an hour or two. When she returned she had her new doll in her arms, dressed in black. She wore a strip of black crape about her own neck, and had caught Flyaway long enough to put one upon her arm, as well as upon the knobs of the nursery doors. "Prudy," said she, "it is polite to do so when we lose people we love. Charlie was my friend and Katie's friend, and we shall treat him with the _respect_ of a friend." "Yes," said Katie, skipping after a fly, "spec of a fend." Dotty had never looked on death. "You musn't be frightened, little sister," said Prudy, as they walked hand in hand to Mrs. Gray's, behind the rest of their own family, on the day of the funeral. "Charlie is just as cold as marble, lying in a casket; but _he_ doesn't know it. The part of him that _knows_ is in a beautiful world where we can't see him." "Why can't we see him?" said Dotty, peering anxiously into the sky. "I don't know exactly why," replied Prudy, "but Grandma Read says God doesn't wish it. And He has put a seal over our eyes, so an angel could stand right before us, and we shouldn't know it." "Ah!" said Dotty in a low voice; and though she could see nothing, it seemed to her the air was full of angels. "But I think likely Charlie can see us, Dotty, for the seal has been taken off his eyes. O, it is beautiful to be dead!" After this Dotty was not at all afraid when she touched the cold face in the casket, for she knew Charlie was not there. "It is beautiful to be dead!" said she next day to Katie. "Charlie is very glad of it." "Yes, he's in the ground-up,--in heaven!" said Katie in a dreamy way; for, in her small mind, she believed heaven was a place called "in the ground-up," and that was all she cared about it. "Yes, Charlie is in the ground," replied Dotty, "but he doesn't know it. That dog Pincher was put in the ground; but I think likely _he_ knew it, for his soul wasn't in heaven; and he hadn't any soul, not a real one." "Well," said Katie, dancing out at the door, "when will the Charlie boy come back? I want um play." "Why, Katie," said Dotty, in a tone of reproof, "haven't I told you he is all dead?" "Well, YOU isn't dead--IS you? Less us go an' swing!" The little girls ran out to the trees, and soon forgot all about their old playmate. But, after this, whenever any one spoke of Charlie, Katie thought,-- "The Charlie boy's in the ground-up,--in heaven," and Dotty thought,-- "O, it is beautiful to be dead!" * * * * * For the present, we will leave them swinging under the tree at Grandma Parlin's; but if we see Miss Dimple again, she will have been spirited away to her own mother's home in the city of Portland. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 4, the word "To" has been presumed as the original is unclear. Page 17, "Jenny" changed to "Jennie" to conform to rest of text. (hands, Jennie Vance) Page 23, "Vauce" changed to "Vance". (No, Jennie Vance) Page 44, "Perphaps" changed to "Perhaps". (Perhaps there will be two) Page 49, "pedler" changed to "peddler". (to a peddler) Page 54, "Dt ty" changed to "Dotty". (Dotty twisted the) Page 95, "arly" changed to "nearly". (must be nearly morning) Page 122, "Jenny" changed to "Jennie" to conform to rest of text. (Jenny had asked) Page 126, "Couisn" changed to "Cousin". (nothing about Cousin) Page 126, "Couisin" changed to "Cousin". (Cousin Lydia wanted) Page 137, "thurst" changed to "thrust". (thrust it through) Page 158, "didn't" changed to "Didn't". (Didn't want 'em) 
21105	----	Teddy: The story of a Little Pickle by John Conran Hutcheson ________________________________________________________________ This short book is probably of more interest to ten or eleven year olds, rather than any other age group, for much of the book is taken up with describing sundry very juvenile misdemeanours. It is well written, but my personal opinion is that it is quite inconsequential. Still, it was quite amusing to scan it, OCR it, and edit it. N.H. ________________________________________________________________ TEDDY: THE STORY OF A LITTLE PICKLE BY JOHN CONRAN HUTCHESON. CHAPTER ONE. AN INDEPENDENT YOUNG GENTLEMAN. "I want do d'an'ma!" This sudden and unexpected exclamation, uttered as it was in a shrill little voice like that of a piping bullfinch, and coming from nowhere in particular, as far as he could make out, for he had fancied himself all alone on the platform, made the tall railway porter almost jump out of his skin, as he expressed it, startling him out of his seven senses. He was a stalwart, good-natured, black-bearded giant of a man, clad in a suit of dunduckety-mud-coloured velveteens, rather the worse for wear, and smeary with oil and engine-grease, which gave them a sort of highly- burnished appearance resembling that of a newly-polished black-leaded stove. Doing nothing, and thinking of nothing specially, for the three-forty up-train had gone through the station, and it was a good hour yet before the five-ten down express was due, he had been lazily leaning in a half- dreamy and almost dozing state against the side of the booking-office. From this coign of vantage, he was, as well as his blinking eyes would allow, gazing out over the rails at the fast-falling flakes of feathery snow that were quickly covering up the metals and permanent way with a mantle of white; when, all at once, without a "by your leave," or seeing or hearing anyone approach, his attention was summarily brought back to the present by the strange announcement of the shrill little voice, while, at the same time, he felt the clutch of tiny fingers twitching at one of the legs of his shiny velveteen trousers, evidently as a further means of attracting his notice. The touch made the porter look downwards, when, perceiving that his unknown interlocutor was a small mite barely reaching up to his knees, he became more reassured; and, bending his big body so as to bring his face somewhat on a level with the young person, he proceeded to interrogate him in familiar fashion. "Well, my little man," he said, desiring to learn how he might be of service, for he was a genial willing fellow, and always anxious to oblige people when he knew how--"what's the matter?" "I want do d'an'ma!" repeated the small mite in the same piping tones as before, speaking with the utmost assurance and in the most matter-of- fact way. It seemed as if, having now explicitly notified his wants and wishes, he confidently looked forward, in all the innocent trust of childhood, to their being instantly acted upon and carried out without any demur or hesitation. Jupp, the porter, was quite flabbergasted by the little chap's sang- froid; so, in order the better to collect his ideas and enable him to judge what was best to be done under the circumstances, he took off his flat-peaked uniform cap with one hand and scratched his head reflectively with the fingers of the other, as is frequently the wont of those possessed of thick skulls and wits that are apt to go wool- gathering. The operation appeared to have the effect desired; for, after indulging in this species of mental and physical cogitation for a moment or two, Jupp ventured upon asking the mite another question which had brilliantly suggested itself to him as opportune. "Where is your grandma, sir?" he inquired with more deference than he had used before. "Don-don," replied the small person nonchalantly, as if the point was quite immaterial, looking the porter calmly and straight in the eyes unflinchingly, without turning a hair as the saying goes. Jupp had never come across such a self-possessed young mannikin in his life before. Why, he might have been the station-master or traffic- manager, he appeared so much at his ease! But, he was a little gentleman all the same, Jupp could readily see, in spite of the fact that his costume was not quite suited for travelling, the mite being attired in a very prominent and dirty pinafore, while his chubby face was tear-stained, and he had the look of having come out in a hurry and being perhaps unprepared for the journey he contemplated; although, mind you, he had his luggage with him all right--a small bundle tied up in a large pocket-handkerchief of a bright-red colour, which he held tightly clasped to his little stomach as if afraid of its being taken from him. Jupp hardly knew off-hand how to deal with the case, it being of a more perplexing nature than had previously come within range of his own personal experience; still, he had his suspicions, and thought it best to entertain the young person in conversation for a bit, until he should be able to find out something about his belongings and where he came from. "London's a large place, sir," he therefore observed tentatively, by way of drawing the mite out and getting some clue towards his identity. The little chap, however, was quite equal to the occasion. "Don't tare," he said defiantly, checking the porter's artful attempt at cross-examination. "I want do d'an'ma!" Certainly, he was a most independent young gentleman. Jupp was at a nonplus again; however, he tried to temporise with the mite, the more especially from his noticing that his little legs were quite mottled and his tiny fingers blue with cold. "Well, come in here, sir, at all events, and warm yourself, and then we can talk the matter over comfortably together," he said, throwing open the door of the waiting-room as he spoke, and politely motioning the little chap to enter. The mite made no reply to the invitation, but he tacitly accepted it by following the porter into the apartment he had indicated, and the two were presently seated before a glowing fire, on which Jupp immediately emptied the scuttleful of coals, there being no stint of the fuel by reason of the company standing all expense. Thawed by the genial warmth, rendered all the more enjoyable by the wintry scene outside, where the snow was now swirling down faster and faster as the afternoon advanced, the little chap began to get more communicative, egged on by Jupp in a series of apparently innocent questions. "Nussy bad ooman," he blurted out after a long silence, looking up at Jupp and putting his hand on his knee confidingly. "Indeed, sir?" said the other cautiously, leading him on. "Ess, man," continued the mite. "See want take way my kitty." "You don't mean that, sir!" exclaimed Jupp with well-feigned horror at such unprincipled behaviour on the part of the accused nurse. "Ess, man, see did," replied the little chap, nodding his small curly head with great importance; but the next instant his little roguish blue eyes twinkled with suppressed intelligence, and his red rosebud of a mouth expanded into a happy smile as he added, with much satisfaction in his tones, "but I dot kitty all wite now!" "Have you really, sir?" said Jupp, pretending to be much surprised at the information, the little chap evidently expecting him to be so. "Ess, man," cried the mite with a triumphant shout; "I'se dot po' 'ittle kitty here!" "Never, sir!" ejaculated Jupp with trembling eagerness, as if his life depended on the solution of the doubt. The little chap became completely overcome with merriment at having so successfully concealed his treasured secret, as he thought, that the porter had not even guessed it. "Kitty's in dundle!" he exclaimed gleefully, hugging his handkerchief parcel tighter to his little stomach as he spoke. "I dot kitty here, all wite!" "You don't mean that, sir--not in that bundle o' yours surely, sir?" repeated Jupp with deep fictitious interest, appearing still not quite convinced on the point and as if wishing to have the difficulty cleared up. This diplomatic course of procedure on the part of the porter removed any lingering scruples the mite had in respect of his good faith. "Ess, man. I dot kitty here in dundle all wite," he repeated earnestly in his very impressive little way. "Oo musn't tell nobody and I'll so her to 'oo!" "I won't breathe a word of it to a soul, sir," protested Jupp as solemnly and gravely as if he were making his last dying deposition; whereupon the mite, quite convinced of the porter's trustworthiness and abandoning all further attempt at concealment, deposited his little bundle tenderly on the floor in front of the fireplace, and began to open it with much deliberation. The little fellow appeared so very serious about the matter, that Jupp could not help trying to be serious too; but it required the exercise of all the self-command he possessed to refrain from laughing when the motley contents of the red handkerchief were disclosed. Before the last knot of the bundle was untied by the mite's busy fingers there crawled out a tiny tortoise-shell kitten, with its diminutive little tail erect like a young bottle-brush, which gave vent to a "phiz- phit," as if indignant at its long confinement, and then proceeded to rub itself against Jupp's leg, with a purring mew on recognising a friend. "So that's kitty," said Jupp, holding the little thing up on his knee and stroking it affectionately, the animal signifying its satisfaction by licking the back of his hand with its furry little red tongue, and straightening its tiny tail again as stiff as a small poker. "Ess, man. Dat's kitty," murmured the mite, too much occupied undoing the last knots of the bundle to waste time in further speech for the moment, struggling as he was at the job with might and main. In another second, however, he had accomplished his task; and, lifting up the corners of the red handkerchief, he rolled out the whole stock of his valued possessions on to the floor. "Dere!" he exclaimed with much complacency, looking up into Jupp's face in expectation of his admiring surprise. The porter was again forced to act a part, and pretend that he could not guess anything. "Dear me!" he said; "you have brought a lot of things! Going to take 'em with you to London, sir?" "Ess. Da'n'ma tate tare of zem." "No doubt, sir," replied Jupp, who then went on to inspect gingerly the different articles of the collection, which was very varied in character. They consisted, in addition to the tortoise-shell kitten fore-mentioned, of a musical snuff-box, a toy model of a ship, a small Noah's ark, a half-consumed slice of bread and butter, an apple with a good-sized bite taken out of one side, a thick lump of toffee, and a darkish-brown substance like gingerbread, which close association in the bundle, combined with pressure, had welded together in one almost indistinguishable mass. "I suppose, sir," observed Jupp inquiringly, picking up all the eatables and putting them together apart on the seat next the little man--"I suppose as how them's your provisions for the journey?" "Ess. I ate dindin; an', dat's tea." "Indeed, sir! and very nice things for tea too," said Jupp, beaming with admiration and good-humoured fun. "I touldn't det any milk, or I'd bought dat too," continued the mite, explaining the absence of all liquid refreshment. "Ah! that's a pity," rejoined the porter, thinking how well half a pint of milk would have mixed up with the other contents of the bundle; "but, perhaps, sir, the kitty would have lapped it up and there would have been none left. Would you like a cup of tea now, sir? I'm just agoing to have mine; and if you'd jine me, I'd feel that proud you wouldn't know me again!" "Dank 'oo, I'm so dirsty," lisped the little man in affable acquiescence; and, the next moment, Jupp had spirited out a rough basket from under the seat in the corner, when extracting a tin can with a cork stopper therefrom, he put it on the fire to warm up. From a brown-paper parcel he also turned out some thick slices of bread that quite put in the shade the half-eaten one belonging to the mite; and as soon as the tea began to simmer in the tin over the coals, he poured out some in a pannikin, and handed it to his small guest. "Now, sir, we'll have a regular picnic," he said hospitably. "All wite, dat's jolly!" shouted the other in great glee; and the two were enjoying themselves in the highest camaraderie, when, suddenly, the door of the waiting-room was opened from without, and the face of a buxom young woman peered in. "My good gracious!" exclaimed the apparition, panting out the words as if suffering from short breath, or from the effects of more rapid exertion than her physique usually permitted. "If there isn't the young imp as comfortably as you please; and me a hunting and a wild-goose chasing on him all over the place! Master Teddy, Master Teddy, you'll be the death of me some day, that you will!" Jupp jumped up at once, rightly imagining that this lady's unexpected appearance would, as he mentally expressed it, "put a stopper" on the mite's contemplated expedition, and so relieve him of any further personal anxiety on his behalf, he having been puzzling his brains vainly for the last half hour how to discover his whereabouts and get him home to his people again; but, as for the little man himself, he did not seem in the least put out by the interruption of his plans. "Dat nussy," was all he said, clutching hold of Jupp's trouser leg, as at first, in an appealing way: "Don't 'et her, man, tate away poor kitty!" "I won't sir, I promise you," whispered Jupp to comfort him; however, before he could say any more, the panting female had drawn nearer from the doorway and come up close to the fireplace, the flickering red light from which made her somewhat rubicund countenance appear all the ruddier. CHAPTER TWO. TELLS ALL ABOUT HIM. "Pray, don't 'ee be angry wi' him, mum," said Jupp appealingly, as the somewhat flustered female advanced towards the mite, laying hands on his collar with apparently hostile intentions. "I ain't a going to be angry," she replied a trifle crossly, as perhaps was excusable under the circumstances, carrying out the while, however, what had evidently been her original idea of giving the mite "a good shaking," and thereby causing his small person to oscillate violently to and fro as if he were crossing the Bay of Biscay in a Dutch trawler with a choppy sea running. "I ain't angry to speak of; but he's that tormenting sometimes as to drive a poor creature a'most out of her mind! Didn't I tell 'ee," she continued, turning round abruptly to the object of her wrath and administering an extra shake by way of calling him to attention. "Didn't I tell 'ee as you weren't to go outdoors in all the slop and slush--didn't I tell 'ee now?" But in answer the mite only harked back to his old refrain. "I want do d'an'ma," he said with stolid defiance, unmoved alike by his shaking or the nurse's expostulation. "There, that's jest it," cried she, addressing Jupp the porter again, seeing that he was a fine handsome fellow and well-proportioned out of the corner of her eye without looking at him directly, in that unconscious and highly diplomatic way in which women folk are able to reckon up each other on the sly and take mental stock of mankind. "Ain't he aggravating? It's all that granma of his that spoils him; and I wish she'd never come nigh the place! When Master Teddy doesn't see her he's as good as gold, that he is, the little man!" She then, with the natural inconsequence and variability of her sex, immediately proceeded to hug and kiss the mite as affectionately as she had been shaking and vituperating him the moment before, he putting up with the new form of treatment as calmly and indifferently as he had received the previous scolding. "He's a fine little chap," said Jupp affably, conceiving a better opinion of the nurse from her change of manner as well as from noticing, now that her temporary excitement had evaporated, that she was a young and comely woman with a very kindly face. "He told me as how he were going to Lun'non." "Did he now?" she exclaimed admiringly. "He's the most owdacious young gen'leman as ever was, I think; for he's capable, young as he is, not long turned four year old, of doin' a'most anything. Look now at all them things of his as he's brought from home!" "That were his luggage like," observed Jupp, smiling and showing his white teeth, which contrasted well with his black beard, making him appear very nice-looking really, the nurse thought. "The little rogue!" said she enthusiastically, hugging the mite again with such effusion that Jupp wished he could change places with him, he being unmarried and "an orphan man," as he described himself, "without chick or child to care for him." "He ought to be a good 'un with you a looking after him," he remarked with a meaning glance, which, although the nurse noticed, she did not pretend to see. "So he is--sometimes, eh, Master Teddy?" she said, bending down again over the mite to hide a sudden flush which had made her face somehow or other crimson again. "Ess," replied the hero of the occasion, who, soothed by all these social amenities passing around him, quickly put aside his stolid demeanour and became his little prattling self again. However, such was his deep foresight that he did not forget to grasp so favourable an opportunity for settling the initial difficulty between himself and nurse in the matter of the kitten, which had led up logically to all that had happened, and so prevent any misunderstanding on the point in future. "Oo won't tate way kitty?" he asked pleadingly, holding up with both hands the struggling little animal, which Jupp had incontinently dropped from his knee when he rose up, on the door of the waiting-room being suddenly opened and the impromptu picnic organised by the mite and himself brought to an abrupt termination, by the unexpected advent of the nurse on the scene. "No, Master Teddy, I promise you I won't," she replied emphatically. "You can bathe the poor little brute in the basin and then put it all wet in your bed afterwards, as you did this morning, or anything else you like. Bless you, you can eat it if it so please you, and I shan't interfere!" "All wite, den; we frens 'dain," lisped the mite, putting up his little rosebud mouth so prettily for a kiss, in token of peace and forgiveness on his part, that the nurse could not help giving him another hug. This display of affection had unfortunately the same effect on Jupp as before, causing the miserable porter to feel acute pangs of envy; although, by rights, he had no direct interest in the transaction, and was only an outside observer, so to speak! By way of concealing his feelings, therefore, he turned the conversation. "And have you come far arter him, miss, if I may make so bold as to ax the question?" he said hesitatingly, being somewhat puzzled in his mind as to whether "miss" or "mum" was the correct form in which to address such a pleasant young woman, who might or might not be a matron for all he could tell. He evidently hit upon the right thing this time; for, she answered him all the more pleasantly, with a bright smile on her face. "Why, ever so far!" she exclaimed. "Don't you know that large red brick house t'other side of the village, where Mr Vernon lives--a sort of old-fashioned place, half covered with ivy, and with a big garden?" "Parson Vernon's, eh?" "Yes, Master Teddy's his little son." "Lor', I thought he were a single man, lone and lorn like myself, and didn't have no children," said Jupp. "That's all you know about it," retorted the nurse. "You must be a stranger in these parts; and, now I come to think on it, I don't believe as I ever saw you here before." "No, miss, I was only shifted here last week from the Junction, and hardly knows nobody," said Jupp apologetically. "For the rights o' that, I ain't been long in the railway line at all, having sarved ten years o' my time aboard a man-o'-war, and left it thinking I'd like to see what a shore billet was like; and so I got made a porter, miss, my karacter being good on my discharge." "Dear me, what a pity!" cried the nurse. "I do so love sailors." "If you'll only say the word, miss, I'll go to sea again to-morrow then!" ejaculated Jupp eagerly. "Oh no!" laughed the nurse; "why, then I shouldn't see any more of you; but I was telling you about Master Teddy. Parson Vernon, as you call him, has four children in all--three of them girls, and Master Teddy is the only boy and the youngest of the lot." "And I s'pose he's pretty well sp'ilt?" suggested Jupp. "You may well say that," replied the other. "He was his mother's pet, and she, poor lady, died last year of consumption, so he's been made all the more of since by his little sisters, and the grandmother when she comes down, as she did at Christmas. You'd hardly believe it, small as he looks he almost rules the house; for his father never interferes, save some terrible row is up and he hears him crying--and he can make a noise when he likes, can Master Teddy!" "Ess," said the mite at this, thinking his testimony was appealed to, and nodding his head affirmatively. "And he comed all that way from t'other side o' the village by hisself?" asked Jupp by way of putting a stop to sundry other endearments the fascinating young woman was recklessly lavishing on the little chap. "Why, it's more nor a mile!" "Aye, that he has. Just look at him," said she, giving the mite another shake, although this time it was of a different description to the one she had first administered. He certainly was not much to look at in respect of stature, being barely three feet high; but he was a fine little fellow for all that, with good strong, sturdy limbs and a frank, fearless face, which his bright blue eyes and curling locks of brown hair ornamented to the best advantage. As before mentioned, he had evidently not been prepared for a journey when he made his unexpected appearance at the station, being without a hat on his head and having a slightly soiled pinafore over his other garments; while his little feet were encased in thin house shoes, or slippers, that were ill adapted for walking through the mud and snow. Now that the slight differences that had arisen between himself and the nurse had been amicably settled, he was in the best of spirits, with his little face puckered in smiles and his blue eyes twinkling with fun as he looked up at the two observing him. "He is a jolly little chap!" exclaimed Jupp, bending down and lifting him up in his strong arms, the mite the while playfully pulling at his black beard; "and I tell you what, miss, I think he's got a very good nurse to look after him!" "Do you?" said she, adding a moment afterwards as she caught Jupp's look of admiration, "Ah, that's only what you say now. You didn't think so when I first came in here after him; for you asked me not to beat him-- as if I would!" "Lor', I never dreamt of such a thing!" cried he with much emphasis, the occasion seeming to require it. "I only said that to coax you like, miss. I didn't think as you'd hurt a hair of his head." "Well, let it be then," replied she, accepting this amende and setting to work gathering together the mite's goods and chattels that were still lying on the floor of the waiting-room--with the exception of the kitten, which he had himself again assumed the proprietorship of and now held tightly in his arms, even as he was clasped by Jupp and elevated above the porter's shoulder. "I must see about taking him home again." "Shall I carry him for you, miss?" asked Jupp. "The down-train ain't due for near an hour yet, and I dessay I can get my mate to look out for me while I walks with you up the village." "You are very kind," said she; "but, I hardly like to trouble you?" "No trouble at all, miss," replied Jupp heartily. "Why, the little gentleman's only a featherweight." "That's because you're such a fine strong man. I find him heavy enough, I can tell you." Jupp positively blushed at her implied compliment. "I ain't much to boast of ag'in a delicate young 'ooman as you," he said at last; "but, sartenly, I can carry a little shaver like this; and, besides, look how the snow's a coming down." "Well, if you will be so good, I'd be obliged to you," interposed the nurse hurriedly as if to stop any further explanations on Jupp's part, he having impulsively stepped nearer to her at that moment. "All right then!" cried he, his jolly face beaming with delight at the permission to escort her. "Here, Grigson!" "That's me!" shouted another porter appearing mysteriously from the back of the office, in answer to Jupp's stentorian hail. "Just look out for the down-train, 'case I ain't back in time. I'm just agoin' to take some luggage for this young woman up to the village." "Aye, just so," replied the other with a sly wink, which, luckily for himself, perhaps, Jupp did not see, as, holding the mite tenderly in his arms, with his jacket thrown over him to protect him from the snow, he sallied out from the little wayside station in company with the nurse, the latter carrying all Master Teddy's valuables, which she had re- collected and tied up again carefully within the folds of the red pocket-handkerchief bundle wherein their proprietor had originally brought them thither. Strange to say, the mite did not exhibit the slightest reluctance in returning home, as might have been expected from the interruption of his projected plan of going to London to see his "d'an'ma." On the contrary, his meeting with Jupp and introduction to him as a new and estimable acquaintance, as well as the settlement of all outstanding grievances between himself and his nurse, appeared to have quite changed his views as to his previously-cherished expedition; so that he was now as content and cheerful as possible, looking anything but like a disappointed truant. Indeed, he more resembled a successful conqueror making a triumphal entry into his capital than a foiled strategist defeated in the very moment of victory! "I like oo," he said, pulling at Jupp's black beard in high glee and chuckling out aloud in great delight as they proceeded towards the village, the nurse clinging to the porter's other and unoccupied arm to assist her progress through the snow-covered lane, down which the wind rushed every now and then in sudden scurrying gusts, whirling the white flakes round in the air and blinding the wayfarers as they plodded painfully along. "I don't know what I should have done without your help," she observed fervently after a long silence between the two, only broken by Master Teddy's shouts of joy when a snow-flake penetrating beneath Jupp's jacket made the kitten sneeze. "I'm sure I should never have got home to master's with the boy!" "Don't name it," whispered Jupp hoarsely beneath his beard, which the snow had grizzled, lending it a patriarchal air. "I'm only too proud, miss, to be here!" and he somehow or other managed to squeeze her arm closer against his side with his, making the nurse think how nice it was to be tall and strong and manly like the porter! "They'll be in a rare state about Master Teddy at the vicarage!" she said after they had plodded on another hundred yards, making but slow headway against the drifting snow and boisterous wind. "I made him angry by taking away his kitten, I suppose, and so he determined to make off to his gran'ma; for we missed him soon after the children's dinner. I thought he was in the study with Mr Vernon; but when I came to look he wasn't there, and so we all turned out to search for him. Master made sure we'd find him in the village; but I said I thought he'd gone to the station, far off though it was, and you see I was right!" "You're a sensible young woman," said Jupp. "I'd have thought the same." "Go on with your nonsense; get along!" cried she mockingly, in apparent disbelief of Jupp's encomiums, and pretending to wrench her arm out of his so as to give point to her words. "I'll take my davy, then," he began earnestly; but, ere he could say any more, a voice called out in front of them, amid the eddying flakes: "Hullo, Mary! Is that you?" "That's my master," she whispered to Jupp; and then answered aloud, "Yes, sir, and I've found Master Teddy." "Is Mary your name?" said Jupp to her softly in the interlude, while scrunching footsteps could be heard approaching them, although no one yet could be perceived through the rifts of snow. "I think it the prettiest girl's name in the world!" "Go 'long!" cried she again; but she sidled up to him and held on to his arm once more as she spoke, the blasts of the storm at the moment being especially boisterous. "Is that you, Mary?" repeated the voice in front, now much nearer, her answer not having been heard apparently, on account of the wind blowing from the speaker towards them. "Yes, sir," she screamed out. "I've found Master Teddy, and he's all right." She was heard this time. "Thank God!" returned the voice in trembling accents, nearer still; and then a thin, haggard, careworn-looking man in clergyman's dress rushed up to them. He was quite breathless, and his face pale with emotion. "Padie! Padie!" exclaimed the mite, raising himself up on Jupp's shoulder and stretching out one of his little hands to the new-comer while the other grasped the kitten. "I'se turn back, I'se turn back to oo!" "My boy, my little lamb! God be praised for his mercy!" cried the other; and the next instant Teddy was locked in his father's arms in a close embrace, kitten and all. "Say, Miss Mary," whispered Jupp, taking advantage of the opportunity while Mr Vernon's back was turned. "What?" she asked, looking up into his face demurely. "This ought to be passed round." "Go 'long!" she replied; but, she didn't budge an inch when Jupp put his arm round her, and nobody knows what happened before Mr Vernon had composed himself and turned round again! CHAPTER THREE. AT THE VICARAGE. Three little girls were flattening their respective little noses against the panes of glass as they stood by one of the low French windows of the old red brick house at the corner of the lane commanding the approach from the village; and three little pairs of eager eyes, now big with expectation, were peering anxiously across the snow-covered lawn through the gathering evening gloom towards the entrance gate beyond--the only gap in the thick and well-nigh impenetrable laurel hedge, some six feet high and evenly cropped all round at the top and square at the sides, which encircled the vicarage garden, shutting it in with a wall of greenery from the curious ken of all passers-by without. With eager attention the little girls were watching to see who would be the first of the trio to herald the return of the missing Master Teddy and those who had gone forth in search of him; but, really, seekers and sought alike had been so long absent that it seemed as if they were all lost together and never coming back! The little girls were weary almost of waiting, and being thus kept in suspense with hope deferred. Besides that, they were overcome with a sense of loneliness and desertion, everyone in the house but old Molly the cook and themselves having started off early in the afternoon in different directions in quest of the truant Teddy; so, as the time flew by and day drew to a close, without a sight or sound in the distance to cheer their drooping spirits, their little hearts grew heavy within them. Presently, too, their whilom bright eyes got so dimmed with unshed tears which would well up, that they were unable to see clearly had there been anything or anyone for them to see; while their little putty noses, when they removed them occasionally from close contact with the glass, bore a suspiciously red appearance that was not entirely due to previous pressure against the window panes. Nor were their surroundings of a sufficiently enlivening character to banish the little maidens' despondency, the fire in the drawing-room grate having died out long since from inattention, making them feel cold and comfortless, and it had got so dark within that they could not distinguish the various articles of furniture, even papa's armchair in the chimney-corner; while, outside, in the gloaming, the snow-flakes were falling slowly and steadily from a leaden-hued sky overhead. The only thing breaking the stillness of the murky air was the melancholy "Chirp, churp! chirp, churp" uttered at intervals by some belated sparrow who had not gone to bed in good time like all sensible bird-folk, and whose plaintive chirp was all the more aggravating from its monotonous repetition. "I'm sore sumtin d'eadfill's happened," whimpered little Cissy, the youngest of the three watchers, after a long silence between them. "Pa sood have been back hours and hours and hours ago." "Nonsense, Cissy!" said Miss Conny, her elder sister, who by virtue of her seniority and the fact of her having reached the mature age of ten was rather prone to giving herself certain matronly airs of superiority over the others, which they put up with in all good faith, albeit they were most amusing to outside onlookers. "You are always imagining something terrible is going to befall everybody, instead of hoping for the best! Why don't you learn to look on the bright side of things, child? Every cloud, you know, has its silver lining." "But not dat one up dere!" retorted Cissy, unconvinced by the proverb, pointing to the sombre pall of vapour that now enveloped the whole sky overhead; when, struck more than ever with the utter dismalness of the scene, she drew out a tiny sort of doll's handkerchief from as tiny a little pocket in her tiny pinafore-apron, and began wiping away the tears from her beady eyes and blowing her little red nose vigorously. "It's all black, and no light nowhere; and I'm sore poor pa and Teddy and all of dem are lost!" With that, completely overcome by her own forebodings, the little thing all at once broke down, sobbing in such a heart-broken way that it was as much as Conny could do to comfort her; the elder sister drawing her to her side and hugging her affectionately, rocking her small person to and fro the while with a measured rhythm-like movement as if little Cissy were a baby and she her mother, hushing her to sleep! At this moment, Liz, who occupied the middle step between the two, and was of a much more sedate and equable nature than either of her sisters, suddenly effected a diversion that did more to raise Cissy's spirits than all Conny's whispered consolation and kisses. "I think I see a black speck moving in the lane," she exclaimed, removing her face a second from the glass to look round at the others as she spoke, and then hastily glueing it to the pane again. "Yes, somebody's coming. There's an arm waving about!" Conny and Cissy were instantly on the alert; and before Liz had hardly got out the last words they had imitated her example, wedging their little noses once more against the window, looking down the lane, and trying somewhat vainly to pierce the haze obscuring the distance. "No," said Conny, after a prolonged observation of the object Liz had pointed out; "it's only a branch of the lilac tree blown about by the wind." A minute later, however, and Liz began to clap her hands triumphantly, although still keeping her face fixed to the window. "I was right, I was right!" she exclaimed in triumph. "The speck is getting nearer, and, see, there are two more behind." "I believe you are right," said Conny, after another steady glance down the lane. "There are three people approaching the house, and--" "Dat's pa in front, I know," shouted out Cissy, interrupting her and clapping her hands like Liz, her whilom sad little face beaming with gladness. "I see him, I see him, and he's dot Teddy in his arms!" "So he has," said Conny, carried away by the excitement out of her ordinarily staid and decorous demeanour. "Let us all run down and meet him!" Her suggestion was hailed with a shout of exclamation; and, the next moment, forgetful of the falling flakes and the risk of getting damp feet, which Conny the careful was ever warning the others against, the three had run out into the hall, opened the outside door of the porch, which the wind banged against the side of the passage with a thump that shook the house, and were racing towards the entrance gate over the white expanse of lawn, now quite covered with some six inches of snow. Just as the little girls reached the gate, all breathless in a batch, it was opened from without, and they were confronted by their father with Master Teddy on his shoulder, still holding the kitten in his arms; while, close behind, followed Jupp taking care of Mary the nurse. "Oh, papa!" cried Conny, Cissy, and Liz in chorus, hanging on to their father's coat-tails as if afraid he would get away from them again; and so, in a motley procession, Teddy apparently king of the situation and Jupp and Mary still bringing up the rear, they marched into the hall, where Molly the cook, having heard the door bang when the little girls rushed out, was waiting with a light to receive them. "Take the porter to the kitchen, Molly," said Mr Vernon, "and give him, mind, a good cup of tea for bringing home Master Teddy. But for his kindness we might not perhaps have seen the little truant again--to- night, at all events." "Lawks a mercy, sir!" ejaculated Molly with open-mouth astonishment, curtseying and smiling: "you doant mean that?" "Yes, I do," went on Mr Vernon. "Mind you take every care of him, for the porter is a right good fellow." "Why, sir, I didn't do nothing to speak of, sir," said Jupp, quite abashed at being made so much of. "The young gen'leman commed to me, and in course, seeing as how he were such a little chap and all alone out in the cold, I couldn't do nothing else." "Never mind that; I'm very much obliged to you, and so are all of us. What you've got to do now is to go with Molly and have a good cup of tea, the same as we are going to have after that long tramp in the snow," said the vicar cordially, shaking hands with Jupp; while Teddy, who was still perched on his father's shoulder, came out with a "tank oo, my dood man," which made everybody laugh. Jupp hesitatingly attempted to decline the proffered hospitality, murmuring something about being wanted down at the station; but the vicar wouldn't hear of his refusal, the more especially as Mary reminded him that he had asked in her hearing his fellow-porter to look after his work in his absence. So, presently, in heart nothing loth in spite of his excuses, he was following Molly the cook down the passage into her warm kitchen at the back of the house; while Mr Vernon, opening a door on the opposite side of the hall to the drawing-room, entered the parlour, where fortunately the fire, thanks to Molly's care, had not been allowed to go out, but was dancing merrily in the grate-lighting up the bright-red curtains that were closely drawn across the windows, shutting out the gloomy prospect outside, and throwing flickering shadows against the walls of the apartment as the jets of flame rose and fell. Nurse Mary at first wanted to march off Master Teddy to bed, on the plea that he must be wet through and tired out with all the exposure he had undergone during his erratic escapade; but the young gentleman protesting indignantly against his removal whilst there was a chance of his sitting up with the rest, and his clothes having been found on examination to be quite dry on the removal of the porter's protecting jacket, he was allowed to remain, seated on the hearth-rug in state, and never once leaving hold of the tabby kitten that had indirectly led to his wandering away from home, with Conny and Liz and little Cissy grouped around him. Here by the cosy fireside the reunited family had quite a festive little meal together, enlivened by the children's chatter, Miss Conny pouring out the tea with great dignity as her father said laughingly, and Teddy, unchecked by the presence of his nurse, who was too prone to calling him to account for sundry little breaches of etiquette for him to be comfortable when she was close by. While the happy little party were so engaged, Jupp was being regaled sumptuously in the kitchen with both Molly the cook and Mary to minister to his wants, the latter handmaiden having returned from the parlour after carrying in the tea-tray. Jupp was in a state of supreme satisfaction ensconced between the two, munching away at the pile of nice hot buttered toast which the cook had expressly made for his delectation, and recounting between the mouthfuls wonderful yarns connected with his seafaring experiences for Mary's edification. Joe the gardener, who had also come back to the house shortly after the others, with the report that he "couldn't see nothing of Master Teddy nowheres," sat in the chimney-corner, gazing at the porter with envious admiration as he told of his hairbreadth scapes at sea and ashore when serving in the navy. Joe wished that he had been a sailor too, as then perhaps, he thought, the nurse, for whom he had a sneaking sort of regard, might learn to smile and look upon him in the same admiring way, in which, as he could see with half an eye, she regarded the stalwart black-bearded Jupp. Bye and bye, however, a tinkle of the parlour bell summoning the household to prayers brought the pleasant evening to a close, too soon so far as Jupp was concerned, although Joe the gardener did not regard the interruption with much regret; and while Mary took off the children to bed on the termination of the vicar's heart-felt thanks to the Father above for the preservation of his little son, Mr Vernon wished him good-night, trying to press at the same time a little money present into his hand for his kind care of Teddy. But this Jupp would not take, declining the douceur with so much natural dignity that the vicar honoured him the more for refusing a reward, for only doing his duty as he said. Mr Vernon apologised to him for having hurt his feelings by offering it, adding, much to Jupp's delight, that he would always be pleased to see him at the vicarage when he had an hour or so to spare if he liked to come; and, on the porter's telling him in return that he was only free as a rule on Sundays, as then only one train passed through the station early in the morning, between which and the mail express late at night he had nothing to do, and being a stranger in the place and without any relations the time somewhat hung on his hands, Mr Vernon asked him to come up to the house after church and have dinner with the servants, saying that he could go to the evening service in company with the family. This invitation Jupp gladly accepted in the same spirit in which it was given; and then, with another hearty "good-night" from the vicar, to which he responded by touching his cap and giving a salute in regular blue-jacket fashion, he went on his way back to the little railway- station beyond the village where Master Teddy had first made his acquaintance--much to their mutual benefit as things now looked! CHAPTER FOUR. IN A SCRAPE AGAIN. The winter was a long and severe one, covering the range of downs that encircle Endleigh with a fleecy mantle of white which utterly eclipsed the colour of the woolly coats of the sheep for which they were famous, and heaping the valleys with huge drifts that defied locomotion; so that Master Teddy, being unable to get out of doors much, was prevented from wandering away from home again, had he been in that way inclined. It may be added, too, that beyond breaking one of his arms in a tumble downstairs through riding on the banisters in defiance of all commands to the contrary, he managed for the next few months to keep pretty free from scrapes--something surprising in such a long interval. During all this time Jupp had been a very regular Sunday visitor at the vicarage, coming up to the house after morning-service and being entertained at dinner in the kitchen, after which meal he served as a playfellow for the children until the evening, when he always accompanied the vicar to church. He had now come to be looked upon by all as a tried and valued friend, Mr Vernon being almost as fond of chatting with him about his old sea life as was Mary, the nurse; while Conny would consult him earnestly on geographical questions illustrative of those parts of the globe he had visited. As for the younger ones, he was their general factotum, Teddy and Cissy regarding him as a sort of good-natured giant who was their own especial property and servant. With all a sailor's ingenuity, he could carve the most wonderful things out of the least promising and worthless materials that could be imagined; while, as for making fun out of nothing, or telling thrilling stories of fairies and pirates and the different folk amongst whom he had mixed in his travels--some of them, to be sure, rather queer, as Conny said--why, he hadn't an equal, and could make the dreariest afternoon pass enjoyably to young and old alike, even Joe the gardener taking almost as great pleasure in his society as Molly and Mary. This was while the snow lay on the ground and Jack Frost had bound the little river running through the village and the large pond in the water meadow beyond with chains of ice, and life out of doors seemed at a standstill; but, anon, when the breath of spring banished all the snow and ice, and cowslips and violets began to peep forth from the released hedgerows, and the sparrows chuckled instead of chirped, busying themselves nest-building in the ivy round the vicarage, and when the thrush sang to the accompaniment of the blackbird's whistle, the children found that Jupp was even a better playfellow in the open than he had been indoors, being nearly as much a child in heart as themselves. Whenever he had half a day given him in the week free from duty he would make a point of coming up to take "Master Teddy and the young ladies" out into the woods, fern-hunting and flower-gathering, the vicar frequently popping upon the little picnickers unawares, whilst they were watching the rabbits and rabbitikins combing out their whiskers under the fir-trees, and Jupp and Mary getting an al fresco tea ready for the party. The little tabby kitten had long since been eclipsed in Teddy's affections by a small Maltese terrier with a white curly coat of hair, which his fond grandmother had rather foolishly given him, the poor little animal being subjected to such rough treatment in the way of petting that it must have over and over again wished itself back in its Mediterranean home. "Puck" was the little dog's name, and he appeared in a fair way of "putting a girdle round the earth," if not in forty minutes like his elfish namesake, at least in an appreciable limited space of time, Teddy never being content except he carried about the unfortunate brute with him everywhere he went, hugging it tightly in his arms and almost smothering its life out by way of showing his affection. Having once had his hair cut, too, unluckily by Mary, Teddy seized an opportunity, when alone in the nursery, to treat poor Puck in similar fashion, the result of which was that the little animal, deprived of his long curly coat, not only shivered constantly with cold, but looked, in his closely-shorn condition, like one of those toy lambs sold in the shops in lieu of dolls for children, which emit a bleating sort of sound when pressed down on their bellows-like stands. Of course, Puck was as invariable an attendant at the picnic excursions in the woods as Master Teddy himself, and, having developed sufficient interest in the rabbits to summon up courage to run after them, which Teddy graciously permitted him to do, these outings perhaps gave the little animal the only pleasure he had in existence, save eating; for he was then allowed, for a brief spell at all events, to use his own legs instead of being carried about in baby fashion. One day at the beginning of May, when the birds were gaily singing in the branches of the trees overhead, through which an occasional peep of blue sky could be had, the grass below being yellow with buttercups or patched in white with daisies, Jupp and Mary were grouped with the children beneath a spreading elm in the centre of a sort of fairy ring in the wood, a favourite halting-place with them all. The porter for once in a way had a whole holiday, and had spent the morning helping Joe the gardener in mowing the lawn and putting out plants in the flower-beds in front of the vicarage; so after their early dinner, the children under Mary's care came out with him for a regular picnic tea in the woods, carrying a kettle with them to make a fire, with plenty of milk and cakes and bread and butter, for it was intended to have quite a feast in honour of "papa's birthday," the vicar having promised to come and join them as soon as he had finished his parish work. The little ones had been romping with Jupp all the way to the wood under the downs, running races with him and making detours here and there in search of wild anemones and meadow-sweet, or else chasing butterflies and the low-flying swallows that heralded the advent of summer, so they were rather tired and glad to lie down on the grass and rest when they reached their old elm-tree; albeit, on Jupp setting to work to pick up sticks for the fire that was to boil the kettle, first one and then another jumped up to help, for, really, they could not be quiet very long. The sticks being collected and Jupp having slung the camp-kettle over them by the means of two forked props, in campaigning fashion, as he well knew how to do as an old sailor, a match was quickly applied, and there was soon a pleasant crackling sound of burning wood, accompanied with showers of sparks like fireworks as the wind blew the blaze aside. Soon, too, a nice thick column of smoke arose that reminded Conny of what she had read of Indian encampments, although Jupp told her that if he were abroad and near any of such dark-skinned gentry he would take precious good care when making a fire to have as little smoke as possible. "Why?" asked Conny, always anxious for information in order to improve her mind. "Because I shouldn't like them to discover my whereabouts, unless, miss, I knew 'em to be friends," said Jupp in answer. "And how would you manage to have no smoke?" she next pertinently inquired, like the sensible young lady she was. "By always burning the very driest wood I could find, miss," replied Jupp. "It is only the green branches and such as has sap in it that makes the smoke." "Oh!" ejaculated Conny, "I shall remember that. Thank you, Mr Jupp, for telling me. I often wondered how they contrived to conceal their camp-fires." Teddy, with Cissy and Liz, had meanwhile been lying on the grass, overcome with their exertions in stick-gathering, and were intently watching a little glade in front of the elm-tree, some distance off under a coppice. Here they knew there were lots of rabbit-burrows, and they were waiting for some of the little animals to come out and perform their toilets, as they usually did in the afternoon and early evening, preparing themselves for bed-time, as the children said; but, for a long while, not one appeared in sight. "Dere's a bunny at last," whispered Cissy as one peeped out from its hiding-place; and, seeing no cause for alarm in the presence of the little picnic party, with whom no doubt it was now well acquainted, it came further out from the coppice, sitting up on its haunches in the usual free-and-easy fashion of rabbitikins, and beginning to comb out its whiskers with its paws. At the sight of this, Puck, who of course was cuddled up tightly in Teddy's arms, began to bark; but it was such a feeble little bark that not even the most timid of rabbits would have been frightened at it, while as for the one Puck wished to terrify, this simply treated him with the utmost contempt, taking no notice either of bark or dog. Three or four other rabbits, too, impressed with the beauty of the afternoon and the advantages of the situation, now followed their comrade's example, coming out from their burrows and squatting on the turf of the sloping glade in a semicircle opposite the children; while, the more poor Puck tried to express his indignation at their free-and- easiness, the more nonchalantly they regarded him, sitting up comfortably and combing away, enjoying themselves as thoroughly as if there was no such thing as a dog in existence, Puck's faint coughing bark being utterly thrown away upon them. "Imp'dent tings!" said Teddy, unloosing the small terrier; "do and lick 'em, Puck!" The little woolly lamb-like dog, who certainly possessed a larger amount of courage than would reasonably have been imagined from his attenuated appearance, at once darted after the rabbits, who, jerking their short tails in the funniest way possible and throwing up their hind-legs as if they were going to turn somersaults and come down on the other side, darted off down the glade, making for the holes of their burrows under the coppice. The artful Puck, however, having chased the gentry before, was up to all their little dodges, so, instead of running for the rabbits directly, he attacked their flank, endeavouring to cut off their retreat; and, in this object succeeding, away went the hunted animals, now scared out of their lives, down the side of the hill to the bottom, with Puck charging after them, and Teddy following close behind, and Cissy and Liz bringing up the rear. Miss Conny was much too dignified to chase rabbits. "Stop, Master Teddy! stop!" cried Mary. "Come back, Miss Liz and Cissy--come back at once!" The little girls immediately obeyed their nurse; but Teddy, who perhaps in the ardour of the chase might not have heard her call, continued on racing down the hill after Puck, as fast as his stumpy little legs could carry him, his hat flying off and his pinafore streaming behind him in the wind. "Stop, Master Teddy, stop!" called out Mary again. "Why can't you let him be?" said Jupp. "He's only enj'ying hisself with the rabbits, and can't come to no harm on the grass." "Little you know about it," retorted Mary, rather crossly it seemed to Jupp. "Why, the river runs round just below the coppice; and if Master Teddy runs on and can't stop himself, he'll fall into it--there!" "My stars and stripes!" ejaculated Jupp starting up in alarm. "I'll go after him at once." "You'd better," said Mary as he set off running down the hill after Teddy, singing out loudly for him to stop in a sort of reef-topsails-in- a-heavy-squall voice that you could have heard more than a cable's length ahead! The momentum Teddy had gained, however, from the descent of the glade prevented him from arresting his rapid footsteps, although he heard Jupp's voice, the slope inclining the more abruptly towards the bottom of the hill. Besides, Puck in pursuit of the rabbits was right in front of him, and the dog, unable or unwilling to stop, bounded on into the mass of rushes, now quite close, that filled the lower part of the valley, and disappeared from Teddy's sight. The next moment there was a wild yelp from Puck as he gripped the rabbit, and both tumbled over the bank of the river into the water, which was previously concealed from view; the dog's bark being echoed immediately afterwards by a cry of alarm from Teddy and a heavy plunge, as he, too, fell into the swiftly-flowing stream, and was borne out from the bank by the rapid current away towards the mill-dam below! CHAPTER FIVE. BLOWN UP. "Well, I never!" panted out Jupp as he raced down the incline at a headlong speed towards the spot where he had seen Teddy disappear, and whence had come his choking cry of alarm and the splash he made as he fell into the water. "The b'y'll be drownded 'fore I can reach him!" But, such was his haste, that, at the same instant in which he uttered these words--more to himself than for anyone else's benefit, although he spoke aloud--the osiers at the foot of the slope parted on either side before the impetuous rush of his body, giving him a momentary glimpse of the river, with Teddy's clutching fingers appearing just above the surface and vainly appealing for help as he was sinking for the second time; so, without pausing, the velocity he had gained in his run down the declivity carrying him on almost in spite of himself, Jupp took a magnificent header off the bank. Then,--rising after his plunge, with a couple of powerful strokes he reached the unconscious boy, whose struggles had now ceased from exhaustion, and, gripping fast hold of one of his little arms, he towed him ashore. Another second and Jupp would have been too late, Teddy's nearly lifeless little form having already been caught in the whirling eddy of the mill-race. Even as it was, the force of the on-sweeping current was so great that it taxed all Jupp's powers to the utmost to withstand being carried over the weir as he made for the side slanting-wise, so as not to weary himself out uselessly by trying to fight against the full strength of the stream, which, swollen with the rains of April, was resistless in its flow and volume. Swimming on his side, however, and striking out grandly, Jupp succeeded at length in vanquishing the current, or rather made it serve his purpose; and, presently, grasping hold of the branch of an alder that hung over the river at the point of the bend, he drew himself up on the bank with one hand, holding poor Teddy still with the other, to find himself at the same moment confronted by Nurse Mary, with Cissy and Liz, who had all hurried down the slope to the scene of the disaster. "Oh, dear! oh, dear!--he's dead, he's dead!" wailed Mary, taking the little fellow from Jupp and lifting him up in her arms, preparing to start off at a run for the vicarage, while the little girls burst into a torrent of tears. "You just bide there!" said Jupp, preventing her from moving, and looking like a giant Triton, all dripping with water, as he stepped forward. "You just bide there!" "But he'll die if something's not done at once to restore him," expostulated Mary, vainly trying to get away from the other's restraining hold. "So he might, if you took him all that long way 'fore doin' anything," replied Jupp grimly. "You gie him to me; I knows what's best to be done. I've seed chaps drounded afore aboard ship, and brought to life ag'in by using the proper methods to git back the circularation, as our doctor in the _Neptune_ used to call it. You gie him to me!" Impressed with his words, and knowing besides now from long acquaintance that Jupp was what she called "a knowledgeable man," Mary accordingly surrendered the apparently lifeless body of little Teddy; whereupon the porter incontinently began to strip off all the boy's clothing, which of course was wringing wet like his own. "Have you got such a thing as a dry piece of flannel now, miss?" he then asked Mary, hesitating somewhat to put his request into words, "like, like--" "You mean a flannel petticoat," said the girl promptly without the least embarrassment in the exigencies of the case. "Just turn your back, please, Mr Jupp, and I'll take mine off and give it to you." No sooner was this said than it was done; when, Teddy's little naked body being wrapped up warmly in the garment Mary had surrendered, and turned over on the right side, she began under Jupp's directions to rub his limbs, while the other alternately raised and depressed the child's arms, and thus exercising--a regular expansion and depression of his chest. After about five minutes of this work a quantity of water that he had swallowed was brought up by the little fellow; and next, Mary could feel a slight pulsation of his heart. "He's coming round! he's coming round!" she cried out joyously, causing little Cissy's tears to cease flowing and Liz to join Mary in rubbing Teddy's feet. "Go on, Mr Jupp, go on; and we'll soon bring him to." "So we will," echoed her fellow-worker heartily, redoubling his exertions to promote the circulation; and, in another minute a faint flush was observable in Teddy's face, while his chest rose and fell with a rhythmical motion, showing that the lungs were now inflated again and in working order. The little fellow had been brought back to life from the very gates of death! "Hooray!" shouted Jupp when Teddy at length opened his eyes, staring wonderingly at those bending over him, and drawing away his foot from Liz as if she tickled him, whereat Mary burst into a fit of violent hysterical laughter, which terminated in that "good cry" customary with her sex when carried away by excess of emotion. Then, all at once, Teddy appeared to recollect what had happened; for the look of bewilderment vanished from his eyes and he opened his mouth to speak in that quaint, formal way of his which Jupp said always reminded him of a judge on the bench when he was had up before the court once at Portsmouth for smuggling tobacco from a troopship when paid off! "Were's Puck an' de bunny?" he asked, as if what had occurred had been merely an interlude and he was only anxious about the result of the rabbit hunt that had so unwittingly led to his unexpected immersion and narrow escape from drowning. No one in the greater imminence of Teddy's peril had previously thought of the dog or rabbit; but now, on a search being made, Puck was discovered shivering by the side of the river, having managed to crawl out somehow or other. As for the rabbit, which was only a young one or the little woolly terrier could never have overtaken it in the chase down the glade, no trace could be seen of it; and, consequently, it must have been carried over the weir, where at the bottom of the river it was now safe enough from all pursuit of either Puck or his master, and free from all the cares of rabbit life and those ills that even harmless bunnies have to bear! When this point was satisfactorily settled, much to the dissatisfaction, however, of Master Teddy, a sudden thought struck Mary. "Why, wherever can Miss Conny be all this time?" she exclaimed, on looking round and not finding her with the other children. "See's done home," said Cissy laconically. "Gone home!" repeated Mary. "Why?" "Done fets dwy c'o's for Teddy," lisped the little girl, who seemed to have been well informed beforehand as to her sister's movements, although she herself had hurried down with the nurse to the river bank in company with the others immediately Jupp had rushed to Teddy's rescue. "Well, I never!" ejaculated Mary, laughing again as she turned to Jupp. "Who would have thought the little puss would have been so thoughtful? But she has always been a funny child, older than her years, and almost like an old woman in her ways." "Bless you, she ain't none the worse for that!" observed Jupp in answer. "She's a real good un, to think her little brother 'ud want dry things arter his souse in the water, and to go and fetch 'em too without being told." "I expect you'd be none the worse either for going back and changing your clothes," said Mary, eyeing his wet garments. "Lor', it don't matter a bit about me," he replied, giving himself a good shake like a Newfoundland dog, and scattering the drops about, which pleased the children mightily, as he did it in such a funny way. "I rayther likes it nor not." "But you might catch cold," suggested Mary kindly. "Catch your grandmother!" he retorted. "Sailors ain't mollycoddles." "Wat's dat?" asked Teddy inquiringly, looking up at him. "Why, sir," said Jupp, scratching his head reflectively--he had left his cap under the elm-tree on top of the hill, where he had taken it off when he set about building the fire for the kettle--"a mollycoddle is a sort of chap as always wraps hisself up keerfully for fear the wind should blow upon him and hurt his complexion." "Oh!" said Teddy; but he did not seem any the wiser, and was about to ask another question which might have puzzled Jupp, when Liz interrupted the conversation, and changed the subject. "There's Conny coming now, and Pa with her," she called out, pointing to the top of the glade, where her father and elder sister could be seen hurrying swiftly towards them, followed closely by Joe the gardener bearing a big bundle of blankets and other things which the vicar thought might be useful. "My! Master must have been scared!" cried Mary, noticing in the distance the anxious father's face. "Master Teddy do cause him trouble enough, he's that fond of the boy!" But, before Jupp could say anything in reply, the new arrivals had approached the scene of action, Conny springing forward first of all and hugging Teddy and Cissy and Liz all round. In the exuberance of her delight, too, at their being safe and sound, when in her nervous dread she had feared the worst, she extended the same greeting to Mary and Jupp; for, she was an affectionate little thing, and highly emotional in spite of her usually staid demeanour and retiring nature. The vicar, too, could hardly contain himself for joy, and broke down utterly when he tried to thank Jupp for rescuing his little son; while Joe the gardener, not to be behindhand in this general expression of good-will and gratitude, squeezed his quondam rival's fist in his, ejaculating over and over again, with a broad grin on his bucolic face, "You be's a proper sort, you be, hey, Meaister?" thereby calling upon the vicar, as it were, to testify to the truth of the encomium. He was a very funny man, Joe! When the general excitement had subsided, and Teddy, who had in the meantime been stalking about, a comical little figure, attired in Mary's flannel petticoat, was re-dressed in the fresh suit of clothes Joe had brought for him amidst the blankets, the whole party adjourned up the hill to their old rendezvous under the elm-tree. Here they found, greatly to their surprise and gratification, that Jupp's well-built fire had not gone out, as all expected, during the unforeseen digression that had occurred to break the even tenor of their afternoon's entertainment, although left so long unattended to. On the contrary, it was blazing away at a fine rate, with the kettle slung on the forked sticks above it singing and sputtering, emitting clouds of steam the while, "like an engine blowing off," as the porter observed; so, all their preparations having been already completed, the children carried out their original intention of having a festal tea in honour of "Pa's birthday," he being set in their midst and told to do nothing, being the guest of the occasion. Never did bread and butter taste more appetisingly to the little ones than when thus eaten out in the woods, away from all such stuck-up surroundings as tables and chairs, and plates, and cups and saucers, and the other absurd conventionalities of everyday life. They only had three little tin pannikins for their tea, which they passed round in turn, and a basket for their dish, using a leaf when the luxury of a plate was desired by any sybarite of the party--those nice broad ones of the dock making splendid platters. Now, besides bread and butter, Molly the cook had compounded a delicious dough-cake for them, having plums set in it at signal distances apart, so conspicuous that any one could know they were there without going to the trouble of counting them, which indeed would not have taken long to do, their number being rather limited; and, what with the revulsion of feeling at Teddy's providential escape, and the fact of having papa with them, and all, they were in the very seventh heaven of enjoyment. Conny and Cissy, who were the most active of the sprites, assisted by the more deliberate Teddy and Liz, acted as "the grown-up people" attending as hostesses and host to the requirements of "the children," as they called their father and Mary and Jupp, not omitting Joe the gardener, who, squatting down on the extreme circumference of their little circle, kept up a perpetual grin over the acres of bread and butter he consumed, just as if he were having a real meal and not merely playing! The worthy gardener was certainly the skeleton, or cormorant, so to speak, of the banquet, eating them almost out of house and home, it must be mentioned in all due confidence; and, taking watch of his depravity of behaviour in this respect, the thoughtful Conny registered an inward determination never to invite Joe to another of their al fresco feasts, if she could possibly avoid doing so without seriously wounding his sensibilities. The way he walked into that dough-cake would have made anyone almost cry. The fete, however, excepting this drawback, passed off successfully enough without any other contretemps; and after the last crumb of cake had been eaten by Joe, and the things packed up, the little party wended their way home happily in the mellow May evening, through the fields green with the sprouting corn, with the swallows skimming round them and the lark high in the sky above singing her lullaby song for the night and flopping down to her nest. Towards the end of the month, however, Teddy managed somehow or other to get into another scrape. "There never was such a boy," as Mary said. He was "always in hot water." The queen's birthday coming round soon after the vicar's, Jupp, remembering how it used to be kept up when he was in the navy, great guns banging away at royal salutes while the small-arm men on board fired a _feu de joie_, or "fire of joy," as he translated it by the aid of Miss Conny, who happened just then to be studying French, he determined to celebrate the anniversary as a loyal subject in similar fashion at the vicarage, with the aid of a couple of toy cannon and a small bag of powder which he purchased for the purpose. Teddy, of course, was taken into his confidence, the artillery experiments being planned for his especial delectation; so, coming up to the house just about noon on the day of the royal anniversary, when he was able to get away from the station for an hour, leaving his mate Grigson in charge, he set about loading the ordnance and getting ready for the salute, with a train laid over the touch-holes of the cannon to set light to the moment it was twelve o'clock, according to the established etiquette in the navy, a box of matches being placed handy for the purpose. As ill luck would have it, though, some few minutes before the proper time, Mary, who was trying to sling a clothes-line in the back garden, called Jupp to her assistance, and he being her attentive squire on all occasions, and an assiduous cavalier of dames, hastened to help her, leaving Teddy in charge of the loaded cannon, the gunpowder train, and lastly, though by no means least, the box of matches. The result can readily be foreseen. Hardly had Jupp reached Mary's side and proceeded to hoist the obstreperous clothes-line, when "Bang! bang!" came the reports of distant cannonading on the front lawn, followed by an appalling yell from the little girls, who from the safe point of vantage of the drawing-room windows were looking on at the preparations of war. To rush back through the side gate round to the front was but the work of an instant with Jupp, and, followed by Mary, he was almost as quickly on the spot as the sound of the explosion had been heard. He thought that Master Teddy had only prematurely discharged the cannon, and that was all; but when he reached the lawn what was his consternation to observe a thick black cloud of smoke hanging in the air, much greater than could possibly have been produced by the little toy cannon being fired off, while Teddy, the cause of all the mischief, was nowhere to be seen at all! CHAPTER SIX. THE POND IN THE MEADOW. Not a trace of the boy could be seen anywhere. The cause of the explosion was apparent enough; for, the little wooden box on which Jupp had mounted the toy cannons, lashing them down firmly, and securing them with breechings in sailor-fashion, to prevent their kicking when fired, had been overturned, and a jug that he had brought out from the house containing water to damp the fuse with, was smashed to atoms, while of the box of matches and the bag of powder only a few smouldering fragments remained--a round hole burned in the grass near telling, if further proof were needed, that in his eagerness to start the salute, Master Teddy, impatient as usual, had struck a light to ignite the train, and this, accidentally communicating with the bag of powder, had resulted in a grand flare-up of the whole contents. This could be readily reasoned out at a glance; but, where could Teddy be, the striker of the match, the inceptor of all the mischief? Jupp could not imagine; hunt high, hunt low, as he might and did. At first, he thought that the young iconoclast, as nothing could be perceived of him on the lawn or flower-beds, had been blown up in the air over the laurel hedge and into the lane; as, however, nothing could be discovered of him here, either, after the most careful search, this theory had to be abandoned, and Jupp was fairly puzzled. Teddy had completely vanished! It was very strange, for his sisters had seen him on the spot the moment before the explosion. Mary, of course, had followed Jupp round to the front of the house, while the little girls came out on to the lawn; and Molly the cook, as well as Joe the gardener, attracted by the commotion, had also been assisting in the quest for the missing Teddy, prying into every hole and corner. But all their exertions were in vain; and there they stood in wondering astonishment. "P'aps," suggested Cissy, "he's done upstairs?" "Nonsense, child!" said Conny decisively; "we would have seen him from the window if he had come in." "Still, we'd better look, miss," observed Mary, who was all pale and trembling with anxiety as to the safety of her special charge. "He may have been frightened and rushed to the nursery to hide himself, as he has done before when he has been up to something!" So saying, she hurried into the passage, and the rest after her. It was of no use looking into the drawing-room or kitchen, the little girls having been in the former apartment all the time, and Molly in the latter; but the parlour was investigated unsuccessfully, and every nook and cranny of the study, a favourite play-ground of the children when the vicar was out, as he happened to be this evening, fortunately or unfortunately as the case might be, visiting the poor of his parish. Still, there was not a trace of Teddy to be found. The search was then continued upstairs amongst the bed-rooms by Mary and Molly, accompanied by the three little girls, who marched behind their elders in silent awe, Jupp and Joe remaining down in the hall and listening breathlessly for some announcement to come presently from above. The nursery disclosed nothing, neither did the children's sleeping room, nor the vicar's chamber, although the beds were turned up and turned down and looked under, and every cupboard and closet inspected as cautiously as if burglars were about the premises; and Mary was about to give up the pursuit as hopeless, when all at once, she thought she heard the sound of a stifled sob proceeding from a large oak wardrobe in the corner of the spare bed-room opposite the nursery, which had been left to the last, and where the searchers were all now assembled. "Listen!" she exclaimed in a whisper, holding up her finger to enjoin attention; whereupon Cissy and Liz stopped shuffling their feet about, and a silence ensued in which a pin might have been heard to drop. Then, the noise of the stifled sobs that had at first attracted Mary's notice grew louder, and all could hear Teddy's voice between the sobs, muttering or repeating something at intervals to himself. "I do believe he's saying his prayers!" said Mary, approaching the wardrobe more closely with stealthy steps, so as not to alarm the little stowaway, a smile of satisfaction at having at last found him crossing her face, mingled with an expression of amazement--"Just hear what he is repeating. Hush!" They all listened; and this was what they heard proceeding from within the wardrobe, a sob coming in as a sort of hyphen between each word of the little fellow's prayer. "Dod--bess pa--an' Conny an' Liz--an' 'ittle Ciss--an' Jupp, de porter man, an' Mary--an'--an'--all de oders--an' make me dood boy--an' I'll neber do it again, amen!" "The little darling!" cried Mary, opening the door of the wardrobe when Teddy had got so far, and was just beginning all over again; but the moment she saw within, she started back with a scream which at once brought Jupp upstairs. Joe the gardener still stopped, however, on the mat below in the passage, as nothing short of a peremptory command from the vicar would have constrained him to put his heavy clod-hopping boots on the soft stair-carpet. Indeed, it had needed all Mary's persuasion to make him come into the hall, which he did as gingerly as a cat treading on a hot griddle! As Jupp could see for himself, when he came up to the group assembled round the open door of the wardrobe there was nothing in the appearance of poor Teddy to frighten Mary, although much to bespeak her pity and sympathy--the little fellow as he knelt down in the corner showing an upturned face that had been blistered by the gunpowder as it exploded, besides being swollen to more than twice its ordinary size. His clothing was also singed and blackened like that of any sweep, while his eyelashes, eyebrows, and front hair had all been burnt off, leaving him as bare as a coot. Altogether, Master Teddy presented a very sorry spectacle; and the little girls all burst into tears as they looked at him, even Jupp passing his coat-sleeve over his eyes, and muttering something about its being "a bad job" in a very choky sort of voice. It was but the work of an instant, however, for Mary to take up the unfortunate sufferer in her arms, and there he sobbed out all his woes as she cried over him on her way to the nursery, sending off Jupp promptly for the doctor. "I'se not do nuzzin," explained Teddy as he was being undressed, and his burns dressed with oil and cotton-wool, pending the arrival of medical advice. "I'se only zust light de match an' den dere was a whiz; an' a great big black ting lift me up an' trow me down, and den I climb up out of de smoke an' run 'way here. I was 'fraid of black ting comin' an' hide!" "There was no black thing after you, child," said Conny. "It was only the force of the explosion that knocked you down, and the cloud of smoke you saw, which hid you from us when you ran indoors." "It was a black ting," repeated Teddy, unconvinced by the wise Miss Conny's reasoning. "I see him, a big black giant, same as de jinny in story of de fairies; but I ran 'way quick!" "All right, dear! never mind what it was now," said Mary soothingly. "Do you feel any better now?" "Poor mou's so sore," he whimpered, "an' 'ittle nosey can't breez!" "Well, you shouldn't go meddling with matches and fire, as I've told you often," said Mary, pointing her moral rather inopportunely. Still she patted and consoled the little chap as much as she could; and when Doctor Jolly came up from Endleigh presently, he said that she had done everything that was proper for the patient, only suggesting that his face might be covered during the night with a piece of soft rag dipped in Goulard water, so as to ease the pain of the brows and let the little sufferer sleep. The vicar did not return home until some time after the doctor had left the house and Jupp gone back to his duties at the railway-station; but although all traces of the explosion had been removed from the lawn and the grass smoothed over by Joe the gardener, he knew before being told that something had happened from the unusual stillness around, both without and within doors, the little girls being as quiet as mice, and Teddy, the general purveyor of news and noise, being not to the fore as usual. It was not long before he found out all about the accident; when there was a grand to-do, as may be expected, Mr Vernon expressing himself very strongly anent the fact of Jupp putting such a dangerous thing as gunpowder within reach of the young scapegrace, and scolding Mary for not looking after her charge better. Jupp, too, got another "blowing up" from the station-master for being behind time. So, what with the general upset, and the dilapidated appearance of Master Teddy, with his face like a boiled vegetable marrow, when the bandages had been removed from his head and he was allowed to get up and walk about again, the celebration of the Queen's Birthday was a black day for weeks afterwards in the chronicles of the vicar's household! During the rest of the year, however, and indeed up to his eighth year, the course of Teddy's life was uneventful as far as any leading incident was concerned. Of course, he got into various little scrapes, especially on those occasions when his grandmother paid her periodic visits to the vicarage, for the old lady spoiled him dreadfully, undoing in a fortnight all that Mary had effected by months of careful teaching and training in the way of obedience and manners; but, beyond these incidental episodes, he did not distinguish himself by doing anything out of the common. Teddy leisurely pursued that uneven tenor of way customary to boys of his age, exhibiting a marked preference for play over lessons, and becoming a great adept at field sports through Jupp's kindly tuition, albeit poor Puck was no longer able to assist him in hunting rabbits, the little dog having become afflicted with chronic asthma ever since his immersion in the river when he himself had so narrowly escaped from drowning. If water, though, had worked such ill to Puck, the example did not impress itself much on Teddy; for, despite his own previous peril, he was for ever getting himself into disgrace by going down to the river to catch sticklebacks against express injunctions to the contrary, when left alone for any length of time without an observant and controlling eye on his movements. He was also in the habit of joining the village boys at their aquatic pranks in the cattle-pond that occupied a prominent place in the meadows below Endleigh--just where the spur of one of the downs sloped before preparing for another rise, forming a hollow between the hills. Here Master Teddy had loved to go on the sly, taking off his shoes and stockings and paddling about as the shoe and stockingless village urchins did; and this summer, not satisfied with simple paddling as of yore, he bethought himself of a great enterprise. The pond was of considerable extent, and when it was swollen with rain, as happened at this period, the month of June being more plentiful than usual of moisture, its surface covered several acres, the water being very deep between its edge and the middle, where it shallowed again, the ground rising there and forming a sort of island that had actually an alder-tree growing on it. Now, Teddy's ambition was to explore this island, a thing none of the village boys had dreamed of, all being unable to swim; so, as the wished-for oasis could not be reached in that fashion, the next best thing to do was to build a boat like Robinson Crusoe and so get at it in that way. As a preliminary, Teddy sounded the ex-sailor as to the best way of building a boat, without raising Jupp's suspicions--for, the worthy porter, awed by the vicar's reprimand anent the _feu de joie_ affair and Mary's continual exhortations, had of late exhibited a marked disinclination to assist him in doing anything which might lead him into mischief--artfully asking him what he would do if he could find no tree near at hand large enough that he could hollow out for the purpose; but, Jupp could give him no information beyond the fact that he must have a good sound piece of timber for the keel, and other pieces curved in a particular fashion for the strakes, and the outside planking would depend a good deal whether he wanted the boat clinker-built or smooth- sided. "But how then," asked Teddy--he could speak more plainly now than as a five-year old--"do people get off from ships when they have no boat?" "Why, they builds a raft, sir," answered Jupp. "A raft--what is that?" "Why, sir, it means anything that can swim," replied Jupp, quite in his element when talking of the sea, and always ready to spin a yarn or tell what he knew. "It might be made of spare spars, or boards, or anything that can float. When I was in the _Neptune_ off Terra del Faygo I've seed the natives there coming off to us seated on a couple of branches of a tree lashed together, leaves and all." "Oh, thank you," said Teddy, rejoiced to hear this, the very hint he wanted; "but what did they do for oars?" "They used sticks, in course, sir," answered the other, quite unconscious of what the result of his information would be, and that he was sowing the seeds of a wonderful project; and Teddy presently leading on the conversation in a highly diplomatic way to other themes, Jupp forgot bye and bye what he had been talking about. Not so, however, Master Teddy. The very next day, taking up Puck in his arms, and getting away unperceived from home soon after the early dinner, which the children always partook of at noon, he stole down to the pond, where, collecting some of the little villagers to assist him, a grand foray was made on the fencing of the fields and a mass of material brought to the water's edge. Teddy had noted what Jupp had said about the Tierra del Fuegans lashing their rude rafts together, so he took down with him from the house a quantity of old clothes-lines which he had discovered in the back garden. These he now utilised in tying the pieces of paling from the fences together with, after which a number of small boughs and branches from the hedges were laid on top of the structure, which was then pushed off gently from the bank on to the surface of the pond. Hurrah, it floated all right! Teddy therefore had it drawn in again, and stepped upon the raft, which, although it sank down lower in the water and was all awash, still seemed buoyant. He also took Puck with him, and tried to incite some others of the boys to venture out in company with him. The little villagers, however, were wiser in their generation, and being unused to nautical enterprise were averse to courting danger. "You're a pack of cowards!" Teddy exclaimed, indignant and angry at their drawing back thus at the last moment. "I'll go by myself." "Go 'long, master," they cried, noways abashed by his comments on their conduct; "we'll all watch 'ee." Naturally plucky, Teddy did not need any further spurring, so, all alone on his raft, with the exception of the struggling Puck, who did not like leaving _terra firma_, and was more of a hindrance than an aid, he pushed out into the pond, making for the islet in the centre by means of a long pole which he had thinned off from a piece of fencing, sticking it into the mud at the bottom and pushing against it with all his might. Meanwhile, the frail structure on which he sat trembled and wobbled about in the most unseaworthy fashion, causing him almost to repent of his undertaking almost as soon as he had started, although he had the incense of popular admiration to egg him on, for the village boys were cheering and hooraying him like--"like anything," as he would himself have said! CHAPTER SEVEN. FATHER AND SON. The road from the vicarage to the village and station beyond passed within a hundred yards or so of the pond; but from the latter being situated in a hollow and the meadows surrounding it inclosed within a hedge of thick brushwood, it could only be seen by those passing to and fro from one point--where the path began to rise above the valley as it curved round the spur of the down. It was Saturday also, when, as Teddy well knew, his father would be engaged on the compilation of his Sunday sermon, and so not likely to be going about the parish, as was his custom of an afternoon, visiting the sick, comforting the afflicted, and warning those evil-doers who preferred idleness and ale at the "Lamb" to honest toil and uprightness of living; consequently the young scapegrace was almost confident of non-interruption from any of his home folk, who, besides being too busy indoors to think of him, were ignorant of his whereabouts. It was also Jupp's heaviest day at the station, so _he_ couldn't come after him he thought; and he was enjoying himself to his heart's content, when as the Fates frequently rule it, the unexpected happened. Miss Conny, now a tall slim girl of thirteen, but more sedate and womanly even than she had been at ten, if that were possible, was occupied in the parlour "mending the children's clothes," as she expressed it in her matronly way, when she suddenly missed a large reel of darning cotton. Wondering what had become of it, for, being neat and orderly in her habits, her things seldom strayed from their proper places, she began hunting about for the absent article in different directions and turning over the piles of stockings before her. "Have you seen it?" she asked Liz, who was sitting beside her, also engaged in needlework, but of a lighter description, the young lady devoting her energies to the manufacture of a doll's mantilla. "No," said Liz abstractedly, her mouth at the time being full of pins for their more handy use when wanted, a bad habit she had acquired from a seamstress occasionally employed at the vicarage. "Dear me, I wonder if I left the reel upstairs," said Conny, much concerned at the loss; and she was just about prosecuting the search thither when Cissy threw a little light on the subject, explaining at once the cause of the cotton's disappearance. "Don't you recollect, Con," she observed, "you lent it to Teddy the other day? I don't s'pose he ever returned it to you, for I'm sure I saw it this morning with his things in the nursery." "No more he did," replied Conny. "Please go and tell him to bring it back. I know where you'll find him. Mary is helping Molly making a pie, and he's certain to be in the kitchen dabbling in the paste." "All right!" said Cissy; and presently her little musical voice could be heard calling through the house, "Teddy! Teddy!" as she ran along the passage towards the back. Bye and bye, however, she returned to the parlour unsuccessful. "I can't see him anywhere," she said. "He's not with Mary, or in the garden, or anywhere!" "Oh, that boy!" exclaimed Conny. "He's up to some mischief again, and must have gone down to the village or somewhere against papa's orders. Do you know where he is, Liz?" "No," replied the young sempstress, taking the pins out of her mouth furtively, seeing that Conny was looking at her. "He ran out of the house before we had finished dinner, and took Puck with him." "Then he has gone off on one of his wild pranks," said her elder sister, rising up and putting all the stockings into her work-basket. "I will go and speak to papa." The vicar had just finished the "thirdly, brethren," of his sermon; and he was just cogitating how to bring in his "lastly," and that favourite "word more in conclusion" with which he generally wound up the weekly discourse he gave his congregation, when Conny tapped at the study door timidly awaiting permission to enter. "What's the matter?" called out Mr Vernon rather testily, not liking to be disturbed in his peroration. "I want to speak to you, papa," said Conny, still from without. "Then come in," he answered in a sort of resigned tone of voice, it appearing to him as one of the necessary ills of life to be interrupted, and he as a minister bound to put up with it; but this feeling of annoyance passed off in a moment, and he spoke gently and kindly enough when Conny came into the room. "What is it, my dear?" he asked, smiling at his little housekeeper, as he called her, noticing her anxious air; "any trouble about to-morrow's dinner, or something equally serious?" "No, papa," she replied, taking his quizzing in earnest. "The dinner is ordered, and nothing the matter with it that I know of. I want to speak to you about Teddy." "There's nothing wrong with him, I hope?" said he, jumping up from his chair and wafting some of the sheets of his sermon from the table with his flying coat-tails in his excitement and haste. "Nothing wrong, I hope?" Although a quiet easy-going man generally, the vicar was wrapt up in all his children, trying to be father and mother in one to them and making up as much as in him lay for the loss of that maternal love and guidance of which they were deprived at an age when they wanted it most; but of Teddy he was especially fond, his wife having died soon after giving him birth, and, truth to say, he spoiled him almost as much as that grandmother whose visitations were such a vexed question with Mary, causing her great additional trouble with her charge after the old lady left. "Nothing wrong, papa dear, that I know of," replied Conny in her formal deliberative sort of way; "but, I'm afraid he has gone off with those village boys again, for he's nowhere about the place." "Dear me!" ejaculated the vicar, shoving up his spectacles over his forehead and poking his hair into an erect position like a cockatoo's crest, as he always did when fidgety. "Can't you send somebody after him?" "Mary is busy, and Teddy doesn't mind Joe, so there's no use in sending him." "Dear me!" ejaculated her father again. "I'm afraid he's getting very headstrong--Teddy, I mean, not poor Joe! I must really get him under better control; but, I--I don't like to be harsh with him, Conny, you know, little woman," added the vicar dropping his voice. "He's a brave, truthful little fellow with all his flow of animal spirits, and his eyes remind me always of your poor mother when I speak sternly to him and he looks at me in that straightforward way of his." "Shall I go after him, papa?" interposed Conny at this juncture, seeing that a wave of memory had carried back her father into the past, making him already forget the point at issue. "What? Oh, dear me, no!" said the vicar, recalled to the present. "I'll go myself." "But your sermon, papa?" "It's just finished, and I can complete what has to be added when I come back. No--yes, I'll go; besides, now, I recollect, I have to call at Job Trotter's to try and get him to come to church to-morrow. Yes, I'll go myself." So saying, the vicar put on the hat Conny handed to him, for she had to look after him very carefully in this respect, as he would sometimes, when in a thinking fit, go out without any covering on his head at all! Then, taking his stick, which the thoughtful Conny likewise got out of the rack in the hall, he went out of the front door and over the lawn, through the little gate beyond. He then turned into the lane that led across the downs to the village, Miss Conny having suggested this as the wisest direction in which to look for Teddy, from the remembrance of something the young scapegrace had casually dropped in conversation when at dinner. As he walked along the curving lane, the air was sweet with the scent of dry clover and the numerous wild flowers that twined amongst the blackberry bushes of the hedgerows. Insects also buzzed about, creating a humming music of their own, while flocks of starlings startled by his approach flew over the field next him to the one further on, exhibiting their speckled plumage as they fluttered overhead, and the whistle of the blackbird and coo of the ring-dove could be heard in the distance. But the vicar was thinking of none of these things. Conny's words about Teddy not minding Joe the gardener, or anybody else indeed, had awakened his mind to the consciousness that he had not given proper consideration to the boy's mental training. Teddy's education certainly was not neglected, for he repeated his lessons regularly to his father and displayed the most promising signs of advancement; but, lessons ended, he was left entirely to the servants. The vicar reflected, that this ought not to be permitted with a child at an age when impressions of right and wrong are so easily made, never to be effaced in after life, once the budding character is formed. He would correct this error, the vicar determined; in future he would see after him more personally! Just as he arrived at this sound conclusion the vicar reached the bend of the lane where it sloped round by the spur of the down, a bustling bumblebee making him notice this by brushing against his nose as he buzzed through the air in that self-satisfied important way that all bumblebees affect in their outdoor life; and, looking over the hedge that sank down at this point, he saw a group of boys gathered round the edge of the pond. He did not recognise Teddy amongst them; but, fancying the urchins might be able to tell him something of his movements, he made towards them, climbing through a gap in the fence and walking down the sloping side of the hill to the meadow below. The boys, catching sight of him, immediately began to huddle together like a flock of sheep startled by the appearance of some strange dog; and he could hear them calling out some words of warning, in which his familiar title "t'parson" could be plainly distinguished. "The young imps must be doing something wrong, and are afraid of being found out," thought the vicar. "Never mind, though, I sha'n't be hard on them, remembering my own young truant!" As he got nearer, he heard the yelp of a dog as if in pain or alarm. "They're surely not drowning some poor animal," said the vicar aloud, uttering the new thought that flashed across his mind. "If so, I shall most certainly be severe with them; for cruelty is detestable in man or boy!" Hurrying on, he soon obtained a clear view of the pond, and he could now see that not only were a lot of boys clustered together round the edge of the water, but towards the centre something was floating like a raft with apparently another boy on it, who was holding a struggling white object in his arms, from which evidently the yelps proceeded--his ears soon confirming the supposition. "Hullo! what are you doing there?" shouted the vicar, quickening his pace. "Don't hurt the poor dog!" To his intense astonishment the boy on the floating substance turned his face towards him, answering his hail promptly with an explanation. "It's Puck, padie, and I ain't hurting him." Both the face and the voice were Teddy's! The vicar was completely astounded. "Teddy!" he exclaimed, "can I believe my eyes?--is it really you?" "Yes, it's me, padie," replied the young scapegrace, trying to balance himself upright on the unsteady platform as he faced his father, but not succeeding in doing so very gracefully. "Why, how on earth--or rather water, that would be the most correct expression," said the vicar correcting himself, being a student of Paley and a keen logician as to phraseology; "how did you get there?" "I made a raft," explained Teddy in short broken sentences, which were interrupted at intervals through the necessary exertion he had to make every now and then to keep from tumbling into the water and hold Puck. "I made a raft like--like Robinson Crusoe, and--and--I've brought Puck-- uck with me, 'cause I didn't have a parrot or a cat. I--I--I wanted to get to the island; b-b-but I can't go any further as the raft is stuck, and--and I've lost my stick to push it with. Oh--I was nearly over there!" "It would be a wholesome lesson to you if you got a good ducking!" said the vicar sternly, albeit the reminiscences of Robinson Crusoe and the fact of Teddy endeavouring to imitate that ideal hero of boyhood struck him in a comical light and he turned away to hide a smile. "Come to the bank at once, sir!" Easy enough as it was for the vicar to give this order, it was a very different thing for Teddy, in spite of every desire on his part, to obey it; for, the moment he put down Puck on the leafy flooring of the raft, the dog began to howl, making him take it up again in his arms. To add to his troubles, also, he had dropped his sculling pole during a lurch of his floating platform, so he had nothing now wherewith to propel it either towards the island or back to the shore, the raft wickedly oscillating midway in the water between the two, like Mahomet's coffin 'twixt heaven and earth! Urged on, however, by his father's command, Teddy tried as gallantly as any shipwrecked mariner to reach land again; but, what with Puck hampering his efforts, and his brisk movements on the frail structure, this all at once separated into its original elements through the clothes-line becoming untied, leaving Teddy struggling amidst the debris of broken rails and branches--Puck ungratefully abandoning his master in his extremity and making instinctively for the shore. The vicar plunged in frantically to the rescue, wading out in the mud until he was nearly out of his depth, and then swimming up to Teddy, who, clutching a portion of his dismembered raft, had managed to keep afloat; although, he was glad enough when his father's arm was round him and he found himself presently deposited on the bank in safety, where they were now alone, all the village boys having rushed off _en masse_, yelling out the alarm at the pitch of their voices the moment Teddy fell in and the vicar went after him. Both were in a terrible pickle though, with their garments soaking wet, of course; while the vicar especially was bedraggled with mud from head to foot, looking the most unclerical object that could be well imagined. However, he took the whole matter good-humouredly enough, not scolding Teddy in the least. "The best thing we can do, my son," he said when he had somewhat recovered his breath, not having gone through such violent exercise for many a long day.--"The best thing we can do is to hurry off home as fast we can, so as to arrive there before they hear anything of the accident from other sources, or the girls will be terribly alarmed about us." Teddy, without speaking, tacitly assented to this plan by jumping up immediately and clutching hold of the shivering Puck, whose asthma, by the way, was not improved by this second involuntary ducking; and the two were hastening towards the vicarage when they heard a horse trotting behind them, Doctor Jolly riding up alongside before they had proceeded very far along the lane, after clambering out of the field where the pond was situated. "Bless me!" cried the doctor; "why, here are you both safe and sound, when those village urchins said you and Master Teddy were drownded!" "Ah! I thought these boys were up to something of the sort when they all scampered off in a batch without lending us a helping hand!" replied the vicar laughing. "I was just telling Teddy this, thinking the report would reach home before us." "Aye, all happen, Vernon? 'Pon my word, you're in a fine mess!" The vicar thereupon narrated all that had occurred, much to the doctor's amusement. "Well," he exclaimed at the end of the story, "that boy of yours is cut out for something, you may depend. He won't be drowned at any rate!" "No," said the vicar reflectively; "this is the second merciful escape he has had from the water." "Yes, and once from fire, too," put in the other, alluding to the gunpowder episode. "He's a regular young desperado!" "I hope not, Jolly," hastily interposed the vicar. "I don't like your joking about his escapades in that way. I hope he will be good--eh, my boy?" and he stroked Teddy's head as he walked along by his side, father and son being alike hatless, their headgear remaining floating on the pond, along with the remains of the raft, to frighten the frogs and fishes. Teddy uttered no reply; but his little heart was full, and he made many inward resolves, which, alas! his eight-year-old nature was not strong enough to keep. CHAPTER EIGHT. UNAPPRECIATED. He really did not mean any harm; but mischief is mischief whether intentional or not, and somehow or other he seemed continually to be getting into it. Circumstances, over which, of course, he had no control, continually overruled his anxious desire to be good. As Doctor Jolly said, with his usual strident hearty laugh that could be heard half a mile off, and which was so contagious that it made people smile whose thoughts were the reverse of gay, Teddy was always in hot water, "except, by Jove, when he plunged into the cold, ho, ho!" With reference to this latter point, however, it may be mentioned here, that albeit he had twice been mercifully preserved from drowning, the vicar, while trustful enough in the divine workings of Providence, did not think it altogether right to allow Teddy's insurance against a watery grave to be entirely dependent on chance; and so, that very evening, when Jupp came up to the house after he had done his work at the station, he broached the subject to him as soon as the worthy porter had been made cognisant of all the facts connected with the raft adventure. "No," said the vicar, so carried away by his feelings that he almost added "my brethren," fancying himself in the pulpit delivering a homily to his congregation generally, instead of only addressing one hearer, "we ought not to neglect any wise precaution in guarding against those dangers that beset our everyday lives. Lightly spoken as the adage is, that `God helps those who help themselves,' it is true enough." "Aye, aye, sir, and so say I," assented Jupp, rather mystified as to "what the parson was a-driving at," as he mentally expressed it, by this grand beginning, and thinking it had some reference to his not being present at the pond to rescue Teddy in his peril, which he keenly regretted. "This being my impression," continued the vicar, completing his period, as if rounding a sentence in one of his sermons, wherein he was frequently prone to digress, "and I'm glad to learn from your acquiescent reply that you agree with me on the main issue, eh?" Jupp nodded his head again, although now altogether in a fog regarding the other's meaning. "Well, then," said the vicar, satisfied with having at last cleared the ground for stating his proposition, "I want you to devote any leisure time you may have in the course of the next few weeks to teaching my son to swim; so that, in the event of his unhappily falling into the water again, when neither you nor I may be near, he may be able to save himself--under providence, that is." "I was just about a-thinking on the same thing, sir, when you began a- speaking," observed Jupp thoughtfully, scratching his head in his reflective way as he stood before the vicar cap in hand at the door of the study, where the conference was being held. "I fancied you didn't like me taking him down to the river, or I'd have taught him to swim long ago, I would, sir!" "Then I may depend on your doing so now, eh?" "Sartenly, sir! I'll be proud, that I will, to show him," answered Jupp eagerly, mightily pleased with the task intrusted to him, having long wished to undertake it; and so, he being willing, and his pupil nothing loth, Teddy was in a comparatively short space so well instructed how to support himself in the water that he was quite capable of swimming across the river without fear of being sucked down into the mill-race-- although he made both his father and Jupp a promise, which he honourably kept, of never bathing there unless accompanied by either of the two. Not only this, but he could also essay the muddy depths of the pond in the meadow whenever the fancy seized him, exploring the little island in its centre at his own sweet will; and this accomplishment, as will be seen further on, stood him in good stead at one of the most critical periods of his life, although this is anticipating. But, learning swimming, and so lessening the risk attending peril by water, did not prevent him from getting into scrapes on land; for, he was a brave, fearless boy, and these very qualities, added to a natural impulsiveness of disposition, were continually leading him into rash enterprises which almost invariably ended in mishap and disaster, if not to himself, to those who unwittingly were involved in his ventures, alas! In his ninth year, Jupp got a rise on the line, being promoted to be assistant station-master at a neighbouring town, which necessarily involved his leaving Endleigh; and, being now also able to keep a wife in comfort, the long courtship which had been going on between him and Mary was brought to a happy conclusion by matrimony, a contingency that involved the loss to the vicar's household of Mary's controlling influence, leaving Master Teddy more and more to himself, with no one in authority to look after him. Under these circumstances, the vicar, acting on Doctor Jolly's advice, sent him to a small private school in the village where the farmers' sons of the vicinity were taught the rudiments of their education, Teddy going thither every morning and afternoon in company with his sisters Liz and Cissy, who received lessons from a retired governess dwelling hard by--the three children returning home in the middle of the day for their dinner, and again on the termination of their tasks in the evening. Miss Conny, who had passed through the same curriculum, had grown too old for her teacher, and now remained at the vicarage, installed as her father's housekeeper and head of the family in his absence. This arrangement worked very well for a time, although Teddy did not make any very rapid progress at his studies, his mind being more turned to outdoor sports than book lore; but the association with others made him, if more manly, less tractable, developing his madcap propensities to a very considerable extent, if merely from his desire to emulate his companions. One day, when going homewards with Liz and Cissy across the fields from Endleigh, the trio came upon a group of the idle boys of the village who were assembled in front of an inclosed paddock containing Farmer Giles's brindled bull, a savage animal, whose implacable viciousness was the talk of the place; not even the ploughman, with whom he was more familiar than anyone else, daring to approach him without the protection of a long-handled pitchfork. Neither Farmer Giles nor any of his men were about, and the boys, taking advantage of the opportunity, were baiting the bull by shying clods at him and otherwise rousing his temper, when Teddy and his sisters came along. Teddy fired up at once at the sight. "You cowards!" he cried; "you stand there behind the fence pelting the poor animal, but none of you have the pluck to go inside and do it!" "No more have you, Meaister," retorted one of the biggest of the boys, a rustic lout of sixteen. "You ain't got the plook t' go inside yoursen!" "Haven't I?" said Teddy in answer to this taunt; and before his sisters could prevent him he had darted over to where the boys were standing, and climbing over the stout five-barred gate that gave admittance to the inclosure, let himself down into the paddock--confronting the bull without even a stick in his hand. The savage animal appeared so much surprised at the temerity of such a little fellow as Teddy invading his domain, that he allowed him to advance several steps without making a movement; when, putting down his head, as if trying the points of his horns, and pawing the ground, he uttered a wild bellow that brought forth a responsive shriek from Cissy. "Come back, Teddy, come back!" she screamed, turning quite pale with fright. "He's coming after you, and will toss you on his cruel horns. Oh, do come back!" Teddy, however, still continued advancing towards the infuriated brute, waving his arms and shouting in the endeavour to intimidate it. He was sorry he had gone into the paddock; but he had some idea that if he retreated the bull would make a rush at him, and thought that by showing he was not afraid, he might presently retire with all the honours of war, so he preserved a courageous front, although his heart went pit-a- pat all the while. Again, the bull lowered his horns and tossed up his head. He was quite close to him now; and Teddy stopped, the bull eyeing him and he looking at it steadfastly. The situation was alarming, so he stepped back gingerly, whereupon the bull advanced at the same moment, with another loud bellow, the smoke coming out of his red nostrils, and his little eyes flaming with fire. This caused all Teddy's courage to evaporate, and the next moment, forgetting all his previous caution, he turned and ran as hard as he could for the gate; but, the bull, in two strides, catching him up on his horns like a bundle of hay, tossed him high in the air, amidst the screams and shouts of Cissy and Liz and all the village boys commingled, the triumphant roar of the animal overtopping them all as it bellowed forth a paean of victory. Fortunately for Teddy, a pollard elm stood just within the paddock, breaking his fall as he tumbled towards the ground, where the bull was looking up awaiting him, with the intention of catching him again on his horns; and the branches receiving his body in their friendly shelter, he was saved from tumbling down, when he would have been at the mercy of his enemy. Still, there he hung, like Absalom, another naughty boy before him, suspended by his clothes if not by his hair, the bull bellowing and keeping guard round the tree to prevent his further escape; and it was not until the ploughman had been called by one of the village boys and driven away the animal that Teddy was able to climb down from his insecure perch and regain the others. He was glad enough to get out of the paddock, it may be safely asserted; and then, when he was examined, it was discovered, much to the wonder of everybody, including himself, that, beyond a scratch or two from the branches of the elm, he was quite unhurt, in spite of the toss the bull gave him and his unexpected flight through the air! But his daring, if unproductive of any evil consequences towards himself personally, caused harm to others, the ploughman being badly gored while driving off the violent animal through his missing his footing when aiming a blow at it with his pitchfork; while poor Cissy was in such a fright at the mishap, that after screaming herself hoarse she went off in hysterics, the attack ending in a fit of convulsions on her getting home, making her so ill that the doctor had to be summoned to bring her back to consciousness. Teddy in consequence had a serious lecture from the vicar, who pointed out to him the difference between real courage and foolhardiness; but the lesson did not strike very deep, and soon he was his wayward self again, his sister Conny being too near his own age to have any authority over him, while his father was too much of a student and dreamer to exercise any judicious control in restraining his exuberant nature. By the time he was twelve years of age he was like a wild unbroken colt, although he had still the same honest outspoken look in his bright blue eyes, and was a fine manly little fellow who would not have, told a lie to save himself from punishment, or wilfully hurt chick or child; but, scapegrace he was still, as he had been almost from his earliest infancy. He really could not help it. When Jupp and Mary paid their periodical visit at the vicarage to see how the family were getting on, bringing anon another little Jupp with them, they were certain to hear of something terrible that Master Teddy had done; for all the village talked of him now and took heed of his misdeeds, the recital of which, as is usual in such cases, lost nothing by the telling. They were only ordinary boyish freaks; but they seemed awful to the quiet, sleepy countryfolk who inhabited Endleigh. Once, his grandmother rather unwisely brought down a pistol for him from London; and Teddy thereupon having his imagination excited by what he had read of pirates and highwaymen in the works of romance which he devoured whenever he could get hold of them, went about fancying himself a bold buccaneer and freebooter, firing at everything moving within as well as out of range, along the solitary country lanes and hedgerows-- thereby frightening passers-by frequently with untimely shots close to their ears, and making them believe their last hour had come. It was in this way that he peppered old Stokes's sow, which was taking a quiet walk abroad seeking a convenient wallowing place, when the squeals of the unlucky beast were a nine days' wonder, albeit "it was all cry and little wool," as the Irishman said when he shaved his pig, the animal being not much hurt. Still, old Stokes did not like it, and complained to the squire, who remonstrated with the vicar, and the latter in his turn lectured Teddy-- the matter ending there as far as he was concerned, although the squeals of the afflicted sow were treasured up and remembered against him in the chronicles of Endleigh. The place was so dull, that having nothing particular to keep him occupied--for he had long since learned all the village schoolmaster could teach him, and it was a mere farce his remaining any longer under his tutelage--the wonder was, not that Teddy got into any mischief at all, but that he did not fall into more; and Doctor Jolly was continually speaking to his father about neglecting him in that way, urging that he should be sent to some good boarding-school at a distance to prepare him for the university, Mr Vernon intending that the boy should follow in his own footsteps and go into the church, having the same living after him that he had inherited from his father. But the vicar would not hear of this. "No," said he, "he shall stop here and be educated by me in the same way as I was educated by my poor father before going to Oxford. He's a bright intelligent boy--you don't think him an ignoramus, Jolly, eh?" "Not by any means, by Jove," laughed the doctor. "He knows too much already. What I think he wants is a little proper restraint and control. Master Teddy has too much his own way." "Ah! I can't be hard with him, Jolly," sighed the vicar. "Whenever I try to speak to him with severity he looks me in the face with those blue eyes of his, and I think of my poor wife, his mother. He's the very image of her, Jolly!" "Well, well," said the doctor, putting the subject away, considering it useless to press the point; "I'm afraid you'll regret it some day, though I hope not." "I hope not, indeed," replied the vicar warmly. "Teddy isn't a bad boy. He has never told me a falsehood in his life, and always confesses to any fault he has committed." "That doesn't keep him out of mischief though," said the doctor grimly as he went off, atoning to himself for having found fault with Teddy by giving him a drive out to the squire's, and allowing him to take his horse and gig back by himself, an indulgence that lifted Teddy into the seventh heaven of delight. However, as events turned out, the very means by which the doctor thought to clear the reproach from his own soul of having advised the vicar about Teddy, indirectly led to his advice being followed. On alighting at the squire's and handing him the reins, he told Teddy to be very particular in driving slowly, the horse being a high-spirited one, and apt to take the bit in his teeth if given his head or touched with the whip; so, as long as he was in sight Teddy obeyed these injunctions, coaxing the bay along as quietly as if he were assisting at a funeral procession. Directly he got beyond range of observation from the house, though, he made amends for his preliminary caution, shaking the reins free, and giving the horse a smart cut under the loins that made it spring forward like a goat, almost jumping out of the traces; and then, away it tore along the road towards the village at the rate of twenty miles an hour, the gig bounding from rut to rut as if it were a kangaroo, and shaking Teddy's bones together like castanets. Once the animal had got its head, the boy found it useless to try and stop him; while, as for guidance, the horse no more cared about his pulling at the bit than if he were a fly, plunging onward in its wild career, and whisking the gig from side to side, so that Teddy was fully employed in holding on without attempting to pull the reins at all. For a mile or two the roadway was pretty clear, but on nearing Endleigh it became narrower; and here, just in front, Teddy could see a loaded farm wagon coming along. To have passed it safely either he or the wagoner would have had to pull up on one side; but with him now it was impossible to do this, while the driver of the other vehicle was half asleep, and nodding from amidst the pile of straw with which the wagon was loaded, letting the team jingle along at a slow walk. A collision, therefore, was inevitable, and hardly had Teddy come to this conclusion than smash, bang, it followed! There was a terrible jolt, and he suddenly felt himself doing a somersault, waking up the wagoner by tumbling on top of him above the straw, whither he had hurled as from a catapult by the sudden stoppage of the gig in its mad career; and when he came to himself he saw that the fragments of the vehicle lay scattered about under the front of the wagon, against which it had been violently impelled, the bay cantering down to its own stable with its broken traces dangling behind it. Teddy was thunderstruck at the mishap. He had not thought there was any danger in disobeying the doctor's instructions, and yet here was the gig smashed up and the wagoner's horses injured irreparably, one poor brute having to be shot afterwards; besides which he did not know what had become of the runaway animal. All the mishap had arisen through disobedience! He went home at once and told his father everything; but the vicar, though comforting him by saying that he would get the doctor a new gig, and recompense the farmer to whom the wagon belonged for the loss of his team, seemed to have his eyes awakened at last to the evil to which Doctor Jolly had so vainly tried to direct his attention. He determined that Teddy should go to school. But, before this intention could be carried out, there was a most unexpected arrival at the vicarage. This was no less a personage than Uncle Jack, whom neither Teddy nor his sisters had ever seen before, he having gone to sea the same year the vicar had married, and never been heard of again, the vessel in which he had sailed having gone down, and all hands reported lost. Uncle Jack hadn't foundered, though, if his ship had, for here he was as large as life, and that was very large, he weighing some fourteen or fifteen stone at the least! What was more, he had passed through the most wonderful adventures and been amongst savages. These experiences enabled him to recount the most delightful and hairbreadth yarns--yarns that knocked all poor Jupp's stories of the cut-and-dried cruises he had had in the navy into a cocked hat, Teddy thought, as he hung on every utterance of this newly- found uncle, longing the while to be a sailor and go through similar experiences. Uncle Jack took to him amazingly, too, and when he had become domesticated at the vicarage, asked one day what he was going to be. "What, make a parson of him, brother-in-law!" exclaimed the sailor in horrified accents. "You'd never spoil such a boy as that, who's cut out for a sailor, every inch of him--not, of course, that I wish to say a word against your profession. Still, he can't go into the church yet; what are you going to do with him in the meantime, eh?" "Send him to school," replied the other. "Why, hasn't he been yet?" "Oh, yes, he's not altogether ignorant," said the vicar. "I think he's a very fair scholar for his years." "Then why dose him any more with book learning, eh? When you fill a water-cask too full it's apt to run over!" "I quite agree with you about cramming, Jack," said the vicar, smiling at the nautical simile; "but, I'm sending Teddy to a leading school more for the sake of the discipline than for anything more that I want him to learn at present." "Discipline, eh! is that your reason, brother-in-law? Then allow me to tell you he'll get more of that at sea than he ever will at school." "Oh, father!" interrupted Teddy, who had been present all the time during the confab, listening as gravely as any judge to the discussion about his future, "do let me be a sailor! I'd rather go to sea than anything." "But you might be drowned, my boy," said the vicar gravely, his thoughts wandering to every possible danger of the deep. "No fear of that," answered Teddy smiling. "Why, I can swim like a fish; and there's Uncle Jack now, whom you all thought lost, safe and sound after all his voyages!" "Aye and so I am!" chorused the individual alluded to. "Well, well, we'll think of it," said the vicar. "I'll hear what my old friend Jolly has to say to the plan first." But he could not have consulted a more favourable authority as far as Teddy was concerned. "The very thing for him!" said the doctor approvingly. "I don't think you could ever turn him into a parson, Vernon. He has too much animal spirits for that; think of my gig, ho! ho!" Overcome by the many arguments brought forward, and the general consensus of judgment in favour of the project, the vicar at last consented that Teddy might be allowed to go to sea under the aegis of Uncle Jack, who started off at once to London to see about the shipping arrangements; when the rest of the household set to work preparing the young sailor's outfit in the meantime, so that no time might be lost-- little Cissy making him a wonderful anti-macassar, which, in spite of all ridicule to the contrary, she asserted would do for the sofa in his cabin! Of course, Jupp and Mary came over to wish Teddy good-bye; but, albeit there was much grief among the home circle at the vicarage when they escorted him to the little railway-station, on the day he left there were not many tears shed generally at his going, for, to paraphrase not irreverently the words of the Psalmist, "Endleigh, at heart, was glad at his departing, and the people of the village let him go free!" CHAPTER NINE. AT SEA. "Well, here we are, my hearty!" said Uncle Jack, who was on the watch for him at London Bridge station, and greeted him the moment the train arrived; "but, come, look sharp, we've a lot to do before us, and precious little time to do it in!" Teddy, however, was not inclined at first to "look sharp." On the contrary, he looked extremely sad, being very melancholy at leaving home, and altogether "down in the mouth," so to speak. This arose, not so much from the fact of his parting with his father and sisters, dearly as he loved them all in his way; but, on account of poor Puck, who, whether through grief at his going away, which the intelligent little animal seemed quite as conscious of through the instinct of his species as if he were a human being, or from his chronic asthma coming to a crisis, breathed his last in Teddy's arms the very morning of his departure from home! The doggy, faithful to the end, was buried in the garden, Conny, Cissy, and Liz attending his obsequies, and the two latter weeping with Teddy over his grave, for all were fond of Puck; but none lamented him so deeply as he, and all the journey up to town, as the train sped its weary way along, his mind was busy recalling all the incidents that attended their companionship from the time when his grandmother first gave him as a present. He was a brisk young dog then, he remembered, the terror of all strange cats and hunter of rabbits, but his affection had not swerved down to the last year of their association, when, toothless and wheezy, he could hunt no more, and cats came fearlessly beneath his very nose when he went through the feeble pretence of trying to gnaw a bone on the lawn. Poor Puck--_requiescat in pace_! Still, doggy or no doggy, Uncle Jack was not the sort of fellow to let Teddy remain long in the dumps, especially as he had said there was a good deal to be done; and, soon, Teddy was in such a whirl of excitement, with everything new and strange around him, that he had no time left to be melancholy in. First, Uncle Jack hailed a hansom, all Teddy's belongings in the shape of luggage being left in the cloak-room at the terminus, and the two jumping in were driven off as rapidly as the crowded state of the streets would allow, to Tower Hill, where the offices of the shipping agents owning the _Greenock_ were situated. Here Uncle Jack deposited a cheque which the vicar had given him, and Master Teddy was bound over in certain indentures of a very imposing character as a first-class apprentice to the said firm, the lad then signing articles as one of the crew of the _Greenock_, of which vessel, it may be mentioned, Uncle Jack had already been appointed chief officer, so that he would be able to keep a watchful eye over his nephew in his future nautical career. "Now that job's done," said Uncle Jack when all the bothersome writing and signing were accomplished and the vicar's cheque paid over, "we'll have a run down to look at the ship; what say you to that, eh?" "All right!" responded Teddy, much delighted at the idea; and the pair then were driven from Tower Hill to the Fenchurch Street railway- station, where they dismissed their cab and took train for the docks, the state of locomotion in the neighbourhood of which does not readily permit of the passage of wheeled vehicles, a hansom running the risk of being squashed into the semblance of a pancake against the heavy drays blocking the narrow streets and ways, should it adventure within the thoroughfares thereof. On their arrival at Poplar, Uncle Jack threaded his way with amazing ease and familiarity through a narrow lane with high walls on either hand, and then into a wide gateway branching off at right angles. Entering within this Teddy found himself in a vast forest of masts, with ships loading and unloading at the various quays and jetties alongside the wharves, opposite to lines of warehouses that seemed to extend from one end of the docks to the other. Uncle Jack was not long in tumbling across the _Greenock_, which had nearly completed taking in her cargo and was to "warp out next morning," as he told Teddy, who didn't know what on earth he meant by the phrase, by the way. There appeared to be a great deal of confusion going on in front of the jetty to which she was moored; but Uncle Jack took him on board and introduced him to Mr Capstan, the second officer, as a future messmate, who showed him the cabins and everything, telling him to "make himself at home!" The _Greenock_ was a fine barque-rigged vessel of some two thousand tons, with auxiliary steam-power; and she gained her living or earned her freight, whichever way of putting it may please best, by sailing to and fro in the passenger trade between the ports of London and Melbourne, but doing more in the goods line on the return journey, because colonials bent on visiting the mother country generally prefer the mail steamers as a speedier route. Emigrants, however, are not so squeamish, contenting themselves in getting out to Australia, that land of promise to so many hard-up and despairing people at home, by whatever means they can--so long only as they may hope to arrive there at some time or other! Teddy was surprised at the gorgeousness of the _Greenock's_ saloons and cabins, and the height of her masts, and the multitude of ropes about running in every conceivable direction, crossing and recrossing each other with the bewildering ingenuity of a spider's web; but Uncle Jack took all these wonders as a matter of course, and rather pooh-poohed them. "Wait till you see her at Gravesend," he said. "She's all dismantled now with these shore lumpers and lubbers aboard, and won't be herself till she's down the river and feels herself in sailors' hands again. Why, you won't know her! But come along, laddie, we've got to buy a sea-chest and a lot of things to complete your kit; and then, we'll go to granny's and try to see something of the sights of London." So, back they trudged again to the Poplar station and were wafted once more to Fenchurch Street, where Uncle Jack dived within the shop of a friendly outfitter, who had a mackintosh and sextant swinging in front of his establishment to show his marine leanings and dealings. Here, a white sea-chest, whose top was made like a washing-stand, and several other useful articles, were purchased by Uncle Jack without wasting any time, as he had made up his mind what he wanted before going in and knew what he was about; and these things being ordered to be forwarded to the cloak-room at the London Bridge station, to be placed with Teddy's other luggage, Uncle Jack rubbed his hands gleefully. "Now that business is all settled," he said, "we can enjoy ourselves a bit, as the ship won't be ready for us till next Monday. Come along, my hearty! Let us bear up for granny's--you haven't been to her place before, have you, eh?" No, Teddy explained. Granny had often been down to Endleigh to see him, but he had never been up to town to see her; that first attempt of his, which had been frustrated by Mary's pursuit and the machinations of Jupp, having deterred him, somehow or other, from essaying the journey a second time. Indeed, he had never been to London at all. "_My_!" exclaimed Uncle Jack. "What a lot there'll be for you to see, my hearty, eh?" What is more, he showed him, too, all that was to be seen, taking Teddy to monuments and exhibitions, to galleries and even to the theatre. The time passed by rapidly enough--too rapidly, granny thought, when the day came for her to say good-bye to Teddy; but he was nothing loth to go, longing to be on board the _Greenock_ as one belonging to her of right, and feel himself really at sea. Granny wanted him to have another little dog in place of Puck; however, he couldn't make up his mind to a substitute to supersede the former animal's hold on his affections. Besides this, Uncle Jack said the captain did not allow anybody to have dogs on board, and that was a clincher to the argument at once. Monday morning came, and with it another railway journey. It really seemed to Teddy as if he were "on the line," like Jupp! The _Greenock_, having taken in all her cargo, had been warped out of dock and then towed down the river to Gravesend, where she was now lying moored in the stream off the Lobster. "There she is!" cried Uncle Jack when they got down to the beach. "Where?" asked Teddy, not recognising the dirty untidy hulk he had seen in the docks, as she first appeared to him before he was taken on board and noticed the elegance of her cabins, in the thing of beauty he saw now before him; with every spar in its place and snow-white canvas extended in peaceful folds from the yards, as the vessel lay at anchor with her topsails dropped and her courses half clewed up, ready to spread her wings like an ocean bird. What a change there was in her! "Look, right in front there, laddie," said Uncle Jack. "Can't you see? She's just about making-sail, so we'd better get on board as soon as possible. Hi, boatman, seen any one belonging to the _Greenock_ ashore?" "Aye, aye, sir," answered the man addressed, "her boat's just over there by the p'int, just agoin' to shove off." "Thank you, my hearty," said Uncle Jack, giving him a trifle for the information; and in another minute or so Teddy found himself in the _Greenock's_ jolly-boat in company with a lot of the new hands, like himself, going off to join the ship. Here on his arrival on board, he was introduced to Captain Lennard, the monarch of all he surveyed as far as the deck of the _Greenock_ was concerned, and his future commander. Teddy liked the look of him; while he, on his part, seemed to like the look of Teddy, smiling kindly when he saw him come over the gangway after Uncle Jack. He had the general appearance of a brown Jupp, being of the same height and with just such a smiling good-humoured face, with the exception that his hair and beard, instead of being black, was of a lighter and ruddier hue. Oh, yes, Teddy thought, Captain Lennard was the man for him. He looked easy and kind-hearted and would not bully people, as he had read of some brutal captains doing. "This your nephew?" he asked Uncle Jack politely. "Yes, sir," replied the other, touching his cap, being in regular nautical rig now, as also was Teddy, who, clad in spick-and-span reefer costume, felt as proud as Punch. "Ah! then, if he's like you I think we'll get along very well together, Mr Althorp," said the captain with a bow and smile. "He looks like a chip of the old block too!" "You're very good to say that, sir," stammered Uncle Jack, blushing at the compliment. "The youngster's very like my poor sister, and I suppose resembles me, as she and I were twins. I've no doubt, though, you'll find him teachable when he's licked into shape; for, he isn't a bad lad from what I have seen of him as yet, and is plucky enough, if all I've heard of him down at Endleigh be true." "Well, Master Vernon, I hope you'll justify the character your uncle gives of you. If you only obey orders there'll be no fear of our falling out. But, mind, I'm captain of this ship; so look out for squalls if you shirk duty or try on any tricks!" The captain said this pleasantly, but there was a stern look combined in the twinkle of his hazel eyes beneath their thick brown eyebrows, like penthouses overshadowing them; and Teddy felt that, with all his gentleness and joking way, he was a man who intended to command and likewise to be obeyed. A moment later Captain Lennard changed the conversation by asking Uncle Jack if all the hands were on board. "Aye, aye, sir," said the other. "The whole batch, I think, came out with us. Isn't that so, Mr Capstan?" he asked, turning to the second- mate, who was standing close by. "Yes, all hands aboard," replied the second-mate laconically. "Then make sail at once," said Captain Lennard, going aft on the poop; while Mr Capstan bustled forwards, shouting out as he scrambled up on the windlass bitts and thence to the fo'c's'le, "All hands make sa-i- il!" drawling out the last word as if it were a chorus to some mariner's ditty he were singing. The crew were all picked men, the majority having been in the ship on one or two previous voyages; so they were quite at home, and sprang into the rigging long before the second-mate had got to the end of his refrain. In a second, the topsails were dropped and sheeted home, and the rattling of the clewgarnet blocks told of the courses following their example; after which the hands aloft then loosed the topgallant, there being a fine breeze fair for the Downs. Teddy was puzzled for a moment by all the seeming confusion that reigned in the ship, with ropes flying about and cordage cracking, while the hoarse orders issued by Mr Capstan and Uncle Jack were answered by the cheery cry of the men, singing out lustily as they hoisted and pulled at the halliards with a will. But, the confusion was only momentary and in appearance only; for, hardly had he begun to realise what all the bustle was about, than the ship was clothed in canvas from truck to deck, like a lady attired for a ball all in white! The headyards were then backed, and Captain Lennard's voice rang through the vessel fore and aft as clear as a bell-- "Hands up anchor!" Then, the windlass was wound; and, slip, slap, click, clack, it went round the pawl belaying every inch of cable got in. "Cheerily, men! heave with a will!" urged the second-mate; and the brawny fellows bent all their strength to the handspikes, heaving them down with sheer brute force. "Hove short!" presently sang out Mr Capstan. "Up with it!" responded Captain Lennard from the poop, where the pilot now appeared by his side awaiting all these preparations to be completed before taking charge of the ship. Half-a-dozen more heaves and the anchor-stock showed above the water. "Hook cat!" cried the second-mate. "I wonder what that means!" thought Teddy. "I hope they won't hurt the poor thing!" But, the next moment, he was undeceived. Nothing in the shape of cruelty to animals was about to be perpetrated. Mr Capstan only ordered the men to hook on the tackle by which the head of the anchor was to be braced up; and, before he could say "Jack Robinson," if he had been that way inclined, the falls were manned and the anchor run up to the cathead with a rousing chorus as the men scampered aft with the tail-end of the rope. The headyards were then filled, and the ship bowed her head as if in salute to Father Neptune, the next instant gathering way as the sails began to draw. "Port!" sang out the pilot from the bridge. "Port it is," responded the man at the wheel, shifting the spokes with both hands like a squirrel in a cage, it seemed to Teddy, who was looking at him from the break of the poop, where he had taken up his station by Captain Lennard's orders so that he might the more easily see all that was going on. "Steady!" "Steady it is," repeated the helmsman in parrot fashion. And so, conning and steering along, the _Greenock_ was soon bounding on her way down channel, passing Deal and rounding the South Foreland before noon. Teddy at last was really at sea! CHAPTER TEN. TAKING FRENCH LEAVE. The weather was beautifully fine for October, with a bright warm sun shining down and lighting up the water, which curled and crested before the spanking nor'-east breeze, that brought with it that bracing tone which makes the month, in spite of its autumnal voice warning us of the approach of winter, one of the most enjoyable in our changeable climate--especially to those dwelling along the south coast, which the good ship _Greenock_ now trended by on her passage out of the Channel. Teddy as yet, although this was his first experience of "a life on the ocean wave," was not sea-sick; for, although the vessel heeled well over to the wind on the starboard tack she did not roll, but ploughed through the little wavelets as calmly as if on a mill-pond, only rising now and again to make a graceful courtesy to some cross current that brought a swell over from the opposite shore of France, for after passing Beachy Head she kept well off the land on the English side. A west-nor'-west course brought the _Greenock_ off Saint Catharine's Point; but the evening had drawn in too much for Teddy to see anything of the Isle of Wight, and when he woke up next morning the ship was abreast of the Start Point. From thence, he had a fair view of the Devon and Cornish coasts in the distance all the way to the Lizard, the scene being like an ever- changing panorama, with plenty of life and movement about in the vessels the _Greenock_ was continually passing either outwards or homewards bound; while the little trawlers and fishing-boats clustered in groups here and there, and there was the occasional smoke from some steamer steaming along the horizon, like a dark finger-post above the level of the sea in the distance. He enjoyed it all, as, although he had found his bunk in the cabin rather close and stuffy after his nice airy bed-room at the vicarage, he was still not sea-sick; and, as he leant over the taffrail, watching the creamy wake the ship left behind her, spreading out broader and broader until it was lost in the surrounding waste of waters, what with the sniff of the saline atmosphere and the bracing breeze, he began to feel hungry, longing for breakfast-time to come and wondering when he would hear the welcome bell sound to tell that the meal was ready. No one was on deck, at least on the poop, when he came up, save the helmsman, and Mr Capstan, the latter walking up and down briskly on the windward side and exchanging a word now and again with the pilot on the bridge; so Teddy felt a little forlorn. Presently, the second-mate, taking a longer turn in his quarterdeck walk, came up and spoke to him. "Well, young shaver," he said, "how are you getting on?" "Very well, thank you, sir," replied Teddy, touching his cap, as Uncle Jack had told him he must always do to his superior officer. "Ah! you're like a young bear, and have all your troubles before you," the other next remarked consolingly, adding immediately afterwards the query: "Seen any of your messmates yet?" "No, sir," replied Teddy, looking a bit puzzled--"that is, excepting yourself and the captain, and Uncle Jack, of course. Are there any other midshipmen like myself?" "Aye, if you call the apprentices so, young shaver," said Mr Capstan with an ironical grin which did not improve his rather ugly face. "There are two more of you; and the lazy young hounds must be snoozing below, for they haven't shown a leg yet. However, I'll soon rouse 'em up!" So saying, he shouted out to one of the hands in the waist forwards: "Here, Bill Summers!" "Aye, aye, sir," replied the man, looking up towards the break of the poop, whence the second-mate had hailed him, leaning over the rail. "Just go and call Jones and Maitland. Tell 'em to turn out sharp or I'll stop their grog," cried Mr Capstan. "Aye, aye, sir," said the man, proceeding towards the deck-house, which occupied a middle position in the ship between the poop and fo'c's'le; and presently, although hidden from the gaze of those aft, he could be heard rapping at one of the doors, repeating in whispered tones the order the second-mate had given him. Ere long, a couple of striplings appeared, dressed in dirty uniforms which presented a marked difference to that of Teddy; and he noticed besides that one was considerably taller than he was while the second was shorter and a little slimmer. "Here, you, Jones and Maitland, I won't have you caulking away this bright morning when the sun ought to be scorching the sleep out of your eyes. What do you mean by it, eh?" began Mr Capstan as if lashing himself into a passion, but had not quite got enough steam up yet. "I thought, sir, as this is our first day out and the ship still in charge of the pilot, we needn't turn out so early," said Jones, the biggest of the two, acting as spokesman. "You thought!" snarled the second-mate, catching up a rope's-end with the apparent intention of laying it across the shoulders of Jones, only he kept a wary distance away. "I've half a mind to give you something for answering me like that! No one has any business to think on board ship." "Aye, where you're boss!" said the offender speaking aside. "What is that you're jabbering?" quickly interposed Mr Capstan--"some impudence, I reckon. Now, just you pull off those patent-leather pumps of yours and set to work washing decks. It's gone six bells, and it ought to have been done half an hour ago." Teddy thought this was a very unkind cut of the mate at poor Jones's boots, which were a dilapidated pair of bluchers that needed mending badly; still, he couldn't help smiling, which didn't seem to please Mr Capstan, who, turning round, now addressed him: "And you, my fine young shaver, with your dandy rig, you'd better be doing something to earn your salt, and not be a useless lubber, looking on like a fine lady! You just put off and go and help Jones." Teddy, though he didn't relish the job, obeyed willingly; and soon he was paddling about in bare feet with his trousers rolled up to the knee, while the crew under Jones's direction rigged the head pump and sluiced the decks down from end to end of the ship, beginning with the poop and ending with the midship section in the waist, where all the water was collected in a sort of small lake and had to be swabbed out of the scuttles. Young Maitland meanwhile had been sent up the main royal mast to clear the dog vane, which had somehow or other got fouled; so Mr Capstan, satisfied at seeing everybody busily employed but himself, paced contentedly up and down the poop, sniffing about and snorting occasionally like an old grampus, as if in satisfaction at "taking it out of the youngsters." The man was naturally a bully, and loved to display the little authority he had by "hazing" those under him, to use the technical sea phrase. By dint of continually nagging at the men below from his commanding position above, the second-mate hurried them up so with their work that in a very short space of time the decks were scrubbed and washed, the sun drying them almost without the use of the swab. Mr Capstan then set them to work coiling down the loose ropes lying about, there being nothing else to do, as the ship had not altered her course but remained on the starboard tack with the wind well on her quarter; and, although everything had been made snug before leaving the Downs, he was just going to tell the hands to unship the motley contents of the long-boat and stow it again afresh in default of some other task, when eight bells struck, and Uncle Jack came up from below to relieve him from his watch--a relief, it may be added, to all hands in more than one sense! Presently, Captain Lennard came on deck too; although he must not be thought lazy for being so late, for he had remained up with the pilot on the bridge all night conning the ship, only turning in for a short nap at daylight. Then, the passengers, of whom there were some sixty in the first-class saloon, began to creep up the companion, one by one as if not yet accustomed to the somewhat unsteady footing of a ship's deck at sea; as for the steerage emigrants they remained below, and even after they had been weeks afloat it required almost force to drive them up into the fresh air. Teddy was looking at the queer figures some of the gentlemen and ladies presented on the poop, when all at once the breakfast gong sounded, and they all scuttled down much faster than they had come up, the sea air having given those able to get out of their bunks fresh appetites after they had paid homage to Neptune. He was not invited to go down with these, however, having to mess along with Jones and Maitland in the deck-house close to the galley, where the three mids consoled themselves with the reflection that if they were excluded from the saloon, at all events they were nearer the place where their meals were cooked, and so had the advantage of getting them hotter! After breakfast the pilot left the ship, a boat putting out for him from the land when they were near Saint Michael's; and then Captain Lennard, hauling round a bit, shaped a west-south-west course, steering out into the broad Atlantic until he had reached longitude 12 degrees West, when the vessel's head was turned to the south for Madeira and the Canaries. Strange to say, Teddy up to now had not been once sick. It is true they had not as yet had any rough weather; but the sea was brisk enough to try the stomachs of all the landsmen on board, so it was curious he was not affected in any way by the ship's motion. As Uncle Jack said at the first, he was a born sailor! Soon he began, too, to understand his duties; and being naturally quick of intellect and active, he after a time became handier on the yards and up aloft than little Maitland, who had been two voyages out and home before; while Jones had to exert himself to hold his own with him--with Uncle Jack, besides, coaching him up in seamanship, Teddy ere the vessel had reached Madeira was a greenhand no longer. At Teneriffe Captain Lennard put in to coal, the ship being, as formerly mentioned, an auxiliary screw, and able to enlist the aid of steam when she came to the calm latitudes, which they were now approaching. The passengers being allowed to go on shore for a few hours, Teddy received permission to accompany those taking advantage of the opportunity of landing. There was no time to try and climb up the celebrated peak, which can be seen so far out at sea that it looks like an island in the clouds; but there was much amusement gained in donkey riding and studying the manners and customs of the natives. The garments, Teddy noticed, of the ladies were rather limited in dimensions; but what they lacked in quantity they made up for in style, all the dresses being provided with those "improvers" of late fashion in England. These made the skirts of the Portuguese damsels stick out all round, giving them a very funny appearance with their brown skins and bare feet! It was well they coaled here, for while they were yet in sight of the huge cloud-cap't mountain above Santa Cruz, the wind that had favoured them so well up to now dropped to a dead calm; so, Captain Lennard, ordering the sails to be furled and the screw-propeller lowered, the vessel was able to proceed under steam across the equator, making almost as good time as when sailing before a good breeze--almost, but not quite, as she was a clipper under canvas. They touched once more at the Cape of Good Hope, to fill up the coal they had expended in case of another emergency necessitating their steaming again; but, the wind being favourable when the _Greenock_ got below the forties, she bowled along steadily before it under canvas, reaching Melbourne within sixty days. Altogether, the voyage was uneventful except for one thing, and that was the persistent bullying of Mr Capstan the second-mate, who, whether from his relationship to Uncle Jack, his superior officer, or from some other cause, had apparently conceived such a dislike to Teddy that he tyrannised over him more than he seemed to think necessary either with little Maitland or Jones--although they suffered, too, at his hands! Teddy would not complain, though, to the captain; and as for his Uncle Jack, he would have thought it dishonourable to breathe a word to him. He would rather have suffered the crudest torture the bully could inflict than that! However, he and little Maitland matured their plans together, and coming to the conclusion that they could not very well have any satisfaction from Mr Capstan without telling tales, they determined to steal away from the ship when she got into harbour, and run away ashore up into the bush, Val Maitland retailing for Teddy's benefit the most wonderful stories anent gold-digging and bush-ranging--stories that cordially agreed with his own fancy. Not long, therefore, after the _Greenock_ had entered within Port Philip Heads and got up to Sandridge Pier, the two boys, mixing amongst the crowd of passengers landing, touters touting for various boarding- houses, and all the different sorts of people that throng round the newly-arrived at the colonial metropolis, especially at its harbour mouth, managed easily to get into the town unobserved, giving the slip most successfully to their ship and all its belongings. "And what shall we do now?" asked Teddy, his companion, although smaller than himself, taking the lead, from being an older sailor and having been previously in Australia. "Do! why, go into the bush, of course!" promptly answered the other. "And how shall we get there?" next inquired Teddy cheerfully, wishing to start off that very moment for the golden land he had dreamt of. "Why, by train," said Val. "By train!" echoed Teddy in a voice of consternation, the idea was such a terrible come down to what he had imagined. "Yes, by train; come along with me," repeated little Maitland, catching hold of his arm; and turning into Collins Street he soon made his way to the railway depot and took a couple of tickets for Ballarat. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE WRECK. "I say," began Val presently when the train was in motion. "Well?" said Teddy rather grumpily. He could not stomach the fact that here they were journeying along by the aid of an ordinary railway, just as they would have done in England. When Val had suggested their going to the diggings he had imagined they would tramp thither through the bush, with their blankets and swag on their shoulders, as he had often read of men doing; and that they would end by picking up a big nugget of gold that would make all their fortunes! The train disposed of all these dreams in a moment; for, how could they pick up nuggets along a line of "permanent way," as Jupp would have called it--a beaten track that thousands traversed every day by the aid of the potent iron-horse and a bucket of hot water? It was scandalous that Val hadn't told him of the railroad! It dispelled all the romance of the expedition at once, he thought grumblingly. Despite all Mr Capstan's bullying, he had not run away from the ship for that; so he was not at all in a mood to have any conversation with such an unprincipled fellow as Val, who ought to have enlightened him before. "Well?" he said again, seeing that young Maitland hesitated about proceeding, his grumpy tone acting as a sort of damper to his contemplated eloquence. "I say, old fellow," then began Val again, making a fresh start and blurting out his question, "have you got any money?" Teddy was all sympathy now. A comrade in distress should never appeal to him in vain! So he commenced searching his pockets. "I ought to have some," he said. "Father gave me a five-pound note before I left home, and Uncle Jack when I was in London with him tipped me a sovereign, and I haven't spent or changed either for that matter; but, now I come to think of it, they're both in my chest in the cabin. I never thought of taking them out before we left the _Greenock_." "That's precious unlucky," observed Val, searching his pockets too, and trying each vainly in turn. "I've only a couple of shillings left now after paying for the railway tickets. Whatever shall we do?" "Oh, bother that!" replied Teddy sanguinely; "we sha'n't want any. The fellows I've read about who went to the diggings never had a halfpenny, but they always met with a friendly squatter or tumbled into luck in some way or other." "That was in the old days," said Val in a forlorn way. "The squatters have all been cleared out, and there are only hotels and boarding-houses left, where they expect people to pay for what they have to eat." "They're a stingy lot then, and quite unlike what I've read in books about the customs in Australia; but what can you expect when they have a railway!" Teddy spoke in such a scornful manner of this sign of civilisation that he made Val laugh, raising his spirits again. "All right, old chap!" said the little fellow. "I daresay we'll get along very well although we haven't any money to speak of with us. Two shillings, you know, is something; and no doubt it will keep us from starving till we come across luck." Teddy cheerfully acquiesced in this hopeful view of things; and then the two, being alone in the carriage, chatted away merrily on all sorts of subjects until they arrived at their station, which a porter sang out the name of exactly in the same fashion as if they were at home. This quite exasperated Teddy, who, when he got down and looked about him, opened his eyes with even greater wonder. Surely this large town couldn't be Ballarat! Why, that place ought to be only a collection of hastily-run-up wooden shanties, he thought, with perhaps one big store where they sold everything, provisions, and picks and shovels, with cradles for rocking the gold-dust out of the quartz and mud. Where were the canvas tents of the diggers, and the claims, and all? But, yes, Ballarat it was; although the only diggings were quarries worked by public mining companies with an immense mass of machinery that crushed the rock and sent streams of water through the refuse, using quicksilver to make an amalgam with--companies that were satisfied to get a grain of gold for every ton of quartz they excavated and pounded into powder, and realised a handsome dividend at that, where ordinary diggers wouldn't have had a chance of keeping themselves from starving. He and little Maitland wandered about; and then, feeling hungry, exhausted all their capital in one meal, "burning their boats," like the old Athenians. They would now have either to find something to do to get lodging or food, or else tramp it back to the ship. They slept that night in the open air, under some scaffolding round a new building that was being run up on the outskirts of the town; and the next morning were wandering about again, feeling very miserable and wishing they were safely back on board the _Greenock_, it being just breakfast-time, when they were accosted by a stout, hairy sort of man, dressed in a species of undress uniform. "Hullo, my young friends!" the man said, his voice being much pleasanter than his looks, "where do you hail from? I don't think I've ever seen you in Ballarat before." "You wouldn't again if we could help it," replied Teddy so heartily that the hairy man laughed as jollily as might have been expected from his musical voice. "Ah! I think I know who you are," he observed, eyeing them both critically. "Well, you must be a conjuror if you do," answered little Maitland, who had a good deal of native impudence about him, "considering we haven't been twenty-four hours in Australia!" "What say you to Maitland being your name and Vernon that of your companion, eh, my young cocksparrow?" said the man with a quizzical look. "Am I conjuror or not?" The boys stared at each other in amazement. "Well," exclaimed Teddy at length, "this is certainly the funniest country I have ever been in. The diggings that I've read about in print over and over again have all vanished into nothing, and here there are railways running through the bush, with people knowing who you are twenty thousand miles away from home. It is wonderful!" "Not so very wonderful after all, Master Teddy Vernon," suggested the hairy man at this juncture. "I'm an inspector of police here, and we received a telegram last night which had been circulated in all directions from the chief office at Melbourne, saying that you two young gentlemen were missing from the ship _Greenock_, just arrived from England, and that any information about you would be gladly received and rewarded by Captain Lennard, the commander of the vessel." "I'm very glad," said Teddy, interrupting any further remark the inspector might have made. "We came away suddenly because of something that occurred on board; and now I sha'n't be at all sorry to go back again, for we have no money or anything to eat. Besides, the place isn't a bit like what I expected--there!" "Ah! you're hungry, my young friends, and that soon takes the pluck out of a body," observed the inspector kindly. "Come along with me and have some breakfast, after which I'll see you into the train for Melbourne." "But we haven't got any money," said Teddy, looking at him frankly in the face. "Never mind that," he replied jokingly. "I daresay I can put my hand on an odd sixpence or so, and this I've no doubt your captain will pay me back." "That he will," cried Teddy and Val together in one breath; "besides, we've got money of our own on board the ship, only we forgot to bring it with us." "And a very good job too," said the inspector laughing, "otherwise, you might not perhaps have been so glad to meet me this morning; but come on now, lads. Let us go into the town to some restaurant, and then I will see you to the depot, if I can depend on your going back." "That you can, sir," replied Val drily, "if you buy the tickets for us." "Oh, I'll see about that," said the inspector; and so, under his escort, they went into the nearest restaurant and had a good meal, after which the inspector took tickets for them, seeing them into the railway- carriage. The worthy policeman must also have said something to the guard, for after he had given Teddy his name, at the lad's especial request, and wished them good-bye, some official or other came up and locked the door of the compartment, so that they could not have got out again if they had wished save by climbing through the window. "He needn't have been alarmed at our giving him the slip," observed little Maitland. "I am only too glad to be sent back in any fashion, ignominious though it may be to be under charge of the police." "So am I," said Teddy; "but the inspector is a nice fellow after all, and has behaved very well to us." He had been even more thoughtful, however, than the boys imagined; for, on the train arriving once more at the Melbourne terminus, who should be there to meet them but Uncle Jack! "Well, you're a nice pair of young scamps," was his exclamation when the door of the carriage was opened by another policeman, and they got out right in front of where he was standing. "What have you got to say for yourselves, eh, for taking leave in French fashion like that? Why, you ought to be keel-hauled both of you!" But he saved them a long explanation by telling them that Jones, the other midshipman, having been knocked down with a marlinespike by the second-mate, Captain Lennard had both him and Mr Capstan brought before him, when, sifting the matter to the bottom, Jones had made a clean breast of the way in which he and the other youngsters had been bullied. "And the upshot of the whole affair is," continued Uncle Jack, "Captain Lennard has dismissed Capstan from his ship, giving him such a discharge certificate that I don't think he'll get another second-mate's place in a hurry! As for you, my young scamps, I don't think the skipper will be very hard on you; but, Teddy, you ought to have told me of the treatment you three poor beggars were receiving at that ruffian's hands all the voyage. Old Bill Summers, the boatswain, confirmed every word that Jones said, and was quite indignant about it." "I didn't like to tell, you being my uncle and over Mr Capstan," said Teddy; "I thought it would be mean." "It is never mean to complain of injustice," replied Uncle Jack gravely; "still, the matter now rests with the skipper." Captain Lennard gave the boys a good talking to for running away, saying that it wasn't manly for young sailors to shirk their work in that way for any reason. However, considering all the circumstances of the case and the lesson they had learnt, that boys couldn't be absolutely independent of those in authority over them, he said that he had made up his mind to forgive them, telling them they might return to their duty. The passengers having all landed and the ship cleared of her home cargo, she began immediately taking in wool for her return voyage, and in a few weeks' time set sail from the Heads for England--though _via_ Cape Horn this time, as is generally the routine with vessels sailing to Australia when coming back to the Channel. There were only two passengers on board, the captain and mate of a vessel that had been sold at Melbourne, she having only been navigated out by these officers for the purpose, and the vessel being unencumbered by emigrants the sailors had more room to move about. Teddy found it much pleasanter than on the passage out, as Captain Lennard was able to spare more time in teaching him his duty, a task which he was ably backed up in by Uncle Jack and Robins, the new second-mate, a smart young seaman whom the captain had promoted from the fo'c's'le to take Capstan's vacant place, and a wonderful improvement in every way to that bully. After leaving Port Philip, they had a fair enough passage till they got about midway between New Zealand and the American continent, Captain Lennard taking a more northerly route than usual on account of its being the summer season in those latitudes, and the drift-ice coming up from the south in such quantities as to be dangerous if they had run down below the forties. When the _Greenock_ was in longitude somewhere about 150 West and latitude 39 South a fierce gale sprung up from the north-east, right in their teeth, causing the lighter sails of the ship to be handed and the topgallants to be taken in. At midnight on the same day, the wind having increased in force, the upper topsails were handed and the foresail reefed, the ship running under this reduced canvas, and steering east-south-east, the direction of the wind having shifted round more to the northward. The next evening, the wind veered to the westward, and was accompanied with such terrific squalls and high confused sea that Captain Lennard, who had thought at first he could weather out the storm under sail, determined to get up steam, and lowered the propeller so that the ship might lay-to more easily. Later on in the afternoon, however, another shift of wind took place, the gale veering to sou'-sou'-west in a squall heavier than any of its predecessors; while a heavy sea, flooding the decks, broke through the hatchway and put out the engine fires. Being a smart seaman, the captain had sail set again as soon as possible, hoisting reefed topsails and foresail to lift the vessel out of the trough of the following seas, in which she rolled from side to side like a whale in its death flurry. All seemed going on well for a short time after this; and he and Uncle Jack thought they had weathered the worst of it, when the foresheet parted and the clew of the foresail, going through the lower foretopsail, split it in ribbons. The barque was then brought to the wind on the port tack under the lower maintopsail, and she lay-to pretty well; but the wind kept on veering and beating with frequent squalls from sou'-sou'-west to west, so that at noon a strong gale prevailed again fiercer than before. Teddy had not seen anything like this; but he wasn't a bit frightened, and he was as active as the oldest sailor in lending help to carry out the captain's orders, jumping here, there, and everywhere like a monkey. The skipper was so pleased with his behaviour that he complimented him by telling Uncle Jack he was as good as his right hand! Later on, the weather seemed calming down and all were very busy repairing damages; but, in the evening, a tremendous sea broke on board carrying away the bulwarks and chain-plates fore and aft on the port side, the accompanying violent gust of wind jerking the maintopsail as if it had been tissue paper out of the ship. Immediately after this, with the first lee roll, the foremast broke off almost flush with the deck and fell with a crash over the side, taking with it everything that stood but the lower main and mizzen masts, leaving the _Greenock_ rolling a hopeless wreck on the waste of raging waters. CHAPTER TWELVE. EASTER ISLAND. The gale suddenly ceased during the night, but all hands remained on deck; for, the sea was still rolling mountains high and coming in occasionally over the broken bulwarks, causing Captain Lennard much anxiety about the boats, which, fortunately, the broken top hamper kept from being washed overboard. In the morning it was quite calm again; but the poor old ship presented a piteous scene of desolation, with her broken sides, and her gay array of towering masts and spreading yards and spread of canvas all swept away. Teddy could nearly have cried at the sorry sight; not reflecting that through the merciful care of a divine providence watching over all not a life had been lost. With the daylight, Captain Lennard took a rapid review of their position. He had caused a stout tarpaulin to be lashed over the engine-room hatch, thus preventing any more water from passing down into the hold there in any perceptible quantity; still, the carrying away of the bulwarks and chain-plates had strained the ship very much on the port side, and when the carpenter sounded the well at eight bells the ship was found to be leaking fast, having already a depth of two feet in her. "Man the pumps!" cried the captain; when Uncle Jack lending a willing hand, the crew under his encouragement were soon working away steadily with a clink-clank, clink-clank, the water pouring out through the scuppers in a continuous stream. However, on the well being sounded again presently, it was found to be flowing in equally steadily, having risen already six inches more in spite of all their pumping! What was to be done? The captain and Uncle Jack deliberated together, summoning the new third mate to assist their counsels; but, they could only arrive at one opinion. The ship was sinking fast, and all hands knew it as well as they themselves; for, in addition to the damage done to the sides and bulwarks, the heavy propeller had aided the waves in wrenching away the rudder, which carried with it the greater portion of the stern-post. "We must take to the boats," said Captain Lennard. "Thank God, they are all right, and haven't been washed away in the storm!" Leaving the useless pumps, therefore, for it was of no avail fatiguing the men with the unnecessary exertion any longer, all the pumping in the world being idle to save the vessel, the hands were at once set to work clearing the boats and getting them over the side. It was a ticklish job, the long-boat especially being very heavy, and there being no means, now they had lost their masts, of rigging a tackle aloft to hoist it off the chocks amidships. Still, necessity teaches men alternatives in moments of great peril; so, now, knocking away the under fastenings of the boat by main force, the crew managed at last to get it free. Then, improvising rollers out of pieces of the broken topmast, they contrived by pulling and hauling and shoving, all working with a will together, to launch it over the side through the hole in the bulwarks. The jolly-boat followed suit, an easier task; and then, the two being deemed sufficient to accommodate all on board, just sixty-one in number including the two passengers, Captain Lennard gave the order to provision them, telling the steward to bring out all the cabin stores for this purpose, there being now no further use for them on board the ship, and officers and men being entitled to share alike without distinction. The captain himself, while this was being done, saw to the ship's log and other papers, taking also out of the cabin his best chronometer and a chart or two, as well as a sextant and some mathematical instruments. These preparations for departure, though, were abruptly cut short by a warning cry from Bill Summers, the boatswain. "We'd better look sharp, sir," he called out to Uncle Jack, who was busily engaged superintending the stowage of the provisions in the two boats. "The water is arising rapidly, and is now nearly up to the 'tween-decks!" Uncle Jack passed on the word to the captain, who instantly came up the companion. Seeing the truth of the boatswain's statement from the deeper immersion of the ship since he had gone below, he at once ordered the men down into the boats, the passengers going first; then the foremast hands; and, lastly, the officers. "Mr Althorp," said the captain, "you will take charge of the jolly-boat and shove off as soon as she's got her complement. I will command the long-boat myself." "Aye, aye, sir," responded Uncle Jack, descending into the boat when she had as many in her as she could safely hold; when, shoving off from the ship's side and rowing a few strokes, the men lay on their oars, remaining some twenty yards off so as to be out of the whirlpool or eddy that would be formed when the vessel presently foundered. The long-boat now received its quota of passengers, all descending into it and seating themselves on the thwarts and in the bottom so as not to be in the way of those rowing, Captain Lennard waiting till the last to get into her. Just as he got in, however, he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten a compass, and hastily climbed back on board to get it. "Look sharp, Cap'en!" shouted Bill Summers from the bow as the ship gave a quiver all over. "She's just about to founder." The captain was quick enough, racing back to the companion and down the stairs in two bounds, where, although the cabin was half full of water, he contrived to wrench away the "tell-tale" compass that swung over the saloon-table; and he was on the poop again with it in an instant. The instrument, however, was heavy, but he had hard work to carry it with both hands; and he managed to get to the side with it, when bending down handed it to Bill Summers, who stood up in the bow of the boat to receive it. At that instant, the ship gave a violent lurch, and some one sang out to shove off; when, the oars being dropped in the water, the boat was impelled some yards from the side, leaving Captain Lennard still on board. "What, men, abandon your captain!" Teddy cried, his voice quivering with emotion. "You cowards, row back at once!" "We can't," sang out the same voice that had before ordered the men to shove off. Who it was no one noticed in the general flurry, nor knew afterwards; but, while the men were hesitating which course to adopt, Teddy, without saying another word, plunged overboard and swam back to the sinking _Greenock_, having no difficulty in getting up the side now for it was almost flush with the water. "Come on board, sir!" said he jokingly, touching his forehead with his finger, his cap having been washed off as he dived. "My poor boy!" cried Captain Lennard, overcome with emotion at the gallant lad's devotion; "you have only sacrificed two lives instead of one! Why did you not stay in the boat?" "Because," began Teddy; but ere he could complete the sentence there was a violent rush of air upwards from the hold, and a loud explosion, the decks having burst. At the same time, the ship made a deep bend forwards. Then, her bows rose high in the air above the waves as the stern sank with a gurgling moan; and, the next moment, Teddy and Captain Lennard were drawn below the surface with the vessel as she foundered! Teddy was nearly suffocated; but, holding his breath bravely, as Jupp had taught him, and striking downwards with all his force, he presently got his head above water, inhaling the delicious air of heaven, which he thought would never more have entered his nostrils. When he came to himself, he saw the captain's body floating face downwards amongst a lot of broken planks and other debris of the wreck, by some fragment of which he must have been struck as the _Greenock_ foundered. To swim forwards and seize poor Captain Lennard, turning him face upwards again and supporting his head above the water, was the work of a moment only with Teddy; and then, holding on to a piece of broken spar, he awaited the coming up of the launch, which, now that all danger was over from the eddy rowed up to the scene, when he and the captain were lifted on board--all hands enthusiastic about the courageous action of the little hero, and none more so than Captain Lennard when he recovered his consciousness. "You have saved my life!" he said. "Had you not been close by to turn me over when I rose to the surface I should have been drowned before the boat could have come up. I will never forget it!" Nor did he, as Teddy's subsequent advancement showed; but, there was no time now for congratulation or passing compliments. The peril of those preserved from the wreck was not yet over, for, they were thousands of miles away from land floating on the wide ocean! Hailing the jolly-boat, Captain Lennard announced what he thought the proper course should be. "The best place for us to make for now is Valparaiso," he said; "and if we steer to the east-nor'-east we ought to fetch it in three weeks or so under sail; that is, if our provisions hold out so long." Uncle Jack approving, this course was adopted; and, day after day, the boats, setting their sails, which Bill Summers had not forgotten to place on board, made slow but steady progress towards the wished-for goal. One morning, all were wakened up by the welcome cry of "Land ho!" from the look-out forwards in the bow of the long-boat, which kept a little ahead of the jolly-boat, although always reducing sail if she forged too much forward so as not to lose her. A signal was made, therefore, telling the glad news to Uncle Jack and those with him; while the boat pressed onwards towards the spot where the hazy outline of a mountain could be dimly seen in the distance. "That is not the American continent," said Captain Lennard to the men, in order to allay any future disappointment that might be afterwards felt. "We are nearly a thousand miles off that yet. It must be Easter Island. That is the only land I know of hereabouts in the Pacific; and, although I have never visited the place myself, I have heard that the natives are friendly to strangers. At all events we'll pay them a call; it will be a break in our long journey!" Bye and bye the boats approached the shore and all landed, when a lot of copper-coloured savages came down to the beach waving branches of trees in sign of welcome. The islanders had not much to eat; but Captain Lennard, seeing that their provisions were well-nigh expended, determined to stop here, while sending on Uncle Jack with a small party to Valparaiso to charter some vessel to come and fetch them all, the boats being so crowded that misfortune might await them all if they continued the voyage in such small craft. For months and months all awaited in constant expectation Uncle Jack's return; but, he came not, and they at length believed that he and those with him must have been lost in some hurricane that had sprung up off the Chilian coast, and so had never reached Valparaiso at all! They had no fear of starvation, however, the islands abounding in poultry in a semi-wild state, which they had to hunt down for themselves; for the natives lent them no assistance. Indeed they were rather hostile after a time; although the Englishmen were too numerous for them to attack, especially as they were always on their guard against surprise. In wandering over the island, which is only some thirty miles round, Teddy was surprised, like the others, by the numbers of stone obelisks, rudely carved into the semblance of human faces and statues, which could not possibly have been executed by the present inhabitants. It is believed by geographers that Easter Island must have formed a portion of a vast Polynesian continent peopled by some kindred race to those that designed the colossal monuments of an extinct civilisation, now almost overgrown with vegetation, that are yet to be found as evidences of a past age amidst the forests of Central America. One day, more than a year after Uncle Jack had left, and when they had almost given up all hope of ever seeing him again, or of being relieved from their island prison--the long-boat being dashed to pieces in the surf soon after he started--a schooner in full sail was discovered making for the island. Presently, she came nearer and nearer. Then she hove to, and a boat was seen to be lowered from her side, and shortly afterwards being pulled in to the shore. A moment later, and Uncle Jack's well-known face could be seen in the stern-sheets, a glad hurrah being raised by the shipwrecked men at the sight of him. Soon, Uncle Jack landed, and he had a long tale to tell of the jolly- boat losing her sail, and being tossed about on the ocean till picked up by an American whaler, which first took a cruise down the South Seas, there detaining him many weary months before landing him at Sandy Point, in the Straits of Magellan, from whence he got finally to Valparaiso after awaiting a passage for weeks. Arrived here, however, he at once got in communication with the British consul, and chartered a schooner to go to Easter Island and fetch his comrades. Uncle Jack, too, mentioned that he had written home to the owners of the _Greenock_, telling of her loss and the safety of all hands on their temporary island home; and he had also sent a letter to Endleigh, he said, narrating all about Master Teddy's adventures, and saying that he was safe and well. Captain Lennard did not long delay the embarkation of his little band, who were glad enough to leave Easter Island; so, in a couple of weeks' time all landed safely in Valparaiso, where they luckily caught the outgoing mail steamer as they arrived, and started off to England, rejoicing in their timely rescue and preservation from peril amid all the dangers of the deep. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. AT HOME AGAIN. It was a bright August day at Endleigh. There was a scent of new-mown hay in the air, and gangs of reapers were out in the fields getting in the harvest, the whirr of the threshing- machine, which the squire had lately brought down from London, making a hideous din in the meadows by the pond, where it had been set up; puffing and panting away as if its very existence were a trial, and scandalising the old-fashioned village folk--who did not believe in such new-fangled notions, and thought a judgment would come on those having to do with the machine, depriving, as it did, honest men who could wield the flail of a job! In the garden of the vicarage, the warm sun seemed to incubate a dreamy stillness, the butterflies hardly taking the trouble to fly, and the very flowers hanging down their lazy heads; while the trees drooping their leaves, as if faint and exhausted with the heat. Everything out of doors looked asleep, taking a mid-day siesta. Everything, that is, but the bees, which carried on their honey- gathering business as briskly as ever, utterly impervious to the warmth. Indeed, perhaps they got on all the better for it, probing the petals of the white lilies yet in bloom, and investigating the cavities of the foxglove and wonderful spider-trap of the Australian balsam, or else sweeping the golden dust off the discs of the gorgeous sunflowers, a regular mine of mellifluent wealth; a host of gnats and wasps and other idle insects buzzing round them all the time and pretending to be busy too, but really doing nothing at all! The heat-laden atmosphere was so still that it had that oily sort of haze that distinguishes the mirage in the East, when the air appears composed of little waving lines wavering to and fro that dazzle your eyes with their almost-imperceptible motion as you look at them; and the silence was unbroken save by the chuck-chuck-chuck of some meddlesome blackbird in the shrubbery annoying the sparrows in their nap, and the answering click-clink-tweedle-deedle-dum-tum-tweedle-um of the yellow- hammer, telling as plainly as the little songster could tell that he at all events was wide awake, while, in the far distance, there could be heard the coo of ring-doves and the melancholy lament of the cuckoo investigating the hedgerows in quest of other birds' nests wherein to lay its solitary egg, and finding itself forestalled at every turn! But if everything was so quiet without, such was not the case indoors at the vicarage. A telegram had been received from Uncle Jack, saying that he and Teddy, having reached London in safety, would be down by the afternoon train; so, all in the house were in a state of wild excitement at meeting again those they had thought lost for ever. Even the vicar was roused out of his usual placidity, although Uncle Jack's letter from Valparaiso had told all about the wonderful escape of the survivors of the _Greenock_; while, as for Miss Conny, who was now a perfectly grown-up young lady of eighteen, all her sedateness was gone for the moment and she was every bit as wild as the rest. "Dear me, I'm sure the afternoon will never come!" exclaimed Cissy, walking to the window after arranging and re-arranging the flowers in the vases on the little table in the centre of the drawing-room and on the mantel-piece for about the one-and-twentieth time. "It's the longest day I ever knew." "Don't be so impatient, dear," said Conny, trying to appear cool and tranquil as usual, but failing utterly in the attempt as she followed Cissy to the window and looked out over the lawn; "the time will soon pass by if you'll only try and think of something else but the hour for the train to come in." "You're a fine counsellor," cried Cissy laughing, as she watched Conny's hands nervously twisting within each other. "Why, you are as bad as I am, and can't keep still a moment! Only Liz is calm--as if nothing had happened or was going to happen. I declare I could bang her, as Teddy used to say, for sitting there in the corner reading that heavy-looking book. I believe it must be a treatise on metaphysics or something of that sort." "Mistaken for once, Miss Ciss," said the student, looking up with a smile. "It's a volume of travels telling all about the Pacific Ocean and Easter Island, where Teddy and Uncle Jack stopped so long with the natives; so, it is very interesting." "Well, I'd rather for my part wait and hear about the place from our own travellers," rejoined Cissy impatiently. "I do wish they would come! I think I will go and see how Molly is getting on with the dinner. I'm sure she'll be late if somebody doesn't look after her." "You had better leave her alone, Cissy," remonstrated Conny. "Molly, you know, doesn't like being interfered with; and, besides, it is very early yet, for they can't be here before three o'clock at the earliest." "Oh, she won't mind me, Con," replied Cissy as she whisked out of the room, gaily singing now, the idea of having an object or doing something banishing her ennui; "Molly and I are the best of friends." However, on entering the cook's domain Cissy found the old servant the reverse of amiable, for her face was red and hot with basting a little sucking-pig that was slowly revolving on the spit before a glowing fire that seemed to send out all the more heat from the fact of its being August, as if in rivalry of the sun without. "Well, how are you getting on?" asked Cissy cheerfully, the sight of the little roasting piggy which Molly had selected for the repast that was to welcome Teddy, with some dim association of the fatted calf that was killed on the return of the prodigal son, making her feel more assured that the time was speeding on, and that the expected ones would arrive soon. But, Molly was not amenable to friendly overtures at the moment. "Excuse me, miss, I don't want to be bothered now," she replied, turning her perspiring countenance round an instant from her task and then instantly resuming it again and pouring a ladleful of gravy over the blistering crackling of her charge. "There, now--you almost made me burn it by interrupting me!" "I'm very sorry, I'm sure, Molly," said Cissy apologetically; and seeing that her room was preferred to her company, she went out into the kitchen-garden to seek solace for her listlessness there. It was a vain task, though. The bees were still busily engaged hovering from flower to flower and mixing up in their pouches the different sorts of sweet flavours they extracted with their mandibles from the scabius, whose many-hued blossoms of brown, and olive, and pink, and creamy-white, scented one especial patch near the greenhouse. This corner the industrious little insects made the headquarters of their honey campaign, sallying out from thence to taste a sweet-pea or scarlet-runner and giving a passing kiss to a gaudy fuchsia, who wore a red coat and blue corporation sort of waistcoat, as they went homeward to their hive. On the ground below quite a crowd of sparrows were taking baths in turn in a flat earthenware pan which was always kept filled with water for their particular delectation; and the butterflies, too, waking up, were poising themselves in graceful attitudes on the nasturtiums that twined over the gooseberry bushes, which were running a race with the broad- leaved pumpkins and vegetable marrow plants to see who would first clamber over the wall, the red tomatoes laughing through the greenery at the fun. But there was little amusement for Cissy in all this at such a period of expectancy, when her pulses throbbed with excitement; so, she turned back towards the house with a yawn, uttering her longing wish aloud, "Why can't Teddy come?" It being summer time, all the doors and windows were wide open to let in all the air possible, and as she retraced her steps slowly and disconsolately from the bottom of the garden at the back she heard a noise in front like the sound of wheels in the lane. To dart through the side gate instead of returning by way of the kitchen was the work of a moment; and she reached the front of the house almost as soon as Conny and Liz, who had only to step out on to the smooth turf from the low French windows of the drawing-room. It was only a false alarm, though, Doctor Jolly having driven up from visiting a patient to know when the travellers were expected. "By the three o'clock train, eh?" he said on being told; then looking at his watch he added: "Why, it's close on two now. Any of you going down to the station to meet them?" "Yes," answered Miss Conny in her prim way, "I was thinking of taking the children, if you do not consider it too warm to venture out in the heat of the sun? Poor papa is not so well to-day and unable to walk so far." "Pooh, pooh!" ejaculated the doctor, with his hearty laugh. "Call this fine day too warm; you ought to be ashamed of yourself! You need not any of you walk. Go and put on your bonnets, and tell the vicar, and I'll cram you all into my old shanderadan and drive you down." The Reverend Mr Vernon, however, besides suffering from one of his usual nervous headaches, which always came on when he was excited by anything as he was now, wished to be alone on first meeting with his lost son again, so that none might witness his emotion, being a particularly shy man amongst strangers; so, although he came out of his study on hearing Doctor Jolly's voice he begged him to excuse his going, while accepting his kind offer for the girls--who were ready in less than no time, Miss Conny losing her primness in her anxiety not to keep the doctor waiting, and the generally slow Liz being for once quick in her movements. In another minute they were all packed within the hybrid vehicle, half gig, half wagonette, which the doctor only used on state occasions, and must have brought out this afternoon with the preconceived idea of its being specially wanted. "This _is_ jolly!" exclaimed Cissy as they all drove off gaily down the sleepy lane, passing neither man nor beast on their way. "You are very good to us, doctor!" "Ho, ho, ho! Miss Cissy," laughed he; "you're getting extremely familiar to address me like that. Jolly, indeed! why, that's my name, ho, ho!" "I--I didn't think," stammered poor Cissy rather abashed, blushing furiously, while Conny took advantage of the opportunity to point out to her the evil effects of using slang words; but the little lecture of the elder sister was soon joked away by the doctor, and they arrived at the station in the best of spirits. Here they met with a wonderful surprise. Some one who must have heard the news somehow or other of Teddy's return home had decorated the front of the old waiting-room with evergreens and sunflowers; and a sort of triumphal arch also being erected on the arrival platform of the same floral pattern. Who could have done it? Why, no less a person than Jupp, whose black beard seemed all the blacker, surrounding his good-humoured face, as he came out of the office with Mary on his arm, and a young Master Jupp and another little Mary toddling behind them--the whilom porter no longer dressed in grimy velveteens, but in a smart black frock-coat, his Sunday best, while his wife was equally spruce. "I know it's ag'in the rules, miss," he explained to Conny; "but I see the telegram as said Master Teddy'd be here this arternoon, God bless him, and I'm thankful, that I am, he's restored safe and sound from the bottom of the sea and Davy Jones's Locker, as we all on us thought. So says I to Grigson, my old mate as was, who's in charge here now, and we detarmined as how we'd make a kind of show like to welcome of him home." "You're a right-down brick, Jupp!" said Doctor Jolly, shaking him by the hand, while Mary kissed her former nurse children all round; and, while they were all exchanging congratulations, up came the train rumbling and whistling and panting and puffing into the station, the engine bearing a Union Jack tied to the funnel, for Jupp's interest in two of the special passengers being brought to Endleigh was well-known on the line. Hardly had the train come to a standstill than out jumped Teddy, a trifle taller and broader across the shoulders as might have been expected from his two years of absence, but the same open-faced boy with the curly brown hair and blue eyes that all remembered so well. What a meeting it was, to be sure, and how he hugged his sisters and Dr Jolly and Jupp and Mary all round--Uncle Jack almost being unnoticed for the moment, although he did not appear to mind it, looking on with a sympathetic grin of delight at the general joy expressed in every countenance present! The doctor's "shanderadan" had a full cargo back to the vicarage, everybody talking to everybody all at once and none being able to finish a complete sentence--little Cissy keeping tight hold of Teddy's arm the while as if fearful of losing him again and thinking it might be all a dream. When they got to the house Teddy was through the gate and across the lawn in two bounds, tapping at the door of the study before his father knew that he had come. Like another father, the vicar was overcome with glad emotion, clasping him in his arms and embracing him, weeping as he cried in a broken voice: "This, my son, was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!" Only a word more. The terrible experiences Teddy had had, and the sense of discipline inculcated in him during his short training at sea, made such a change in his character that henceforth he lost his former justly-earned titles, being never more called either "pickle" or "scapegrace." He has not, however, abandoned the profession he originally adopted, in spite of its many perils and dangers, and the fact that a sailor's life is not altogether of that rose-coloured nature which story-writers usually make out. No, he still sails under his old captain in the same line, and voyages backwards and forwards between Melbourne and London with praiseworthy punctuality, in the new ship Captain Lennard commands in place of the old _Greenock_. The vessel, too, is a regular clipper in her way, beating everything that tries to compete with her, whether outwards or inwards bound. Teddy looks forward some day to taking his skipper's place when he retires from active life afloat, and following the example of Uncle Jack, who is already a captain too in his own right; for he is as steady and trustworthy now as he was formerly impetuous and headstrong. But, mind you, he has lost none of his pluck or fearless spirit, and is the same genial, good-tempered, and happy-dispositioned boy he was in earliest childhood--knowing now the difference between true courage and mere bravado, and the value of obedience to those in authority over him. As for Miss Conny, in spite of her ordinary sedateness of demeanour and constant asseveration that she would only marry a clergyman like her father, she is, to use Teddy's expressive diction, "spliced to a sodger," having become engaged some time since to a gallant captain in a marching regiment that was quartered for a while at Bigton, within easy access of Endleigh. Cissy and Liz are both growing up nice girls; while the vicar is still hale and hearty, giving his parishioners the benefit every Sunday of a "thirdly" and sometimes "fourthly, brethren," in addition to the first and second divisions of his sermon; and never omitting his favourite "lastly" with "a word in conclusion" to wind up with. Doctor Jolly, to complete our list of characters, is yet to the fore with his catching laugh, as "jolly" as ever; and, Jupp and Mary have likewise been so tenderly dealt with by time that they hardly look a day older than on that memorable occasion when Master Teddy introduced himself to public notice. Don't you remember? Why, when he casually mentioned to the porter and reader alike, and all whom it might concern, in the most matter-of-fact way in the world, that he wanted to "do dan'ma!" THE END. 
52608	----	FOR HIS COUNTRY AND GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW Works of Marshall Saunders [Illustration] Beautiful Joe's Paradise $1.50 The Story of the Gravelys 1.50 'Tilda Jane 1.50 Rose à Charlitte 1.50 Deficient Saints 1.50 Her Sailor 1.25 For His Country .50 Nita: The Story of an Irish Setter .50 [Illustration] L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY New England Building, Boston, Mass. [Illustration: (Courtesy of The Youth's Companion) "'MADEMOISELLE, YOU ARE AN AMERICAN?'"] FOR HIS COUNTRY AND GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW BY MARSHALL SAUNDERS AUTHOR OF "BEAUTIFUL JOE, ETC." Illustrated by LOUIS MEYNELL _and others_ [Illustration] BOSTON L. C. PAGE & COMPANY PUBLISHERS _Copyright, 1900_ BY PERRY MASON & COMPANY _Copyright, 1900_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _All rights reserved_ _Fourth Impression_ =Colonial Press= Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co Boston, Mass., U.S.A. [Illustration: CONTENTS] PAGE FOR HIS COUNTRY 13 GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW 41 [Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS] PAGE "'MADEMOISELLE, YOU ARE AN AMERICAN?'" (_Courtesy of the Youth's Companion_) _Frontispiece_ "SHE WENT ON GATHERING HER STICKS" 18 "'I AM FROM CALIFORNIA'" 21 "'YOU, TOO, LOVE YOUR COUNTRY!'" 27 "'THERE IS NO HOPE'" 32 "HE TRIED TO SING WITH THEM" 36 "I SAW SECOND COUSIN GEORGE FOLLOWING HIM" (_Courtesy of the Youth's Companion_) 45 "HE WENT UP SOFTLY BEHIND HIM" (_Courtesy of the Youth's Companion_) 50 "ROVER KNEW THIS CRY" (_Courtesy of the Youth's Companion_) 51 "'I AIN'T FIT TO DIE,' CRIED OLD GEORGE" 55 FOR HIS COUNTRY FOR HIS COUNTRY. "My country! 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing!" Here the singer's voice broke down, and I peered curiously around my corner of the wall. He was pacing to and fro on the river-bank--a weary-faced lad with pale cheeks and drooping shoulders. Beyond him a fat French footman lay asleep on the grass, one hand loosely clutching a novel. An elderly goat, grazing nearer and nearer the man, kept a wary eye on the book, and finally seizing it, devoured it leaf by leaf. At this the weary-faced boy did not smile, and then I knew there was something the matter with him. Partly because I wished to console him, partly because I was lonely, I continued the song in notes rather more cheerful than his own: "Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims' pride, From every mountainside Let freedom ring!" The boy stood stock-still, only moving his head slightly after the manner of a bird listening to a pleasant strain. When I finished he came toward me, cap in hand. "Mademoiselle, you are an American?" "No, my boy. I am a Canadian." "That's next best," he said, politely. "It's better," I rejoined, smiling. "Nothing is better than being an American." "You are patriotic," I observed. "If your ancestors fought with Indians, and English and rebels, and if you expect to die for your country, you ought to be patriotic." I surveyed him curiously. He was too grave and joyless for a boy in a normal condition. "In youth one does not usually speak of dying," I said. His face flushed. "Ah, mademoiselle, I am homesick! I have not seen America for a year." "Indeed? Such a patriotic boy should stay at home." "My mother wished me to finish my education abroad." "A woman should educate her children in the country in which they are to live," I said, irritably. "I guess you're most old enough to be my mother, aren't you?" he replied, gently, and with such tenderness of rebuke that I smiled irrepressibly. He had delicately intimated that if I were his mother I would not care to have him discuss me with a stranger. "I've got to learn foreign languages," he said, doggedly. "We've been here one year; we must stay one more and then go to Italy, then to Germany. I'm thankful the English haven't a different language. If they had, I'd have to go learn it." "And after you leave Germany?" "After Germany--home!" He was not a particularly handsome lad, but he had beautiful eyes, and at the word home they took on such a strange brilliance that I gathered up my parasol and books in wondering silence. "I suppose," he said, soberly, "that you will not be at the Protestant church on Sunday?" "Probably I shall." "I don't see many people from America," he went on, turning his head so far away that I could hardly hear what he said. "There isn't anybody here who cares to talk about it. My mother, of course, is too busy," he added, with dignity. "_Au revoir_, then," I said, with a smile. He stood looking quietly after me, and when I got far up the river-bank I turned around. He was adjusting a slight difference between the footman and the goat; then, followed by the man, he disappeared up one of the quaint old streets leading into the heart of the city. Close beside me a little old peasant woman, gathering sticks, uncurled her stooping figure. "_Bon jour, mademoiselle!_ You have been talking to the American boy." "_Oui, madame._" "It is very sad," she continued, in the excellent French spoken by the peasants of the Loiret department. "He comes by the river and declaims. He speaks of Linkum and Wash'ton. I watch from my cottage, for my daughter Mathilde is housemaid at Madame Greyshield's, and I hear her talk. _Monsieur le colonel_ Greyshield is a grand officer in America; but his wife, she is proud. She brings her children to France to study. She leaves the poor man lonely. This boy is most heartbroke. Mathilde says he talks of his dear country in his sleep, then he rises early to study the foreign languages, so he can more quickly go to his home. But he is sick, his hand trembles. Mathilde thinks he is going to die. I say, 'Mathilde, talk to madame,' but she is afraid, for madame has a will as strong as this stout stick. It will never break. It must be burnt. Perhaps mademoiselle will talk." "I will, if I get a chance." The old woman turned her brown, leathery face toward the blue waters of the Loire. "Mademoiselle, do many French go to America for the accent?" "No; they have too much sense!" "It is droll," she went on, "how the families come here. The gentlemen wander to and fro, the ladies occupy themselves with their _toilettes_. Then they travel to other countries. They are like the leaves on that current. They wander they know not whither. I am only a peasant, yet I can think, and is not one language good enough to ask for bread and soup?" And muttering and shaking her head, she went on gathering her sticks. [Illustration] On Sunday I looked for my American boy. There he was, sitting beside a handsomely dressed woman, who looked as if she might indeed have a will like a stout stick. After the service he endeavoured to draw her toward me, but she did not respond until she saw me speaking to a lady of Huguenot descent, to whom I had had a letter of introduction. Then she approached, and we all went down the street together. When we reached the boulevard leading to my hotel, the boy asked his mother's permission to escort me home. She hesitated, and then said, "Yes; but do not bore her to death with your patriotic rigmaroles." The boy, whose name was Gerald, gave her a peculiar glance, and did not open his lips until we had walked a block. Then he asked, deliberately, "Have you ever thought much of that idea of Abraham Lincoln's that no man is good enough to govern another man without the other man's consent?" "Yes, a good deal; yet one must obey." "Yes, one must obey," he said, quietly. "But sometimes it is puzzling, especially when a fellow is growing up." "How old are you?" "Fourteen." "Not older?" "No; I am from California," and he drew himself up. "The boys and girls there are large, you know. I have lost twenty pounds since we came here. You have never been in California, I suppose?" [Illustration: "'I AM FROM CALIFORNIA.'"] "Yes. I like California." "You do?" He flashed one swift glance at me, then dropped his eyes. I politely averted my own, but not before I saw two tear-drops splash on the hot, gray pavement. "If I could see," he said, presently, "if I could see one of those brown hills, just one,--this flat country makes me tired." "Can you imagine," I said, "that I have been as homesick in California as you are in France?" "No! no!" he replied, breathlessly. "No, I could not imagine that." "That I sailed into San Francisco Bay with a heartache because those brown hills you speak of so lovingly were not my native hills?" "But you are grown up; you do not need to leave your country." "Our duty sometimes takes us to foreign lands. You will be a better soldier some day for having had a time of trial and endurance." "I know it," he said, under his breath. "But sometimes I think I must break loose, especially at night, when the bugles blow." I knew what he meant. At eight o'clock every evening, from the various barracks in Orléans, the sweet, piercing notes of bugle answering bugle could be heard; and the strain was the one played by the American bugles in the school that I guessed he had attended. "You think of the boys drawn up in line on the drill-ground, and the echo behind the hill." "Do you know Almoda?" he exclaimed, with a face as white as a sheet. "I do." This was too much for him. We had paused at the hotel entrance, and he intended, I knew, to take a polite leave of me; but I had done a dangerous thing in conjuring up the old familiar scenes, and mumbling something in his throat, and giving one tug to his hat, he ran as nimbly down the street as if he were a lean coyote from the hills of his native State. Four weeks later I asked myself why I was lingering in Orléans. I had seen all the souvenirs of Joan of Arc; I had talked with the peasants and shopkeepers till I was tired; I agreed thoroughly with my guide-book that Orléans is a city sadly lacking in animation; and yet I stayed on; I stayed on because I was engaged in a bit of character study, I told my note-book; stayed on because my presence afforded some consolation to a struggling, unhappy boy, I told my conscience. The boy was dying of homesickness. He did not enter into the life of the sleepy French city. "This is a good enough country," he said, wearily, "but it isn't mine. I want America, and it seems to me all these priests and soldiers and citizens are acting. I can't think they were born speaking French." However, it was only at rare intervals that he complained. Away in America he had a father who had set the high standard of duty before him,--a father who would not encourage him to flag. On the Fourth of July, Mrs. Greyshield was giving a reception--not on account of the day, for she had not a spark of patriotism, but because she was shortly to leave Orléans for the seashore. Gerald was also giving a reception, his a smaller one, prepared for in the face of almost insurmountable difficulties, for he received no encouragement from his mother in his patriotic schemes. His only pleasure in life was in endeavouring to make his little brother and sister as patriotic as himself, and with ill-concealed dismay he confided to me the fear that they were forgetting their native land. About the middle of the afternoon I joined him and the children in a small, gaily decorated arbour at the foot of the garden. Shortly after I arrived, Mrs. Greyshield, accompanied by a number of her guests, swept down upon us. The French officers and their wives and a number of English residents surrounded the arbour. "Ah, the delicious cakes! But they are not _babas_ and _savarins_ and _tartelettes_! They must be American! What do you call this kind? Doughnuts! How peculiar! How effective the arrangement of the bunting, and how many flags--but all of his own country!" Mrs. Greyshield listened carelessly to the comments. "Oh, yes, he is hopelessly provincial. I shall never teach him to be cosmopolitan. What do you think of such narrowness, princess?" and in veiled admiration she addressed her most distinguished guest, who was also her friend and countrywoman. As Mrs. Greyshield spoke, the American princess, who was the possessor of an exceedingly bitter smile, touched one of the flags with caressing fingers. "It is a long time since I have seen one. Your boy has several. I should like to have one for a cushion, if he will permit." The boy's nostrils dilated. "For a cushion!" he exclaimed. His tone was almost disrespectful, and his mother gave him a warning glance, and said, hastily, "Certainly, princess. Gerald, choose your prettiest flag." "Not for a cushion!" he said, firmly. "The flag should be up, never down!" The gay group gazed with concealed interest at mother and son. Mrs. Greyshield seized a flag and offered it to her guest. "Thank you--not from you," said the princess, putting up her lorgnette. "Only from the boy." [Illustration: "'YOU, TOO, LOVE YOUR COUNTRY!'"] He would not give her one. His mother was in a repressed rage, and the boy kept his eyes bent on the ground in suffering silence. The titled lady put an end to the painful scene. "I have changed my mind," she said, coolly. "I have too many cushions now." The boy turned swiftly to her, and, lifting the white hand hanging by her side, gently touched it with his lips. "_Madame la Princesse_, you, too, love your country!" His exclamation was so enthusiastic, so heartfelt, there was in it such a world of commiseration for the titled lady before him, that there immediately flashed before each one present the unhappy life of the poor princess in exile. The boy had started a wave of sympathy flowing from one to another of the group, and in some confusion they all moved away. Gerald wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and went on with the programme of patriotic selections that the impatient children were obliged to go through before they could have the cakes and fireworks. After the fizzing and bursting noises were over, I said, regretfully, "Gerald, I must go to Paris to-morrow." "I have been expecting this," he said, with dogged resignation. "When you are gone, Miss Canada, I shall have no one to talk to me about America." I had grown to love the boy for his high qualities of mind and soul, and my voice faltered as I murmured, "Do not give up,--fight the good fight." "Of faith," he added, gravely, "looking forward to what is to come." It seemed to me that an old man stood pressing my hand--an old man with life's experience behind him. My heart ached for the lad, and I hurried into the house. "Good-bye," I said, coldly, to my hostess. "Good-bye, a pleasant journey," she responded, with equal coldness. "If you do not take that boy of yours home, you will lose him," I murmured. I thought my voice was low, but it was not low enough to escape the ears of the princess, who was standing beside her. Mrs. Greyshield turned away, and the princess's lips moved almost imperceptibly in the words, "What is the use?" "The boy is dying by inches!" I said, indignantly. "Better dead than like those--" she said, with her bitter smile, nodding toward the chattering cosmopolitan crowd beyond us. I echoed the boy's words: "You, too, are a patriot!" "I was," she said, gravely, and sauntered away. I went unhappily to Paris. Would that another stranger could chance along, to whom the boy might unburden his heart,--his noble heart, filled not only with dreams of military glory, but of plans for the protection of the weak and helpless among his countrymen! A week later a telegram from the princess summoned me to Orléans. To my surprise, she met me on the staircase of Mrs. Greyshield's house. "You are right!" she whispered. "Mrs. Greyshield is to lose her boy!" My first feeling was one of anger. "Do not speak of such a thing!" I said, harshly. "Come and see," and she led the way to a room where the weary-faced lad lay on a huge, canopied bed, a nursing sister on either side of him. "The doctors are in consultation below," she murmured; "but there is no hope." [Illustration] "Where is his mother?" "In her room. She sees no one. It is a foreign fashion, you know. She is suffering deeply--at last." "Oh, this is horrible!" I said. "Can nothing be done?" "Do you observe what a perfect accent he has?" she said, meditatively. "There must be excellent teachers at the _lycée_!" From the bed came occasionally muttered scraps of French prose or poetry, and I shuddered as I listened. "Sacrificed for an accent!" she went on to herself. "It is a favourite amusement of American mothers. This boy was torn from a father whom he worshipped. I wonder what he will say when his wife returns to America with two living children and one--" She turned to me. "I could have told her that growing children should not be hurried from one country to another. Yet it is better this way than the other." "The other?" I repeated, stupidly. "Yes, the other,--after years of residence abroad, no home, no country, no attachments, a weary traveller till one dies. I thought you might like to see him, as you were so attracted by him. He fainted the day you left, and has been this way ever since. It cannot last much longer." We had been speaking in a low tone, yet our voices must have been heard by the sleeper, for suddenly he turned his head on the pillow and looked at us. The princess approached him, and murmured his name in an exquisitely soft and gentle voice. The boy recognised her. "Ah, the princess!" he said, collectedly. "May I trouble you with a message?" "Certainly." "It is for papa," he said, dreamily. "Will you tell him for me, please--" Here his voice died away, and his dark, beseeching eyes rolled from one to another of the people in the room. "Shall I send them away?" asked the princess. "No, thank you. It is only the pain. Will you--will you be good enough to tell papa not to think me a coward? I promised him to hold out, but--" "I will tell him." "And tell him I'm sorry we couldn't build that home and live together, but I think if he prepared it mamma and the children might go. Tell him I think they would be happier. America is so lovely! Mamma would get used to it." He stopped, panting for breath, and one of the nurses put something on his lips, while the other wiped away the drops of moisture that the effort of speaking had brought to his spectral face. Then he closed his eyes, and his pallid figure seemed to be sinking away from us; but presently he roused himself, and this time his glance fell on me. "Miss Canada," he said, drowsily, "the salute to the flag--Dottie and Howard." The princess motioned to one of the nurses, who slipped from the room and presently returned with the children. A wan, evanescent flush overspread his face at sight of the flag, and he tried to raise himself on his elbow. One of the nurses supported him, and he fixed his glazing but still beautiful eyes on the children. "Are you ready?" The small boy and girl were far from realising their brother's condition, but they knew what he wished, and in a warbling voice little Dottie began: "This is my country's flag, and I am my country's child, To love and serve her well will ever be my joy." A little farther on her tiny brother took up the formula which it had been Gerald's pleasure to teach them. [Illustration] The consultation below had broken up, and several of the doctors had crept to the door of the room, but the boy did not seem to notice them. His attention was riveted on the children, to the exclusion of all others. "Give brother the flag!" he murmured, when they finished. They handed him the Stars and Stripes, but he could not retain it, and the princess, quietly moving to the bedside, steadied it between his trembling fingers. "Now sing with brother." The two children lifted up their little quavering voices, and turning his own face to the ceiling, a face illumined by a joy not of this world, he tried to sing with them: "My country! 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing!" Here his voice faltered, his radiant face drooped, and his darkening eyes turned beseechingly in my direction. In a choking voice I finished the verse, as I had once before finished it for him: "Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims' pride, From every mountainside Let freedom ring!" His head was on the pillow when I finished, but his fingers still grasped the flag. "Gerald," said the princess, tenderly, "do you understand?" "Yes, I understand," fluttered from his pale lips. "And are you contented?" He pressed her hand slightly. "Would you rather die, or live to grow up and forget your country, as you surely would do if you lived all your young life among strangers?" "I would rather die!" and here his voice was so firm that all in the room heard it. "Dottie and Howard!" he murmured, presently, and the princess drew back. After all, she was only a stranger. He died, with their little faces pressed close to his own. "Give my love to mamma, dear mamma!" were his last words. Shortly after the nurses drew the children away. The boy had had his wish. He had died for his country as truly as if he had fallen in battle. GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW GRANDMOTHER AND THE CROW. When I was a little girl I lived with my grandmother, and a gay, lively little grandmother she was. Away back in the family was French blood, and I am sure that she resembled French old people, who are usually vivacious and cheerful. On my twelfth birthday I was driving with her through a thick wood, when we heard in front of us the loud shouting and laughing of boys. "Drive on, George," said my grandmother; "let us see what this is all about." As soon as he stopped, she sprang nimbly from the phaeton among half-a-dozen flushed and excited boys who had stones in their hands. Up in the tall trees above them were dozens of crows, which were cawing in a loud and distressed manner, and flying restlessly from branch to branch. A stone thrown by some boy with too true an aim had brought a fine young crow to the ground. "Ha--I've got him. Thought I'd bring him down!" yelled a lad, triumphantly. "Now give it to him, boys." The stones flew thick and fast at the poor crow. My grandmother screamed and waved her hands, but the boys would not listen to her until she rushed to the phaeton, seized the whip, and began smartly slashing those bad boys about the legs. "Hi--stop that--you hurt! Here, some of you fellows take the whip from her!" cried the boys, dancing like wild Indians around my grandmother. "Cowards!" she said; "if you must fight, why don't you attack something your own size?" The boys slunk away, and she picked up the crow. One of its wings was broken, and its body was badly bruised. She wrapped the poor bleeding thing in our lap-robe, and told George to drive home. "Another pet, grandmother?" I asked. "Yes, Elizabeth," she returned, "if it lives." She had already eight canaries, some tame snakes, a pair of doves, an old dog, white mice and rats, and a tortoise. When we got home, she examined the crow's injuries, then sponged his body with water, and decided that his wing was so badly broken that it would have to be amputated. I held his head and feet while she performed the surgical operation, and he squawked most dismally. When it was over, she offered him bread and milk, which he did not seem able to eat until she pushed the food down his throat with her slim little fingers. Then he opened and closed his beak repeatedly, like a person smacking his lips. "He may recover," she said, with delight; "now, where is he to sleep? Come into the garden, Elizabeth." Our garden was walled in. There was a large kennel on a grass-plot under my grandmother's bedroom window, and she stopped in front of it. "This can be fitted up for the crow, Elizabeth." "But what about Rover?" I said. "Where will he sleep?" "Down in the cellar, by the furnace," she said. "He is getting to be rheumatic, and I owe him a better shelter than this in his old age. I shall have a window put in at the back, so that the sun can shine in." For several days the crow sat in the kennel, his wings raised,--the stump of the broken one was left,--making him look like a person shrugging his shoulders, and the blood thickening and healing over his wounds. Three times a day my grandmother dragged him out and pushed some bread and milk down his throat; and three times a day he kicked and struggled and clawed at her hands. But it soon became plain that he was recovering. One day my grandmother found him trying to feed himself, and she was as much pleased as a child would have been. The next day he stepped out on the grass-plot. There he found a fine porcelain bath, that my grandmother had bought for him. It was full of warm water, and he stepped into it, flapped his wing with pleasure, and threw the water over his body. "He is coming on!" cried my grandmother; "he will be the joy of my life yet." [Illustration: "I SAW SECOND COUSIN GEORGE FOLLOWING HIM."] "What about Second Cousin George?" I asked. Second Cousin George--we had to call him that to distinguish him from old George, the coachman--was a relative that lived with us. He was old, cranky, poor, and a little weak-minded, and if it had not been for my grandmother he would have been obliged to go to an almshouse. He hated everything in the world except himself,--pets especially,--and if he had not been closely watched, I think he would have put an end to some of the creatures that my grandmother loved. One day after the crow was able to walk about the garden, I saw Second Cousin George following him. I could not help laughing, for they were so much alike. They both were fat and short, and dressed in black. Both put their feet down in an awkward manner, carried their heads on one side, and held themselves back as they walked. They had about an equal amount of sense. In some respects, though, the crow was a little ahead of Second Cousin George, and in some respects he was not, for on this occasion Second Cousin George was making a kind of death-noose for him, and the crow walked quietly behind the currant-bushes, never suspecting it. I ran for grandmother, and she slipped quickly out into the garden. "Second Cousin George, what are you doing?" she said, quietly. He always looked up at the sky when he didn't know what to say, and as she spoke, he eyed very earnestly some white clouds that were floating overhead, and said never a word. "Were you playing with this cord?" said grandmother, taking it from him. "What a fine loop you have in it!" She threw it dexterously over his head. "Oh, I have caught you!" she said, with a little laugh, and began pulling on the string. Second Cousin George still stood with his face turned up to the sky, his cheeks growing redder and redder. "Why, I am choking you!" said grandmother, before she had really hurt him; "do let me unfasten it." Then she took the string off his neck and put it in her pocket. "Crows can feel pain just as men do, Second Cousin George," she said, and walked away. Second Cousin George never molested the crow again. After a few weeks the crow became very tame, and took possession of the garden. He dug worms from our choicest flower-beds, nipped off the tops of growing plants, and did them far more damage than Rover the dog. But my grandmother would not have him checked in anything. "Poor creature!" she said, sympathetically, "he can never fly again; let him get what pleasure he can out of life." I was often sorry for him when the pigeons passed overhead. He would flap his one long, beautiful wing, and his other poor stump of a thing, and try to raise himself from the ground, crying, longingly, "Caw! Caw!" Not being able to fly, he would go quite over the garden in a series of long hops,--that is, after he learned to guide himself. At first when he spread his wings to help his jumps, the big wing would swing him around so that his tail would be where he had expected to find his head. Many a time have I stood laughing at his awkward attempts to get across the garden to grandmother, when she went out with some bits of raw meat for him. She was his favourite, the only one that he would allow to come near him or to stroke his head. [Illustration] He cawed with pleasure whenever he saw her at any of the windows, and she was the only one that he would answer at all times. I often vainly called to him, "Hallo, Jim Crow,--hallo!" but the instant grandmother said, "Good Jim Crow--good Jim!" he screamed in recognition. He had many skirmishes with the dog over bones. Rover was old and partly blind, and whenever Jim saw him with a bone he went up softly behind him and nipped his tail. As Rover always turned and snapped at him, Jim would seize the bone and run away with it, and Rover would go nosing blindly about the garden trying to find him. They were very good friends, however, apart from the bones, and Rover often did good service in guarding the crow. [Illustration] The cats in the neighbourhood of course learned that there was an injured bird in our garden, and I have seen as many as six at a time sitting on the top of the wall looking down at him. The instant Jim saw one he would give a peculiar cry of alarm that he kept for the cats alone. Rover knew this cry, and springing up would rush toward the wall, barking angrily, and frightening the cats away, though he never could have seen them well enough to catch them. Jim detested not cats alone, but every strange face, every strange noise, and every strange creature,--boys most of all. If one of them came into the garden he would run to his kennel in a great fright. Now this dislike of Jim's for strange noises saved some of my grandmother's property, and also two people who might otherwise have gone completely to the bad. About midnight, one dark November night, my grandmother and I were sleeping quietly,--she in her big bed, and I in my little one beside her. The room was a very large one, and our beds were opposite a French window, which stood partly open, for my grandmother liked to have plenty of fresh air at night. Under this window was Jim's kennel. I was having a very pleasant dream, when in the midst of it I heard a loud, "Caw! Caw!" I woke, and found that my grandmother was turning over sleepily in bed. "That's the crow's cat call," she murmured; "but cats could never get into that kennel." "Let me get up and see," I said. "No, child," she replied. Then she reached out her hand, scratched a match, and lighted the big lamp that stood on the table by her bed. I winked my eyes,--the room was almost as bright as day, and there, half-way through the window, was George, our old coachman. His head was in the room; his feet must have been resting on the kennel, his expression was confused, and he did not seem to know whether to retreat or advance. "Come in, George," said my grandmother, gravely. He finished crawling through the window, and stood looking dejectedly down at his stocking feet. "What does this mean, George?" said my grandmother, ironically. "Are you having nightmare, and did you think we might wish to go for a drive?" Old George never liked to be laughed at. He drew himself up. "I'm a burglar, missus," he said, with dignity. My grandmother's bright, black eyes twinkled under the lace frills of her nightcap. "Oho, are you indeed? Then you belong to a dangerous class,--one to which actions speak louder than words," she said, calmly; and putting one hand under her pillow, she drew out something that I had never known she kept there. I thought at the time it was a tiny, shining revolver, but it really was a bit of polished water-pipe with a faucet attached; for my grandmother did not approve of the use of firearms. "Oh, missus, don't shoot--don't shoot! I ain't fit to die," cried old George, dropping on his knees. "I quite agree with you," she said, coolly, laying down her pretended revolver, "and I am glad you have some rag of a conscience left. Now tell me who put you up to this. Some woman, I'll warrant you!" "Yes, missus, it was," he said, shamefacedly, "'twas Polly Jones,--she that you discharged for impudence. She said that she'd get even with you, and if I'd take your watch and chain and diamond ring, and some of your silver, that we'd go to Boston, and she'd--she'd--" "Well," said grandmother, tranquilly, "she would do what?" "She said she'd marry me," sheepishly whispered the old man, hanging his head. "Marry you indeed, old simpleton!" said my grandmother, dryly. "She'd get you to Boston, fleece you well, and that's the last you'd see of her. Where is Miss Polly?" [Illustration: "'I AIN'T FIT TO DIE,' CRIED OLD GEORGE."] "In--in the stable," whimpered the old man. "H'm," said grandmother, "waiting for the plunder, eh? Well, make haste. My purse is in the upper drawer, my watch you see before you; here is my diamond ring, and my spoons you have in your pocket." Old George began to cry, and counted every spoon he had in his pocket out on the bureau before him, saying one, two, three, four, and so on, through his tears. "Stop!" said my grandmother. "Put them back." The old man looked at her in astonishment. She made him return every spoon to his pocket. Then she ordered him to hang the watch round his neck, put the ring on his finger, and the purse in his pocket. "Take them out to the stable," she said, sternly; "sit and look at them for the rest of the night. If you want to keep them by eight o'clock in the morning, do so,--if not, bring them to me. And as for Miss Polly, send her home the instant you set foot outside there, and tell her from me that if she doesn't come to see me to-morrow afternoon she may expect to have the town's officers after her as an accomplice in a burglary. Now be off, or that crow will alarm the household. Not by the door, old George, that's the way honest people go out. Oh, George, George, that a carrion crow should be more faithful to me than you!" My grandmother lay for some time wide-awake, and I could hear the bed shaking with her suppressed laughter. Then she would sigh, and murmur, "Poor, deluded creatures!" Finally she dropped off to sleep, but I lay awake for the rest of the night, thinking over what had taken place, and wondering whether Polly Jones would obey my grandmother. I was with her the next day when Polly was announced. Grandmother had been having callers, and was sitting in the drawing-room looking very quaint and pretty in her black velvet dress and tiny lace cap. Polly, a bouncing country-girl, came in hanging her head. Grandmother sat up very straight on the sofa and asked, "Would you like to go to the penitentiary, Polly Jones?" "Oh, no, ma'am!" gasped Polly. "Would you like to come and live with me for awhile?" said my grandmother. Now Polly did not want to do this, but she knew that she must fall in with my grandmother's plans; so she hung her head a little lower and whispered, "Yes, ma'am." "Very well, then," my grandmother said, "go and get your things." The next day my grandmother called to her the cook, the housemaid, and the small boy that ran errands. "You have all worked faithfully," she said, "and I am going to give you a holiday. Here is some money for you, and do not let me see you again for a month. Polly Jones is going to stay with me." Polly stayed with us, and worked hard for a month. "You are a wicked girl," said my grandmother to her, "and you want discipline. You have been idle, and idleness is the cause of half the mischief in the world. But I will cure you." Polly took her lesson very meekly, and when the other maids came home, grandmother took her on a trip to Boston. There she got a policeman to take them about and show them how some of the wicked people of the city lived. Among other places visited was a prison, and when Polly saw young women like herself behind the bars, she broke down and begged grandmother to take her home. And that reformed Polly effectually. As for old George, after that one miserable night in the stable, and his utter contrition in the morning, he lived only for grandmother, and died looking lovingly in her face. Jim the crow ruled the house as well as the garden after his exploit in waking grandmother that eventful night. All this happened some years ago. My dear grandmother is dead now, and I live in her house. Jim missed her terribly when she died, but I tried so earnestly to cultivate his affections, and to make up his loss to him, that I think he is really getting to be fond of me. THE END. COSY CORNER SERIES It is the intention of the publishers that this series shall contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and sorrows. The numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design. Each, 1 vol., 16mo, cloth $0.50 _By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_ =The Little Colonel. (Trade Mark.)= The scene of this story is laid in Kentucky. Its heroine is a small girl, who is known as the Little Colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an old-school Southern gentleman, whose fine estate and old family are famous in the region. This old Colonel proves to be the grandfather of the child. =The Giant Scissors.= This is the story of Joyce and of her adventures in France,--the wonderful house with the gate of The Giant Scissors, Jules, her little playmate, Sister Denisa, the cruel Brossard, and her dear Aunt Kate. Joyce is a great friend of the Little Colonel, and in later volumes shares with her the delightful experiences of the "House Party" and the "Holidays." =Two Little Knights of Kentucky.= WHO WERE THE LITTLE COLONEL'S NEIGHBORS. In this volume the Little Colonel returns to us like an old friend, but with added grace and charm. She is not, however, the central figure of the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights." =Cicely and Other Stories for Girls.= The readers of Mrs. Johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for young people. =Aunt 'Liza's Hero and Other Stories.= A collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all boys and most girls. =Big Brother.= A story of two boys. The devotion and care of Steven, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale. =Ole Mammy's Torment.= "Ole Mammy's Torment" has been fitly called "a classic of Southern life." It relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. =The Story of Dago.= In this story Mrs. Johnston relates the story of Dago, a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. Dago tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing. =The Quilt That Jack Built.= A pleasant little story of a boy's labor of love, and how it changed the course of his life many years after it was accomplished. =Flip's Islands of Providence.= A story of a boy's life battle, his early defeat, and his final triumph, well worth the reading. _By EDITH ROBINSON_ =A Little Puritan's First Christmas.= A story of Colonial times in Boston, telling how Christmas was invented by Betty Sewall, a typical child of the Puritans, aided by her brother Sam. =A Little Daughter of Liberty.= The author's motive for this story is well indicated by a quotation from her introduction, as follows: "One ride is memorable in the early history of the American Revolution, the well-known ride of Paul Revere. Equally deserving of commendation is another ride,--the ride of Anthony Severn,--which was no less historic in its action or memorable in its consequences." =A Loyal Little Maid.= A delightful and interesting story of Revolutionary days, in which the child heroine, Betsey Schuyler, renders important services to George Washington. =A Little Puritan Rebel.= This is an historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the gallant Sir Harry Vane was governor of Massachusetts. =A Little Puritan Pioneer.= The scene of this story is laid in the Puritan settlement at Charlestown. The little girl heroine adds another to the list of favorites so well known to the young people. =A Little Puritan Bound Girl.= A story of Boston in Puritan days, which is of great interest to youthful readers. =A Little Puritan Cavalier.= The story of a "Little Puritan Cavalier" who tried with all his boyish enthusiasm to emulate the spirit and ideals of the dead Crusaders. _By MISS MULOCK_ =The Little Lame Prince.= A delightful story of a little boy who has many adventures by means of the magic gifts of his fairy godmother. =Adventures of a Brownie.= The story of a household elf who torments the cook and gardener, but is a constant joy and delight to the children who love and trust him. =His Little Mother.= Miss Mulock's short stories for children are a constant source of delight to them, and "His Little Mother," in this new and attractive dress, will be welcomed by hosts of youthful readers. =Little Sunshine's Holiday.= An attractive story of a summer outing. "Little Sunshine" is another of those beautiful child-characters for which Miss Mulock is so justly famous. _By JULIANA HORATIA EWING_ =Jackanapes.= A new edition, with new illustrations, of this exquisite and touching story, dear alike to young and old. =Story of a Short Life.= This beautiful and pathetic story will never grow old. It is a part of the world's literature, and will never die. =A Great Emergency.= How a family of children prepared for a great emergency, and how they acted when the emergency came. Transcriber Notes: Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. Passages in bold were indicated by =equal signs=. Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS. Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is. The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate. Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. 
9382	----	Proofreaders GRANDMA'S MEMORIES BY MARY D. BRINE _Author of "Grandma's Attic Treasures_" DEDICATED TO THOSE DEAR ONES WHOSE FACES ARE TURNED TOWARD THE SUNSET _ILLUSTRATED_ 1888. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Frontispiece _Walter Pag_ "Only a lullaby, gentle and low" "Grandma's a maiden" 'lo Grandma's girl-life comes some woe" "The young head is lain" "Grandma now is a bride" "On the sunny young head" "Soft and low is the little one's breath" "Learns that sweet lesson so old and so new" "As he looks in my face" "'Mid the farewells that are merry, yet sad" "On Grandma's thin cheek falls a kiss" "Draws near the old chair, and sits close at her side" "The gift of a grandchild" Headpiece--"Evening and the Bells" _A. W. Parsm_ Head and Tailpiece--Vignettes _R A. Bell_ GRANDMA'S MEMORIES. [Illustration] GRANDMA'S MEMORIES. The mantle of evening is veiling the sky, And over the landscape its soft shadows lie; The old year is passing, a new year will reign, Ere earth shall awaken to day-dawn again. Dear Grandma has folded her knitting away, And muses alone at the close of the day; While the old clock ticks solemnly off, one by one, The moments yet left to the year almost done. Out from the shadows fast filling the room, Out from the dying year's gathering gloom, Many sweet pictures of past happy years Come flitting again with their hopes and their fears. On the broad hearthstone the dull embers glow, The old year's last hours are quiet and slow; But back to the Past, with its pleasures and pain-- Of the Present unmindful, she wanders again. She is seeing dear faces, and clasping the hand Of many a friend in the shadowy land, And the ghosts of old years she has watched in and out, Come forth from the shadows and hedge her about. Hark! What is that stealing thro' silence and gloom, To fill with sweet melody Grandma's lone room? What brings that fond smile, and dispels every trace Of sadness and tears on the dear, aged face? [Illustration] Only a lullaby, gentle and low, Which a mother, while rocking her babe to and fro, Croons over and over, for baby alone, Till far into dreamland his spirit hath flown. Only the lullaby all mothers love, Listened to daily by angels above; The dear, quaint old song which will ever seem best To sing to our babies and lull them to rest-- _The Lullaby_. [Illustration: Music Sheet detail:] "Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed; Heavenly blessings without number Gently fall upon thy head." Crooning it softly, and crooning it low, Rocking and nestling with--"By-baby-O!" Loving the melody known the world o'er, And adding sweet words that our baby loves more. So sings this mother to baby to-night, While nearer and nearer the dream-angel bright Is hovering 'mid shadows, till baby ere long Lies slumbering, and hushed is the lullaby song. While mother takes up a new duty, and so From one to another will busily go. But the dear aged heart in the room just beyond, Still lingers and rests amid memories fond. The strains of the lullaby bear her away O'er the lapse of long years to her own childhood's. She is living again 'neath her babyhood's skies Where sunshine is dancing before her blue eyes. [Illustration: Grandma's a maiden] She sees her dear mother, and hears the sweet voice, Whose fond, tender tones made her young heart rejoice, She climbs to the arms ever patient to bear The wee, tired toddler, and all burdens share. How well she recalls the sweet hour of rest, When nestling her head on that dear mother's breast, She sank into slumber, lulled gently and low, By the strains of the soft old-time lullaby--O! Again does she listen to every fond word That love on the lips of the singer hath stirred; The "By-oh, my baby!" which mother knows best, Will comfort and soothe the young child to its rest. And Grandma forgets the deep lines on her face, Which tell of the years--the years long flown apace; She does not remember that Time has left snow On the head that was golden so long, long ago. [Illustration] She is only a child as she listens to-night-- With a sense of the old childish rest and delight-- To the voice of the mother who so long ago Sat singing to _her_ in the firelight's glow-- [Illustration: tune in G major and words: By, by, O baby! baby by O!] But childhood is merged into girlhood at last, (The sweet years of "baby-life" vanish so fast!) And Grandma's a maiden, so dainty and fair, Of girlhood's bright visions content with her share. How merrily now glide the hours away! And yet, as comes oft on a fair Summer's day, A cloud that o'ershadows its fairness, e'en so To Grandma's girl-life now and then comes some woe [Illustration] To grieve and to wound it, and hide from blue eves The still deeper blue of the beautiful skies; And how many times, just for comfort and rest, The young head is lain upon mother's dear breast! And tho' she's no longer the "baby," yet see, The mother's arms clasp her all pityingly, And turning once more to the "lullaby--O!" She sings to her girl all so sweetly and low, The nursery melody known the world o'er, As she soothes, pets and comforts the young heart so sore. Yes, Grandma is only a young girl to-night, As she muses alone in the dim firelight. * * * * * The picture has changed, Grandma now is a bride, The choice of her heart proudly stands at her side; She is living again the sweet life of those days When she first knew a husband's devotion and praise. [Illustration: Grandma now is a bride] To the faded old cheek springs again the warm blush, The old years are young with the spring-time's soft flush, The dear, dim blue eyes borrow youth's ardent glow, As fast thro' her brain old-time memories flow. But ah! a light footstep within the lone room Hath scattered the dream; loving eyes pierce the gloom, A lithesome young figure at Grandma's side kneels, A firm youthful hand into Grandma's hand steals. "Ah, Grandma, my Grandma, the smile on your face Is proof that some pleasure has there left its trace; Now, what were your thoughts? for I know they were far Away from the _Present_, as earth from yon star? "My baby is sleeping, I've nothing to do, Let me sit in the gloaming, dear granny, with you; The clock will soon ring us the hour of nine, Please talk to _me_, Grandma, of dear auld lang syne." [Illustration] On the sunny young head Grandma's aged hand lies, As she meets with her own the young mother's blue eyes, For dear to her soul is this grandchild so fair, Who has borrowed _her_ youth in her soft eyes and hair. "Ah, child, down the vista of 'dear auld lang syne,' Full soon will the torches of memory shine For you, tho' life's summer seems scarcely begun, And your head is yet golden 'neath morn's golden sun. "For Time flies so fast; listen, dearie, I, too, Feel that Summer again. A young mother like you, I am holding _my_ baby all close to my breast, And with the old lullaby lull her to rest. "I can feel once again, as I rock to and fro, The weight of the dear little head. Soft and low Is the little one's breath on the cheek which I press 'Gainst her sweet baby-lips in a loving caress-- "As I sing o'er and o'er the quaint lullaby song (That will never grow wearisome tho' life be long), And watch the sweet drowsiness creeping apace, Till sleep holds the wee one in tender embrace. [Illustration:] "_Soft and low is the little one's breath_ While yet I am crooning so softly and low-- [Illustration: Music G major and words: By, by, O baby, by, by baby] Unheeding the moments as swiftly they fly, with By, by, O baby, dear baby by. "Oh' the deep peace which can never be known, Can never be felt, save by 'mother' alone! As clasping, and folding, so close to her heart, The helpless young life of her own life a part-- "She dreams as she sings, of a future so fair, Awaiting the child of her love and her care! And welcomes the visions that day after day With baby's sweet presence will nestle and stay. "Time passes, my _baby_ has suddenly flown, And left me a daughter to maidenhood grown. As _I_ did, e'en so does my bonny maid do, And--learns that sweet lesson so old and so new. "For _her_ comes a day when the wedding bells ring, And my darling to other than 'mother' must cling. Like mother, like daughter,' 'like father, like son,' 'Tis an adage will live till all living be done." Grandma pauses a moment. Her listener cries, With a sweet look of sympathy in her young eyes: "And then you were lonely, poor Grandma! I know, But so was--my _great_ grandmama, long ago." A smile lights the dear, aged face, and again Grandma takes up her story. "Yes, dearie, but then It wasn't for long, because, darling, you see, A gift _I_ once gave was soon given to me. [Illustration: "_Learns that sweet lesson so old and so new_"] "The gift of a grandchild as fair and as sweet As the baby _my_ mother's heart bounded to meet; Oh, how my fond prayers 'rose in gratitude true, For the blessings of daughter and granddaughter too! "It seems but to-day! Oh, how proud am I now As I lay welcome kisses on baby's wee brow! A _Grandmother, I?_ How the bright years have flown Since I was a child scarce to maidenhood grown! "And now in my arms, looking up in my eyes, With orbs that are bluer than June's sunny skies, Behold my own grandchild! Ah, verily, youth 'On double wings flies,' Grandpa says in good truth, "As he looks in my face where no longer the rose In my once dimpled cheeks in its loveliness grows, And marks the white locks mingling faster each day With the brown that old Time is fast stealing away. [Illustration: "_As he looks in my face_"] "And I, as he kisses our grandchild so fair, Note how soon has vanished the once raven hair That crowned his dear head on the day when he came To endow me with all his possessions and name. "So we grow old together, my husband and I, Walking steadily on 'neath life's changeable sky, As 'Grandpa' and 'Grandma' to little ones dear, Who come round our hearthstone with comfort and cheer. "And dearly I love the wee darlings to hold, And cuddle, and close to my warm heart enfold The dear precious forms, singing low o'er and o'er, The lullaby song I have sung long before. "The song which has sung their own mother to rest, The song which hushed _me_ on _my_ dear mother's breast, The song which belongs to the years long gone past, But which _mother_-love thro' all time will hold fast "And now comes a day when another fair bride From babyhood grown, stands so proudly beside The man of her choice; and her sweet eyes of blue Are glowing with happiness tender and true. "Within Grandma's arms for a moment she stands, Then bows her bright head 'neath the trembling old hands Uplifted to bless her, as Grandma's heart prays That heaven may keep her thro' long sunny days. "To father and mother sweet kisses of love, And prayers that God send truest peace from above; Thus 'mid the farewells that are merry, yet sad, My grandchild has entered _her_ new life so glad. * * * * * "And lo! on this night while old Grandma is sitting Alone in the gloaming, while moments are flitting And bearing on wings that are sure and so fast The year that now _is_, to the years that are past-- [Illustration: "_'Mid the farewells that are merry yet sad_"] "A sweet voice comes softly within my lone room, And sweet words float tenderly in thro' the gloom, As sings my dear grandchild so gently and low, To my little _great_-grandchild the 'lullaby--O.' "Which, catching my senses as idly they stray On the pinions of memory, bears me away To the far-distant realms of my own childhood's shore, Where the quaint old-time melody greets me once more. "Aye! dearie, 'tis hard when one's memory is straying-- And back 'mongst the old scenes so fondly delaying-- 'Tis hard to wake up to the fact that old age In life's book of years will soon turn the last page. "Yet, dearie, I look on your young, happy face, All tender with motherhood's newly-taught grace, And realize, indeed, that Time steadily flies, Nor lingers to dally 'neath youth's joyous skies! [Illustration:"_On Grandma's thin cheek falls a kiss_"] "But speed as he may, be it never so fast, The thoughts which go winging their way to the Past Are swifter than Time, as you'll learn on some day When you, like your Grandma, are wrinkled and grey." On Grandma's thin cheek falls a kiss soft and sweet, Ere the young mother hastens with step all so fleet, To quiet her baby, whose startled grieved cry Can only be hushed with the old lullaby-- [Illustration: Words and music: "Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed."] Crooning it softly, and crooning it low, Till again into slumber-land baby will go, While Grandma still sits in the shadowy room And smiles as the lullaby floats thro' the gloom. Now, as she sits thinking and smiling the while, Behold! Grandpa enters, and answering her smile (Which even the gloom from his eyes cannot hide), Draws near the old chair, and sits close at her side. Their hands steal together; dear hands, which have clung Thro' weal and thro' woe from the years which were young Till now, when by age made unsteady and weak, They yet tell the love which e'en lips may not speak. "Dear heart!" murmurs Grandpa, "I'm thinking to-night-- As I look at the heavens with starlight so bright-- And note how the moments so surely and fast, Will bring us the close of the year almost past-- "I'm thinking how like to old age it does seem, And how o'er life's evening for you and me gleam The stars of God's mercies, to guide on their way The souls which are speeding towards heaven's glad day." "Ay, John," answers Grandma, "like children are we In the 'arms everlasting' just longing to be; Full soon you and I will be summoned to rest, And close tired eyes on the dear Father's breast." [Illustration] Still softly and sweetly from out the next room Still floating and lingering 'mid shadow and gloom-- The sound of the soft murmured "lullaby--O!" Is heard, while the mother sings gently and low-- [Illustration: Music Sheet detail: "Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed."] And Grandpa and Grandma draw nearer together, And on Grandpa's shoulder lies Grandma's grey head, As closely he holds to his fond aged heart The wife from whose love he holds no thought apart. And so, while their fancies to auld lang syne cling, They lift their old voices, and quaveringly sing Way thro' to its end the dear lullaby song, So dear to them both for the years long agone, And straight from their hearts doth the melody flow, Tho' the tremulous notes are so faltering and slow. [Illustration: Music Sheet detail: "Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed; Heavenly blessings without number Gently fall upon thy head."] And now the sweet music hath reached other ears; The baby's young mother the lullaby hears, And, beckoning _her_ mother, they presently stand Within the dim doorway, and hand clasping hand-- They listen and smile--yet with tears in their eyes-- To the soft notes which out from the shadows arise From the hearts that old Time with his years and his-- Could not rob of the sunshine of long, long ago The clock is still ticking the moments away; 'Tis but a short time ere the old King must lay His sceptre, his crown, and his burdens aside, That the new King may come with the world to abide. And still the old grandparents quietly sit, Unmindful of moments, tho' fast they may flit Towards the hour of midnight, till gently at last Their daughter reminds them that "bedtime is past." "Ay, daughter," says Grandma, "'tis late without doubt, But father and I'll see this dear old year out; It has been a kind year, fraught with peace from above, And it brought us a dear great-grandbaby to love. "It has borne us thro' duties, or sorry or glad, And helped us find balm when our spirits were sad; It found us together in health and in peace, And leaves us together tho' _its own_ life must cease. [Illustration] "And so we will watch it fade softly from earth, And welcome the New Year to which God gives birth And may the dear Lord who for our sakes was born, Send blessings anew on the New Year's glad morn." Now hark! for the bells in the old tower's steeple Ring out with a clang to the world and its people; And merrily sounding afar and anear, Proclaim the glad tidings, "The New Year is here!" And from other steeples the noise is resounding, As jubilant bells the same story are sounding; And so 'mid the clanging, the poor old year dies, And the new youthful year opens wondering eyes _And so does the baby_! So frightened is he, His shrill cry rings out with the bells' jubilee, And quick to his side the young mother has sped, To bend o'er her baby's her own golden head While Grandpa and Grandma are listening to hear, 'Mid the clanging of bells, the young voice sweet and clear, Which tenderly lays on the New Year the song Of the dear "Old-time lullaby" cherished so long So softly it floats thro' the shadowy gloom Which tenderly broods o'er the old fashioned room, Where Grandma and Grandpa, while steeple bells ring, Again lift their tremulous voices and sing-- [Illustration: Musical score G major, text follows:] "Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed, Heavenly .. blessings without number Gently fall upon thy head." [Illustration] CRADLE HYMN. _By Isaac Watts, D.D._ Hush, my dear! Lie still, and slumber! Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings, without number, Gently falling on thy head. Sleep, my babe! Thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care or payment, All thy wants are well supplied. How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven He descended, And became a child like thee! Soft and easy is thy cradle: Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birth-place was a stable, And His softest bed was hay. Blessed Babe! What glorious features,-- Spotless fair, divinely bright! Must he dwell with brutal creatures? How could angels bear the sight? Was there nothing but a manger, Cursed sinners could afford, To receive the Heavenly Stranger? Did they thus affront the Lord? Soft, my child! I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard; 'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, And her arm shall be thy guard. Yet to read the shameful story, How the Jews abused their King; How they served the Lord of Glory, Makes me angry while I sing. See the kinder shepherds round Him, Telling wonders from the sky! Where they sought Him, there they found Him, With His Virgin-Mother by. See the lovely Babe a-dressing: Lovely Infant, how He smiled! When He wept, His Mother's blessing Sooth'd and hush'd the Holy Child. Lo, He slumbers in a manger, Where the horned oxen fed! Peace, my darling, here's no danger; There's no ox a-near thy bed. 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans and endless crying, That thy blest Redeemer came. May'st thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days; Then go dwell for ever near Him, See His face, and sing His praise! I could give thee thousand kisses! Hoping what I most desire; Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire! [Illustration] _L'ENVOI._ _Dear aged friends, and loved ones who have turned Your faces toward the glowing sunset sky, While far below on paths that ye have trod, Life's mingled lights and shadows softly lie: May Peace be with you as you journey on To reach the summit of life's shadowed hill, And tho' the way seem toilsome here and there, May Hope and Faith your hearts with courage fill. Bear with you, as you go, our grateful prayers For your dear lives by heavenly mercy spared So long to us who love you, and with whom Life's burdens, great or small, your love hath shared. The crimson glory of the sunset sky Lies all about you, and falls gently down Upon your dear, grey heads, as tho' our Lord Hath wished already His loved saints to crown. Lift up your tired eyes "Unto the hills Whence cometh help," for lo! the Father stands To give you greeting, and to welcome you-- When night brings rest--with tender, gracious hands._ M. D. B. 
20963	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 20963-h.htm or 20963-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/9/6/20963/20963-h/20963-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/9/6/20963/20963-h.zip) GRANDMOTHER DEAR A Book for Boys and Girls by MRS. MOLESWORTH Author of 'Carrots,' 'Cuckoo Clock,' 'Tell Me a Story' Illustrated by Walter Crane MacMillan and Co., Limited St. Martin's Street, London 1932 First Edition November 1878. Reprinted December 1878 September and December 1882, 1886 1887, 1889, 1892, 1895, 1897, 1899, 1900, 1902, 1904, 1906, 1909, 1911 1918, 1920, 1932 Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh [Illustration: 'I HOPE IT ISN'T HAUNTED.'] TO _OUR_ 'GRANDMOTHER DEAR,' A. J. S. Maison Du Chanoine, _October_ 1878. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Making Friends CHAPTER II. Lost in the Louvre CHAPTER III. "_Where_ is Sylvia?" CHAPTER IV. The Six Pinless Brooches CHAPTER V. Molly's Plan CHAPTER VI. The Apple-Tree of Stéfanos CHAPTER VII. Grandmother's Grandmother CHAPTER VIII. Grandmother's Story (_Continued_) CHAPTER IX. Ralph's Confidence CHAPTER X. "That Cad Sawyer" CHAPTER XI. "That Cad Sawyer"--Part II. CHAPTER XII. A Christmas Adventure CHAPTER XIII. A Christmas Adventure--Part II. CHAPTER XIV. How this Book came to be written LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Sylvia lost in the Louvre "Whose Drawer is this?" Under the Apple-Tree "Zwanzig--Twenty Schelling, that Cup" In the Coppice "Good-Bye again, my Boy, and God bless you!" "I hope it isn't Haunted" CHAPTER I. MAKING FRIENDS. "Good onset bodes good end." SPENSER. "Well?" said Ralph. "Well?" said Sylvia. "Well?" said Molly. Then they all three stood and looked at each other. Each had his or her own opinion on the subject which was uppermost in their minds, but each was equally reluctant to express it, till that of the others had been got at. So each of the three said "Well?" to the other two, and stood waiting, as if they were playing the old game of "Who speaks first?" It got tiresome, however, after a bit, and Molly, whose patience was the most quickly exhausted, at last threw caution and dignity to the winds. "Well," she began, but the "well" this time had quite a different tone from the last; "_well_," she repeated emphatically, "I'm the youngest, and I suppose you'll say I shouldn't give my opinion first, but I just will, for all that. And my opinion is, that she's just as nice as she can be." "And I think so too," said Sylvia, "Don't you, Ralph?" "I?" said Ralph loftily, "you forget. _I_ have seen her before." "Yes, but not to _remember_," said Sylvia and Molly at once. "You might just as well never have seen her before as far as that goes. But isn't she nice?" "Ye-es," said Ralph. "I don't think she's bad for a grandmother." "'For a grandmother!'" cried Molly indignantly. "What do you mean, Ralph? What can be nicer than a nice grandmother?" "But suppose she wasn't nice? she needn't be, you know. There are grandmothers and grandmothers," persisted Ralph. "Of course I know _that_," said Molly. "You don't suppose I thought our grandmother was everybody's grandmother, you silly boy. What I say is she's just like a real grandmother--not like Nora Leslie's, who is always scolding Nora's mother for spoiling her children, and wears such grand, quite _young lady_ dresses, and has _black_ hair," with an accent of profound disgust, "not nice, beautiful, soft, silver hair, like _our_ grandmother's. Now, isn't it true, Sylvia, isn't our grandmother just like a _real_ one?" Sylvia smiled. "Yes, exactly," she replied. "She would almost do for a fairy godmother, if only she had a stick with a gold knob." "Only perhaps she'd beat us with it," said Ralph. "Oh no, not _beat_ us," cried Molly, dancing about. "It would be worse than that. If we were naughty she'd point it at us, and then we'd all three turn into toads, or frogs, or white mice. Oh, just fancy! I am so glad she hasn't got a gold-headed stick." "Children," said a voice at the door, which made them all jump, though it was such a kind, cheery voice. "Aren't you ready for tea? I'm glad to see you are not very tired, but you must be hungry. Remember that you've travelled a good way to-day." "Only from London, grandmother dear," said Molly; "that isn't very far." "And the day after to-morrow you have to travel a long way farther," continued her grandmother. "You must get early to bed, and keep yourselves fresh for all that is before you. Aunty says _she_ is very hungry, so you little people must be so too. Yes, dears, you may run downstairs first, and I'll come quietly after you; I am not so young as I have been, you know." Molly looked up with some puzzle in her eyes at this. "Not so young as you have been, grandmother dear?" she repeated. "Of course not," said Ralph. "And you're not either, Molly. Once you were a baby in long clothes, and, barring the long clothes, I don't know but what----" "Hush, Ralph. Don't begin teasing her," said Sylvia in a low voice, not lost, however, upon grandmother. What _was_ lost upon grandmother? "And what were you all so busy chattering about when I interrupted you just now?" she inquired, when they were all seated round the tea-table, and thanks to the nice cold chicken and ham, and rolls and butter and tea-cakes, and all manner of good things, the children fast "losing their appetites." Sylvia blushed and looked at Ralph; Ralph grew much interested in the grounds at the bottom of his tea-cup; only Molly, Molly the irrepressible, looked up briskly. "Oh, nothing," she replied; "at least nothing particular." "Dear me! how odd that you should all three have been talking at once about anything so uninteresting as nothing particular," said grandmother, in a tone which made them all laugh. "It wasn't _exactly_ about nothing particular," said Molly: "it was about _you_, grandmother dear." "Molly!" said Sylvia reproachfully, but Molly was not so easily to be snubbed. "We were wishing," she continued, "that you had a gold-headed stick, and then you'd be quite _perfect_." It was grandmother's and aunty's turn to laugh now. "Only," Molly went on, "Ralph said perhaps you'd beat us with it, and I said no, most likely you'd turn us into frogs or mice, you know." "'Frogs or mice, I know,' but indeed I don't know," said grandmother; "why should I wish to turn my boy and girl children into frogs and mice?" "If we were naughty, I meant," said Molly. "Oh, Sylvia, you explain--I always say things the wrong way." "It was I that said you looked like a fairy godmother," said Sylvia, blushing furiously, "and that put it into Molly's head about the frogs and mice." "But the only fairy godmother _I_ remember that did these wonderful things turned mice into horses to please her god-daughter. Have you not got hold of the wrong end of the story, Molly?" said grandmother. "The wrong end and beginning and middle too, I should say," observed Ralph. "Yes, grandmother dear, I always do," said Molly, complacently. "I never remember stories or anything the right way, my head is so funnily made." "When you can't find your gloves, because you didn't put them away carefully, is it the fault of the shape of the chest of drawers?" inquired grandmother quietly. "Yes, I suppose so,--at least, no, I mean, of course it isn't," replied Molly, taking heed to her words half-way through, when she saw that they were all laughing at her. Grandmother smiled, but said no more. "What a wool-gathering little brain it is," she said to herself. When she smiled, all the children agreed together afterwards, she looked more like a fairy godmother than ever. She was really a _very_ pretty old lady. Never very tall, with age she had grown smaller, though still upright as a dart; the "November roses" in her cheeks were of their kind as sweet as the June ones that nestled there long ago--ah! so long ago now; and the look in her eyes had a tenderness and depth which can only come from a life of unselfishness, of joy and much sorrow too--a life whose lessons have been well and dutifully learnt, and of which none has been more thoroughly taken home than that of gentle judgment of, and much patience with, others. While they are all finishing their tea, would you, my boy and girl friends, like to know who they were--these three, Ralph, Sylvia, and Molly, whom I want to tell you about, and whom I hope you will love? When I was a little girl I liked to know exactly about the children in my books, each of whom had his or her distinct place in my affections. I liked to know their names, their ages, all about their homes and their relations _most_ exactly, and more than once I was laughed at for writing out a sort of genealogical tree of some of my little fancy friends' family connections. We need not go quite so far as _that_, but I will explain to you about these new little friends of yours enough for you to be able to find out the rest for yourselves. They had never seen their grandmother before, never, that is to say, in the girls' case, and in Ralph's "not to remember her." Ralph was fourteen now, Sylvia thirteen, and Molly about a year and a half younger. More than seven years ago their mother had died, and since then they had been living with their father, whose profession obliged him often to change his home, in various different places. It had been impossible for their grandmother, much as she wished it, to have had them hitherto with her, for, for several years out of the seven, her hands, and those of aunty, too, her only other daughter besides their mother, had been more than filled with other cares. Their grandfather had been ill for many years before his death, and for his sake grandmother and aunty had left the English home they loved so much, and gone to live in the south of France. And after his death, as often happens with people no longer young, and somewhat wearied, grandmother found that the old dream of returning "home," and ending her days with her children and old friends round her, had grown to be but a dream, and, what was more, had lost its charm. She had grown to love her new home, endeared now by so many associations; she had got used to the ways of the people, and felt as if English ways would be strange to her, and as aunty's only idea of happiness was to find it in hers, the mother and daughter had decided to make their home where for nearly fourteen years it had been. They had gone to England this autumn for a few weeks, finally to arrange some matters that had been left unsettled, and while there something happened which made them very glad that they had done so. Mr. Heriott, the children's father, had received an appointment in India, which would take him there for two or three years, and though grandmother and aunty were sorry to think of his going so far away, they were--oh, I can't tell you how delighted! when he agreed to their proposal, that the children's home for the time should be with them. It would be an advantage for the girls' French, said grandmother, and would do Ralph no harm for a year or two, and if his father's absence lasted longer, it could easily be arranged for him to be sent back to England to school, still spending his holidays at Châlet. So all was settled; and grandmother, who had taken a little house at Dover for a few weeks, stayed there quietly, while aunty journeyed away up to the north of England to fetch the children, their father being too busy with preparations for his own departure to be able conveniently to take them to Dover himself. There were some tears shed at parting with "papa," for the children loved him truly, and believed in his love for them, quiet and undemonstrative though his manner was. There were some tears, too, shed at parting with "nurse," who, having conscientiously spoilt them all, was now getting past work, and was to retire to her married daughter's; there were a good many bestowed on the rough coat of Shag, the pony, and the still rougher of Fusser, the Scotch terrier; but after all, children are children, and for my part I should be very sorry for them to be anything else, and the delights of the change and the bustle of the journey soon drowned all melancholy thoughts. And so far all had gone charmingly. Aunty had proved to be all that could be wished of aunty-kind, and grandmother promised more than fairly. "What _would_ we have done if she had been very tall and stout, and fierce-looking, with spectacles and a hookey nose?" thought Molly, and as the thought struck her, she left off eating, and sat with wide open eyes, staring at her grandmother. Though grandmother did not in general wear spectacles--only when reading very small print, or busied with some peculiarly fine fancywork--nothing ever seemed to escape her notice. "Molly, my dear, what are you staring at so? Is my cap crooked?" she said. Molly started. "Oh no, grandmother dear," she replied. "I was only thinking----" she stopped short, jumped off her seat, and in another moment was round the table with a rush, which would have been sadly trying to most grandmothers and aunties, only fortunately these special ones were not like most! "What is the matter, dear?" grandmother was beginning to exclaim, when she was stopped by feeling two arms hugging her tightly, and a rather bread-and-buttery little mouth kissing her valorously. "Nothing's the matter," said Molly, when she stopped her kisses, "it only just came into my head when I was looking at you, how nice you were, you dear little grandmother, and I thought I'd like to kiss you. I don't want you to have a gold-headed stick, but I do want one thing, and then you _would_ be quite perfect. Oh, grandmother dear," she went on, clasping her hands in entreaty, "just tell me this, _do_ you ever tell stories?" Grandmother shook her head solemnly. "I _hope_ not, my dear child," she said, but Molly detected the fun through the solemnity. She gave a wriggle. "Now you're laughing at me," she said. "You _know_ I don't mean that kind. I mean do you ever tell real stories--not real, I don't mean, for very often the nicest aren't real, about fairies, you know--but you know the sort of stories I mean. You would look so beautiful telling stories, wouldn't she now, Sylvia?" "And the stories would be beautiful if I told them--eh, Molly?" "Yes, I am sure they would be. _Will_ you think of some?" "We'll see," said grandmother. "Anyway there's no time for stories at present. You have ever so much to think of with all the travelling that is before you. Wait till we get to Châlet, and then we'll see." "I like _your_ 'we'll see,'" said Molly. "Some people's 'we'll see,' just means, 'I can't be troubled,' or, 'don't bother.' But I think _your_ 'we'll see' sounds nice, grandmother dear." "I am glad you think so, grand-daughter dear; and now, what about going to bed? It is only seven, but if you are tired?" "But we are not a bit tired," said Molly. "We never go to bed till half-past eight, and Ralph at nine," said Sylvia. The word "bed" had started a new flow of ideas in Molly's brain. "Grandmother," she said, growing all at once very grave, "that reminds me of one thing I wanted to ask you; do the tops of the beds ever come down now in Paris?" "'Do the tops of the beds in Paris ever come down?'" repeated grandmother. "My dear child, what _do_ you mean?" "It was a story she heard," began Sylvia, in explanation. "About somebody being suffocated in Paris by the top of the bed coming down," continued Ralph. "It was robbers that wanted to steal his money," added Molly. Grandmother began to look less mystified. "Oh, _that_ old story!" she said. "But how did you hear it? I remember it when I was a little girl; it really happened to a friend of my grandfather's, and afterwards I came across it in a little book about dogs. 'Fidelity of dogs,' was the name of it, I think. The dog saved the traveller's life by dragging him out of the bed." "Yes," said aunty, "I remember that book too. It was among your old child's books, mother. A queer little musty brown volume, and I remember how the story frightened me." "There now!" said Molly triumphantly. "You see it frightened aunty too. So I'm _not_ such a baby after all." "Yes, you are," said Ralph. "People might be frightened without making such a fuss. Molly declared she would rather not go to Paris at all. _That's_ what I call being babyish--it isn't the feeling frightened that's babyish--for people might feel frightened and still _be_ brave, mightn't they, grandmother?" "Certainly, my boy. That is what _moral_ courage means." "Oh!" said Molly, as if a new idea had dawned upon her. "I see. Then it doesn't matter if I am frightened if I don't tell any one." "Not exactly that," said grandmother. "I would _like_ you all to be strong and sensible, and to have good nerves, which it would take a good deal to startle, as well as to have what certainly is best of all, plenty of moral courage." "And if Molly is frightened, she certainly couldn't help telling," said Sylvia, laughing. "She does _so_ pinch whoever is next her." "There was nothing about a dog in the story of the bed we heard," said Molly. "It was in a book that a boy at school lent Ralph. I wouldn't ever be frightened if I had Fusser, I don't think. I do so wish I had asked papa to let him come with us--just _in case_, you know, of the beds having anything funny about them: it would be so comfortable to have Fusser." At this they all laughed, and aunty promised that if Molly felt dissatisfied with the appearance of her bed, she would exchange with her. And not long after, Sylvia and Molly began to look so sleepy, in spite of their protestations that the dustman's cart was nowhere near _their_ door, that aunty insisted they must be mistaken, _she_ had heard his warning bell ringing some minutes ago. So the two little sisters came round to say good-night. "Good night, grandmother dear," said Molly, in a voice which tried hard to be brisk as usual through the sleepiness. Grandmother laid her hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. Molly had nice eyes when you looked at them closely: they were honest and candid, though of too pale a blue to show at first sight the expression they really contained. Just now too, they were blinking and winking a little. Still grandmother must have been able to read in them what she wanted, for her face looked satisfied when she withdrew her gaze. "So I am _really_ to be 'grandmother dear,' to you, my dear funny little girl?" she said. "Of course, grandmother dear. Really, _really_ I mean," said Molly, laughing at herself. "Do you see it in my eyes?" "Yes, I think I do. You have nice honest eyes, my little girl." Molly flushed a little with pleasure. "I thought they were rather ugly. Ralph calls them 'cats',' and 'boiled gooseberries,'" she said. "Anyway Sylvia's are much prettier. She has such nice long eyelashes." "Sylvia's are very sweet," said grandmother, kissing her in turn, "and we won't make comparisons. Both pairs of eyes will do very well my darlings, if always 'The light within them, Tender is and true.' Now good night, and God bless my little grand-daughters. Ralph, you'll sit up with me a little longer, won't you?" "What nice funny things grandmother says, doesn't she, Sylvia?" said Molly, as they were undressing. "She says nice things," said Sylvia, "I don't know about they're being funny. You call everything funny, Molly." "Except you when you're going to bed, for then you're very often rather cross," said Molly. But as she was only _in fun_, Sylvia took it in good part, and, after kissing each other good night, both little sisters fell asleep without loss of time. CHAPTER II. LOST IN THE LOUVRE. "Oh how I wish that I had lived In the ages that are gone!" A CHILD'S WISH. It was--did I say so before? the children's first visit to Paris. They had travelled a good deal, for such small people quite "a _very_ good deal," as Molly used to maintain for the benefit of their less experienced companions. They knew England, "of course," Ralph would say in his lordly, big-boy fashion, Scotland too, and Wales, and they had spent some time in Germany. But they had never been in Paris, and the excitement on finding the journey safely past and themselves really there was very considerable. "And, Molly," said Sylvia, on their way from the railway station to the hotel where rooms had been engaged for them, "remember you've _promised_ not to awake me in the middle of the night if you begin thinking about the top of the bed coming down." "And, oh, Sylvia! I _wish_ you hadn't reminded me of it just now," said Molly pathetically, for which all the satisfaction she received was a somewhat curt observation from Sylvia, that she shouldn't be so silly. For Sylvia, though in reality the kindest of little elder sisters, was sometimes inclined to be "short" with poor Molly. Sylvia was clever and quick, and very "capable," remarkably ready at putting herself, as it were, in the place of another and seeing for the time being, through his or her spectacles. While Molly had not got further than opening wide her eyes, and not unfrequently her mouth too, Sylvia, practical in the way that only people of lively imagination can be so, had taken in the whole case, whatever it might be, and set her ready wits to work as to the best thing to be said or done. And Molly would wonderingly admire, and wish she could manage to "think of things" the way Sylvia did. They loved each other dearly, these two--but to-night they were tired, and when people, not children only, big people too, very often--are tried, it is only a very little step to being cross and snappish. And when aunty, tired too, and annoyed by the unamiable tones, turned round to beg them to "_try_ to leave off squabbling; it was so thoughtless of them to disturb their grandmother," two or three big tears welled up in Molly's eyes, though it was too dark in the omnibus, which was taking them and their luggage from the station, for any one to see, and she thought to herself what a terrible disappointment it would be if, after all, this delightful, long-talked-of visit to Paris, were to turn out not delightful at all. And through Sylvia's honest little heart there darted a quick sting of pain and regret for her sharpness to Molly. How was it that she could not manage to keep the resolutions so often and so conscientiously made? How was it that she could not succeed in remembering at the time, the very moment at which she was tempted to be snappish and supercilious, her never-_really_-forgotten motive for peculiar gentleness and patience with her younger sister, the promise she had made, now so many years ago, to the mother Molly could scarcely even remember, to be kind, _very_ kind, and gentle to the little, flaxen-haired, toddling thing, the "baby" whom that dear mother had loved so piteously. "Eight years ago," said Sylvia to herself. "I was five and Molly only three and a half then. Poor little Molly, how funny she was!" And a hand crept in under Molly's sleeve, and a whisper reached her ear. "I don't mean to be cross or to tease you, Molly." And Molly in a moment was her own queer, happy, muddle-headed little self again. "Dear Sylvia," she whispered in return, "of course you don't. You never do, and if the top of the bed _did_ come down, I'm sure I'd pull you out first, however sleepy I was. Only of course I know it _won't_, and it's just my silly way, but when I'm as big as you, Sylvia, I'll get out of it, I'm sure." "You're as big as me now, you silly girl," said Sylvia laughingly, which was true. Molly was tall and well-grown for her age, while Sylvia was small, so that very often, to Molly's delight, they were taken for twins. "In my body, but not in my mind," rejoined Molly, with a little sigh. "I wish the growing would go into my mind for a little, though I wouldn't like to be _much_ smaller than you, Sylvia. Perhaps we shouldn't be dressed alike, then." "Do be quiet, Molly, you are such an awful chatterbox," growled Ralph from his corner. "I was just having a nice little nap." He was far too "grown-up" to own to the eagerness with which, as they went along, he had been furtively peeping out at the window beside him--or to join in Molly's screams of delight at the brilliance of the illumined shop windows, and the interminable perspective of gas lamps growing longer and longer behind them as they rapidly made their way. A sudden slackening of their speed, a sharp turn, and a rattle over the stones, told of their arrival at their destination. And "Oh!" cried Molly, "I _am_ so glad. Aren't you awfully hungry, Sylvia?" And grandmother, who, to tell the truth, had been indulging in a peaceful, _real_ little nap--not a sham one like Ralph's--quite woke up at this, and told Molly it was the best sign in the world to be hungry after a journey; she was delighted to find her so good a traveller. The "dinner-tea" which, out of consideration for the children's home hours, had been ordered for them, turned out delicious. Never had they tasted such butter, such bread, such grilled chicken, and fried potatoes! And to complete Molly's satisfaction the beds proved to have no tops to them at all. "I told you so," said Ralph majestically, when they had made the tour of the various rooms and settled who was to have which, and though neither Sylvia nor Molly had the slightest recollection of his "telling you so," they were wise enough to say nothing. "But the little doors in the walls are quite as bad, or worse," Ralph continued mischievously. "There's one at the head of your bed, Molly,"--Molly and Sylvia were to have two little beds in the same room, standing in a sort of alcove--"which I am almost sure opens on to a secret staircase." Molly gave a little shiver, and looked up appealingly. "Ralph, you are not to tease her," said aunty. "Remember all your promises to your father." Ralph looked rather snubbed. "Let us talk of something pleasant," continued aunty, anxious to change the subject. "What shall we do to-morrow? What shall we go to see first?" "Yes," said grandmother. "What are your pet wishes, children?" "Notre Dame," cried Molly. "The Louvre," said Sylvia. "Anything you like. I don't care much for sightseeing," said Ralph. "That's a pity," said aunty drily. "However, as you are the only gentleman of the party, and we are all dependent on you, perhaps it is just as well that you have no special fancies of your own. So to-morrow I propose that we should go a drive in the morning, to give you a general idea of Paris, returning by Notre Dame. In the afternoon I have some calls to make, and a little shopping to do, and you three must not forget to write to your father. Then the next day we can go to the Louvre, as Sylvia wished." "Thank you, aunty," said Sylvia. "It isn't so much for the pictures I want to go, but I do so want to see the room where poor Henry the Fourth was killed. I am _so_ fond of Henry the Fourth." Aunty smiled, and Ralph burst out laughing. "What a queer idea!" he said. "If you are so fond of him, I should think you would rather _not_ see the room where he was killed." Sylvia grew scarlet, and Molly flew up in her defence. "You've no business to laugh at Sylvia, Ralph," she cried. "_I_ understand her quite well. And she knows a great deal more history than you do--and about pictures, too. Of course we want to see the pictures, too. There's that beautiful blue and orange one of Murillo's that papa has a little copy of. _It's_ at the Louvre." "I didn't say it wasn't," retorted Ralph. "It's Sylvia's love of horrors I was laughing at." "She _doesn't_ love horrors," replied Molly, more and more indignant. "_You_ needn't talk," said Ralph coolly. "Who was it that took a box of matches in her pocket to Holyrood Palace, and was going to strike one to look for the blood-stains on the floor? It was the only thing you cared to see, and yet you are such a goose--crying out if a butterfly settles on you. I think girls are----" "Ralph, my boy," said grandmother, seeing that by this time Molly was almost in tears; "whatever you think of girls, you make me, I am sorry to say, think that boys' love of teasing is utterly incomprehensible--and oh, _so_ unmanly!" The last touch went home. "I was only in fun, grandmother," said Ralph with unusual meekness; "I didn't mean really to vex Molly." So peace was restored. To-morrow turned out fine, deliriously fine. "Not like England," said Molly superciliously, "where it _always_ rains when you want it to be fine." They made the most of the beautiful weather, though by no means agreeing with aunty's reminder that even in Paris it did sometimes rain, and the three pairs of eager feet were pretty tired by the time bed-time came. And oh, what a disappointment the next morning brought! The children woke to a regular, pouring wet day, no chance of fulfilling the programme laid out, for Sylvia was subject to sore throats, and grandmother would not let her go out in the damp, and there would be no fun in going to the Louvre without her. So, as what can't be cured _must_ be endured, the children had just to make the best of it and amuse themselves in the house in the hopes of sunshine again for to-morrow. These hopes were happily fulfilled. "A lovely day," said aunty, "all the brighter for yesterday's rain." "And we may go to the Louvre," exclaimed Sylvia eagerly. Aunty hesitated and turned, as everybody did when they were at a loss, to grandmother. "What do you think?" she said. She was reluctant to disappoint the children--Sylvia especially--as they had all been very good the day before, but yet----"It is Saturday, and the Louvre will be so crowded you know, mother." "But _I_ shall be with you," said Ralph. "And _I_!" said grandmother. "Is not a little old lady like me equal to taking care of you all?" "Will you really come too, dear grandmother?" exclaimed Sylvia and Molly in a breath. "_Oh_, how nice!" "I should like to go," said grandmother. "It is ever so many years since I was at the Louvre." "Do let us go then. Oh, do let us all go," said the little girls. "You know we are leaving on Tuesday, and something might come in the way again on Monday." So it was settled. "Remember, children," said grandmother as they were all getting out of the carriage, "remember to keep close together. You have no idea how easily some of you might get lost in the crowd." "_Lost!_" repeated Sylvia incredulously. "LOST!" echoed Molly. "LOST!" shouted Ralph so loudly that some of their fellow-sight-seers, passing beside them into the palace, turned round to see what was the matter. "How could we _possibly_ get lost here?" "Very easily," replied aunty calmly. "There is nothing, to people unaccustomed to it, so utterly bewildering as a crowd." "Not to me," persisted Ralph. "I could thread my way in and out of the people till I found you. The _girls_ might get lost, perhaps." "Thank you," said Molly; "as it happens, Master Ralph, I think it would be much harder to lose us than you. For one thing we can speak French ever such a great deal better than you." "And then there are two of us. If one of us was lost, grandmother and aunty could hold out the other one as a pattern, and say, 'I want a match for this,'" said Sylvia laughing, and a little eager to prevent the impending skirmish between Ralph and Molly. "Hush, children, you really mustn't chatter so," said aunty. "Use your eyes, and let your tongues, poor things, rest for a little." They got on very happily. Aunty managed to show the children the special picture or pictures each had most wanted to see--including the "beautiful blue and orange" one of Molly's recollection. She nearly screamed with delight when she saw "how like it was to the one in papa's study," but took in good part Ralph's cynical observation that a thing that was copied from another was generally supposed to be "like" the original. Only Sylvia was a little disappointed when, after looking at the pictures in one of the smaller rooms--a room in no way peculiar or remarkable as differing from the others--they suddenly discovered that they were in the famous "Salle Henri II.," where Henry the Fourth was killed! "I didn't think it would be like this," said Sylvia lugubriously. "Why do they call it 'Salle Henri II.?' It should be called after Henry the Fourth; and I don't think it should have pictures in, and be just like a common room." "What would you have it? Hung round with black and tapers burning?" said her aunt. "I don't know--any way I thought it would have had old tapestry," said Sylvia. "I should like it to have been kept just the way it was then." "Poor Sylvia!" said grandmother. "But we must hurry on, children. We have not seen the 'Petite Galérie' yet--dear me, how many years it is since I was in it!--and some of the most beautiful pictures are there." They passed on--grandmother leaning on aunty's arm--the three children close behind, through a room called the "Salle des Sept Cheminées," along a vestibule filled with cases of jewellery, leading again to one of the great staircases. Something in the vestibule attracted grandmother's attention, and she stopped for a moment. Sylvia, not interested in what the others were looking at, turned round and retraced her steps a few paces by the way they had entered the hall. A thought had struck her. "I'd like just to run back for a moment to Henry the Fourth's Room," she said to herself. "I want to notice the shape of it exactly, and how many windows there are, and then I think I can fancy to myself how it looked _then_, with the tapestry and all the old-fashioned furniture." No sooner thought than done. In a moment she was back in the room which had so curiously fascinated her, taking accurate note of its features. "I shall remember it now," she said to herself, after gazing round her for a minute or two. "Now I must run after grandmother and the others, or they'll be thinking I am lost." She turned with a little laugh at the idea, and hastened out of the room, through the few groups of people standing or moving about, looking at the pictures--hastened out, expecting in another moment to see the familiar figures. The room into which she made her way was also filled with pictures, as had been the one through which she had entered the "Salle Henri II." She crossed it without misgiving: she had no idea that she had left the Salle Henri II. by the opposite door from that by which she had entered it! Poor little Sylvia, she did not know that grandmother's warning was actually to be fulfilled. She was "lost in the Louvre!" CHAPTER III. "_WHERE_ IS SYLVIA?" "What called me back? A voice of happy childhood, "Yet might I not bewail the vision gone, My heart so leapt to that dear loving tone." Mrs. HEMANS, "An Hour of Romance." She did not find out her mistake. She passed through the room and entered the vestibule into which it led, quite confident that she would meet the others in an instant. There were several groups standing about this vestibule as there had been in the other, but none composed of the figures she was looking for. "They must have passed on," said Sylvia to herself; "I wish they hadn't; perhaps they never noticed I wasn't beside them." Then for the first time a slight feeling of anxiety seized her. She hurried quickly across the ante-room where she was standing, to find herself in another "salle," which was quite unlike any of the others she had seen. Instead of oil-paintings, it was hung round with colourless engravings. Here, too, there were several people standing about, but none whom, even for an instant, Sylvia could have mistaken for her friends. "How quickly they must have hurried on," she thought, her heart beginning to beat faster. "I do think they might have waited a little. They must have missed me by now." No use delaying in _this_ room. Sylvia hurried on, finding herself now in that part of the palace devoted to ancient pottery and other antiquities, uninteresting to a child. The rooms through which she passed were much less crowded than those containing pictures. At a glance it was easy to distinguish that those she was in search of were _not_ there. Still she tried to keep up heart. "There is nothing here they would much care about," she said to herself. "If I could get back to the picture rooms I should be sure to find them." At last, to her delight, after crossing a second vestibule, from which descended a great staircase which she fancied she had seen before, she entered another of the long galleries completely hung with paintings. She bounded forward joyously. "They're sure to be here," she said. The room was very crowded. She dared not rush through it as fast as hitherto; it was _so_ crowded that she felt it would be quite possible to overlook a group of even four. More than once she fancied she caught sight of grandmother's small and aunty's taller figure, both dressed in black. Once her heart gave a great throb of delight when she fancied she distinguished through the crowd the cream-coloured felt hat and feathers of Molly, her double. But no--it was a cream-coloured felt hat, but the face below it was not Molly's. Then at last a panic seized the poor little girl. She fairly lost her head, and the tears blinding her so, that had Molly and all of them been close beside her, she could scarcely have perceived them, she ran half frantically through the rooms. Half frantically in reality, but scarcely so to outward appearance. Her habit of self-control, her unconquerable British dislike to being seen in tears, or to making herself conspicuous, prevented her distress being so visible as to attract general attention. Some few people remarked her as she passed--a forlorn little Evangeline--her pretty face now paler, now more flushed than its wont, as alternations of hope and fear succeeded each other, and wondered if she had lost her party or her way. But she had disappeared before there was time to do more than notice her. More than once she was on the point of asking help or advice from the cocked-hat officials at the doors, but she was afraid. In some ways she was very ignorant and childish for her age, notwithstanding her little womanlinesses and almost precocious good sense, and to tell the truth, a vague misty terror was haunting her brain--a terror which she would hardly have confessed to Molly, not for worlds untold to _Ralph_--that, being in France and not in England, she might somehow be put in prison, were the state of the case known to these same cocked-hat gentlemen! So, when at last one of these dignitaries, who had been noticing her rapid progress down the long gallery "Napoléon III.," stopped her with the civil inquiry, "Had Mademoiselle lost her way? was she seeking some one?" she bit her lips tight and winked her eyes briskly not to cry, as she replied in her best French, "Oh no," she could find her way. And then, as a sudden thought struck her that possibly he had been deputed by grandmother and aunty, who _must_ have missed her by now, to look for her, she glanced up at him again with the inquiry, had he, perhaps, seen a little girl like her? _just_ like her? [Illustration: SYLVIA LOST IN THE LOUVRE.] "Une petite fille comme Mademoiselle?" replied the man smiling, but not taking in the sense of the question. "No, he had not." How could there be two little demoiselles, "tout-à-fait pareilles?" He shook his head, good-natured but mystified, and Sylvia, getting frightened again, thanked him and sped off anew. The next doorway--by this time she had unconsciously in her panic and confusion begun actually to retrace her steps round the main court of the palace--brought her again into a room filled with statuary and antiquities. She was getting so tired, so out of breath, that the excitement now deserted her. She sat down on the ledge of one of the great marble vases, in a corner where her little figure was almost hidden from sight, and began to think, as quietly and composedly as she could, what she should do. The tears were slowly creeping up into her eyes again; she let two or three fall, and then resolutely drove the others back. "What shall I do?" she thought, and joined to her own terrors there was now the certainty of the anxiety and misery the others must, by this time, be suffering on her account. "Oh, poor little Molly," she said to herself. "How dreadfully she will be crying! What shall I do?" Two or three ideas struck her. Should she go down one of the staircases which every now and then she came upon, and find her way out of the palace, and down in the street try to call a cab to take her back to the hotel? But she had no money with her, and no idea what a cab would cost. And she was frightened of strange cabmen, and by no means sure that she could intelligibly explain the address. Besides this, she could not bear to go home without them all, feeling certain that they would not desert the palace till they had searched every corner for her. "If I could but be sure of any place they _must_ pass," she said to herself, with her good sense reviving; "it would be the best way to wait there till they come." She jumped up again. "The door out!" she exclaimed. "They _must_ pass it. Only perhaps," her hopes falling, "there are several doors. The best one to wait at would be the one we came in by, if I could but tell which it was. Let me see--yes, I remember, as we came upstairs, aunty said, 'This is the Grand Escalier.' If I ask for the 'Grand Escalier.'" Her courage returned. The very next cocked hat she came upon, she asked to direct her to the "Grand Escalier." He sent her straight back through a vestibule she had just left, at the other entrance to which she found herself at the head of the great staircase. "I am sure this is the one we came up," she thought, as she ran down, and her certainty was confirmed, when, having made her way out through the entrance hall at the foot of the staircase, she caught sight, a few yards off, of an old apple woman's stall in the courtyard. "I remember that stall quite well," thought Sylvia, and in her delight she felt half inclined to run up to the apple-woman and kiss her. "She looks nice," she said to herself, "and they must pass that way to get to the street we came along. I'll go and stand beside her." Half timidly the little girl advanced towards the stall. She had stood there a minute or two before its owner noticed her, and turned to ask if mademoiselle wanted an apple. Sylvia shook her head. She had no money and did not want any apples, but might she stand there to watch for her friends, whom she had lost in the crowd. The old woman, with bright black eyes and shrivelled-up, yellow-red cheeks, not unlike one of her own apples that had been thrown aside as spoilt, turned and looked with kindly curiosity at the little girl. "Might Mademoiselle wait there? Certainly. But she must not stand," and as she spoke she drew out a little stool, on which Sylvia was only too glad to seat herself, and feeling a little less anxious, she mustered courage to ask the old woman if every one came out at this door. "To go where?" inquired the old woman, and when Sylvia mentioned the name of the hotel and the street where they were staying, "Ah, yes!" said her informant; "Mademoiselle might be quite satisfied. It was quite sure Madame, her mother, would come out by that entrance." "Not my mother," said Sylvia. "I have no mother. It is my grandmother." "The grandmother of Mademoiselle," repeated the old woman with increased interest. "Ah, yes I too had once a grand-daughter." "Did she die?" said Sylvia. "Poor angel, yes," replied the apple-seller; "she went to the good God, and no doubt it is better. She was orphan, Mademoiselle, and I was obliged to be out all day, and she would come too. And it is so cold in Paris, the winter. She got a bad bronchitis and she died, and her old grandmother is now alone." "I am so sorry," said Sylvia. And her thoughts went off to her own grandmother, and Molly, and all of them, with fresh sympathy for the anxiety they must be suffering. She leant back on the wall against which the old woman had placed the stool, feeling very depressed and weary--so weary that she did not feel able to do anything but sit still, which no doubt from every point of view was the best thing she could do, though but for her weariedness she would have felt much inclined to rush off again to look for them, thus decidedly decreasing her chance of finding them. "Mademoiselle is tired," said the old woman, kindly. "She need not be afraid. The ladies are sure to come out here. I will watch well those who pass. A little demoiselle dressed like Mademoiselle? One could not mistake. Mademoiselle may feel satisfied." Somehow the commonplace, kindly words did make Sylvia feel less anxious. And she was very tired. Not so much with running about the Louvre; that, in reality, had not occupied more than three quarters of an hour, but with the fright and excitement, and the excitement of a different kind too, that she had had the last few days, poor little Sylvia was really quite tired out. She laid her head down on the edge of the table on which the apples were spread out, hardly taking in the sense of what the old woman was saying--that in half-an-hour at most Mademoiselle would find her friends, for then the doors would be closed, and every one would be obliged to leave the palace. She felt satisfied that the old woman would be on the look-out for the little party she had described to her, and she thought vaguely that she would ask grandmother to give her a sixpence or a shilling--no, not a sixpence or a shilling,--she was in France, not in England--what should she say? A franc--half a franc--how much was equal to a sixpence or a shilling? She thought it over mistily for a moment or two, and then thought no more about it--she had fallen fast asleep! But how was this? She had fallen asleep with her head on the apple-woman's stall; when she looked round her again where was she? For a minute or two she did not in the least recognise the room--then it suddenly flashed upon her she was in the Salle Henri II., the room where poor Henry the Fourth was killed! But how changed it was--the pictures were all gone, the walls were hung with the tapestry she had wished she could see there, and the room was but dimly lighted by a lamp hanging from the centre of the roof. Sylvia did not feel in any way surprised at the transformation--but she looked about her with great interest and curiosity. Suddenly a slight feeling of fear came over her, when in one corner she saw the hangings move, and from behind the tapestry a hand, a very long white hand, appear. Whose could it be? Sylvia's fear increased to terror when it suddenly struck her that this must be the night of the 14th of May, the night on which Henry of Navarre was to be killed. She gave a scream of terror, or what she fancied a scream; in reality it was the faintest of muffled sounds, like the tiny squeal of a distressed mouse, which seemed to startle the owner of the hand into quicker measures. He threw back the hangings and came towards Sylvia, addressing her distinctly. The voice was so kind that her courage returned, and she looked up at the new comer. His face was pale and somewhat worn-looking, the eyes were bright and sparkling, and benevolent in expression; his tall figure was curiously dressed in a fashion which yet did not seem quite unfamiliar to the little girl--a sort of doublet or jacket of rich crimson velvet, with lace at the collar and cuffs, short trousers fastened in at the knees, "very like Ralph's knickerbockers," said Sylvia to herself, long pointed-toed shoes, like canoes, and on the head a little cap edged with gold, half coronet, half smoking cap, it seemed to her. Where had she ever seen this old-world figure before? She gazed at him in perplexity. "Why are you so frightened, Mademoiselle?" said the stranger, and curiously enough his voice sounded very like that of the most amiable of her cocked-hat friends. Sylvia hesitated. "I don't think I am frightened," she said, and though she spoke English and the stranger had addressed her in French, he seemed quite to understand her. "I am only tired, and there was something the matter. I can't remember what it was." "I know," replied her visitor. "You can't find Molly and the others. Never mind. If you come with me I'll take you to them. I know all the ins and outs of the palace. I have lived here so long, you see." He held out his hand, but Sylvia hesitated. "Who are you?" she said. A curious smile flickered over the face before her. "Don't you know?" he said. "I am surprised at that. I thought you knew me quite well." "Are you?" said Sylvia--"yes, I am sure you must be one of the pictures in the long gallery. I remember looking at you this afternoon. How did you get down?" "No," said the stranger, "Mademoiselle is not quite right. How could there be two 'tout à fait pareils'?" and again his voice sounded exactly like that of the cocked-hat who would not understand when she had asked him if he had seen Molly. Yet she still felt sure he was mistaken, he _must_ be the picture she remembered. "It is very queer," she said. "If you are not the picture, who are you then?" "I pass my time," said the figure, somewhat irrelevantly, "between this room, where I was killed and the 'Salle des Caryatides,' where I was married. On the whole I prefer this room." "Are you--can you be--Henry the Fourth?" exclaimed Sylvia. "Oh! poor Henry the Fourth, I am so afraid of them coming to kill you again. Come, let us run quick to the old apple-woman, she will take care of you till we find grandmother." She in turn held out her hand. The king took it and held it a moment in his, and a sad, very sad smile overspread his face. "Alas!" he said, "I cannot leave the palace. I have no little grand-daughter like Mademoiselle. I am alone, always alone. Farewell, my little demoiselle. Les voilà qui viennent." The last words he seemed to speak right into her ears, so clear and loud they sounded. Sylvia started--opened her eyes--no, there was no king to be seen, only the apple-woman, who had been gently shaking her awake, and who now stood pointing out to her a little group of four people hurrying towards them, of whom the foremost, hurrying the fastest of all, was a fair-haired little girl with a cream-coloured felt hat and feathers, who, sobbing, threw herself into Sylvia's arms, and hugged and hugged as if she never would let go. "Oh, Sylvia, oh, my darling!" she cried. "I thought you were lost for always. Oh, I have been so frightened--oh, we have all been so frightened. I thought perhaps they had taken you away to one of the places where the tops of the beds come down, or to that other place on the river, the Morgue, where they drown people, only I didn't say so, not to frighten poor grandmother worse. Oh, grandmother _dear_, aren't you glad she's found?" Sylvia was crying too by this time, and the old apple-woman was wiping her eyes with a corner of her apron. You may be sure grandmother gave her a present, I rather think it was of a five-franc piece, which was very extravagant of grandmother, wasn't it? They had been of course hunting for Sylvia, as people always do for anything that is lost, from a little girl to a button-hook, _before they find it_, in every place but the right one. I think it was grandmother's bright idea at last to make their way to the entrance and wait there. There had been quite a commotion among the cocked-hats who had _not_ seen Sylvia, only unfortunately they had not managed to communicate with the cocked-hats who _had_ seen her, and they had shown the greatest zeal in trying to "match" the little girl in the cream-coloured hat, held out to them as a pattern by the brisk old lady in black, who spoke such beautiful French, that they "demanded themselves" seriously if the somewhat eccentric behaviour of the party could be explained, as all eccentricities should of course _always_ be explained, by the fact of their being English! Aunty's distress had been great, and she had not "kept her head" as well as grandmother, whose energies had a happy knack of always rising to the occasion. "What _will_ Walter think of us," said aunty piteously, referring to the children's father, "if we begin by losing one of them?" And she unmercifully snubbed Ralph's not unreasonable suggestion of "detectives;" he had always heard the French police system was so excellent. Ralph had been as unhappy as any of them, especially as grandmother had strenuously forbidden his attempting to mend matters by "threading his way in and out," and getting lost himself in the process. And yet when they were all comfortably at the hotel again, their troubles forgotten, and Sylvia had time to relate her remarkable dream, he teased her unmercifully the whole evening about her description of the personal appearance of Henry the Fourth. He was, according to Ralph, neither tall nor pale, and he certainly could not have had long thin hands, nor did people--kings, that is to say, at that date--wear lace ruffles or pointed shoes. Had Molly not known, for a fact, that all their lesson books were unget-at-ably packed up, she would certainly have suspected Ralph of a sly peep at Mrs. Markham, just on purpose "to set Sylvia down." But failing this weapon, her defence of Sylvia was, it must be confessed, somewhat illogical. She didn't care, she declared, whether Henry the Fourth was big or little, or how he was dressed. It was very clever of Sylvia to dream such a nice dream about real history things, and Ralph couldn't dream such a dream if he tried ever so hard. Boys are aggravating creatures, are they not? CHAPTER IV. THE SIX PINLESS BROOCHES. "They have no school, no governess, and do just what they please, No little worries vex the birds that live up in the trees." THE DISCONTENTED STARLINGS. Not many days after this thrilling adventure of Sylvia's, the little party of travellers reached their destination, grandmother's pretty house at Châlet. They were of course delighted to be there, everything was so bright, and fresh, and comfortable, and grandmother herself was glad to be again settled down at what to her now represented home. But yet, at the bottom of their hearts, the children were a little sorry that the travelling was over. True, Molly declared that, though their passage across the Channel had really been a very good one as these dreadful experiences go, nothing would _ever_ induce her to repeat the experiment; whatever came of it, there was no help for it, live and die in France, at least on this side of the water, she _must_. "I am never going to marry, you know," she observed to Sylvia, "so for that it doesn't matter, as of course I _couldn't_ marry a Frenchman. But you will come over to see me sometimes and bring your children, and when I get very old, as I shall have no one to be kind to me you see, I daresay I shall get some one to let me be their concierge like the old woman in our lodge. I shall be very poor of course, but _anything_ is better than crossing the sea again." It sounded very melancholy. Sylvia's mind misgave her that perhaps she should offer to stay with Molly "for always" on this side of the channel, but she did not feel quite sure about it. And the odd thing was that of them all Molly had most relished the travelling, and was most eager to set off again. She liked the fuss and bustle of it, she said; she liked the feeling of not being obliged to do any special thing at any special hour, for regularity and method were sore crosses to Molly. "It is so nice," she said, "to feel when we get up in the morning that we shall be out of one bustle into another all day, and nobody to say 'You will be late for your music,' or, 'Have you finished your geography, Molly?'" "Well," said Sylvia, "I am sure you haven't much of that kind of thing just now, Molly. We have _far_ less lessons than we had at home. It is almost like holidays." This was quite true. It had been settled between grandmother and their father that for the first two or three months the children should not have many lessons. They had been working pretty hard for a year or two with a very good, but rather strict, governess, and Sylvia, at no time exceedingly strong, had begun to look a little fagged. "They will have plenty to use their brains upon at first," said their father. "The novelty of everything, the different manners and customs, and the complete change of life, all that will be enough to occupy and interest them, and I don't want to overwork them. Let them run wild for a little." It sounded very reasonable, but grandmother had her doubts about it all the same. "Running wild" in her experience had never tended to making little people happier or more contented. "They are always better and more able to enjoy play-time when they feel that they have done some work well and thoroughly," she said to aunty. "However, we must wait a little. If I am not much mistaken, the children themselves will be the first to tire of being too much at their own disposal." For a few weeks it seemed as if Mr. Heriott had been right. The children were so interested and amused by all they saw that it really seemed as if there would not be room in their minds for anything else. Every time they went out a walk they returned, Molly especially, in raptures with some new marvel. The bullocks who drew the carts, soft-eyed, clumsy creatures, looking, she declared, so "sweet and patient;" the endless varieties of "sisters," with the wonderful diversity of caps; the chatter, and bustle, and clatter on the market-days; the queer, quaint figures that passed their gates on horse and pony back, jogging along with their butter and cheese and eggs from the mountain farms--all and everything was interesting and marvellous and entertaining to the last degree. "I don't know how other children find time to do lessons here," she said to Sylvia one day. "It is quite difficult to remember just practising and French, and think what lots of other lessons we did at home, and we seemed to have much more time." "Yes," said Sylvia, "and do you know, Molly, I think I liked it better. Just now at the end of the day I never feel as if I had done anything nicely and settledly, and I think Ralph feels so too. _He_ is going to school regularly next month, every day. I wish we were too." "_I_ don't," said Molly, "and it will be very horrid of you, Sylvia, if you go putting anything like that into grandmother's head. There now, she is calling us, and I am not _nearly_ ready. Where _are_ my gloves? Oh, I cannot find them." "What did you do with them yesterday when you came in?" said Sylvia. "You ran down to the lodge to see the soldiers passing; don't you remember, just when you had half taken off your things?" "Oh yes, and I believe I left them in my other jacket pocket. Yes, here they are. There is grandmother calling again. Do run, Sylvia, and tell her I'm just coming." Molly was going out alone with grandmother to-day, and having known all the morning at what time she was to be ready, there was no excuse for her tardiness. "My dear child," said grandmother, who, tired of waiting, just then made her appearance in their room, "what have you been doing? And you don't look half dressed now. See, your collar is tumbling off. I must really tell Marcelline never to let you go out without looking you all over." "It wasn't Marcelline's fault, grandmother dear," said Molly. "I'm so sorry. I dressed in such a hurry." "And why in such a hurry?" asked grandmother. "This is not a day on which you have any lessons." "No-o," began Molly; but a new thought struck grandmother. "Oh, by the by, children, where are your letters for your father? I told you I should take them to the post myself, you remember, as I wasn't sure how many stamps to put on for Cairo." Sylvia looked at Molly, Molly looked at Sylvia. Neither dared look at grandmother. Both grew very red. At last, "I am _so_ sorry, grandmother dear." "I am _so_ sorry, dear grandmother." "We are both _so_ sorry; we _quite_ forgot we were to write them this morning." Grandmother looked at them both with a somewhat curious expression. "You both forgot?" she said. "Have you so much to do, my dear little girls, that you haven't room in your minds to remember even this one thing?" "No, grandmother, it isn't that. I should have remembered," said Sylvia in a low voice. "I don't know, grandmother dear," replied Molly, briskly. "My mind does seem very full. I don't know how it is, I'm sure." Grandmother quietly opened a drawer in a chest of drawers near to which she was standing. It was very neat. The different articles it contained were arranged in little heaps; there were a good many things in it--gloves, scarfs, handkerchiefs, ribbons, collars, but there seemed plenty of room for all. "Whose drawer is this?" she asked. [Illustration: 'WHOSE DRAWER IS THIS?'] "Mine," said Sylvia. "Sylvia's," answered Molly in the same breath, but growing very red as she saw grandmother's hand and eyes turning in the direction of the neighbour drawer to the one she had opened. "I am so sorry, grandmother dear," she exclaimed; "I wish you wouldn't look at mine to-day. I was going to put it tidy, but I hadn't time." It was too late. Grandmother had already opened the drawer. Ah, dear! what a revelation! Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, ribbons, collars; collars ribbons, scarfs, handkerchiefs, gloves, in a sort of _pot-pourri_ all together, or as if waiting to be beaten up into some wonderful new kind of pudding! Molly grew redder and redder. "Dear me!" said grandmother. "This is your drawer, I suppose, Molly. How is it it is so much smaller than Sylvia's?" "It isn't, grandmother dear," said Molly, rather surprised at the turn of the conversation. "It is just the same size exactly." "Then how is it you have so many more things to keep in it than Sylvia?" "I haven't, grandmother dear," said Molly. "We have just exactly the same of everything." "And yet yours looks crowded to the last degree--far too full--and in hers there seems plenty of room for everything." "Because, grandmother dear," said Molly, opening wide her eyes, "hers is neat and mine isn't." "Ah," said grandmother. "See what comes of order. Suppose you try a little of it with that mind of yours, Molly, which you say seems always too full. Do you know I strongly suspect that if everything in it were very neatly arranged, you would find a very great deal of room in it; you would be surprised to find how little, not how much, it contains." "_Would_ I, grandmother dear?" said Molly, looking rather mystified. "I don't quite understand." "Think about it a little, and then I fancy you will understand," said grandmother. "But we really must go now, or I shall be too late for what I wanted to do. There is that collar of yours loose again, Molly. A little brooch would be the proper thing to fasten it with. You have several." Poor Molly--her unlucky star was in the ascendant this afternoon surely! She grew very red again, as she answered confusedly, "Yes, grandmother dear." "Well then, quick, my dear. Put on the brooch with the bit of coral in the middle, like the one that Sylvia has on now." "Please, grandmother dear, that one's pin's broken." "The pin's broken! Ah, well, we'll take it to have it mended then. Where is it, my dear? Give it to me." Molly opened the unlucky drawer, and after a minute or two's fumbling extracted from its depths a little brooch which she handed to grandmother. Grandmother looked at it. "This is not the one, Molly. This is the one Aunty sent you on your last birthday, with the little turquoises round it." Molly turned quickly. "Oh yes. It isn't the coral one. It must be in the drawer." Another rummage brought forth the coral one. "But the turquoise one has no pin either!" "No, grandmother dear. It broke last week." "Then it too must go to be mended," said grandmother with decision. "See, here is another one that will do for to-day." She, in turn, drew forth another brooch. A little silver one this time, in the shape of a bird flying. But as she was handing it to Molly, "Why, this one _also_ has no pin!" she exclaimed. "No, grandmother dear. I broke it the day before yesterday." Grandmother laid the three brooches down in a row. "How many brooches in all have you, Molly?" she said. "Six, grandmother dear. They are just the same as Sylvia has. We have each six." "And where are the three others?" Molly opened a little box that stood on the top of the chest of drawers. "They're here," she said, and so they were, poor things. A little mosaic brooch set in silver, a mother-of-pearl with steel border, and a tortoise-shell one in the shape of a crescent; these made up her possessions. "I meant," she added naïvely, "I meant to have put them all in this box as I broke them, but I left the coral one, and the turquoise one, and the bird in the drawer by mistake." "_As you broke them?_" repeated grandmother. "How many are broken then?" "All," said Molly. "I mean the pins are." It was quite true. There lay the six brooches--brooches indeed no longer--for not a pin was there to boast of among them! "Six pinless brooches!" said grandmother drily, taking them up one after another. "Six pinless brooches--the property of one careless little girl. Little girls are changed from the days when I was young! I shall take these six brooches to be mended at once, Molly, but what I shall do with them when they are mended I cannot as yet say." She put them all in the little box from which three of them had been taken, and with it in her hand went quietly out of the room. Molly, by this time almost in tears, remained behind for a moment to whisper to Sylvia, "Is grandmother dreadfully angry, do you think, Sylvia? I am so frightened, I wish I wasn't going out with her." "Then you should not have been so horribly careless. I never knew any one so careless," said Sylvia, in rather a Job's comforter tone of voice. "Of course you must tell grandmother how sorry you are, and how ashamed of yourself, and ask her to forgive you." "Grandmother dear," said Molly, her irrepressible spirits rising again when she found herself out in the pleasant fresh air, sitting opposite grandmother in the carriage, bowling along so smoothly--grandmother having made no further allusion to the unfortunate brooches--"Grandmother dear, I am so sorry and so ashamed of myself. Will you please forgive me?" "And what then, my dear?" said grandmother. "I will try to be careful; indeed I will. I will tell you how it is I break them so, grandmother dear. I am always in such a hurry, and brooches _are_ so provoking sometimes. They won't go in, and I give them a push, and then they just squock across in a moment." "They just _what_?" said grandmother. "Squock across, grandmother dear," said Molly serenely. "It's a word of my own. I have a good many words of my own like that. But I won't say them if you'd rather not. I've got a plan in my head--it's just come there--of teaching myself to be more careful with brooches, so _please_, grandmother dear, do try me again when the brooches are mended. _Of course_ I'll pay them out of my own money." "Well, we'll see," said grandmother, as the carriage stopped at the jeweller's shop where the poor brooches were to be doctored. During the next two days there was a decided improvement in Molly. She spent a great part of them in putting her drawers and other possessions in order, and was actually discovered in a quiet corner mending a pair of gloves. She was not once late for breakfast or dinner, and, notwithstanding the want of the brooches, her collars retained their position with unusual docility. All these symptoms were not lost on grandmother, and to Molly's great satisfaction, on the evening of the third day she slipped into her hand a little box which had just been left at the door. "The brooches, Molly," said grandmother. "They have cost just three francs. I think I may trust you with them, may I not?" "Oh yes, grandmother dear. I'm sure you may," said Molly, radiant. "And do you know my drawers are just _beautiful_. I wish you could see them." "Never fear, my dear. I shall be sure to take a look at them some day soon. Shall I pay them an unexpected visit--eh, Molly?" "If you like," replied the little girl complacently. "I've quite left off being careless and untidy; it's so much nicer to be careful and neat. Good-night, grandmother dear, and thank you so much for teaching me so nicely." "Good-night, grand-daughter dear. But remember, my little Molly, that Rome was not built in a day." "Of course not--how could a big town be built in a day? Grandmother dear, what funny things you do say," said Molly, opening wide her eyes. "_The better to make you think, my dear_," said grandmother, in a gruff voice that made Molly jump. "Oh dear! how you do frighten me when you speak like that, grandmother dear," she said in such a piteous tone that they all burst out laughing at her. "My poor little girl, it is a shame to tease you," said grandmother, drawing her towards her. "To speak plainly, my dear, what I want you to remember is this: Faults are not cured, any more than big towns are built, in a day." "No, I know they are not. I'm not forgetting that. I've been making a lot of plans for making myself remember about being careful," said Molly, nodding her head sagaciously. "You'll see, grandmother dear." And off to bed she went. The children went out early the next morning for a long walk in the country. It was nearly luncheon time when they returned, and they were met in the hall by aunty, who told them to run upstairs and take off their things quickly, as a friend of their grandmother's had come to spend the day with her. "And make yourselves neat, my dears," she said. "Miss Wren is a particular old lady." Sylvia was down in the drawing-room in five minutes, hair brushed, hands washed, collar straight. She went up to Miss Wren to be introduced to her, and then sat down in a corner by the window with a book. Miss Wren was very deaf, and her deafness had the effect, as she could not in the least hear her own voice, of making her shout out her observations in a very loud tone, sometimes rather embarrassing for those to whom they were addressed, or, still worse, for those concerning whom they were made. "Nice little girl," she remarked to grandmother, "very nice, pretty-behaved little girl. Rather like poor Mary, is she not? Not so pretty! Dear me, what a pretty girl Mary was the first winter you were here, twelve, no, let me see, fourteen years ago! Never could think what made her take a fancy to that solemn-looking husband of hers." Grandmother laid her hand warningly on Miss Wren's arm, and glanced in Sylvia's direction, and greatly to her relief just then, there came a diversion in the shape of Molly. Grandmother happened to be asked a question at this moment by a servant who just came into the room, and had therefore turned aside for an instant as Molly came up to speak to Miss Wren. Her attention was quickly caught again, however, by the old lady's remarks, delivered as usual in a very loud voice. "How do you do, my dear? And what is your name? Dear me, is this a new fashion? Laura," to aunty, who was writing a note at the side-table and had not noticed Molly's entrance, "Laura, my dear, I wonder your mother allows the child to wear so much jewellery. In _my_ young days such a thing was never heard of." Aunty got up from her writing at this, and grandmother turned round quickly. What could Miss Wren be talking about? Was her sight, as well as her hearing, failing her? Was grandmother's own sight, hitherto quite to be depended upon, playing her some queer trick? There stood Molly, serene as usual, with--it took grandmother quite a little while to count them--one, two, three, yes, _six_ brooches fastened on to the front of her dress! All the six invalid brooches, just restored to health, that is to say _pins_, were there in their glory. The turquoise one in the middle, the coral and the tortoise-shell ones at each side of it, the three others, the silver bird, the mosaic and the mother-of-pearl arranged in a half-moon below them, in the front of the child's dress. They were placed with the greatest neatness and precision; it must have cost Molly both time and trouble to put each in the right spot. Grandmother stared, aunty stared, Miss Wren looked at Molly curiously. "Odd little girl," she remarked, in what she honestly believed to be a perfectly inaudible whisper, to grandmother. "She is not so nice as the other, not so like poor Mary. But I wonder, my dear, I really do wonder at your allowing her to wear so much jewellery. In _our_ young days----" For once in her life grandmother was _almost_ rude to Miss Wren. She interrupted her reminiscences of "our young days" by turning sharply to Molly. "Molly," she said, "go up to your room at once and take off that nonsense. What _is_ the meaning of it? Do you intend to make a joke of what you should be so ashamed of, your own carelessness?" Molly stared up in blank surprise and distress. "Grandmother dear," she said confusedly. "It was my _plan_. It was to make me careful." Grandmother felt much annoyed, and Molly's self-defence vexed her more. "Go up to your room," she repeated. "You have vexed me very much. Either you intend to make a joke of what I hoped would have been a lesson to you for all your life, or else, Molly, it is as if you had not all your wits. Go up to your room at once." Molly said no more. Never before had grandmother and aunty looked at her "like that." She turned and ran out of the room and up to her own, and throwing herself down on the bed burst into tears. "I thought it was such a good plan," she sobbed. "I wanted to please grandmother. And I do believe she thinks I meant to mock her. Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!" Downstairs the luncheon bell rang, and they all seated themselves at table, but no Molly appeared. "Shall I run up and tell her to come down?" suggested Sylvia, but "no," said grandmother, "it is better not." But grandmother's heart was sore. "I shall be so sorry if there is anything of sulkiness or resentfulness in Molly," she said to herself. "What _could_ the child have had in her head?" CHAPTER V. MOLLY'S PLAN. "... Such a plague every morning with buckling shoes, gartering, and combing." THE TWIN RIVALS. Soon after luncheon Miss Wren took her departure. Nothing more was said about Molly before her, but on leaving she patted Sylvia approvingly on the back. "Nice little girl," she said. "Your grandmother must bring you to see me some day. And your sister may come, too, if she leaves her brooches at home. Young people in _my_ young days----" Aunty saw that Sylvia was growing very red, and looking as if she were on the point of saying something; Molly's queer behaviour had made her nervous: it would never do for Sylvia, too, to shock Miss Wren's notion of the proprieties by bursting out with some speech in Molly's defence. So aunty interrupted the old lady by some remark about her shawl not being thick enough for the drive, which quite distracted her attention. As soon as she had gone, grandmother sent Sylvia upstairs to look for Molly. Sylvia came back looking rather alarmed. No Molly was there. Where could she be? Grandmother began to feel a little uneasy. "She is nowhere in the house," said Sylvia. "Marcelline says she saw her go out about half-an-hour ago. She is very fond of the little wood up the road, grandmother: shall I go and look for her there?" Grandmother glanced round. "Ralph," she said. "Oh, I forgot, he will not be home till four;" for Ralph had begun going to school every day. "Laura," she went on, to aunty, "put on your hat and go with Sylvia to find the poor child." Sylvia's face brightened at this. "Then you are not so vexed with Molly now, grandmother," she said. "I know it seemed like mocking you, but I am sure she didn't mean it that way." "What did she mean, then, do you think?" said grandmother. "I don't quite know," said Sylvia. "It was a plan of her own, but it wasn't anything naughty or rude, I am sure." Aunty and Sylvia went off to the little wood, as the children called it--in reality a very small plantation of young trees, where any one could be easily perceived, especially now when the leaves were few and far between. No, there was no Molly there. Hurriedly, aunty and Sylvia retraced their steps. "Let us go round by the lodge," said aunty--they had left the house by the back gate--"and see if old Marie knows anything of where she is." As they came near to the lodge they saw old Marie coming to meet them. "Is Mademoiselle looking for the little demoiselle?" she said with a smile. "Yes, she is in my kitchen--she has been there for half-an-hour. Poor little lady, she was in trouble, and I tried to console her. But the dear ladies have not been anxious about her? Ah yes! But how sorry I am! I knew it not, or I would have run up to tell Marcelline where she was." "Never mind, Marie," said aunty. "If we had known she was with you, we should have been quite satisfied. Run in, Sylvia, and tell Molly to come back to the house to speak to your grandmother." Sylvia was starting forward, but Marie touched her arm. "A moment, Mademoiselle Sylvie," she said,--Sylvia liked to be called "Mademoiselle Sylvie," it sounded so pretty--"a moment. The little sister has fallen asleep. She was sitting by the fire, and she had been crying so hard, poor darling. Better not wake her all at once." She led the way into the cottage, and they followed her. There, as she had said, was Molly, fast asleep, half lying, half sitting, by the rough open fireplace, her head on a little wooden stool on which Marie had placed a cushion, her long fair hair falling over her face and shoulders--little sobs from time to time interrupting her soft, regular breathing. Sylvia's eyes filled with tears. "Poor Molly," she whispered to aunty, "she must have been crying so. And do you know, aunty, when Molly does cry and gets really unhappy, it is dreadful. She seems so careless, you know, but once she does care, she cares more than any one I know. And look, aunty." She pointed to a little parcel on the floor at Molly's side. A parcel very much done up with string, and an unnecessary amount of sealing-wax, and fastened to the parcel a little note addressed to "dear grandmother." "Shall I run with it to grandmother?" said Sylvia: and aunty nodding permission, off she set. She had not far to go. Coming down the garden-path she met grandmother, anxiously looking for news of Molly. "She's in old Marie's kitchen," said Sylvia, breathlessly, "and she's fallen fast asleep. She'd been crying so, old Marie said. And she had been writing this note for you, grandmother, and doing up this parcel." Without speaking, grandmother broke the very splotchy-looking red seal and read the note. "My dear, dear grandmother," it began, "Please do forgive me. I send you all my brooches. I don't _deserve_ to keep them for vexing you so. Only I didn't, oh, indeed, I didn't mean to _mock_ you, dear grandmother. It is that that I can't bear, that you should think so. It was a plan I had made to teach me to be careful, only I know it was silly--I am always thinking of silly things, but oh, _believe_ me, I would not make a joke of your teaching me to be good.--Your own dearest "MOLLY." "Poor little soul," said grandmother. "I wish I had not been so hasty with her. It will be a lesson to me;" and noticing that at this Sylvia looked up in surprise, she added, "Does it seem strange to you my little Sylvia, that an old woman like me should talk of having lessons? It is true all the same--and I hope, do you know, dear?--I hope that up to the very last of my life I shall have lessons to learn. Or rather I should say that I shall be able to learn them. That the lessons are there to be learnt, always and everywhere, we can never doubt." "But," said Sylvia, and then she hesitated. "But what, dear?" "I can't quite say what I mean," said Sylvia. "But it is something like this--I thought the difference between big people and children was that the big people _had_ learnt their lessons, and that was why they could help us with ours. I know what kind of lessons you mean--not _book_ ones--but being kind and good and all things like that." "Yes," said grandmother, "but to these lessons there is no limit. The better we have learnt the early ones, the more clearly we see those still before us, like climbing up mountains and seeing the peaks still rising in front. And knowing and remembering the difficulties we had long ago when _we_ first began climbing, we can help and advise the little ones who in their turn are at the outset of the journey. Only sometimes, as I did with poor Molly this morning, we forget, we old people who have come such a long way, how hard the first climbing is, and how easily tired and discouraged the little tender feet get." Grandmother gave a little sigh. "Dear grandmother," said Sylvia, "I am sure _you_ don't forget. But those people who haven't learnt when they were little, they can't teach others, grandmother, when they don't know themselves?" "Ah, no," said grandmother. "And it is not many who have the power or the determination to learn to-day the lessons they neglected yesterday. We all feel that, Sylvia, all of us. Only in another way we may get good out of that too, by warning those who have still plenty of time for all. But let us see if Molly is awake yet." No, she was still fast asleep. But when grandmother stooped over her and gently raised her head, which had slipped half off the stool, Molly opened her eyes, and gazed up at grandmother in bewilderment. For a moment or two she could not remember where she was; then it gradually came back to her. "Grandmother, will you forgive me?" she said. "I wrote a note, where is it?"--she looked about for it on the floor. "I have got it, Molly," said grandmother. "Forgive you, dear? of course I will if there is anything to forgive. But tell me now what was in your mind, Molly? What was the 'plan'?" "I thought," said Molly, sitting up and shaking her hair out of her eyes, "I thought, grandmother dear, that it would teach me to be careful and neat and not hurried in dressing if I wore _all_ my brooches every day for a good while--a month perhaps. For you know it is very difficult to put brooches in quite straight and neat, not to break the pins. It has always been such a trouble to me not to stick them in, in a hurry, any how, and that was how I broke so many. But I'll do just as you like about them. I'll leave off wearing them at all if you would rather." She looked up in grandmother's face, her own looking so white, now that the flush of sleep had faded from it, and her poor eyelids so swollen, that grandmother's heart was quite touched. "My poor little Molly," she said. "I don't think that will be necessary. I am sure you will try to be careful. But the next time you make a plan for teaching yourself any good habit, talk it over with me first, will you, dear?" Molly threw her arms round grandmother's neck and hugged her, and old Marie looked quite pleased to see that all was sunshine again. Just as they were leaving the cottage she came forward with a basketful of lovely apples. "They came only this morning, Madame," she said to grandmother. "Might she send them up to the house? The little young ladies would find them good." Grandmother smiled. "Thank you, Marie," she said. "Are they _the_ apples? oh, yes, of course. I see they are. Is there a good crop this year?" "Ah, yes, they seem always good now. The storms are past, it seems to me, Madame, both for me and my tree. But a few years now and they will be indeed all over for me. 'Tis to-morrow my fête day, Madame; that was why they sent the apples. They are very good to remember the old woman--my grand-nephews--I shall to-morrow be seventy-five, Madame." "Seventy-five!" repeated grandmother. "Ah, well, Marie, I am not so very far behind you, though it seems as if I were growing younger lately--does it not?--with my little girls and my boy beside me. You must come up to see us to-morrow that we may give you our good wishes. Thank you for the beautiful apples. Some day you must tell the children the history of your apple-tree, Marie." Marie's old face got quite red with pleasure. "Ah, but Madame is too kind," she said. "A stupid old woman like me to be asked to tell her little stories--but we shall see--some day, perhaps. So that the apples taste good, old Marie will be pleased indeed." "What is the story of Marie's apple-tree, grandmother?" said Sylvia, as they walked back to the house. "She must tell you herself," said grandmother. "She will be coming up to-morrow morning to see us, as it is her birthday, and you must ask her about it. Poor old Marie." "Has she been a long time with you, grandmother dear?" said Molly. "Twelve or thirteen years, soon after we first came here. She was in great trouble then, poor thing; but she will tell you all about it. She is getting old, you see, and old people are always fond of talking, they say--like your poor old grandmother--eh, Molly?" "_Grandmother_," said Molly, flying at her and hugging her, for by this time they were in the drawing-room again, and Molly's spirits had quite revived. The apples turned out very good indeed. Even Ralph, who, since he had been in France, had grown so exceedingly "John Bull," that he could hardly be persuaded to praise anything not English, condescended to commend them. "No wonder they're good," said Molly, as she handed him his second one, "they're _fairy_ apples I'm sure," and she nodded her head mysteriously. "Fairy rubbish," said Ralph, taking a good bite of the apple's rosy cheek. "Well, they're something like that, any way," persisted Molly. "Grandmother said so." "_I_ said so! My dear! I think your ears have deceived you." "Well, grandmother dear, I know you didn't exactly say so, but what you said made me think so," explained Molly. "Not quite the same thing," said grandmother. "You shall hear to-morrow all there is to tell--a very simple little story. How did you get on at school, to-day, Ralph?" "Oh, right enough," said Ralph. "Some of the fellows are nice enough. But some of them are awful cads. There's one--he's about thirteen, a year or so younger than I--his name's Prosper something or other--I actually met him out of school in the street, carrying a bundle of wood! A boy that sits next me in the class!" he added, with considerable disgust. "Is he a poor boy?" asked Sylvia. "No--at least not what you'd call a poor boy. None of them are that. But he got precious red, I can tell you, when he saw me--just like a cad." "Is he a naughty boy? Does he not do his lessons well?" asked grandmother. "Oh I daresay he does; he is not an ill-natured fellow. It was only so like a cad to go carrying wood about like that," said Ralph. "Ralph," said grandmother suddenly. "You never saw your uncle Jack, of course; has your father ever told you about him?" Ralph's face lighted up. "Uncle Jack who was killed in the Crimea?" he said, lowering his voice a little. "Yes, papa has told me how brave he was." "Brave, and gentle, and good," said grandmother, softly. "Some day, Ralph, I will read you a little adventure of his. He wrote it out to please me not long before his death. I meant to have sent it to one of the magazines for boys, but somehow I have never done so." "What is it about, grandmother? What is it called?" asked the children all together, Molly adding, ecstatically clasping her hands. "If you tell us stories, grandmother, it'll be _perfect_." "What is the little story about?" repeated grandmother. "I can hardly tell you what it is about, without telling the whole. The _name_ of it--the name your uncle gave to it, was 'That Cad Sawyer.'" Ralph said nothing, but somehow he had a consciousness that grandmother did not agree with him that carrying a bundle of wood through the streets proved that "a fellow" must certainly be a cad. CHAPTER VI. THE APPLE-TREE OF STÉFANOS. "And age recounts the feats of youth." THOMSON. "I was the only daughter among nine children," began old Marie, when the girls and Ralph had made her sit down in their own parlour, and they had all drunk her "good health and many happy returns" in raspberry vinegar and water, and then teased her till she consented to tell them her story. "That is to say, my little young ladies and young Monsieur, I had eight brothers. Not all my own brothers: my father had married twice, you see. And always when the babies came they wanted a little girl, for in the family of my grandfather too, there were but three boys, my father and his two brothers, and never a sister. And so one can imagine how I was fêted when I came, and of all none was so pleased as the old 'bon papa,' my father's father. He was already very old: in our family we have been prudent and not married boy and girl, as so many do now, and wish often they could undo it again. Before he had married he had saved and laid by, and for his sons there was something for each when they too started in life. For my father there was the cottage and the little farm at Stéfanos." "Where is Stéfanos, Marie?" interrupted Ralph. "Not so far, my little Monsieur; nine kilometers perhaps from Châlet." "Nine kilomètres; between five and six miles? We must have passed it when we were driving," said Ralph. "Without doubt," replied Marie. "Well, as I was saying, my father had the paternal house at Stéfanos for his when he married, and my uncles went to the towns and did for themselves with their portions. And the bon papa came, of course, to live with us. He was a kind old man--I remember him well--and he must have had need of patience in a household of eight noisy boys. They were the talk of the country, such fine men, and I, when I came, was such a tiny little thing, you would hardly believe there could be a child so small! And yet there was great joy. 'We have a girl at last,' they all cried, and as for the bon papa he knew not what to do for pleasure. "I shall have a little grand-daughter to lead me about when my sight is gone, I shall live the longer for this gift of thine,' he said to my mother, whom he was very fond of. She was a good daughter-in-law to him. She shall be called 'Marie, shall she not? The first girl, and so long looked for. And, Eulalie,' he told my mother, 'this day, the day of her birth, I shall plant an apple-tree, a seedling of the best stock, a 'reinette,' in the best corner of the orchard, and it shall be her tree. They shall grow together, and to both we will give the best care, and as the one prospers the other will prosper, and when trouble comes to the one, the other will droop and fade till again the storms have passed away. The tree shall be called 'le pommier de la petite.'" "My mother smiled; she thought it the fancy of the old man, but she was pleased he should so occupy himself with the little baby girl. And he did as he said: that very day he planted the apple-tree in the sunniest corner of the orchard. And he gave it the best of his care; it was watered in dry weather, the earth about its roots was kept loose, and enriched with careful manuring; no grass or weeds were allowed to cling about it, never was an apple-tree better tended." Marie paused. "It is not always those that get the most care that do the best in this world," she said, with a sigh. "There was my Louis, our eldest, I thought nothing of the others compared with him! and he ran away to sea and nearly broke my heart." "Did he ever come back again?" asked the children. Old Marie shook her head. "Never," she said. "But I got a letter that he had got the curé somewhere in the Amérique du sud--I know not where, I have not learnt all about the geography like these little young ladies--to write for him, before he died of the yellow fever. And he asked me to forgive him all the sorrows he had caused me: it was a good letter, and it consoled me much. That was a long time ago; my Louis would have been in the fifties by now, and my other children were obedient. The good God sends us comfort." "And about the apple-tree, tell us more, Marie," said Molly. "Did it do well?" "Indeed yes. Mademoiselle can judge, are not the apples good? Ah, yes, it did well, it grew and it grew, and the first walk I could take with the hand of the bon papa was to the apple-tree. And the first words I could say were 'Mi pommier à Malie.' Before many years there were apples, not so fine at the first, of course, but every year they grew finer and finer, and always they were for me. What we did not eat were sold, and the money given to me to keep for the Carnival, when the bon papa would take me to the town to see the sights." "And did you grow finer and finer too, Marie?" said Sylvia. Marie smiled. "I grew strong and tall, Mademoiselle," she said. "As for more than that it is not for me to say. But _they_ all thought so, the father and mother and the eight brothers, and the bon papa, of course, most of all. And so you see, Mademoiselle, the end was I got spoilt." "But the apple-tree didn't?" "No, the apple-tree did its work well. Only I was forgetting to tell you there came a bad year. Everything was bad--the cows died, the harvest was poor, the fruit failed. To the last, the bon papa hoped that 'le pommier de la petite' would do well, though nothing else did, but it was not so. There was a good show of blossom, but when it came to the apples, _every one_ was blighted. And the strange thing was, my little young ladies and little Monsieur, that that was the year the small-pox came--ah, it was a dreadful year!--and we all caught it." "_All?_" exclaimed Sylvia. "Yes, indeed, Mademoiselle--all the seven, that is to say, that were at home. I cannot remember it well--I was myself too ill, but we all had it. I was the worst, and they thought I would die. It was not the disease itself, but the weakness after that nearly killed me. And the poor bon papa would shake his head and say he might have known what was coming, by the apple-tree. And my mother would console him--she, poor thing, who so much needed consoling herself--by saying, 'Come, now, bon papa, the apple-tree lives still, and doubtless by next year it will again be covered with beautiful fruit. Let us hope well that our little one will also recover.' And little by little I began to mend--the mother's words came true--by the spring time I was as well as ever again, and the six brothers too. All of us recovered; we were strong, you see, very strong. And after that I grew so fast--soon I seemed quite a young woman." "And did the small-pox not spoil your beauty, Marie?" inquired Sylvia with some little hesitation. It was impossible to tell from the old woman's face now whether the terrible visitor had left its traces or not; she was so brown and weather worn--her skin so dried and wrinkled--only the eyes were still fine, dark, bright and keen, yet with the soft far-away look too, so beautiful in an old face. "No, Mademoiselle," Marie replied naïvely, "that was the curious part of it. There were some, my neighbour Didier for one, the son of the farmer Larreya----" "Why, Marie, that's _your_ name," interrupted Molly. "'Marie Larreya,'--I wrote it down the other day because I thought it such a funny name when grandmother told it me." "Well, well, Molly," said Sylvia, "there are often many people of the same name in a neighbourhood. Do let Marie tell her own story." "As I was saying," continued Marie, "many people said I had got prettier with being ill. I can't tell if it was true, but I was thankful not to be marked: you see the illness itself was not so bad with me as the weakness after. But I got quite well again, and that was the summer I was sixteen. My eldest brother was married that summer,--he was one of the two sons of my father's first marriage and he had been away for already some time from the paternal house. He married a young girl from Châlet; and ah, but we danced well at the marriage! I danced most of all the girls--there was my old friend Didier who wanted every dance, and glad enough I would have been to dance with him--so tall and straight he was--but for some new friends I made that day. They were the cousins of my brother's young wife--two of them from Châlet, one a maid in a family from Paris, and with them there came a young man who was a servant in the same family. They were pleasant, good-natured girls, and for the young man, there was no harm in him; but their talk quite turned my silly head. They talked of Châlet and how grandly the ladies there were dressed, and still more of Paris--the two who knew it--till I felt quite ashamed of being only a country girl, and the fête-day costume I had put on in the morning so proudly, I wished I could tear off and dress like my new friends. And when Didier came again to ask me to dance, I pushed him away and told him he tired me asking me so often. Poor Didier! I remember so well how he looked--as if he could not understand me--like our great sheep-dog, that would stare up with his soft sad eyes if ever I spoke roughly to him! "That day was the beginning of much trouble for me. I got in the way of going to Châlet whenever I could get leave, to see my new friends, who were always full of some plan to amuse themselves and me, and my home where I had been so happy I seemed no longer to care for. I must have grieved them all, but I thought not of it--my head was quite turned. "One day I was setting off for Châlet to spend the afternoon, when, just as I was leaving, the bon papa stopped me. "'Here, my child,' he said, holding out to me an apple; 'this is the first of this season's on thy pommier. I gathered it this morning--see, it is quite ripe--it was on the sunny side. Take it; thou mayest, perhaps, feel tired on the way.' "I took it carelessly. "'Thanks, bon papa,' I said, as I put it in my pocket. Bon papa looked at me sadly. "'It is never now as it used to be,' he said. 'My little girl has never a moment now to spare for the poor old man. And she would even wish to leave him for ever; for thou knowest well, my child, I could not live with the thought of thee so far away. When my little girl returned she would find no old grandfather, he would be lying in the cold church-yard.' "The poor old man held out his arms to me, but I turned away. I saw that his eyes were filled with tears--he was growing so feeble now--and I saw, too, that my mother, who was ironing at the table--work in which I could have helped her--stooped to wipe away a tear with the corner of her apron. But I did not care--my heart was hard, my little young ladies and young Monsieur--my heart was hard, and I would not listen to the voices that were speaking in my conscience. "'It is too bad,' I said, 'that the chances of one's life should be spoilt for such fancies;' and I went quickly out of the cottage and shut the door. But as I went I saw my poor bon papa lift his head, which he had bent down on his hands, and say to my mother, "'There will be no more apples this year on the pommier de la petite. Thou wilt see, my daughter, the fortune of the tree will leave it.' "I heard my mother say something meant to comfort him, but I only hurried away the faster. "What my grandfather meant about my wishing to leave him was this,--my new friends had put it in my head to ask my parents to consent to my going to Paris with the family in which the two that I told you of were maid and valet. They had spoken of me to their lady; she knew I had not much experience, and had never left home. She did not care for that, she said. She wanted a nice pretty girl to amuse her little boy, and walk out with him. And of course the young man, the valet, told me he knew she could not find a girl so pretty as I anywhere! I would find when I got to Paris, he said, how I would be admired, and then I would rejoice that I had not stayed in my stupid little village, where it mattered not if one had a pretty face or not. I had come home quite full of the idea--quite confident that, as I had always done exactly what I wished, I would meet with no difficulty. But to my astonishment, at the paternal house, one would not hear of such a thing! "'To leave us--thou, our only girl--to go away to that great Paris, where one is so wicked--where none would guard thee or care for thee? No, it is not to be thought of,' said my father with decision; and though he was a quiet man who seldom interfered in the affairs of the house, I knew well that once that he had said a thing with decision, it was done with--it would be so. "And my mother said gently, "'How could'st thou ask such a thing, Marie?' "And the bon papa looked at me with sad reproach; that was worse than all. "So this day--the day that bon papa had given me the first apple of the season--I was to go to Châlet to tell my friends it could not be, I felt very cross and angry all the way there. "'What have I done,' I said to myself, 'to be looked at as if I were wicked and ungrateful? Why should my life be given up to the fancies of a foolish old man like bon papa?' "And when I got to Châlet and told my friends it was not to be, their regret and their disappointment made me still more displeased. "'It is too much,' they all said, 'that you should be treated still like a bébé--you so tall and womanly that one might think you twenty.' "'And if I were thee, Marie,' said one, 'I would go all the same. They would soon forgive thee when they found how well things would go with thee at Paris. How much money thou wouldst gain!' "'But how could I go?' I asked. "Then they all talked together and made a plan. The family was to leave Châlet the beginning of the week following, sooner than they had expected. I should ask leave from my mother to come again to say good-bye the same morning that they were to start, and instead of returning to Stéfanos I should start with them for Paris. I had already seen the lady, a young creature who, pleased with my appearance, concerned herself little about anything else, and my friends would tell her I had accepted her offer. And for my clothes, I was to pack them up the evening before, and carry the parcel to a point on the road where the young man would meet me. They would not be many, for my pretty fête costumes, the dress of the country, which were my best possessions, would be of no use in Paris. "'And once there,' said my friend, 'we will dress thee as thou should'st be dressed. For the journey I can lend thee a hat. Thou could'st not travel with that ridiculous foulard on thy head, hiding all thy pretty hair.' "I remember there was a looking-glass in the room, and as Odette--that was the girl's name--said this, I glanced at myself. My poor foulard, I had thought it so pretty. It had been the 'nouvel an' of the bon papa! But I would not listen to the voice of my heart. I set out on my return home quite determined to carry out my own way. "It was such a hot walk that day. How well I remember it! my little young ladies and little Monsieur, you would hardly believe how one can remember things of fifty years ago and more, as if they were yesterday when one is old as I am! The weather had been very hot, and now the clouds looked black and threatening. "'We shall have thunder,' I said to myself, and I tried to walk faster, but I was tired, and oh, so hot and thirsty. I put my hand in my pocket and drew out the apple, which I had forgotten. How refreshing it was! "'Poor bon papa,' I said to myself. 'I wish he would not be so exacting. I do not wish to make him unhappy, but what can I do? One cannot be all one's life a little child.' "Still, softer thoughts were coming into my mind, I began to wish I had not given my decision, that I had said I would think it over. Paris was so far away; at home they might all be dead before I could hear, the poor bon papa above all; it was true he was getting very old. "Just then, at a turn in the road, I found myself in face of Didier, Didier Larreya. He was walking fast, his face looked stern and troubled. He stopped suddenly on seeing me; it was not often of late that we had spoken to each other. He had not looked with favour on my new friends, who on their side had made fun of him (though I had noticed the day of the wedding that Odette had been very ready to dance with him whenever he had asked her), and I had said to my silly self that he was jealous. So just now I would have passed him, but he stopped me. "'It is going to thunder, Marie,' he said. 'We shall have a terrible storm. I came to meet thee, to tell thee to shelter at our house; I told thy mother I would do so. I have just been to thy house.' "I felt angry for no reason. I did not like his watching me, and going to the house to be told of all my doings. I resented his saying 'thou' to me. "'I thank you, Monsieur Didier,' I said stiffly. 'I can take care of myself. I have no wish to rest at your house. I prefer to go home,' and I turned to walk on. "Didier looked at me, and the look in his eyes was very sad. "'Then it is true,' he said. "'What is true?' "'That you are so changed'--he did not say 'thou'--'that you wish to go away and leave us all. The poor bon papa is right.' "'What has bon papa been saying?' I cried, more and more angry, 'What is it to you what I do? Attend to your own affairs, I beg you, Monsieur Didier Larreya, and leave me mine.' "Didier stopped, and before I knew what he was doing, took both my hands in his. "'Listen, Marie,' he said. 'You _must_. You are scarcely more than a child, and I was glad for you to be so. It would not be me that would wish to see you all wise, all settled down like an old woman at your age. But you force me to say what I had not wished to say yet for a long time. I am older than you, eight years older, and I know my own mind. Marie, you know how I care for you, how I have always cared for you, you know what I hope may be some day? Has my voice no weight with you? I do not ask you now to say you care for me, you are too young, but I thought you would perhaps learn, but to think of you going away to Paris? Oh, my little Marie, you would never return to us the same!" "He stopped, and for a moment I stood still without speaking. In spite of myself he made me listen. He seemed to have guessed that though my parents had forbidden it, I had not yet given up the thoughts of going away, and in spite of my silly pride and my temper I was much touched by what he said, and the thought that if I went away he would leave off caring for me came to me like a great shock. I had never thought of it like that; I had always fancied that whatever I did I could keep Didier devoted to me; I had amused myself with picturing my return from Paris quite a grand lady, and how I would pretend to be changed to Didier, just to tease him. But now something in his manner showed me this would not do; if I defied him and my friends now, he would no longer care for me. Yet--would you believe it, my little young ladies and young Monsieur?--my naughty pride still kept me back. I turned from Didier in a rage, and pulled away my hands. "'I wish none of your advice or interference,' I said. 'I shall please myself in my affairs.' "I hurried away; he did not attempt to stop me, but stood there for a moment watching me. "'Good-bye, Marie,' he said, and then he called after me, 'Beware of the storm.' "I had still two miles to go. I hurried on, passing the Larreyas' farm, and just a minute or two after that the storm began. I heard it come grumbling up, as if out of the heart of the mountains at first, and then it seemed to rise higher and higher. I was not frightened, but yet I saw it was going to be a great storm--you do not know, my young ladies, what storms we have here sometimes--and I was so hot and so tired, and when the anger began to pass away I felt so miserable. I could not bear to go home and see them all with the knowledge in my heart of what I intended to do. When I got near to the orchard, which was about a quarter of a mile from the house, I felt, with all my feelings together, as if I could go no farther. The storm seemed to be passing over--for some minutes there had been no lightning or thunder. "'Perhaps after all it will only skirt round about us,' I said. And as I thought this I entered the orchard and sat down on my own seat, a little bench that--now many years ago--the bon papa had placed for me with his own hands beside my pommier. "I was so tired and so hot and so unhappy, I sat and cried. "'I wish I had not said I would go,' I thought. 'Now if I change one will mock so at me.' "I leaned my head against the trunk of my tree. I had forgotten about the storm. Suddenly, more suddenly than I can tell, there came a fearful flash of lightning--all about me seemed for a moment on fire--then the dreadful boom of the thunder as if it would shake the earth itself to pieces, and a tearing crashing sound like none I had ever heard before. I screamed and threw myself on the ground, covering my eyes. For a moment I thought I was killed--that a punishment had come to me for my disobedience. 'Oh! I will not go away. I will do what you all wish,' I called out, as if my parents could hear me. 'Bon papa, forgive me. Thy little girl wishes no longer to leave thee;' but no one answered, and I lay there in terror. Gradually I grew calmer--after that fearful crash the thunder claps seemed to grow less violent. I looked up at last. What did I see? The tree next to my pommier--the one but a yard or two from my bench--stood black and charred as if the burning hand of a great giant had grasped it; already some of its branches strewed the ground. And my pommier had not altogether escaped; one branch had been struck--the very branch on the sunny side from which bon papa had picked the apple, as he afterwards showed me! That my life had been spared was little less than a miracle." Marie paused.... [Illustration: UNDER THE APPLE-TREE.] "I left the orchard, my little young ladies and young Monsieur," she went on after a moment or two, "a very different girl from the one that had entered it. I went straight to the house, and confessed all--my naughty intention of leaving them all, my discontent and pride, and all my bad feelings. And they forgave me--the good people--they forgave me all, and bon papa took me in his arms and blessed me, and I promised him not to leave him while he lived. Nor did I--it was not so long--he died the next year, the dear old man! What would my feelings have been had I been away in Paris?" Old as she was, Marie stopped to wipe away a tear. "It is nearly sixty years ago, yet still the tears come when I think of it," she said. "He would not know me now if he saw me, the dear bon papa," she added. "I am as old as he was then! How it will be in heaven I wonder often--for friends so changed to meet again? But that we must leave to the good God; without doubt He will arrange it all." "And Didier, Marie?" said Sylvia, after a little pause. "Did you also make friends with him?" Marie smiled, and underneath her funny old brown wrinkled skin I almost think she blushed a little. "Ah yes, Mademoiselle," she said. "That goes without saying. Ah yes--Didier was not slow to make friends again--and though we said nothing about it for a long time, not till I was in the twenties, it came all as he wished in the end. And a good husband he made me." "Oh!" cried Molly, "I see--then _that's_ how your name is 'Larreya' too, Marie." They all laughed at her. "But grandmother said you had many more troubles, Marie," said Sylvia. "Long after, when first she knew you. She said you would tell us." "Ah yes, that is because the dear lady wishes not herself to tell how good she was to me!" said Marie. "I had many troubles after my husband died. I told you my son Louis was a great grief, and we were poor--very poor--I had a little fruit-stall at the market--" "Like my old woman in Paris," said Molly, nodding her head. "And there it was the dear lady first saw me," said Marie. "It was all through the apples--bon papa did well for me the day he planted that tree! They were so fine--Madame bought them for the poor gentleman who was ill--and then I came to tell her my history; and when she took this house she asked me to be her concierge. Since then I have no troubles--my daughter married, long ago of course, but she died, and her husband died, and the friends were not good for her children, and it was these I had to provide for--my grand-daughters. But now they are very well off--each settled, and so good to me! The married one comes with her bébé every Sunday, and the other, in a good place, sends me always a part of her wages. And my son too--he that went to Paris--he writes often. Ah yes, I am well satisfied! And always my great-nephews send me the apples--every year--their father and their grandfather made the promise, and it has never been broken. And still, my little young ladies and little Monsieur--still, the old apple-tree at the paternal house at Stéfanos, is called 'le pommier de la petite.'" "How nice!" said the children all together. "Thank you, Marie, thank you so much for telling us the story." CHAPTER VII. GRANDMOTHER'S GRANDMOTHER. "I'll tell you a story of Jack-o-my-nory, And now my story's begun. I'll tell you another of Jack and his brother, And now my story's done." OLD NURSERY RHYME. Marie's story was the subject of much conversation among the children. Sylvia announced her intention of writing it down. "She tells it so nicely," she said. "I could have written it down beautifully while she was talking, if she would have waited." "She would not have been able to tell it so nicely if she had known you were waiting to write down every word as she said it," remarked grandmother. "At least in her place I don't think _I_ could." A shriek from Molly here startled them all, or perhaps I should say, _would_ have done so, had they been less accustomed to her eccentric behaviour. "What is the matter now, my dear?" said aunty. "Oh," said Molly, gasping with eagerness, "grandmother's saying that _reminded_ me." "But what about, my dear child?" "About telling stories; don't you remember grandmother _dear_, I said you would be _perfect_ if you would tell us stories, and you didn't say you wouldn't." "And what's more, grandmother promised me one," said Ralph. "_Did_ I, my dear boy?" "Yes, grandmother," said Ralph, looking rather abashed, "don't you remember, grandmother--the day I called Prosper de Lastre a cad? I don't think he's a cad now," he added in a lower voice. "Ah yes, I remember now," said grandmother. "But do you know, my dears, I am so sorry I cannot find your Uncle Jack's manuscript. He had written it out so well--all I can find is the letter in which he first alluded to the incident, very shortly. However, I remember most of it pretty clearly. I will think it over and refresh my memory with the letter, and some day I will tell it to you." "Can't you tell it us to-night then, grandmother dear?" said Molly in very doleful tones. They were all sitting round the fire, for it was early December now, and fires are needed then, even at Châlet! What a funny fire some of you would think such a one, children! No grate, no fender, such as you are accustomed to see--just two or three iron bars placed almost on the floor, which serve to support the nice round logs of wood burning so brightly, but alas for grandmother's purse, so swiftly away! But the brass knobs and bars in front look cheery and sparkling, and then the indispensable bellows are a delightful invention for fidgety fingers like those of Ralph and Molly. How many new "nozzles" grandmother had to pay for her poor bellows that winter I should really be afraid to say! And once, to Molly's indescribable consternation, the bellows got on fire _inside_; there was no outward injury to be seen, but they smoked alarmingly, and internal crackings were to be heard of a fearful and mysterious description. Molly flew to the kitchen, and flung the bellows, as if they were alive, into a pan of water that stood handy. Doubtless the remedy was effectual so far as extinguishing the fire was concerned, but as for the after result on the constitution of the poor bellows I cannot report favourably, as they were never again fit to use. _And_, as this was the fourth pair spoilt in a month, Molly was obliged to give up half her weekly money for some time towards replacing them! But we are wandering away from the talk by the fire--grandmother and aunty in their low chairs working--the three children lying in various attitudes on the hearthrug, for hearthrug there was, seldom as such superfluities are to be seen at Châlet. Grandmother was too "English" to have been satisfied with her pretty drawing-room without one--a nice fluffy, flossy one, which the children were so fond of burrowing in that grandmother declared she would need a new one by the time the winter was over! "_Can't_ you tell it to us to-night then, grandmother dear?" said Molly. "I would rather think it over a little first," said grandmother. "You forget, Molly, that old people's memories are not like young ones. And, as Marie says, it is very curious how, the older one gets, the further back things are those that one remembers the most distinctly. The middle part of my life is hazy compared with the earlier part. I can remember the patterns of some of my dresses as a _very_ little girl--I can remember words said and trifling things done fifty years ago better than little things that happened last month." "How queer!" said Molly. "Shall we all be like that, grandmother dear, when we get old?" Grandmother laid down her knitting and looked at the children with a soft smile on her face. "Yes, dears, I suppose so. It is the 'common lot.' I remember once asking _my_ grandmother a question very like that." "_Your_ grandmother!" exclaimed all the children--Molly adding, "Had _you_ ever a grandmother, grandmother dear?" "Oh, Molly, how can you be so silly?" said Ralph and Sylvia, together. "I'm not silly," said Molly. "It is you that are silly not to understand what I mean. I am sure anybody might. Of course I mean can grandmother remember her--did she know her? Supposing anybody's grandmother died before they were born, then they wouldn't ever have had one, would they now?" Molly sat up on the rug, and tossed back her hair out of her eyes, convinced that her logic was unanswerable. "You shouldn't begin by saying 'anybody's grandmother,'" remarked Ralph. "You put anybody in the possessive case, which means, of course, that the grandmother belonged to the anybody, and _then_ you make out that the anybody never had one." Molly retorted by putting her fingers in her ears and shaking her head vehemently at her brother. "Be quiet, Ralph," she said. "What's the good of muddling up what I say, and making my head feel _so_ uncomfortable when you know quite well what I _mean_? Please, grandmother dear, will you go on talking as soon as I take my fingers out of my ears, and then he will have to leave off puzzling me." "And what am I to talk about?" asked grandmother. "Tell us about your grandmother. If you remember things long ago so nicely, you must remember story sort of things of then," said Molly insinuatingly. "I really don't, my dear child. Not just at this moment, anyhow." "Well, tell us _about_ your grandmother: what was she like? was she like you?" Grandmother shook her head. "That I cannot say, my dear; I have no portrait of her, nor have I ever seen one since I have been grown up. She died when I was about fifteen, and as my father was not the eldest son, few, if any, heirlooms fell to his share. And a good many years before my grandmother's death--at the time of her husband's death--the old home was sold, and she came to live in a curious old-fashioned house, in the little county town a few miles from where we lived. This old house had belonged to her own family for many, many years, and, as all her brothers were dead, it became hers. She was very proud of it, and even during my grandfather's life they used to come in from the country to spend the worst of the winter there. Dear me! what a long time back it takes us! were my grandmother living now, she would be--let me see--my father would have been a hundred years old by now. I was the youngest of a large family you know, dears. His mother would have been about a hundred and thirty. It takes us back to the middle of George the Second's reign." "Yes," said Molly so promptly, that every one looked amazed, "George the First, seventeen hundred and fourteen, George the Second, seventeen hundred and twenty-seven, George the Third, seventeen hundred and----" "When did you learn that--this morning I suppose?" observed Ralph with biting sarcasm. "No," said Molly complacently, "I always could remember the four Georges. Sylvia will tell you. _She_ always remembered the Norman Conquest, and King John, and so when we spoke about something to do with these dates when we were out a walk Miss Bryce used to be as pleased as pleased with us." "Is that the superlative of 'very pleased,' my dear Molly?" said aunty. Molly wriggled. "History is bad enough," she muttered. "I don't think we need have grammar too, just when I thought we were going to have nice story-talking. Did _you_ like lessons when you were little, grandmother dear?" she inquired in a louder voice. "I don't know that I did," said grandmother. "I was a very tom-boy little girl, Molly. And lessons were not nearly so interesting in those days as they are made now." "Then they must have been--_dreadful_," said Molly solemnly, pausing for a sufficiently strong word. "What did you like when you were little, grandmother?" said Sylvia. "I mean, what did you like best?" "I really don't know what I liked _best_," said grandmother. "There were so many nice things. Haymaking was delicious, so were snow-balling and sliding; blindman's buff and snapdragon at Christmas were not bad, nor were strawberries and cream in summer." The children drew a long breath. "Had you all those?" they said. "Oh, what a happy little girl you must have been!" "And all the year round," pursued grandmother, "there was another delight that never palled. When I look back upon myself in those days I cannot believe that ever a child was a greater adept at it." "What was that, grandmother?" said the children, opening their eyes. "_Mischief_, my dears," said grandmother. "The scrapes I got into of falling into brooks, tearing my clothes, climbing up trees and finding I could not get down again, putting my head through window-panes--ah dear, I certainly had nine lives." "And what did your grandmother say? Did she scold you?" asked Molly--adding in a whisper to Ralph and Sylvia, "Grandmother must have been an _awfully_ nice little girl." "My grandmother was to outward appearance quiet and rather cold," replied _their_ grandmother. "For long I was extremely afraid of her, till something happened which led to my knowing her true character, and after that we were friends for life--till her death. It is hardly worth calling a story, but I will tell it to you if you like, children." "Oh, _please_ do," they exclaimed, and Molly's eyes grew round with satisfaction at having after all inveigled grandmother into story telling. "I told you," grandmother began, "that my grandmother lived in a queer, very old-fashioned house in the little town near which was our home. It was such a queer house, I wish you could have seen it, but long ago it was pulled down, and the ground where it stood used for shops or warehouses. When you entered it, you saw no stair at all--then, on opening a door, you found yourself at the foot of a very high spiral staircase that went round and round like a corkscrew up to the very top of the house. By the by that reminds me of an adventure of my grandmother's which you might like to hear. It happened long before I was born, but she has often told it me. Ah, Molly, I see that twinkle in your eyes, my dear, and I know what it means! You think you have got grandmother started now--wound up--and that you will get her to go on and on; ah well, we shall see. Where was I? Taking you up the corkscrew stair. The first landing, if landing it could be called, it was so small, had several doors, and one of these led into a little ante-room, out of which opened again a larger and very pretty drawing-room. It was a long, rather narrow room, and what I admired in it most of all were wall cupboards with glass doors, within which my grandmother kept all her treasures. There were six of them at least--in two or three were books, of which, for those days, grandmother had a good many; another held Chinese and Indian curiosities, carved ivory and sandal-wood ornaments, cuscus grass fans, a pair or two of Chinese ladies' slippers--things very much the same as you may see some of now-a-days in almost every prettily furnished drawing-room. And one, or two perhaps, of the cupboards contained treasures which are rarer now than they were then--the _loveliest_ old china! Even I, child as I was, appreciated its beauty--the tints were so delicate and yet brilliant. My grandmother had collected much of it herself, and her taste was excellent. At her death it was divided, and among so many that it seemed to melt away. All that came to my share were those two handleless cups that are at the top of that little cabinet over there, and those were by no means the most beautiful, beautiful as they undoubtedly are. I was never tired of feasting my eyes on grandmother's china when I used to be sent to spend a day with her, which happened every few weeks. And _sometimes_, for a great treat, she used to open the wall cupboards and let me handle some of the things--for it is a curious fact that a child _cannot_ admire anything to its perfect satisfaction without touching it too, and looking back upon things now, I can see that despite her cold manner, my grandmother had a very good knowledge of children and a real love and sympathy for them. "One day--it was a late autumn day I remember, for it was just a few days after my ninth birthday--my birthday is on the fifteenth of November,--my mother told me that my father, having to drive to the town the following day, would take me with him to spend the day with grandmother. "'And Nelly,' said my mother, 'do try to be very good and behave prettily. I really fear, my dear, that you will never be like a young lady--it is playing so much with your brothers, I suppose, and you know grandmother is very particular. The last time you were there you know you dressed up the cat and frightened poor old Betsy (my grandmother's cook) so. Do try to keep out of mischief this time.' "'I can't,' I said. 'There is no one to play with there. I would rather stay at home;' and I teased my mother to say I need not go. But it was no good; she was firm about it--it was right that I, the only girl at home, should go to see my grandmother sometimes, and my mother repeated her admonitions as to my behaviour; and as I really loved her dearly I promised to 'try to be very good;' and the next morning I set off with my father in excellent spirits. There was nothing I liked better than a drive with him, especially in rather cold weather, for then he used to tuck me up so beautifully warm in his nice soft rugs, so that hardly anything but the tip of my nose was to be seen, and he would call me his 'little woman' and pet me to my heart's content. "When we reached my grandmother's I felt very reluctant to descend from my perch, and I said to my father that I wished he would take me about the town with him instead of leaving me there. "He explained to me that it was impossible--he had all sorts of things to do, a magistrate's meeting to attend, and I don't know all what. Besides which he liked me to be with my grandmother, and he told me I was a silly little goose when I said I was afraid of her. "My father entered the house without knocking--there was no need to lock doors in the quiet streets of the little old town, where everybody that passed up and down was known by everybody else, and their _business_ often known better by the everybody else than by themselves. We went up to the drawing-room, there was nobody there--my father went out of the room and called up the staircase, 'Mother, where are you?' "Then I heard my grandmother's voice in return. "'My dear Hugh--is it you? I am so sorry. I cannot possibly come down. It is the third Tuesday of the month. My wardrobe day.' "'And the little woman is here too. What shall I do with her?' said my father. He seemed to understand, though I did not, what 'wardrobe day' meant. "'Bring her up here,' my grandmother called back. 'I shall soon have arranged all, and then I can take her downstairs again.' "I was standing on the landing by my father by this time, and, far from loth to discover what my grandmother was about, I followed him upstairs. You have no idea, children, what a curious sight met me! My grandmother, who was a very little woman, was perched upon a high stool, hanging up on a great clothes-horse ever so many dresses, which she had evidently taken out of a wardrobe, close by, whose doors were wide open. There were several clothes-horses in the room, all more or less loaded with garments,--and oh, what queer, quaint garments some of them were! The clothes my grandmother herself had on--even those I was wearing--would seem curious enough to you if you could see them now,--but when I tell you that of those she was hanging out, many had belonged to _her_ grandmother, and mother, and aunts, and great-aunts, you can fancy what a wonderful array there was. Her own wedding-dress was among them, and all the coloured silks and satins she had possessed before her widowhood. And more wonderful even than the dresses were a few, not very many, for indeed no room or wardrobe would have held _very_ many, bonnets, or 'hats,' as I think they were then always called. Huge towering constructions, with feathers sticking straight up on the top, like the pictures of Cinderella's sisters in old-fashioned fairy-tale books--so enormous that any ordinary human head must have been lost in their depths." "Did you ever try one on, grandmother?" said Molly. Grandmother shook her head. "I should not have been allowed to take such a liberty," she said. "I stood and stared about me in perfect amazement without speaking for a minute or two, till my grandmother got down from her stool, and my father told me to go to speak to her. "'Are you going away, grandmother?' I said at last, my curiosity overcoming my shyness. 'Are these all your clothes? You will want a great many boxes to pack them in, and what queer ones some of them are!' "'Queer, my dear,' said my grandmother. 'They are certainly not like what you get now-a-days, if that is what you mean by queer. See here, Nelly, this is your great-grandmother's wedding dress--white Padusoy embroidered in gold--why, child, it would stand alone! And this salmon-coloured satin, with the pea-green slip--will the stuffs they dye now keep their colour like that a hundred years hence?' "'It's good strong stuff certainly,' said my father, touching it as he spoke. But then he went on to say to my grandmother that the days for such things were past. 'We don't want our clothes to last a century now, mother,' he said. 'Times are hurrying on faster, and we must make up our minds to go on with them and leave our old clothes behind. The world would get too full if everybody cherished bygone relics as you do.' "I don't think she much liked his talking so. She shook her head and said something about revolutionary ideas, which I didn't understand. But my father only laughed; his mother and he were the best of friends, though he liked to tease her sometimes. I wandered about the room, peeping in among the rows of quaint costumes, and thinking to myself what fun it would be to dress up in them. But after a while I got tired, and I was hungry too, so I was very glad when grandmother, having hung out the last dress to air, said we must go down to dinner--my father had left some time before----" "What did you have for dinner, grandmother?" said Sylvia. "It isn't that I care so much about eating," she added, blushing a little, "but I like to know exactly the sort of way people lived, you know." "Only I wish you wouldn't interrupt grandmother," said Molly. "I'm _so_ afraid it'll be bed-time before she finishes the story." "Which isn't yet begun--eh, Molly?" said grandmother. "I warned you my stories were sadly deficient in beginning and end, and middle too--in short they are not stories at all." "Never mind, they're _very_ nice," said Molly; "and if I may sit up till this one's done I don't mind your telling Sylvia what you had for dinner, grandmother dear." "Many thanks for your small majesty's gracious permission," said grandmother. "But as to what we had for dinner, I really can't say. Much the same as you have now, I fancy. Let me see--it was November--very likely a roast chicken and rice pudding." "Oh!" said Sylvia, in a tone of some disappointment; "go on then, please, grandmother." "Where was I?" said grandmother. "Oh yes--well, after dinner we went up to the drawing-room, and grandmother, saying she was a good deal tired by her exertions of the morning, sat down in her own particular easy chair by the fire, and, spreading over her face a very fine cambric handkerchief which she kept, I strongly suspect, for the purpose, prepared for her after-dinner nap. It was really a regular institution with her--but I noticed she always made some little special excuse for it, as if it was something quite out of the common. She told me to amuse myself during her forty winks by looking at the treasures in the glass-doored cupboards, which she knew I was very fond of admiring, and she told me I might open the book cupboard if I wanted to take out a book, but on no account any of the others. "Now I assure you, children, and by your own experience you will believe what I say, that, but for my grandmother's warnings, the idea of opening the glass doors when by myself would never have come into my head. I had often been in the drawing-room alone and gazed admiringly at the treasures without ever dreaming of examining them more closely. I had never even _wished_ to do so, any more than one wishes to handle the moon or stars or any other un-get-at-able objects. But now, unfortunately, the idea was suggested, it had been put into my head, and there it stayed. I walked round the room gazing in at the cupboards in turn--the book ones did not particularly attract me--long ago I had read, over and over again, the few books in my grandmother's possession that I could feel interested in, and I stood still at last in front of the prettiest cupboard of all, wishing that grandmother had not forbidden my opening it. There were such lovely cups and saucers! I longed to handle them--one in particular that I felt sure I had never seen before. It had a deep rose pink ground, and in the centre there was the sweetest picture of a dear little shepherdess curtseying to an equally dear little shepherd. "As I gazed at this cup the idea struck me that it would be delicious to dress one of my dolls in the little shepherdess's costume, and, eager to see it more minutely, I opened the glass door, and was just stretching up my hand for the cup, when I again remembered what my grandmother had said. I glanced round at her; she was fast asleep; there was no danger; what harm _could_ it do for me to take the cup into my hand for a moment? I stretched up and took it. Yes, it was really most lovely, and the little shepherdess's dress seemed to me a perfect facsimile of the one I had most admired upstairs in my grandmother's wardrobe--a pea-green satin over a pale pink or rather salmon-coloured quilted slip. I determined that Lady Rosabella should have one the same, and I was turning over in my mind the possibilities of getting satin of the particular shades I thought so pretty, when a slight sound in the direction, it seemed to me, of my grandmother's arm-chair, startled me. I turned round hastily--how it was I cannot tell, but so it was--the beautiful cup fell from my hands and lay at my feet in, I was going to say, a thousand fragments." "Oh!" exclaimed Sylvia and Molly--"oh, grandmother, what _did_ you do?" "First of all," grandmother continued, "first of all I stooped down and picked up the pieces. There were not a thousand of them--not perhaps above a dozen, and after all, grandmother was sleeping quietly, but to all appearance soundly. The sound that had startled me must have been a fancied one, I said to myself, and oh dear, what a terrible pity I had been startled! "I gathered the bits together in my handkerchief, and stood staring at them in perfect despair. I dared not let myself burst out crying as I was inclined to do, for grandmother would have heard me and asked what was the matter, and I felt that I should sink into the earth with shame and terror if she saw what I had done, and that I had distinctly disobeyed her. My only idea was to conceal the mischief. I huddled the bits up together in my handkerchief, and huddled the handkerchief into my pocket--the first pocket I had ever had, I rather think--and then I looked up to see if the absence of the cup was very conspicuous. I thought not; the saucer was still there, and by pulling one or two of the other pieces of china forward a little, I managed to make it look as if the cup was just accidentally hidden. To reach up to do this, I had to draw forward a chair; in getting down from it again I made some little noise, and I looked round in terror to see if grandmother was awake. No, she was still sleeping soundly. _What_ a blessing! I got out of one of the book cupboards a book I had read twenty times at least, and sitting down on a stool by the fire I pretended to read it again, while really all my ideas were running on what I should, what I _could_ do. For I had no manner of doubt that before long the accident would be discovered, and I felt sure that my grandmother's displeasure would be very severe. I knew too that my having tried to conceal it would make her far less ready to forgive me, and yet I felt that I _could_ not make up my mind to confess it all. I was so miserable that it was the greatest relief to me a minute or two afterwards to hear the hall door open and my father's hearty voice on the stair." "'I have come to fetch you rather sooner than I said, little woman,' he exclaimed, as he came in, and then he explained that he had promised to drive a friend who lived near us home from the town in our gig, and that this friend being in a hurry, we must leave earlier than usual. My grandmother had wakened up of course with my father's coming in. It seemed to me, or was it my fancy?--that she looked graver than usual and rather sad as she bade us good-bye. She kissed me very kindly, more tenderly than was her habit, and said to my father that he must be sure to bring me again very soon, so that as I was going downstairs with him, he said to me that he was glad to see how fond grandmother was getting of me, and that he would bring me again next week. _I_ did not feel at all pleased at this--I felt more unhappy than ever I had done in my life, so that my father, noticing it, asked what was the matter. I replied that I was tired and that I did not care for going to grandmother's, and then, when I saw that this ungracious answer vexed my kind father, I felt more and more unhappy. Every moment as we walked along--we were to meet the carriage at the inn where it had been left--the bits of broken china in my pocket bumped against my leg, as if they would not let themselves be forgotten. I wished I could stop and throw them away, but that was impossible. I trudged along, gloomy and wretched, with a weight on my heart that it seemed to me I would never get rid of. Suddenly--so suddenly that I could hardly believe my own senses, something caught my eye that entirely changed my whole ideas. I darted forward, my father was a few steps in front of me--the footpath was so narrow in the old town that there was often not room for two abreast--_and_----" Just at this moment the door opened, and grandmother's maid appeared with the tea-tray. Molly gave an impatient shake. "Oh, _what_ a bother!" she said. "I quite forgot about tea. And immediately after tea it is always time for us to go to bed. It is eight o'clock now, oh grandmother, _do_ finish the story to-night." "And why cannot my little girl ask it without all those shakes and 'bothers?'" said grandmother. She spoke very gently, but Molly looked considerably ashamed. "Yes, grandmother dear," she replied meekly. Then she got up from the rug and stood by aunty patiently, while she poured out the tea, first "grandmothering" each cup to keep it from slipping about, then warming them with a little hot water, then putting in the beautiful yellow cream, the sugar, and the nice rich brown tea, all in the particular way grandmother liked it done. And during the process, Molly did not once wriggle or twist with impatience, so that when she carried grandmother's tea to her, very carefully and steadily, without a drop spilling over into the saucer in the way grandmother disliked to see, she got a kiss by way of reward, and what was still better perhaps, grandmother looked up and said, "That's _my_ good little woman. There is not much more of what you call 'my story,' to tell, but such as it is, you may sit up to hear it, if you like." CHAPTER VIII. GRANDMOTHER'S STORY----(_continued_). "O while you live, tell truth." HENRY IV., Part 1. So in a few minutes they were all settled again, and grandmother went on. "We were walking through a very narrow street, I was telling you--was I not? when I caught sight of something that suddenly changed my ideas. 'What was this something?' you are all asking, I see. It was a china cup in a shop window we were passing, a perfect match it seemed to me of the unfortunate one still lamenting its fate by rattling its bits in my pocket! It was a shabby little old shop, of which there were a good many in the town, filled with all sorts of curiosities, and quite in the front of the window, as conspicuous as if placed there on purpose, stood the cup. I darted forward to beg my father to let me wait a moment, but just then, curiously enough, he had met a friend and was standing talking to him, and when I touched his arm, he turned rather hastily, for, as I told you, he had not been pleased with my way of replying about my grandmother. And he said to me I must not be so impatient, but wait till he had finished speaking to Mr. Lennox. I asked him if I might look in at the shop window, and he said 'Yes, of course I might,' so I flew back, the bits rattle-rattling in my pocket, and stood gazing at the twin-cup. I must tell you that I happened to have in my possession an unusual amount of money just then--ten shillings, actually ten whole shillings, which my father had given me on my birthday, and as I always brought my purse with me when I came into the town, there it was all ready! I looked and looked at the cup till I was satisfied it was a perfect match, then glancing up the street and seeing my father still talking to his friend, I crept timidly into the shop, and asked the price of the pink cup and saucer in the window. "The old man in the shop was a German; afterwards my grandmother told me he was a Jew, and well accustomed to having his prices beaten down. He looked at me curiously and said to me, "'Ach! too moch for leetle young lady like you. Zwanzig--twenty schelling, that cup. Old lady bought von, vill come again buy anoder. Zwanzig--twenty schelling.' "I grew more and more eager. The old lady he spoke of must be my grandmother; I had often heard my father laugh at her for poking about old shops; I felt perfectly certain the cups were exactly alike. I begged the old man to let me have it, and opened my purse to show him all I had--the ten shilling piece, two sixpences and a fourpenny, and a few coppers. That was all, and the old man shook his head. It was too little, 'twenty schelling,' he repeated, or at the very least, to oblige the 'young lady,' fifteen. I said to him I had not got fifteen--eleven and nine-pence was everything I possessed, and at last, in my eagerness, I nearly burst into tears. I really do not know if the old man was sorry for me, or if he only thought of getting my money; however that may have been, he took my purse out of my hand and slowly counted out the money. I meanwhile, nearly dancing with impatience, while he repeated 'nine-pence, von schelling, zehn schelling ach vell, most be, most be,' and to my great delight he handed me the precious cup and saucer, first wrapping them up in a dirty bit of newspaper. [Illustration: ZWANZIG--TWENTY SCHELLING, THAT CUP.] "Then he took the ten-shilling piece out of my purse, and handed it back to me, leaving me in possession of my two sixpences, my fourpenny bit, and my five coppers. "I flew out of the shop, thanking the old man effusively, and rushed up the street clutching my treasure, while rattle-rattle went the bones of its companion in my pocket. My father was just shaking hands with Mr. Lennox and turning round to look for me, when I ran up. Mr. Lennox, it appeared, was the gentleman who was to have driven home with us, but something had occurred to detain him in the town, and he was on his way to explain this to my father when we met him. "My father was rather silent and grave on the way home; he seemed to have forgotten that I had said anything to vex him; some magistrates' business had worried him, and it was that that he had been talking about to Mr. Lennox. He said to me that he was half afraid he would have to drive into the town again the next day, adding, 'It is a pity Lennox did not know in time. By staying a little later, we might have got all done.' "To his astonishment I replied by begging him to let me come with him again the next day. He said to me, 'Why, Nelly, you were just now saying you did not care for going to see your grandmother, that it was dull, and tired you. What queer creatures children are.' "I felt my cheeks grow hot, but I replied that I was sorry I had said that, and that I did want very much to go to see my grandmother again. Of course you will understand, children, that I was thinking about the best chance of putting back the cup, or rather its substitute, but my dear father thought I was sorry for having vexed him, and that I wanted to please him by asking to go again, so he readily granted my request. But I felt far from happy that evening at home, when something was said about my wanting to go again, and one of my brothers remarking that I must surely have enjoyed myself very greatly at my grandmother's, my father and mother looked at me kindly and said that their little Nelly liked to please others as well as herself. Oh how guilty I felt! I hated having anything to conceal, for I was by nature very frank. And oh, what a torment the poor cup and saucer were! I got rid of the bits by throwing them behind a hedge, but I could not tell where to hide my purchase, and I was so terribly afraid of breaking it. It was a relief to my mind the next morning when it suddenly struck me that I need not take the saucer too, the cup was enough, as the original saucer was there intact, and the cup was much easier to carry by itself. "When we got to the town my father let me down at my grandmother's without coming in himself at all, and went off at once to his business. The door was open, and I saw no one about. I made my way up to the drawing-room as quickly and quietly as possible; to my great satisfaction there was no one there. I stole across the room to the china cupboard, drew forward a chair and climbed upon it, and, in mortal fear and trembling, placed the cup on the saucer waiting for it. They seemed to match exactly, but I could not wait to see any more--the sound of some one coming along the ante-room reached my ears--I had only just time to close the door of the cupboard, jump down and try to look as if nothing were the matter, when my grandmother entered the room. She came up to me with both her hands out-stretched in welcome, and a look on her face that I did not understand. She kissed me fondly, exclaiming, "'My own dear little Nelly. I thought you would come. I knew you would not be happy till you had----.' But she stopped suddenly. I had drawn a little back from her, and again I felt my face get red. Why would people praise me when I did not deserve it? My grandmother, I supposed, thought I had come again because I had felt conscious of having been not particularly gracious the day before--whereas I knew my motive to have been nothing of the kind. "'Papa was coming again, and he said I might come. I have nothing to do at home just now. It's holidays,' I said abruptly, my very honesty _now_ leading me into misrepresentations, as is constantly the case once one has quitted the quite straight path of candour. "My grandmother looked pained and disappointed, but said nothing. But _never_ had she been kinder. It was past dinner time, but she ordered tea for me an hour earlier than her usual time, and sent down word that the cook was to bake some girdle-cakes, as she knew I was fond of them. And what a nice tea we might have had but for the uncomfortable little voice that kept whispering to me that I did not deserve all this kindness, that I was deceiving my grandmother, which was far worse than breaking twenty cups. I felt quite provoked with myself for feeling so uneasy. I had thought I should have felt quite comfortable and happy once the cup was restored. I had spent all, or very nearly all, my money on it. I said to myself, Who could have done more? And I determined not to be so silly and to think no more about it--but it was no good. Every time my grandmother looked at me, every time she spoke to me--worst of all when the time came for me to go and she kissed me, somehow so much more tenderly than usual, and murmured some words I could not catch, but which sounded like a little prayer, as she stroked my head in farewell--it was dreadfully hard not to burst into tears and tell her all, and beg her to forgive me. But I went away without doing so. "Half way home a strange thought came suddenly into my mind. It seemed to express the unhappiness I was feeling. Supposing my grandmother were to die, supposing I were never to see her again, would I _then_ feel satisfied with my behaviour to her, and would I still say to myself that I had done all for the best in spending my money on a new cup? Would I not then rather feel that it would have been less grievous to my grandmother to know of my breaking twenty cups, than to discover the concealment and want of candour into which my cowardliness had led me? "'If grandmother were _dead_, I suppose she would know all about it,' I said to myself. 'I would not like to think of that. I would rather have told her myself.' "And I startled my father by turning to him suddenly and asking if grandmother was very old. He replied, 'Not so very. Of course she is not _young_, but we may hope to have her among us many a day yet if God wills it, my little woman.' "I gave a sigh of relief. 'I know she is very strong,' I said. 'She is very seldom ill, and she can take quite long walks still.' "Thank God for it,' said my father, evidently pleased with my interest in my grandmother. And although it was true that already I was beginning to love her much more than formerly, still my father's manner gave me again the miserable feeling that I was gaining credit which I did not deserve. "More than a week passed after this without my seeing my grandmother. It was not a happy week for me. I felt quite unlike my old light-hearted self. And constantly--just as when one has a tender spot anywhere, a sore finger for instance, everything seems to rub against it--constantly little allusions were made which appeared to have some reference to my concealment. Something would be said about my birthday present, and my brothers would ask me if I had made up my mind what I should buy with it, or they would tease me about my sudden fancy for spending two days together with my grandmother, and ask me if I was not in a hurry to go to see her again. I grew irritable and suspicious, and more and more unhappy, and before long those about me began to notice the change. My father and mother feared I was ill--'Nelly is so unlike herself,' I heard them say. My brothers openly declared 'there was no fun in playing with me now, I had grown so cross.' I felt that it was true--indeed both opinions were true, for I really _was_ getting ill with the weight on my mind, which never, night or day, seemed to leave it. "At last one day my father told me that he was going to drive into the little town where my grandmother lived, the next day, and that I was to go with him to see her. I noticed that he did not ask me, as usual, if I would like to go; he just said I must be ready by a certain hour, and gave me no choice in the matter. I did not want to go, but I was afraid of making any objection for fear of their asking my reasons, so I said nothing, but silently, and to all appearance I fear, sulkily, got ready as my father desired. We had a very quiet drive; my father made no remarks about my dullness and silence, and I began to be afraid that something had been found out, and that he was taking me to my grandmother's to be 'scolded,' as I called it in my silly little mind. I glanced up at his face as I sat beside him. No, he did not look severe, only grave and rather anxious. Dear father! Afterwards I found that he and my mother had been really _very_ anxious about me, and that he was taking me to my grandmother, by her express wish, to see what she thought of the state of matters, before consulting a doctor or trying change of air, or anything of that kind. And my grandmother had particularly asked him to say nothing more to myself about my own unsatisfactory condition, and had promised him to do her utmost to put things right. "Well--we got to my grandmother's--my father lifted me out of the carriage, and I followed him upstairs--my grandmother was sitting in the drawing-room, evidently expecting us. She came forward with a bright kind smile on her face, and kissed me fondly. Then she said to my father she was so glad he had brought me, and she hoped I would have a happy day. And my father looked at me as he went away with a sort of wistful anxiety that made me again have that horrible feeling of not deserving his care and affection. And oh, how I wished the long day alone with my grandmother were over! I could not bear being in the drawing-room, I was afraid of seeming to glance in the direction of the china cupboard; I felt miserable whenever my grandmother spoke kindly to me. "And how kind she was that day! If ever a little girl _should_ have been happy, that little girl was I. Grandmother let me look over the drawers where she kept her beautiful scraps of silk and velvet, ever so many of which she gave me--lovely pieces to make a costume such as I had fancied for Lady Rosabelle, but which I had never had the heart to see about. She let me 'tidy' her best work-box--a _wonderful_ box, full of every conceivable treasure and curiosity--and then, when I was a little tired with all my exertions, she made me sit down on a footstool at her feet and talked to me so nicely--all about when _she_ was a little girl--fancy that, Molly, your great-great-grandmother ever having been a little girl!--and about the queer legends and fairy tales that in those days were firmly believed in in the far-away Scotch country place where her childhood was spent. For the first time for all these unhappy ten days, I began to feel like myself again. Sitting there at my grandmother's feet listening to her I actually forgot my troubles, though I was in the very drawing-room I had learnt so to dread, within a few yards of the cupboard I dared not even glance at. "There came a little pause in the conversation; I leaned my head against my grandmother's knee. "'I wish there were fairies now,' I said. 'Don't you, grandmother?' "Grandmother said 'no, on the whole she preferred things being as they were.' There were _some_ fairies certainly she would be sorry to lose, Princess Sweet-temper, and Lady Make-the-best-of-it, and old Madame Tidy, and, most of all perhaps, the beautiful fairy _Candour_. I laughed at her funny way of saying things, but yet something in her last words made the uneasy feeling come back again. Then my grandmother went on talking in a different tone. "'Do you know, Nelly,' she said, 'queer things happen sometimes that one would be half inclined to put down to fairies if one did not know better?' "I pricked up my ears. "'Do tell me what sort of things, grandmother,' I said eagerly. "'Well'--she went on, speaking rather slowly and gravely, and very distinctly--'the other day an extraordinary thing happened among my china cups in that cupboard over there. I had one pink cup, on the side of which was--or is--the picture of a shepherdess curtseying to a shepherd. Now this shepherdess when I bought the cup, which was only a few days ago, was dressed--I am _perfectly_ certain of it, for her dress was just the same as one I have upstairs in my collection--in a pale pink or salmon-coloured skirt, looped up over a pea-green slip--the picture of the shepherdess is repeated again on the saucer, and there it still is as I tell you. But the strangest metamorphosis has taken place in the cup. I left it one morning as I describe, for you know I always dust my best china myself. Two days after, when I looked at it again, the shepherdess's attire was changed--she had on no longer the pea-green dress over the salmon, but a _salmon_ dress over a _pea-green_ slip. Did you ever hear anything so strange, Nelly?' "I turned away my head, children; I dared not look at my grandmother. What should I say? This was the end of my concealment. It had done _no_ good--grandmother must know it all now, I could hide it no longer, and she would be far, far more angry than if at the first I had bravely confessed my disobedience and its consequences. I tried to speak, but I could not. I burst into tears and hid my face. "Grandmother's arm was round me in a moment, and her kind voice saying, 'Why, what is the matter, my little Nelly?' "I drew myself away from her, and threw myself on the floor, crying out to grandmother not to speak kindly to me. "'You won't love me when you know,' I said. 'You will never love me again. It was _me_, oh grandmother! It was me that changed the cup. I got another for you not to know. I spent all my money. I broke it, grandmother. When you told me not to open the cupboard, I did open it, and I took out the cup, and it fell and was broken, and then I saw another in a shop window, and I thought it was just the same, and I bought it. It cost ten shillings, but I never knew it wasn't quite the same, only now it doesn't matter. You will never love me again, and nobody will. Oh dear, oh dear, what _shall_ I do?' "'Never love you again, my poor dear faithless little girl,' said grandmother. 'Oh, Nelly, my child, how little you know me! But oh, I am so glad you have told me all about it yourself. That was what I was longing for. I did so want my little girl to be true to her own honest heart.' "And then she went on to explain that she had known it all from the first. She had not been asleep the day that I disobediently opened the cupboard, at least she had wakened up in time to see what had happened, and she had earnestly hoped that I would make up my mind to tell it frankly. That was what had so disappointed her the next day when she had quite thought I had come on purpose to tell it all. Then when my father had come to consult her about the queer state I seemed to be in, she had not felt surprised. She had quite understood it all, though she had not said so to him, and she had resolved to try to win my confidence. She told me too that she had found out from the old German about my buying the cup, whose reappearance she could not at first explain. "'I went to his shop the very next morning,' she told me, 'to see if he still had the fellow to the cup I had bought, as I knew he had two of them, and he told me the other had been bought by a little girl. Ten shillings was too much to give for it, Nelly, a great deal too much for you to give, and more than the cup was really worth. It was not a very valuable cup, though the colour was so pretty that I was tempted to buy it to place among the others.' "'I don't mind about the money, grandmother,' I replied. 'I would have given ever so much more if I had had it. You will keep the cup now?' I added. 'You won't make me take it back to the old man? And oh, grandmother, will you really forgive me?' "She told me she had already done so, fully and freely, from the bottom of her heart. And she said she would indeed keep the cup, as long as she lived, and that if ever again I was tempted to distrust her I must look at it and take courage. And she explained to me that even if there had been reason for my fears, 'even if I had been a very harsh and severe grandmother, your concealment would have done no good in the end,' she said. 'It would have been like the first little tiny seed of deceit, which might have grown into a great tree of evil, poisoning all your life. Oh, Nelly, never _never_ plant that seed, for once it has taken root who can say how difficult it may be to tear it up?' "I listened with all my attention; I could not help being deeply impressed with her earnestness, and I was so grateful for her kindness that her advice found good soil ready to receive it. And how many, many times in my life have I not recalled it! For, Ralph and Sylvia and Molly, my darlings, remember this--even to the naturally frank and honest there come times of sore temptation in life, times when a little swerving from the straight narrow path of uprightness would seem to promise to put all straight when things have gone wrong, times when the cost seems so little and the gain so great. Ah! yes, children, we need to have a firm anchor to hold by at these times, and woe for us then if the little evil seed has been planted and has taken root in our hearts." Grandmother paused. The children too were silent for a moment or two. Then Sylvia said gently, "Did you tell your father and mother all about it, grandmother?" "Yes," said grandmother, "I did--all about it. I told them everything. It was my own choice. My grandmother left it to myself. She would not tell them; she would leave it to me. And, of course, I did tell them. I could not feel happy till I had done so. They were very kind about it, _very_ kind, but still it was to my grandmother I felt the most grateful and the most drawn. From that time till her death, when I was nearly grown up, she was my dearest counsellor and guide. I had no concealment from her--I told her everything. For her heart was so wonderfully young; to the very last she was able to sympathise in all my girlish joys, and sorrows, and difficulties." "Like you, grandmother dear," said Molly, softly stroking her grandmother's hand, which she had taken in hers. "She must have been just like you." They all smiled. "And when she died," pursued grandmother gently, almost as if speaking to herself, "when she died and all her things were divided, I begged them to give me the pink cup. I might have had a more valuable one instead, but I preferred it. It is one of those two over there on the little cabinet." Molly's eyes turned eagerly in the direction of the little cabinet. "Grandmother dear," she said, solemnly, "when you die--I don't _want_ you to die, you know of course, but when you _do_ die, I wish you would say that _I_ may have that cup--will you? To remind me, you know, of what you have been telling us. I quite understand how you mean: that day all my brooches were broken, I did awfully want not to tell you about them all, and I might forget, you see, about the little bad seed and all that, that you have been telling us so nicely. Please, grandmother dear, _may_ I have that cup when you die?" "Molly," said Sylvia, her face growing very red, "it is perfectly horrible of you to talk that way. I am quite ashamed of you. Don't mind her, grandmother. She just talks as if she had no sense sometimes. How _can_ you, Molly?" she went on, turning again to her sister, "how _can_ you talk about dear grandmother dying? _Dear_ grandmother, and you pretend to love her." Molly's big blue eyes opened wide with astonishment, then gradually they grew misty, and great tears welled up to their surface. "I don't _pretend_--I _do_ love her," she said. "And I don't _want_ you to die, grandmother dear, do I? only we all must die some time. I didn't mean to talk horribly. I think you are very unkind, Sylvia." "Children, children," said grandmother's gentle voice, "I don't like these words. I am sure Molly did not mean anything I would not like, Sylvia dear, but yet I know how _you_ mean. Don't be in such a hurry to judge each other. And about the cup, Molly, I'll consider, though I hope and believe you will not need it to remind you of the lesson I want to impress on you by the story of my long-ago troubles. Now kiss each other, dears, and kiss me, for it is quite bed-time. Good-night, my little girls. Ralph, my boy, open the door for your sisters, and pleasant dreams to you all." CHAPTER IX. RALPH'S CONFIDENCE. "Sad case it is, as you may think For very cold to go to bed; And then for cold not sleep a wink." WORDSWORTH'S _Goody Blaks_ "Grandmother," said Ralph, when they were all sitting at breakfast the next morning, "didn't you say that your grandmother once had an adventure that we might like to hear? It was at the beginning of the story you told us--I think it was something about the corkscrew staircase. I liked the story awfully, you know, but I'm fearfully fond of adventures." Grandmother smiled. "I remember saying something about it," she said, "but it is hardly worth calling an adventure, my boy. It showed her courage and presence of mind, however. She was a very brave little woman." "Presence of mind," repeated Ralph. "Ah yes! that's a good thing to have. There's a fellow at our school who saved a child from being burnt to death not long ago. It was his little cousin where he lives. It wasn't he that told me about it, he's too modest, it was some of the other fellows." "Who is he? what's his name?" asked Molly. "Prosper de Lastre," replied Ralph. "He's an awful good fellow every way." "Prosper de Lastre!" repeated Molly, who possessed among other peculiarities that of a sometimes most inconveniently good memory. "Prosper de Lastre! I do believe, Ralph, that's the very boy you called a cad when you first went to school." Ralph's face got very red, and he seemed on the verge of a hasty reply. But he controlled himself. "Well, and if I did," he said somewhat gruffly, "a fellow may be mistaken, mayn't he? I don't think him a cad _now_, and that's all about it." Molly was preparing some rejoinder when grandmother interrupted her. "You are quite right, Ralph, _quite_ right not to be above owning yourself mistaken. Who _can_ be above it really? not the wisest man that ever lived. And Molly, my dear little girl, why can you not learn to be more considerate? Do you know what 'tact' is, Molly? Did you ever hear of it?" "Oh yes, grandmother dear," said Molly serenely. "It means--it means--oh I don't quite know, but I'm sure I do know." "Think of it as meaning the not saying or doing to another person whatever in that other's place you would not like said or done to you--that is _one_ meaning of tact anyway, and a very good one. Will you try to remember it, Molly?" Molly opened her eyes. "Yes, grandmother dear, I will try. But I _think_ all that will be rather hard to remember, because you see people don't feel the same. My head isn't twisty-turny enough to understand things like that, quickly. I like better to go bump at them, quite straight." "Without, in nine cases out of ten, the faintest idea what you are going to go bump straight at," said aunty, laughing. "Oh, Molly, you are irresistible!" The laughing at her had laughed back Ralph's good humour anyway, and now he returned to the charge. "Twisty-turny is like a corkscrew, grandmother," he said slyly, "and once there was an old house with a corkscrew stair----" "Yes," said grandmother, "and in that old house there once lived an old lady, who, strange to say, was not always old. She was not very old at the time of the 'adventure.' You remember, children, my telling you that during her husband's life, my grandmother and he used to spend part of the winter in the old house where she afterwards ended her days. My grandfather used to drive backwards and forwards to his farms, of which he had several in the neighbourhood, and the town was a sort of central place for the season of bad weather and short days. Sometimes he used to be kept rather late, for besides his own affairs, he had, like his son, my father, a good deal of magistrate's business to attend to. But however late he was detained my grandmother always sat up for him, generally in a little sitting-room she had on the storey above the long drawing-room I have described to you, almost, that is to say, at the top of the house, from attic to basement of which ran the lung 'twisty-turny, corkscrew staircase.' One evening, about Christmas time it was, I think, my grandfather was very late of coming home. My grandmother was not uneasy, for he had told her he would be late, and she had mentioned it to the servants, and told them they need not sit up. So there she was, late at night, alone, sewing most likely--ah girls, I wish I could show you some of her sewing--in her little parlour. She was not the least nervous, yet it was a little 'eerie' perhaps, sitting up there alone so late, listening for her husband's whistle--he always whistled when he was late, so that she might be _sure_ it was he, when she went down to open the door at his knock--and more than once she looked at the clock and wished he would come. Suddenly a step outside the room, coming up the stair, made her start. She had hardly time to wonder confusedly if it could be my grandfather, knowing all the time it could _not_ be he--the doors were all supposed to be locked and barred, and could only be opened from the inside--when the door was flung open and some one looked in. Not my grandfather certainly; the man who stood in the doorway was dressed in some sort of rough workman's clothes, and his face was black and grimy. That was all she had time to catch sight of, for, not expecting to see her there, the intruder, startled, turned sharply round and made for the stair. Up jumped my little grandmother; she took it all in in an instant, and saw that her only chance was to take advantage of his momentary surprise and start at seeing her. Up she jumped and rushed bravely after him, making all the clatter she could. Downstairs he flew, imagining very probably in his fright that two or three people instead of one little woman were at his heels, and downstairs, round and round the corkscrew staircase, she flew after him. Never afterwards, she has often since told me, did she quite lose the association of that wild flight, never could she go downstairs in that house without the feeling of the man before her, and seeming to hear the rattle-rattle of a leathern apron he was wearing, which clattered against the banisters as he ran. But she kept her head to the end of the chase; she followed him--all in the dark, remember--down to the bottom of the staircase, and, guided by the clatter of his apron, through a back kitchen in the basement which opened into a yard--there she stopped--she heard him clatter through this cellar, banging the door--which had been left open, and through which he had evidently made his way into the house--after him, as if to prevent her following him farther. Poor thing, she certainly had no wish to do so; she felt her way to the door and felt for the key to lock it securely. But alas, when she pushed the door closely to, preparatory to locking it, it resisted her. Some one or something seemed to push against her from the outside. Then for the first time her courage gave way, and thinking that the man had returned, with others perhaps, she grew sick and faint with fright. She sank down helplessly on the floor for a moment or two. But all seemed quiet; her courage and common sense returned; she got up and felt all about the door carefully, to try to discover the obstacle. To her delight she found that some loose sand or earth driven into a little heap on the floor was what prevented the door shutting. She smoothed it away with her hand, closed the door and locked it firmly, and then, faint and trembling, but safe, made her way back to the little room where her light was burning. You can fancy how glad she was, a very few moments afterwards, to hear my grandfather's cheerful whistle outside." "But," interrupted Molly, her eyes looking bigger and rounder than usual, "but suppose the man had been waiting outside to catch him--your grandfather--grandmother, when he came in?" "But the man wasn't doing anything of the sort, my dear Molly. He had gone off in a fright, and when my grandmother thought it over coolly, she felt convinced that he was not a regular burglar, and so it turned out. He was a man who worked at a smithy near by, and this was his first attempt at burglary. He had heard that my grandfather was to be out late, through one of the servants, whom he had persuaded not to lock the door, on the pretense that he might be passing and would look in to say good-night. It all came out afterwards." "And was he put in prison?" said Molly. "No," said grandmother. "The punishments for housebreaking and such things in those days were so frightfully severe, that kind-hearted people often refrained from accusing the wrong-doers. This man had been in sore want of money for some reason or other; he was not a dishonest character. I believe the end of it was that my grandfather forgave him, and put him in the way of doing better." "That was very nice," said Molly, with a sigh of relief. "Good-bye," said Ralph, who was just then strapping his books together for school. "Thank you for the story, grandmother. If it is fine this afternoon," he added, "may I stay out later? I want to go a walk into the country." "Certainly, my boy," said grandmother. "But you'll be home by dinner." "All right," said Ralph, as he marched off. "And grandmother, please," said Sylvia, "may Molly and I go out with Marcelline this afternoon to do some shopping? The pretty Christmas things are coming in now, and we have lots to do." "Certainly, my dears," said grandmother again, and about two o'clock the little girls set off, one on each side of good-natured Marcelline, in high spirits, to do their Christmas shopping. Grandmother watched them from the window, and thought how pretty they looked, and the thought earned her back to the time--not so very long ago did it seem to her now--when their mother had been just as bright and happy as they--the mother who had never lived to see them more than babies. Grandmother's eyes filled with tears, but she smiled through the tears. "God is good and sends new blessings When the old He takes away," she whispered to herself. It was a blessing, a very great blessing and pleasure to have what she had so often longed for, the care of her dear little grand-daughters herself. "And Ralph," she added, "I cannot help feeling the responsibility with him even greater. An old woman like me, can I have much influence with a boy? But he is a dear boy in many ways, and I was pleased with the way he spoke yesterday. It was honest and manly. Ah! if we could teach our boys what _true_ manliness is, the world would be a better place than it is." The days were beginning to close in now. By four o'clock or half-past it was almost dark, and, once the sun had gone down, cold, with a peculiar biting coldness not felt farther north, where the temperature is more equable and the contrasts less sudden. Grandmother put on her fur-lined cloak and set off to meet the little market-women. Once, twice thrice she walked to the corner of the road--they were not to be seen, and she was beginning to fear the temptations of the shops had delayed them unduly, when they suddenly came in view; and the moment they caught sight of her familiar figure off they set, as if touched at the same instant by an electric thrill, running towards her like two lapwings. "Dear grandmother, how good of you to come to meet us," said Sylvia. "We have got such nice things. They are in Marcelline's basket," nodding back towards Marcelline, jogging along after them in her usual deliberate fashion. "_Such_ nice things," echoed Molly. "But oh, grandmother dear, you don't know what we saw. We met Ralph in the town, and I'm sure he didn't want us to see him, for what _do_ you think he was doing?" A chill went through poor grandmother's heart. In an instant she pictured to herself all manner of scrapes Ralph might have got into. Had her thoughts of him this very afternoon been a sort of presentiment of evil? She grew white, so white that even in the already dusky light, Sylvia's sharp eyes detected it, and she turned fiercely to Molly, the heedless. "You naughty girl," she said, "to go and frighten dear little grandmother like that. And only this very morning or yesterday grandmother was explaining to you about tact. Don't be frightened, dear grandmother. Ralph wasn't doing anything naughty, only I daresay he didn't want us to see." "But what _was_ he doing?" said grandmother, and Molly, irrepressible still, though on the verge of sobs, made answer before Sylvia could speak. "He was carrying wood, grandmother dear," she said--"big bundles, and another boy with him too. I think they had been out to the little forests to fetch it. It was fagots. But I _didn't_ mean to frighten you, grandmother; I _didn't_ know it was untact to tell you--I have been thinking all day about what you told me." "Carrying wood?" repeated grandmother, relieved, though mystified. "What can he have been doing that for?" "I think it is a plan of his. I am sure it is nothing naughty," said Sylvia, nodding her head sagely. "And if Molly will just leave it alone and say _nothing_ about it, it will be all right, you will see. Ralph will tell you himself, I'm sure, if Molly will not tease." "I won't, I promise you I won't," said Molly; "I won't say anything about it, and if Ralph asks me if we saw him I'll screw up my lips as tight as tight, and not say a single word." "As if that would do any good," said Sylvia contemptuously; "it would only make him think we had seen him, and make a fuss. However, there's no fear of Ralph asking you anything about it. You just see him alone when he comes in, grandmother. "Oh dear, oh dear," sighed Molly, as they returned to the house, "I shall never understand about tact, never. We've got our lessons to do for to-morrow, Sylvia, and the verbs are very hard." "Never mind, I'll help you," said Sylvia good-naturedly, and grandmother was pleased to see them go upstairs to their little study with their arms round each other's waists as usual--the best of friends. Half an hour later, Ralph made his appearance. He looked rather less tidy than his wont--for as a rule Ralph was a particularly tidy boy--his hair was tumbled, and his hands certainly could not have been described as _clean_. "Well, Ralph, and what have you been doing with yourself?" said grandmother, as he came in. Ralph threw himself down on the rug. "My poor rug," thought grandmother, but she judged it wiser not, at that moment, to express her misgivings aloud. Ralph did not at once reply. Then-- "Grandmother," he said, after a little pause. "Well, my boy?" "You remember my calling one of the boys in my class a cad--what Molly began about last night?" "Well, my boy?" said grandmother again. "Do you remember what made me call him a cad? It was that I met him carrying a great bundle of wood--little wood they call it--along the street one day. Well, just fancy, grandmother, _I've_ been doing it too. That's what I wanted to stay later for this afternoon." Grandmother's heart gave a bound of pleasure at her boy's frankness. "Sensible child Sylvia is," she said to herself. But aloud she replied with a smile, "Carrying wood! what did you do that for, and where did you get it?" "I'll tell you, I'll tell you all about it," said Ralph. "We went out after school to a sort of little coppice where there is a lot of that nice dry brushwood that anybody may take. Prosper knew the place, and took me. It was to please him I went. He does it every Thursday; that is the day we are let out of school early." "And what does he do it for?" asked grandmother. "Is he--are his people so very poor that he has to do it? I thought all the boys were of a better class," she added, with some inward misgiving as to what Mr. Heriott might say as to his son's present companions. "Oh, so they are--at least they are not what you would call poor," said Ralph. "Prosper belongs to quite rich people. But he's an orphan; he lives with his uncle, and I suppose he's not rich--Prosper himself, I mean--for he says his uncle's always telling him to work hard at school, as he will have to fight his way in the world. He has got a little room up at the top of the house, and that's what put it into his head about the wood. There's an old woman, who was once a sort of a lady, who lives in the next room to his. You get up by a different stair; it's really a different house, but once, somehow, the top rooms were joined, and there's still a door between Prosper's room and this old woman's, and one morning early he heard her crying--she was really _crying_, grandmother, she's so old and shaky, he says--because she couldn't get her fire to light. He didn't know what she was crying for at first, but he peeped through the keyhole and saw her fumbling away with damp paper and stuff that wouldn't light the big logs. So he thought and thought what he could do--he hasn't any money hardly--and at last he thought he'd go and see what he could find. And he found a _beautiful_ place for brushwood, and he carried back all he could, and since then every Thursday he goes out to that place. But, of course, one fellow alone can't carry much, and you should have seen how pleased he was when I said I'd go with him. But I thought I'd better tell you. You don't mind, grandmother?" [Illustration: IN THE COPPICE.] Grandmother's eyes looked very bright as she replied. "_Mind_, my Ralph? No, indeed. I am only glad you should have so manly and self-denying an example as Prosper's, and still more glad that you should have the right feeling and moral courage to follow it. Poor old woman! is she quite alone in the world? She must be very grateful to her little next-door neighbour." "I don't know that she is--at least not so very," said Ralph. "The fun of it was, that for ever so long she didn't know where the little wood came from. Prosper found a key that opened the door, and when she was out he carried in the fagots, and laid the fire all ready for her with some of them; and when she came in he peeped through the keyhole. She was so surprised, she couldn't make it out. And the wood he had fetched lasted a week, and then he got some more. But the next time she found him out." "And what did she say?" "At first she was rather offended, till he explained how he had got it; and then she thanked him, of course, but not so very much, I fancy. He always says old people are grumpy--doesn't 'grogneur' mean grumpy, grandmother?--that they can't help it, and when his old woman is grumpy he only laughs a little. But _you're_ not grumpy, grandmother, and you're old; at least getting rather old." "Decidedly old, my boy. But why should I be grumpy? And how do you know I shouldn't be so if I were living up alone in an attic, with no children to love and cheer me, my poor old hands swollen and twisted with rheumatism, perhaps, and very little money. Ah, what a sad picture! Poor old woman, I must try to find out some way of helping her." "She washes lace for ladies, Prosper says," said Ralph, eagerly. "Perhaps if you had some lace to wash, grandmother." "I'll see what I can do," said grandmother. "You get me her name and address from Prosper. And, Ralph, we might think of something for a little Christmas present for her, might we not? You must talk to your friend about it. I suppose his relations are not likely to interest themselves in his protégée?" "No," said Ralph. "His aunt is young, and dresses very grandly, and I don't think she takes much notice of Prosper himself. Oh no, _you_ could do it much better than any one else, grandmother; find out all about her and what she would like--in a nice sort of way, you know." Grandmother drew Ralph to her and kissed him. "My own dear boy," she said. Ralph got rather red, but his eyes shone with pleasure nevertheless. "Grandmother," he said, half shyly, "I've had a lesson about not calling fellows cads in a hurry, but all the same you won't forget about telling us the story of Uncle Jack's cad, will you?" "What a memory you have, Ralph," said grandmother. "You're nearly as bad for stories as Molly. No, I haven't forgotten. As well as I could remember, I have written out the little story--I only wish I had had it in your uncle's own words. But such as it is, I will read it to you all this evening." Grandmother went to her Davenport, and took out from one of the drawers some sheets of ruled paper, which she held up for Ralph to see. On the outside one he read, in grandmother's neat, clear handwriting, the words---- CHAPTER X. --"THAT CAD SAWYER." "I do not like thee, Doctor Fell, The reason why I cannot tell." OLD RHYME. And grandmother of course kept her promise. That evening she read it aloud. "They were Ryeburn boys--Ryeburn boys to their very heart's core--Jack and his younger brother Carlo, as somehow he had got to be called in the nursery, before he could say his own name plainly." "That's uncle Charlton, who died when he was only about fifteen," whispered Sylvia to Ralph and Molly; "you see grandmother's written it out like a regular story--not saying 'your uncle this' or 'your uncle that,' every minute. Isn't it nice?" Grandmother stopped to see what all the whispering was about. "We beg your pardon, grandmother, we'll be quite quiet now," said the three apologetically. "They had been at school at Ryeburn since they were quite little fellows, and they thought that nowhere in the world was there a place to be compared with it. Holidays at home were very delightful, no doubt, but school-days were delightful too. But for the sayings of good-byes to the dear people left at home--father and mother, big sister and little one, I think Jack and Carlo started for their return journey to school at the end of the midsummer holidays _very_ nearly as cheerfully as they had set off for home eight weeks previously, when these same delightful holidays had begun. Jack had not very many more half-years to look forward to: he was to be a soldier, and before long must leave Ryeburn in preparation for what was before him, for he was fifteen past. Carlo was only thirteen and small of his age. He _had_ known what it was to be homesick, even at Ryeburn, more than three years ago, when he had first come there. But with a big brother--above all a big brother like Jack, great strong fellow that he was, with the kindest of hearts for anything small or weak--little Carlo's preliminary troubles were soon over. And now at thirteen he was very nearly, in his way, as great a man at Ryeburn as Jack himself. Jack was by no means the cleverest boy at the school, far from it, but he did his book work fairly well, and above all honestly. He was honesty itself in everything, scorned crooked ways, or whatever he considered meanness, with the exaggerated scorn of a very young and untried character, and, like most boys of his age, was inclined, once he took up a prejudice, to carry it to all lengths. "There was but one cloud over their return to school this special autumn that I am telling you of, and that was the absence of a favourite master--one of the younger ones--who, an unexpected piece of good luck having fallen to his share, had left Ryeburn the end of the last half. "'I wonder what sort of a fellow we shall have instead of Wyngate,' said Jack to Carlo, as the train slackened for Ryeburn station. "'We shan't have any one as nice, that's certain,' said Carlo, lugubriously. 'There couldn't be any one as nice, could there?' "But their lamentations over Mr. Wyngate were forgotten when they found themselves in the midst of their companions, most of whom had already arrived. There were such a lot of things to tell and to ask; the unfortunate 'new boys' to glance at with somewhat supercilious curiosity, and the usual legendary caution as to 'chumming' with them, till it should be proved what manner of persons they were; the adventures of the holidays to retail to one's special cronies; the anticipated triumphs in cricket and football and paper-chases of the forthcoming 'half' to discuss. Jack and Carlo soon found themselves each the centre of his particular set, too busy and absorbed in the present to give much thought to the past. Only later that evening, when prayers were over and supper-time at hand, did the subject of their former teacher and his successor come up again. "A pale, thin, rather starved-looking young man came into the schoolroom desiring them to put away their books, which they were arranging for next morning. His manner was short but ill-assured, and he spoke with a slightly peculiar accent. None of the boys seemed in any hurry to obey him. "'Cod-faced idiot!' muttered one. "'French frog!' said another. "'Is that the new junior?' said Jack, looking up from the pile of books before him. "'Yes; did you ever see such a specimen?' replied a tall boy beside him, who had arrived the day before. 'And what a fellow to come after Wyngate too.' "'He can't help his looks,' said Jack quietly; 'perhaps he's better than they are.' "'Hallo, here's old Berkeley going to stick up for that nice specimen Sawyer!' called out the boy, caring little apparently whether Mr. Sawyer, who had only just left the room, was still within ear-shot or not. "Jack took it in good part. "'I'm not 'sticking up' for him, nor 'not sticking up' for him,' he said. 'All I say is, wait a bit till you see what sort of a fellow he is himself, whatever his looks are.' "'And most assuredly they're _not_ in his favour,' replied the tall boy. "From this Jack could not honestly dissent; Mr. Sawyer's looks were not, in a sense, in his favour. It was not so much that he was downright ugly--perhaps that would have mattered less--but he was _poor_ looking. He had no presence, no self-assertion, and his very anxiety to conciliate gave his manner a nervous indecision, in which the boys saw nothing but cause for ridicule. He did not understand his pupils, and still less did they understand him. But all the same he was a capital teacher, patient and painstaking to the last degree, clear-headed himself, and with a great power, when he forgot his nervousness in the interest of his subject, of making it clear to the apprehensions of those about him. In class it was impossible for the well-disposed of his pupils not to respect him, and in time he might have fought his way to more, but for one unfortunate circumstance--the unreasonable and unreasoning prejudice against him throughout the whole school. "Now our boys--Jack and Carlo--Jack, followed by Carlo, perhaps I should say, for whatever Jack said Carlo thought right, wherever Jack led Carlo came after--to do them justice, I must say, did not at once give in to this unreasonable prejudice. Jack stuck to his resolution to judge Sawyer by what he found him to be on further acquaintance, not to fly into a dislike at first sight. And for some time nothing occurred to shake Jack's opinion that not improbably the new master was better than his looks. But Sawyer was shy and reserved; he liked Jack, and was in his heart grateful to him for his respectful and friendly behaviour, and for the good example he thereby set to his companions, only, unfortunately, the junior master was no hand at expressing his appreciation of such conduct. Unfortunately too, Jack's lessons were not his strong point, and Mr. Sawyer, for all his nervousness, was so rigorously, so scrupulously honest that he found it impossible to pass by without comment some or much of Jack's unsatisfactory work. And Jack, though so honest himself, was human, and _boy_-human, and it was not in boy-human nature to remain perfectly unaffected by the remarks called forth by the new master's frequent fault-finding. "'It's just that you're too civil to him by half,' his companions would say. 'He's a mean sneak, and thinks he can bully you without your resenting it. _Wyngate_ would never have turned back those verses.' "Or it would be insinuated how partial Sawyer was to little Castlefield, 'just because he's found out that Castle's father's so rich'--the truth being that little Castlefield, a delicate and precocious boy, was the cleverest pupil in the school, his tasks always faultlessly prepared, and his power of taking in what he was taught wonderfully great, though, fortunately for himself, his extreme good humour and merry nature made it impossible for his companions to dislike him or set him down as a prig. "Jack laughed and pretended--believed indeed--that he did not care. "'I don't want him to say my verses are good if they're not good,' he maintained stoutly. But all the same he did feel, and very acutely too, the mortification to which more than once Mr. Sawyer's uncompromising censure exposed him, little imagining that the fault-finding was far more painful to the teacher than to himself, that the short, unsympathising manner in which it was done was actually the result of the young man's tender-hearted reluctance to cause pain to another, and that other the very boy to whom of all in the school he felt himself most attracted. "And from this want of understanding his master's real feelings towards him arose the first cloud of prejudice to dim Jack's reasonable judgment. "Now at Ryeburn, as was in those days the case at all schools of old standing, there were legends, so established and respected that no one ever dreamed of calling them into question; there were certain customs tolerated, not to say approved of, which yet, regarded impartially, from the outside as it were, were open to objection. Among these, of which there were several, were one or two specially concerning the younger boys, which came under the junior master's direction, and of them all, none was more universally practised than the feat of what was called 'jumping the bar.' The 'bar,'--short in reality for 'barrier,'--was a railing of five or six feet high, placed so as to prevent any of the junior boys, who were late in the morning, from getting round by a short cut to the chapel, where prayers were read, the proper entrance taking them round the whole building, a matter of at least two minutes' quick walking. Day after day the bar was 'jumped,' day after day the fact was ignored; on no boy's conscience, however sensitive, would the knowledge of his having made his way into chapel by this forbidden route have left any mark. But alas, when Mr. Sawyer came things struck him in a different light. "I cannot go into the question of how far he was wrong and how far right. He meant well, of that there is no doubt, but as to his judiciousness in the matter, that is another affair altogether. He had never been at a great English school before; he was conscientious to the last degree, but inexperienced. And I, being only an old woman, and never having been at school at all, do not feel myself able to give an opinion upon this or many other matters of which I, like poor Mr. Sawyer, have no experience. I can only, children, 'tell the tale as 'twas told to me,' and not even that, for the telling to me was by an actor in the little drama, and I cannot feel, therefore, that in this case the 'tale will gain by the telling,' but very decidedly the other way. "To return, however, to the bar-jumping--of all the boys who made a practice of it, no one did so more regularly than Carlo, 'Berkeley minor.' He was not a lazy boy in the morning; many and many a time he would have been quite soon enough in the chapel had he gone round the proper way; but it became almost a habit with him to take the nominally forbidden short cut--so much a habit that Mr. Wyngate, who was perfectly aware of it, said to him jokingly one day, that he would take it as a personal favour, if, _for once_, Carlo would gratify him by coming to chapel by the regular entrance. As for being _blamed_ for his bar-jumping, such an idea never entered Carlo's head; he would almost as soon have expected to be blamed for eating his breakfast, and, naturally enough, when Mr. Sawyer's reign began, it never occurred to him to alter his conduct. For some time things went on as usual, Mr. Sawyer either never happening to see Carlo's daily piece of gymnastics, or not understanding that it was prohibited. But something occurred at last, some joke on the subject, or some little remark from one of the other masters, which suddenly drew the new 'junior's' attention to the fact. And two or three mornings afterwards, coming upon Carlo in the very act of bar-jumping, Mr. Sawyer ventured mildly, but in reality firmly, to remonstrate. "'Berkeley,' he said, in his nervous, jerky fashion, 'that is not the _proper_ way from your schoolroom to chapel, is it?' "Carlo took this remark as a good joke, after the manner of Mr. Wyngate's on the same subject. "'No, sir,' he replied mischievously, 'I don't suppose it is.' "'Then,' said Mr. Sawyer, stammering a very little, as he sometimes did when more nervous than usual, 'then will you oblige me for the future by coming the proper way?' "He turned away before Carlo had time to reply, if indeed he had an answer ready, which is doubtful, for he could not make up his mind if Mr. Sawyer was in earnest or not. But by the next morning all remembrance of the junior master's remonstrance had faded from Carlo's thoughtless brain. Again he went bar-jumping to chapel, and this time no Mr. Sawyer intercepted him. But two mornings later, just as he had successfully accomplished his jump, he perceived in front of him the thin, uncertain-looking figure of the junior master. "'Berkeley,' he said gravely, 'have you forgotten what I said to you two or three days ago?' "Carlo stared. The fact of the matter was that he _had_ forgotten, but as his remembering would have made no difference, considering that he had never had the slightest intention of taking any notice of Mr. Sawyer's prohibition, his instinctive honesty forbade his giving his want of memory as an excuse. "'No,' he replied, 'at least I don't know if I did or not. But I have always come this way--lots of us do--and no one ever says anything.' "'But _I_ say something now,' said Mr. Sawyer, more decidedly than he had ever been known to speak, 'and that is to forbid your coming this way. And I expect to be obeyed.' "Carlo made no reply. This time there was no mistaking Mr. Sawyer's meaning. It was mortifying to have to give in to the 'mean little sneak,' as Carlo mentally called the new master; still, as next morning he happened to be in particularly good time he went round the proper way. The day after, however, he was late, decidedly late for once, and, throwing to the winds all consideration for Mr. Sawyer or his orders, Carlo jumped the bar and made his appearance in time for prayers. He had not known that he was observed, but coming out of chapel Mr. Sawyer called him aside. "'Berkeley,' he said, 'you have disobeyed me again. If this happens once more I shall be obliged to report you.' "Carlo stared at him in blank amazement. "'Report me?' he said. Such a threat had never been held out to either him or Jack through all their Ryeburn career. They looked upon it as next worst to being expelled. For reporting in Ryeburn parlance meant a formal complaint to the head-master, when a boy had been convicted of aggravated disobedience to the juniors. And its results were very severe; it entirely prevented a boy's in any way distinguishing himself during the half-year: however hard a 'reported' boy might work, he could gain no prize that term. So no wonder that poor Carlo repeated in amazement, "'_Report_ me?' "'Yes,' said Sawyer. 'I don't want to do it, but if you continue to disobey me, I must,' and he turned away. "Off went Carlo to his cronies with his tale of wrongs. The general indignation was extreme. "'I'd like to see him dare to do such a thing,' said one. "'I'd risk it, Berkeley, if I were you,' said another. 'Anything rather than give in to such a cowardly sneak.' "In the midst of the discussion up came Jack, to whom, with plenty of forcible language, his brother's woes were related. Jack's first impulse was to discredit the sincerity of Mr. Sawyer's intention. "He'd never _dare_ do such a thing as report you for nothing worse than bar-jumping,' he exclaimed. "But Carlo shook his head. "'He's mean enough for anything,' he replied. 'I believe he'll do it fast enough if ever he catches me bar-jumping again.' "'Well, you'll have to give it up then,' said Jack. 'It's no use hurting yourself to spite him,' and as Carlo made no reply, the elder brother went away, satisfied that his, it must be confessed, not very exalted line of argument, had had the desired effect. "But Carlo's silence did _not_ mean either consent or assent. When Jack had left them the younger boys talked the whole affair over again in their own fashion and according to their own lights--the result being that the following morning, with the aggravation of a whoop and a cry, Carlo defiantly jumped the bar on his way to chapel for prayers. "When Jack came to hear of it, as he speedily did, he was at first very angry, then genuinely distressed. "'You will only get what you deserve if he does report you,' he said to Carlo in his vexation, and when Carlo replied that he didn't see that he need give up what he had always done 'for a cad like that,' Jack retorted that if he thought Sawyer a cad he should have acted accordingly, and not trusted to _his_ good feeling or good nature. But in his heart of hearts Jack did not believe the threat would be carried out, and, unknown to Carlo, he did for his brother what he would never have done for himself. As soon as morning school was over he went to Mr. Sawyer to beg him to reconsider his intention, explaining to the best of his ability the extenuating circumstances of the case--the tacit indulgence so long accorded to the boys, Carlo's innocence, in the first place, of any intentional disobedience. "Mr. Sawyer heard him patiently; whether his arguments would have had any effect, Jack, at that time at least, had not the satisfaction of knowing, for when he left off speaking Mr. Sawyer replied quietly, "'I am very sorry to seem severe to your brother, Berkeley, but what I have done I believed to be my duty. I have _already_ reported him.' "Jack turned on his heel and left the room without speaking. Only as he crossed the threshold one word of unutterable contempt fell from between his teeth. '_Cad_,' he muttered, careless whether Sawyer heard him or not. "And from that moment Jack's championship of the obnoxious master was over; and throughout the school he was never spoken of among the boys, big and little, but as 'that cad Sawyer.' "Though, after all, the 'reporting' turned out less terrible than was expected. How it was managed I cannot exactly say, but Carlo was let off with a reprimand, and new and rigorous orders were issued against 'bar-jumping' under any excuse whatever. "I think it probable that the 'authorities' privately pointed out to Mr. Sawyer that there might be such a thing as over-much zeal in the discharge of his duties, and if so I have no doubt he took it in good part. For it was not zeal which actuated him--it was simple conscientiousness, misdirected perhaps by his inexperience. He could not endure hurting any one or anything, and probably his very knowledge of his weakness made him afraid of himself. Be that as it may, no one concerned rejoiced more heartily than he at Carlo's acquittal. "But it was too late--the mischief was done. Day by day the exaggerated prejudice and suspicion with which he was regarded became more apparent. Yet he did not resent it--he worked on, hoping that in time it might be overcome, for he yearned to be liked and trusted, and his motives for wishing to do well at Ryeburn were very strong ones. "And gradually, as time went on, things improved a little. Now and then the better-disposed of the boys felt ashamed of the tacit disrespect with which one so enduring and inoffensive was treated; and among these better-disposed I need hardly say was our Jack. "It was the end of October. But a few days were wanting to the anniversary so dear to schoolboy hearts--that of Gunpowder Plot. This year the fifth of November celebration was to be of more than ordinary magnificence, for it was the last at which several of the elder boys, among them Jack, could hope to be present. Fireworks committees were formed and treasurers appointed, and nothing else was spoken of but the sums collected and promised, and the apportionment thereof in Catherine wheels, Chinese dragons, and so on. Jack was one of the treasurers. He had been very successful so far, but the sum total on which he and his companions had set their hearts was still unattained. The elder boys held a committee meeting one day to consider ways and means, and the names of all the subscribers were read out. "'We _should_ manage two pounds more; we'd do then,' said one boy. "'Are you sure everybody's been asked?' said another, running his eye down the lists. 'Bless me, Sawyer's not in,' he added, looking up inquiringly. "'No one would ask him,' said the first boy, shrugging his shoulders. "A sudden thought struck Jack. "'I'll tell you what, _I'll_ do it,' he said, 'and, between ourselves, I shouldn't much wonder if he comes down handsomely. He's been very civil of late--I rather think he'd be glad of an opportunity to do something obliging to make up for that mean trick of his about Carlo, and what's more,' he added mysteriously, 'I happen to know he's by no means short of funds just now.' "They teased him to say more, but not another word on the subject could be got out of Jack. What he knew was this--that very morning when the letters came, he had happened to be standing beside Mr. Sawyer, who, with an eager face, opened one that was handed to him. He was nervous as usual, more nervous than usual probably, and perhaps his hands were shaking, for as he drew his letter hastily out of the envelope, something fluttered to the ground at Jack's feet. "It was a cheque for twenty pounds, and conspicuous on the lowest line was the signature of a well-known publishing firm. Instinctively Jack stooped to pick it up and handed it to its owner--it had been impossible for him not to see what he did, but he had thought no more about it, beyond a passing wonder in his own mind, as to 'what on earth Sawyer got to write about,' and had forgotten all about it till the meeting of the fireworks committee recalled it to his memory. "But it was with a feeling of pleasant expectancy, not unmixed with some consciousness of his own magnanimity in 'giving old Sawyer a chance again,' that Jack made his way to the junior master's quarters, the list of subscribers in his hand. "He made a pleasant picture, as, in answer to the 'come in' which followed his knock at the door, he opened it and stood on the threshold of Mr. Sawyer's room--his bright, honest, blue-eyed, fair-haired 'English boy' face smiling in through the doorway. With almost painful eagerness the junior master bade him welcome; he liked Jack so much, and would so have rejoiced could the attraction have been mutual. And this was the first time that Jack had voluntarily sought Mr. Sawyer in his own quarters since the bar-jumping affair. Mr. Sawyer's spirits rose at the sight of him, and hope again entered his heart--hope that after all, his position at Ryeburn, which he was beginning to fear it was nonsense to attempt to retain, in face of the evident dislike to him, might yet alter for the better. "'I have not a good way with them--that must be it,' he had said to himself sadly that very morning. 'I never knew what it was to be a boy myself, and therefore I suppose I don't understand boys. But if they could but see into my heart and read there how earnestly I wish to do my best by them, surely we could get on better together.' "'Well, Berkeley--glad to see you--what can I do for you?' said Sawyer, with a little nervous attempt at off-hand friendliness of manner, in itself infinitely touching to any one with eyes to take in the whole situation and judge it and him accordingly. But those eyes are not ours in early life, more especially in _boy_-life. We must have our powers of mental vision quickened and cleared by the magic dew of sad experience--experience which alone can give sympathy worth having, ere we can understand the queer bits of pathos we constantly stumble upon in life, ere we can begin to judge our fellows with the large-hearted charity that alone can illumine the glass through which for so long we see so _very_ 'darkly.' "'I have come to ask you for a subscription for the fifth of November fireworks, Mr. Sawyer,' said Jack, plunging, as was his habit, right into the middle of things, with no beating about the bush. 'We've asked all the other masters, and every one in the school has subscribed, and I was to tell you, sir, from the committee that they'll be very much obliged by a subscription--and--and I really think they'll all be particularly pleased if you can give us something handsome.' "The message was civil, but hardly perhaps, coming from pupils to a master, 'of the most respectful,' as French people say. But poor Sawyer understood it--in some respects his perceptions were almost abnormally sharp; he read between the lines of Jack's rough-and-ready, boy-like manner, and understood perfectly that here was a chance for him--a chance in a thousand, of gaining some degree of the popularity he had hitherto so unfortunately failed to obtain. And to the bottom of his heart he felt grateful to Berkeley--but alas! "He grew crimson with vexation. "'I am dreadfully sorry, Berkeley,' he said, 'dreadfully sorry that I cannot respond as I would like to your request. At this moment unfortunately, I am very peculiarly out of pocket. Stay,'--with a momentary gleam of hope, 'will you let me see the subscription list. How--how much do you think would please the boys?' "'A guinea wouldn't be--would please them very much, and of course two would be still better,' said Jack drily. Already he had in his own mind pronounced a final verdict upon Mr. Sawyer, already he had begun to tell himself what a fool he had been for having anything more to do with him, but yet, with the British instinct of giving an accused man a fair chance, he waited till all hope was over. "'A guinea, two guineas?' repeated Mr. Sawyer sadly. 'It is perfectly impossible;' and he shook his head regretfully but decidedly. 'Half-a-crown, or five shillings perhaps, if you would take it,' he added hesitatingly, but stopped short on catching sight of the hard, contemptuous expression that overspread Jack's face, but a moment ago so sunny. "No thank you, sir,' he replied. 'I should be very sorry to take _any_ subscription from you, knowing what I do, and so would all my companions. You're a master, sir, and I'm a boy, but I can tell you I wish you _were_ a boy that I might speak out. I couldn't help seeing what came to you by post this morning--you know I couldn't--and yet on the face of that you tell me you're too hard-up to do what I came to ask like a gentleman--and what would have been for your good in the end too. I'm not going to tell what came to my knowledge by accident; you needn't be afraid of that, but I'd be uncommonly sorry to take _anything_ from you for our fireworks.' "And again Jack turned on his heel, and in hot wrath left the under-master, muttering again between his set teeth as he did so the one word 'cad.' "'Jack,' Mr. Sawyer called after him, but either he did not call loud enough or Jack would not take any notice of his summons, for he did not return. What a pity! Had he done so, Mr. Sawyer, who understood him too well to feel the indignation a more superficial person would have done at his passionate outburst, had it in his heart to take the hasty, impulsive, generous-spirited lad into his confidence and what might not have been the result? What a different future for the poor under-master, had he then and there and for ever won from the boy the respect and sympathy he so well deserved! "Jack returned to his companions gloomy but taciturn. He gave them to understand that his mission had failed, and that henceforth he would have nothing to say to Sawyer that he could help, and that was all. He entered into no particulars, but there are occasions on which silence says more than words, and from this time no voice was ever raised in the junior master's defence--throughout the school he was never referred to except as 'the cad,' or 'that cad Sawyer.' "And alone in his own room, Mr. Sawyer, sorrowful but unresentful still, was making up his mind that his efforts had been all in vain. 'I must give it up,' he said. 'And both for myself and the boys the sooner the better, before there is any overt disrespect which would _have_ to be noticed. It is no use fighting on, I have not the knack of it. The boys will never like me, and I may do harm where I would wish to do good. I must try something else.' "Two or three weeks later--a month perhaps--the boys were one day surprised by the appearance of a strange face at what had been Mr. Sawyer's desk. And on inquiry the new comer proved to be a young curate accidentally in the neighbourhood, who had undertaken to fill for a few weeks the under-master's vacant place. The occurrence made some sensation--it was unusual for any change of the kind to take place during a term. 'Was Sawyer ill?' one or two of the boys asked, as there came before them the recollection of the young man's pale and careworn face, and they recalled with some compunction the Pariah-like life that for some time past had been his. "No, he was not ill, they were informed, but he had requested the head-master to supply his place and let him leave, for private reasons, as soon as possible. "What were the private reasons? The head-master and his colleagues had tried in vain to arrive at them. Not one syllable of complaint had fallen from the junior master's lips. He had simply repeated that, though sorry to cause any inconvenience, it was of importance to him to leave at once. "'At least,' he said to himself, 'I shall say nothing to get any of them into trouble after I am gone.' "And he had begged, too, that no public intimation of his resignation should be given. "But one or two of the boys had known it before it actually occurred--and among them the Berkeley brothers. Late one cold evening, for winter had set in very early that year, Mr. Sawyer had stopped them on their way across the courtyard to their own rooms. "'Berkeley,' he had said, 'I am leaving early to-morrow morning. I should like to say good-bye and shake hands with you before I go. I have not taken a good way with you boys, somehow, and--and the prejudice against me has been very strong. But some day--when you are older perhaps, you may come to think it possible you have misunderstood me. Be that as it may, there is not and never has been any but good feeling towards you on my part.' "He held out his hand, but a spirit of evil had taken possession of Jack--a spirit of hard, unforgiving prejudice. "'Good-bye, Mr. Sawyer,' he said, but he stalked on without taking any notice of the out-stretched hand, and Carlo, echoing the cold 'Good-bye, Mr. Sawyer,' followed his example. "But little Carlo's heart was very tender. He slept ill that night and early, very early the next morning he was up and on the watch. There was snow on the ground, snow, though December had scarcely set in, and it was very cold. "Carlo shivered as he hung about the door leading to Mr. Sawyer's room, and he wondered why the fly which always came for passengers by the early London train had not yet made its appearance, little imagining that not by the comfortable express, but third class in a slow 'parliamentary' Mr. Sawyer's journey was to be accomplished. And, when at last the thin figure of the under-master emerged from the doorway, it went to the boy's heart to see that he himself was carrying the small black bag which held his possessions. "'I have come to wish you good-bye again, sir,' said Carlo, 'and I am sorry I didn't shake hands last night. And--and--I believe Jack would have come too, if he'd thought of it.' "Mr. Sawyer's eyes glistened as he shook the small hand held out to him. "'Thank you, my boy,' he said earnestly, how much I thank you you will never know.' "'And is that all your luggage?' asked Carlo, half out of curiosity, half by way of breaking the melancholy of the parting, which somehow gave him a choky feeling about the throat. "'Oh no,' said Mr. Sawyer, entering into the boy's shrinking from anything like a scene, 'oh no, I sent on my box by the carrier last Saturday. It would have been _rather_ too big to carry.' He spoke in his usual commonplace tone, more cheerful, less nervous perhaps than its wont. Then once more, with a second hearty shake of the hand, "'Good-bye again, my boy, and God bless you." And Carlo, his eyes dim in spite of his intense determination to be above such weakness, stood watching the dark figure, conspicuous against the white-sheeted ground and steel-blue early morning winter sky. "'I wonder if we've been right about him,' he said to himself. 'I'm glad I came, any way.' "And there came a day when others beside little Carlo himself were glad, oh so glad, that he had 'come' that snowy morning to bid the solitary traveller Godspeed." [Illustration: 'GOOD-BYE AGAIN, MY BOY, AND GOD BLESS YOU!'] CHAPTER XI. "THAT CAD SAWYER."--PART II. "Did the road wind uphill all the way? Yes to the very end." CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. Grandmother's voice had faltered a little now and then during the latter part of her reading. The children looked at each other significantly. "Uncle Carlo _died_ you know," whispered Sylvia again to Ralph and Molly. "And uncle Jack too," said Ralph. "Yes, but much longer after. Uncle _Carlo_ was only a boy when he died," said Molly, as if the fact infinitely aggravated the sorrow in his case. Their whispering did not interrupt their grandmother this time. She had already paused. "I think, dears," she said, "I had better read the rest to-morrow evening. There is a good deal more of it, and my voice gets tired after a while." "Couldn't I read it for you, mother dear?" said aunty. Grandmother smiled a little roguishly. "No, my dear, thank you," she said. "I think I like best to read myself what I have written myself. And you, according to that, will have your turn soon, Laura." "_Mother!_ how did you find out what I was doing?" exclaimed aunty. "A little bird told me, of course," said grandmother, smiling. "You know how clever my little birds are." During this mysterious conversation the children had sat with wide open eyes and puzzled faces. Suddenly a light broke upon Sylvia. "I know, I know," she cried. "_Aunty's_ writing a story for us too. Oh, you delightful aunty!" "Oh you beautiful aunty! oh you delicious aunty!" echoed Molly. "Why don't you say something too, Ralph?" she exclaimed, turning reproachfully to her brother. "You like stories just as much as we do--you know you do." "But you and Sylvia have used up all the adjectives," said Ralph. "What _can_ I call aunty, unless I say she's a very jolly fellow?" "Reserve your raptures, my dears," said aunty, "'The proof of the pudding's in the eating,' remember. Perhaps you may not care for my story when you hear it. I am quite willing to wait for your thanks till you have heard it." "But any way, aunty dear, we'll thank you for having _tried_," said Molly encouragingly. "I daresay it won't be _quite_ as nice as grandmother's. You see you're so much younger, and then I don't think anybody _could_ tell stories like her, could they? But, grandmother dear," she went on, "would you mind telling me one thing? When people write stories how do they know all the things they tell? How do you know what poor Mr. Sawyer said to himself when he was alone in his room that day? Did he ever tell anybody? I know the story's true, because uncle Jack told it you himself, only I can't make out how you got to know all those bits of it, like." "What a goose you are, Molly!" exclaimed both Ralph and Sylvia. "How could any stories ever be written if people went on about them like that?" But Molly's honest puzzled face made grandmother smile. "I know how you mean, dear," she said, "I used to think like that myself. No, I don't know _exactly_ the very words Mr. Sawyer said to himself, but, judging from my knowledge of the whole story, I put myself, as it were, in his place, and picture to myself what I would have said. I told you I had altered it a little. When your uncle wrote it out it was all in the first person, but not having been an eye-witness, as he was, it seemed to me I could better give the _spirit_ of the story by putting it into this form. Do you understand at all better, dear? When you have heard the whole to the end you will do so, I think. All the part about Carlo I had from his own lips." "Thank you, grandmother dear. I think I understand," said Molly, and she was philosophical enough to take no notice of the repeated whisper which reached her ears alone. "Oh, you _are_ a goose!" It was not till the next evening that grandmother went on with the second part of her story. "What do all those stars mean?" asked Molly, peeping over her grandmother's shoulder before she began to read. "Look Sylvia, how funny!" and she pointed to a long row of * * * * at the end of the first part of the manuscript. "They mean that some length of time had elapsed between the two parts of the story," said grandmother. "Oh, I see. And each star counts for a year. I suppose. Let me see; one, two, three----" "Molly, _do_ be quiet, and let grandmother go on," said Ralph and Sylvia, their patience exhausted. "No, they are not counted like that," said grandmother. "Listen, Molly, and you will hear for yourself." "The first part of my little story finished in the snow--on a cold December morning in England. The second part begins in a very different scene and many, many miles away from Ryeburn. Three or four years have passed. Some of those we left boys are now men--many changes have taken place. Instead of December, it is August. Instead of England we have a far away country, which till that time, when the interest of the whole world was suddenly concentrated on it, had been but little known and still less thought of by the dwellers in more civilised lands. It is the Crimea, children, and the Crimea on a broiling, stifling August day. At the present time when we speak and think of that dreadful war and the sufferings it entailed, it is above all the _winters_ there that we recall with the greatest horror--those terrible 'Crimean winters.' But those who went through it all have often assured me that the miseries of the summers--of some part of them at least--were in their way quite as great, or worse. What could be much worse? The suffocating heat; the absence, or almost total absence, of shade; the dust and the dirt, and the poisonous flies; the foul water and half-putrid food? Bad for the sound ones, or those as yet so--and oh, how intolerably dreadful for the sick! "'What could be much worse?' thought Jack Berkeley to himself, as after a long killing spell in the trenches he at last got back to his tent for a few hours' rest. "'My own mother wouldn't know me,' he said to himself, as out of a sort of half melancholy mischief he glanced at his face in the little bit of cracked looking-glass which was all he had to adorn himself by. He was feeling utterly worn out and depressed--so many of his friends and companions were dead or dying--knocked down at that time quite as much by disease as by Russian bullets--in many cases the more terrible death of the two. And things in general were looking black. It was an anxious and weariful time. "Jack threw himself on the bed. He was too tired to undress. All he longed for was coolness and sleep--the first the less attainable of the two, for the thin sides of his tent were as powerless to keep out the scorching heat as the biting cold, and it was not till many more months of both heat and cold had passed that any better shelter was provided for him or his fellows. "But heat and flies notwithstanding Jack fell asleep, and had slept soundly for an hour or two when he was suddenly awakened by a voice calling him by name. "'Berkeley,' it said, 'you are Berkeley of the 300th, aren't you? I am sorry to awaken you if you're not, but I couldn't see your servant about anywhere to ask. There's a poor fellow dying, down at Kadikoi, asking for Berkeley--Jack Berkeley of the 300th.' "'Yes, that's me,' said Jack, rubbing his eyes with his smoke-begrimed hands, which he had neither had energy nor water to wash before he fell asleep. 'That's me, sure enough. Who is it? What does he want?' "'I don't know who he is,' replied the other. 'I didn't hear his name. He's not one of us. He's a poor devil who's out here as a correspondent to some paper--I forget which--he's only been out a short time. He's dying of dysentery--quite alone, near our quarters. I'm Montagu of the 25th Hussars--Captain Montagu, and our doctor, who's looking after him, sent in for me, knowing I'd been at Ryeburn, as the poor fellow said something about it. But it must have been after my time. I left in '48.' "'I don't think I remember you,' said Jack meditatively. 'But you may have been among the upper boys when I was one of the small ones.' "'Sure to have been,' said Captain Montagu. 'But about this poor fellow. He was so disappointed when he found I was a stranger to him that I said I'd try to find some other Ryeburn boy who might remember him. And some one or other mentioned you, so I came over to look you up.' "'Very good of you,' said Jack, who was still, however, feeling so sleepy that he could almost have wished Captain Montagu had _not_ been so good. 'Shall I go back with you to Kadikoi? Very likely it's some one I did not know either, still one can but try.' "'You're very tired,' said Montagu, sympathisingly. 'I am sorry to give you such a long walk. But the doctor said he couldn't last long, and the poor fellow seemed so eager when he heard your name.' "'Oh, he _does_ know me then?' said Jack, his interest reviving. 'I didn't understand.' "'Oh yes. I mentioned your name when I heard it, and he said at once if it was _Jack_ Berkeley he would extremely like to see him. It was stupid of me not to ask his name.' "'I'll be ready to go with you in a moment,' said Jack, after frantic efforts discovering in a bucket a very small reserve of water with which he managed to wash his face clear of some part of its grimy covering. 'My servant's gone to Balaclava to see what he could get in the way of food for a change from these dreadful salt rations. He brought me a bottle of porter the other day; it cost three shillings, but I never enjoyed anything so much in my life.' "'I can quite believe it,' said Captain Montagu feelingly. 'Your servant must be worth his weight in gold.' "In another minute they were on their way. The sun was beginning to sink, fortunately; it was not _quite_ so hot as a few hours previously. But it was quite as dusty, and the walking along a recently and roughly made track, not worthy the name of road, was very tiring. It was fully five miles to Kadikoi--five miles across a bare, dried-up country, from which all traces of the scanty cultivation it had ever received were fast disappearing under the present state of things. There was not a tree, hardly a stunted shrub, to be seen, and the ground--at best but a few inches of poor soil above the sterile rock, felt hard and unyielding as well as rough. It was a relief of its kind at last to quit the level ground for the slope leading down to Balaclava, where, though they were too small to afford anything in the shape of shade, the sight of some few, starved-looking bushes and some remains of what might once have been grass, refreshed the eye, at once wearied and dazzled by the glare and monotony of the sun-dried plain. "The tent to which Captain Montagu led the way stood by itself on some rising ground, a little behind the row of nondescript hovels or mud huts representing what had been the little hamlet of Kadikoi. It looked wretched enough as the two young men made their way in, but everywhere looked wretched, only the bareness and comfortlessness impressed one doubly when viewed in connection with physical suffering that would have been hard to endure even with all the alleviations and tenderness of friends and home about one. "The doctor was just leaving the tent--his time was all too precious to give much of it where it was evident that his skill could be of no avail--but before going he had done what he could for the sick man's comfort, and he lay now, pale, worn, and wan, but no longer in pain, and by the bedside--a low narrow camp stretcher--sat a young soldier, holding from time to time a cup of water to the dry lips of the dying man. Clumsy he might be, but there was no lack of tenderness in his manner or expression. "That's one of our men that the doctor sent in,' whispered Montagu; 'the poor fellow there had been lying alone for two or three days, and no one knew. His Greek servant--scoundrels those fellows are--had deserted him.' "Jack cautiously approached the bed. "'This is Mr. Berkeley--Jack Berkeley of the 300th, whom you said you would like to see,' said Captain Montagu gently, stepping in front of Jack. "The sick man's eyes lightened up, and a faint flush rose in his cheeks. He was very fair, and lying there looked very young, younger somehow than Jack had expected. _Had_ he ever seen him before? There was nothing remarkable about the face except its peculiarly gentle and placid expression--yet it was a face of considerable resolution as well, and there were lines about the mouth which told of endurance and fortitude, almost contradicting the wistfulness of the boyish-looking blue eyes. Jack grew more and more puzzled. _Something_ seemed familiar to him, yet---- "'How good, how very good of you to come. Do you remember me, Berkeley?' said the invalid, feebly stretching out a thin hand, which Jack instinctively took and held gently in his own strong grasp. "Jack hesitated. A look of disappointment overspread the pale face. "'I am afraid you don't know me. Perhaps you would not have come if you had understood who it was.' "'I did not hear your name,' said Jack, very gently, 'but, of course, hearing you wished to see me----' he hesitated. 'Were we at Ryeburn together?' "'Yes,' said the dying man. 'My--my name is Sawyer--Philip Sawyer--but you only knew my surname, of course.' "Jack understood it all. Even before the name was mentioned, the slight nervous stammer, the faint peculiarity of accent, had recalled to his memory the poor young junior master, whose short, apparently unsuccessful, Ryeburn career had left its mark on the lives of others besides his own. "_Jack_ understood--not so the sick man. He was surprised and almost bewildered by the eagerness with which his visitor received his announcement. "'Sawyer, Mr. Sawyer!' he exclaimed. 'You cannot imagine how glad I am to see you again. I don't mean--I am terribly sorry to see you like this--but I have so often wished to find you, and I could never succeed in doing so.' "He turned as he spoke to Captain Montagu. "'I'll stay with him for an hour or two--as long as I can,' he said. 'I think,----' he added, glancing at the extempore sick-nurse, and hesitating a little. Captain Montagu understood the glance. "'Come, Watson,' he said to the young soldier, 'Mr. Berkeley will sit with--with Mr.----' "'Sawyer,' said Jack. --"'With Mr. Sawyer for a while. Shall he return in an hour, Berkeley?' "'Thank you, yes,' said Jack, and then he found himself alone with his old master. "'You said you tried to trace me after I left Ryeburn,' said Sawyer. 'Will you tell me why? There was no special reason for it, was there? I know I was disliked, but the sort of enmity I incurred must soon have died out. I was too insignificant for it to last. And the one great endeavour I made was to injure no one. That was why I left hurriedly--before I should be forced to make any complaints.' "He stopped--exhausted already by what he had said. 'And I have so much to say to him,' he whispered regretfully to himself. "'I know,' said Jack sadly. 'I understood it all before you had left many months.' "Mr. Sawyer looked pleased but surprised. "'It is very kind of you to speak so,' he said. 'I remember that dear little brother of yours when he came to see me off that last morning--I remember his saying, 'I'm sure Jack would have come if he had thought of it.' You don't know what a comfort the remembrance of that boy has been to me sometimes. You must tell him so. Dear me--he must be nearly grown up. Is he too in the army?' "'No, oh no,' said Jack. 'He--he died the year after you knew him.' "Sawyer's eyes looked up wistfully in Jack's face. 'Dead?' he said. 'That dear boy?' "'Yes,' Jack went on. 'It was of scarlet fever. It was very bad at Ryeburn that half. We both had it, but I was soon well again. It was not till Carlo was ill that he told me of having run over to wish you good-bye that morning--he had been afraid I would laugh at him for being soft-hearted--what a young brute I was--forgive my speaking so, Sawyer, but I can't look back to that time without shame. What a life we led you, and how you bore it! You were too good for us.' "Sawyer smiled. 'No,' he said. 'I cannot see it that way. I had not the knack of it--I was not fit for the position. The boys were very good boys, as boys go. It would have been inexcusable of me to have made them suffer for what, after all, was an unfortunate circumstance only. I had attempted what I could not manage. And Carlo--he is dead--somehow, perhaps because I am so near death myself, it does not shock or startle me. Dear little fellow that he was!' "'And while he was ill he was constantly talking about you. It seemed the only thing on his conscience, poor little chap, that he had joined at all in our treatment of you. And he begged me--I would have promised him anything, but by that time I saw it plainly enough for myself--to try to find you and ask you to forgive us both. But I little thought it would have been like this--I had fancied sometimes----' Jack hesitated, and the colour deepened in his sunburnt cheeks. "'What?' said Mr. Sawyer. 'Do not be afraid of my misunderstanding anything you say.' "'I had hoped perhaps that if I found you again I might be able to be of some use to you. And now it is too late. For you see we owe you some reparation for indirectly forcing you to leave Ryeburn--you might have risen there--who knows? I can see now what a capital teacher you were.' "Mr. Sawyer shook his head. "'I know I could teach,' he said, 'but that was all. I did not understand boys' ways. I never was a boy myself. But put all this out of your mind, Berkeley, for ever. In spite of all the disappointment, I was very happy at Ryeburn. The living among so many healthy-minded happy human beings was a new and pleasant experience to me. Short as it was, no part of my life has left a pleasanter remembrance. You say you would like to do something for me. Will you write to my mother after I am gone, and tell her? Tell her how little I suffered, and how good every one was to me, a perfect stranger. Will you do this?' "Jack bent his head. 'Willingly,' he said. "'You will find her address in this book,' he went on, handing a thick leather pocket-book to Jack. 'Also a sort of will--roughly drawn up, but correctly--leaving her all I have, and the amount of that, and the Bank it is in--all is noted. I have knocked about so--since I was at Ryeburn I have tried so many things and been in so many places, I have learnt to face all eventualities. I was so pleased to get the chance of coming out here----' "He stopped again. "'You must not tire yourself so,' said Jack. "'What does it matter? I can die so much more easily if I leave things clear--for, trifling as they are, my poor mother's comfort depends on them. And I am so glad too for you to understand about me, Berkeley. That day--it went to my heart to have to refuse you about the subscription for the fireworks.' "'Don't speak of it. I know you had some good motive,' said Jack. "'Necessity--sheer, hard necessity,' said poor Sawyer. 'The money I had got that morning was only just in time to save my younger brother from life-long disgrace, perhaps imprisonment.' "Then painfully--in short and broken sentences--he related to Jack the history of his hard, sad, but heroic life. _He_ did not think it heroic--it seemed to him, in his single-minded conscientiousness, that he had done no more than his duty, and that but imperfectly. He had given his life for others, and, hardest of all, for others who had little appreciated his devotion. "'My father died when I was only about twelve,' he said. 'He had been a clergyman, but his health failed, and he had to leave England and take a small charge in Switzerland. There he met my mother--a Swiss, and there I was partly brought up. When he died he told me I must take his place as head of the family. I was not so attractive as my brother and sister; I was shy and reserved. Naturally my mother cared most for them. I fear she was too indulgent. My sister married badly, and I had to try to help her. My poor brother, he was always in trouble and yet he meant well----' "And so he told Jack the whole melancholy history, entering into details which I have forgotten, and which, even if I remembered them, it would be only painful to relate. His brother was now in America--doing well he hoped, thanks of course to him; his sister's circumstances too had improved. For the first time in his life Sawyer had begun to feel his burdens lessening, when he was brought face to face with the knowledge that all in this world was over for him. Uncomplainingly he had, through all these long years, borne the heat and burden of the day; rest for him was to be elsewhere, not here. But as he had met life, so he now met death--calmly and unrepiningly, certain that hard as it had been hard as it seemed now, it must yet be for the best--the solving of the riddle he left to God. "And his last thought was for others--for the mother who had so little appreciated him, who required to lose him, perhaps, to bring home to her his whole value. "'I have always foreseen the possibility of this,' he said, 'and prepared for it as best I could. Besides the money I have confided to you, I insured my life, most fortunately, last year. She will have enough to get on pretty comfortably--and tell her,' he hesitated, 'I don't think she will miss me very much. I have never had the knack of drawing much affection to myself. But tell her I was quite satisfied that it is all for the best, and Louis may yet return to cheer her old age.' "Jack stayed till he could stay no longer. Then, with a grasp of the hand which meant more than many words, he left his new, yet old friend, promising to be down again at Kadikoi first thing in the morning. 'But take the papers with you, Berkeley, the papers and the pocket-book, in case, you know----' were Sawyer's last words to him. "Jack was even earlier the next day than he had expected. But when he got to the tent the canvas door was drawn to. "'Asleep?' he said to the doctor of the 25th Hussars, who came up at that moment, recognizing him. "'Yes,' said the doctor, bending his head reverently, as he said the word. "He unfastened the door, and signed to Jack to follow him. Jack understood--yes, asleep indeed. There he lay--all the pain and anxiety over, and as the two men gazed at the peaceful face, there came into Jack's mind the same words which his mother had whispered over the dead face of his little brother, "'Of such is the kingdom of Heaven'." CHAPTER XII. A CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE. "With bolted doors and windows wedged, The care was all in vain; For there were noises in the night Which nothing could explain." GRANDMAMMA AND THE FAIRIES The children had gone quietly to bed the evening before when grandmother had finished the reading of her story. They just kissed her and said, "Thank you, _dear_ grandmother," and that was all. But it was all she wanted. "I felt, you know," said Molly to Sylvia when they were dressing the next morning, "I felt a sort of feeling as if I'd been in church when the music was _awfully_ lovely. A beautiful feeling, but strange too, you know, Sylvia? _Particularly_ as Uncle Jack died too. When did he die? Do you know, Sylvia? Was it at that place?" "What place?" said Sylvia curtly. When her feelings were touched she had a way of growing curt and terse, sometimes even snappish. "That hot place--without trees, and all so dusty and dirty--Kadi--Kadi--I forget." "Oh! you stupid girl Kadikoi was only one little wee village. You mean the Crimea--the Crimea is the name of all the country about there--where the war was." "Yes, of course. I _am_ stupid," said Molly, but not at all as if she had any reason to be ashamed of the fact. "Did he never come home from the Crimea?" "No," said Sylvia, curtly again, "he never came home." For an instant Molly was silent. Then she began again. "Well, I wonder how the old lady, that poor nice man's mother, I mean--I wonder how she got the money and all that, that Uncle Jack was to settle for her. Shall we ask grandmother, Sylvia?" "No, of course not. What does it matter to us? Of course it was all properly done. If it hadn't been, how would grandmother have known about it?" "I never thought of that. Still I would like to know. I think," said Molly meditatively, "I think I could get grandmother to tell without exactly asking--for fear, you know, of seeming to remind her about poor Uncle Jack." "You'd much better not," said Sylvia, as she left the room. But once let Molly get a thing well into her head, "trust her," as Ralph said, "not to let it out again till it suited her." That very evening when they were all sitting together again, working and talking, all except aunty, busily writing at her little table in the corner, Molly began. "Grandmother dear," she said gently, "wasn't the old lady _dreadfully_ sorry when she heard he was dead?" For a moment grandmother stared at her in bewilderment--her thoughts had been far away. "What are you saying, my dear?" she asked. Sylvia frowned at Molly across the table. Too well did she know the peculiarly meek and submissive tone of voice assumed by Molly when bent on--had the subject been any less serious than it was, Sylvia would have called it "mischief." "Molly," she said reprovingly, finding her frowns calmly ignored. "What is it?" said Molly sweetly. "I mean, grandmother dear," she proceeded, "I mean the mother of the poor nice man that uncle was so good to. Wasn't she _dreadfully_ sorry when she heard he was dead?" "I think she was, dear," said grandmother unsuspiciously. "Poor woman, whatever her mistakes with her children had been, I felt dreadfully sorry for her. I saw her a good many times, for your uncle sent me home all the papers and directions--'in case,' as poor Sawyer had said of himself--so my Jack said it." Grandmother sighed; Sylvia looked still more reproachfully at Molly; Molly pretended to be threading her needle. "And I got it all settled as her son had wished. He had arranged it so that she could not give away the money during her life. Not long after, she went to America to her other son, and I believe she is still living. He got on very well, and is now a rich man. I had letters from them a few years ago--nice letters. I think it brought out the best of them--Philip Sawyer's death I mean. Still--oh no--they did not care for him, alive or dead, as such a man deserved." "What a shame it seems!" said Molly. "When _I_ have children," she went on serenely, "I shall love them all alike--whether they're ugly or pretty, if _anything_ perhaps the ugliest most, to make up to them, you see." "I thought you were never going to marry," said Ralph. "For you're never going to England, and you'll never marry a Frenchman." "Englishmen might come here," replied Molly. "And when you and Sylvia go to England, you might take some of my photographs to show." This was too much. Ralph laughed so that he rolled on the rug, and Sylvia nearly fell off her chair. Even grandmother joined in the merriment, and aunty came over from her corner to ask what it was all about. "I have finished my story," she said. "I am so glad." "And when, oh, when will you read it?" cried the children. "On the evening of the twenty-second of December. I fixed that while I was writing it, for that was the day it happened on," said aunty. "That will be next Monday, and this is Friday. Not so very long to wait. And after all it's a very short story--not nearly so long as grandmother's." "Never mind, we'll make it longer by talking about it," said Molly. "That's how I did at home when I had a very small piece of cake for tea. I took one bite of cake to three or four of bread and butter. It made it seem much more." "I can perfectly believe that _you_ will be ready to provide the necessary amount of 'bread and butter' to eke out my story," said aunty gravely. And Molly stared at her in such comical bewilderment as to what she meant, that she set them all off laughing again. Monday evening came. Aunty took her place at the table in front of the lamp, and having satisfied herself that Molly's wants in the shape of needles and thread, thimble, etc., were supplied for the next half-hour at least, she began as follows:-- "A CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE. "On the twenty-second of December, in the year eighteen hundred and fifty----" "No," said aunty, stopping short, "I can't tell you the year. Molly would make all sorts of dreadful calculations on the spot, as to my exact age, and the date at which the first grey hairs might be looked for--I will only say eighteen hundred and _something_." "_Fifty_ something," said Molly promptly. "You did say that, aunty." "Terrible child!" said aunty. "Well, never mind, I'll begin again. On the twenty-second of December, in a certain year, I, Laura Berkeley, set out with my elder sister Mary, on a long journey. We were then living on the western coast of England, or Wales rather; we had to cross the whole country, for our destination was the neighbourhood, a few miles inland, of a small town on the _eastern_ coast. Our journey was not one of pleasure--we were not going to spend 'a merry Christmas' with near and dear friends and relations. We were going on business, and our one idea was to get it accomplished as quickly as possible, and hurry home to our parents again, for otherwise their Christmas would be quite a solitary one. And as former Christmases--before we children had been scattered, before there were vacant chairs round the fireside--had been among the happiest times of the year in our family, as in many others, we felt doubly reluctant to risk spending it apart from each other, we four--all that were left now! "'It is dreadfully cold, Mary,' I said, when we were fairly off, dear mother gazing wistfully after us, as the train moved out of the station and her figure on the platform grew smaller and smaller, till at last we lost sight of it altogether. 'It is dreadfully cold, isn't it?' "We were tremendously well wrapped up--there were hot-water tins in the carriage, and every comfort possible for winter travellers. Yet it was true. It was, as I said, bitterly cold. "'Don't say that already, Laura,' said Mary anxiously, 'or I shall begin to wish I had stood out against your coming with me.' "'Oh, dear Mary, you couldn't have come alone,' I said. "I was only fifteen. My accompanying Mary was purely for the sake of being a companion to her, though in my own mind I thought it very possible that, considering the nature of the 'business' we were bent upon, I might prove to be of practical use too. I must tell you what this same 'business' was. It was to choose a house. Owing to my father's already failing health, we had left our own old home more than a year before, and till now we had been living in a temporary house in South Wales. But my father did not like the neighbourhood, and fancied the climate did not suit him, and besides this we could not have had the house after the following April, had we wished it. So there had been great discussions about what we should do, where we should go rather, and much consultation of advertisement sheets and agents' lists. Already Mary had set off on several fruitless expeditions in quest of delightful 'residences' which turned out very much the reverse. But she had never before had to go such a long way as to East Hornham, which was the name of the post-town near which were two houses to let, each seemingly so desirable that we really doubted whether it would not be difficult to resist taking _both_. My father had known East Hornham as a boy, and though its neighbourhood was not strikingly picturesque, it was considered to be eminently healthy, and he was full of eagerness about it, and wishing he himself could have gone to see the houses. But that was impossible--impossible too for my mother to leave him even for three days; there was nothing for it but for Mary to go, and at once. Our decision in the case of one of the houses must not be delayed a day, for a gentleman had seen it and wanted to take it, only as the agent in charge of it considered that we had 'the first refusal,' he had written to beg my father to send some one to see it at once. "And thus it came about that Mary and I set off by ourselves in this dreary fashion only two days before Christmas! Mother had proposed our taking a servant, but as we knew that the only one who would have been any use to us was the one of _most_ use to mother, we declared we should much prefer the 'independence' of going by ourselves. "By dint of much examination of Bradshaw we had discovered that it was possible, just possible, to get to East Hornham the same night about nine o'clock. "'That will enable us to get to bed early, after we have had some supper, and the next day we can devote to seeing the two houses, one or other of which _must_ suit us,' said Mary, cheerfully. 'And starting early again the next day we may hope to be back with you on Christmas eve, mother dear.' "The plan seemed possible enough,--one day would suffice for the houses, as there was no need as yet to go into all the details of the apportionment of rooms, and so on. That would be time enough in the spring, when we proposed to stay at East Hornham for a week or two at the hotel there, and arrange our new quarters at leisure. It was running it rather close, however; the least hitch, such as failing to catch one train out of the many which Mary had cleverly managed to fit in to each other, would throw our scheme out of gear; so mother promised not to be anxious if we failed to appear, and we, on our part, promised to telegraph if we met with any detention. "For the first half--three-quarters, I might say--of our journey we got on swimmingly. We caught all the trains; the porters and guards were civility itself; and as our only luggage was a small hand-bag that we carried ourselves, we had no trouble of any kind. When we got to Fexel Junction, the last important station we were to pass, our misfortunes began. Here, by rights, we should have had a full quarter of an hour to wait for the express which should drop us at East Hornham on its way north; but when the guard heard our destination he shook his head. "'The train's gone,' he said. 'We are more than half an hour late.' "And so it proved. A whole hour and a half had we to sit shivering, in spite of the big fire, in the Fexel waiting-room, and it was eleven at night before, in the slowest of slow trains, we at last found ourselves within a few miles of East Hornham. "Our spirits had gone down considerably since the morning. We were very tired, and that has _very_ much more to do with people's spirits than almost any one realises. "'It wouldn't matter if we were going to friends,' said Mary. 'But it does seem very strange and desolate--we two poor things, two days before Christmas, arriving at midnight in a perfectly strange place, and nowhere to go to but an inn.' "'But think how nice it will be, getting home to mother again--particularly if we've settled it all nicely about the house,' I said. "And Mary told me I was a good little thing, and she was very glad to have me with her. It was not usual for me to be the braver of the two, but you see I felt my responsibilities on this occasion to be great, and was determined to show myself worthy of them. "And when we did get to the inn, the welcome we received was worthy of Dr. Johnson's praise of inns in general. The fire was so bright, the little table so temptingly spread that the spirits--seldom long depressed--of one-and-twenty and fifteen rose at the sight. For we were hungry as well as tired, and the cutlets and broiled ham which the good people had managed to keep beautifully hot and fresh for us--possibly they were so accustomed to the railway eccentricities that they had only cooked them in time for our arrival by the later train, for we were told afterwards that no one ever _did_ catch the express at Fexel Junction,--the cutlets and ham, as I was saying, and the buttered toast, and all the other good things, were _so_ good that we made an excellent supper, and slept the sleep of two tired but perfectly healthy young people till seven o'clock the next morning. "We awoke refreshed and hopeful. But alas! when Mary pulled up the blind what a sight met her eyes! snow--snow everywhere. "'What _shall_ we do?' she said. 'We can never judge of the houses in this weather. And how are we to get to them? Dear me! how unlucky!' "'But it has left off, and it can't be very thick in these few hours,' I said, 'If only it keeps off now, we could manage.' "We dressed quickly, and had eaten our breakfast by half-past eight; for at nine, by arrangement, the agent was to call for us to escort us on our voyage of discovery. The weather gave promise of improving, a faint wintry sunshine came timidly out, and there seemed no question of more snow. When Mr. Turner, the agent, a respectable fatherly sort of man, made his appearance, he altogether pooh-poohed the idea of the roads being impassable; but he went on to say that, to his great regret, it was perfectly impossible for him to accompany us. Mr. H----, Mr. Walter H----, that is to say, the younger son of the owner of the Grange, the larger of the two houses we were to see, had arrived unexpectedly, and Mr. Turner was obliged to meet him about business. "'I have managed the business about here for them since they left the Grange, and Mr. Walter is only here for a day,' said the communicative Mr. Turner. 'It is most unfortunate. But I have engaged a comfortable carriage for you, Miss Berkeley, and a driver who knows the country thoroughly, and is a very steady man. And, if you will allow me, I will call in this evening to hear what you think of the houses--which you prefer.' He seemed to be quite sure we should fix for one or other. "'Thank you, that will do very well,' said Mary,--not in her heart, to tell the truth, sorry that we were to do our house-hunting by ourselves. 'We shall get on quite comfortably, I am sure, Mr. Turner. Which house shall we go to see first?' "'The farthest off, I would advise,' said Mr. Turner. 'That is Hunter's Hall. It is eight miles at least from this, and the days are so short.' "'Is that the old house with the terraced garden?' I asked. "Mr. Turner glanced at me benevolently. "'Oh no, Miss,' he said. 'The terraced garden is at the Grange. Hunter's Hall is a nice little place, but much smaller than the Grange. The gardens at the Grange are really quite a show in summer.' "'Perhaps they will be too much for us,' said Mary. 'My father does not want a very large place, you understand, Mr. Turner--not being in good health he does not wish to have the trouble of looking after much.' "'I don't think you would find it too much,' said Mr. Turner. 'The head gardener is to be left at Mr. H----'s expense, and he is very trustworthy. But I can explain all these details this evening if you will allow me, after you have seen the house,' and, so saying, the obliging agent bade us good morning. "'I am sure we shall like the Grange the best,' I said to Mary, when, about ten o'clock, we found ourselves in the carriage Mr. Turner had provided for us, slowly, notwithstanding the efforts of the two fat horses that were drawing us, making our way along the snow-covered roads. "'I don't know,' said Mary. 'I am afraid of its being too large. But certainly Hunter's Hall is a long way from the town, and that is a disadvantage.' "A _very_ long way it seemed before we got there. "'I could fancy we had been driving nearly twenty miles instead of eight,' said Mary, when at last the carriage stopped before a sort of little lodge, and the driver informed us we must get out there, there being no carriage drive up to the house. "'Objection number one,' said Mary, as we picked our steps along the garden path which led to the front door. 'Father would not like to have to walk along here every time he went out a drive. Dear me!' she added, 'how dreadfully difficult it is to judge of any place in snow! The house looks so dirty, and yet very likely in summer it is a pretty bright white house.' "It was not a bad little house: there were two or three good rooms downstairs and several fairly good upstairs, besides a number of small inconvenient rooms that might have been utilised by a very large family, but would be no good at all to us. Then the kitchens were poor, low-roofed, and straggling. "'It might do,' said Mary doubtfully. 'It is more the look of it than anything else that I dislike. It does not look as if gentle-people had lived in it--it seems like a better-class farm-house.' "And so it proved to be, for on inquiry we learnt from the woman who showed us through, that it never had been anything but a farm-house till the present owner had bought it, improved it a little, and furnished it in a rough-and-ready fashion for a summer residence for his large family of children. "'We should need a great deal of additional furniture,' said Mary. 'Much of it is very poor and shabby. The rent, however, is certainly very low--to some extent that would make up.' "Then we thanked the woman in charge, and turned to go. 'Dear me!' said Mary, glancing at her watch, 'it is already half-past twelve. I hope the driver knows the way to the Grange, or it will be dark before we get there. How far is it from here to East Hornham?' she added, turning again to our guide. "'Ten miles good,' said the woman. "'I thought so,' said Mary. 'I shall have a crow to pluck with that Mr. Turner for saying it was only eight. And how far to the Grange?' "'Which Grange, Miss? There are two or three hereabouts.' "Mary named the family it belonged to. "'Oh it is quite seven miles from here, though not above two from East Hornham.' "'Seven and two make nine,' said Mary. 'Why didn't you bring us here past the Grange? It is a shorter way,' she added to the driver, as we got into the carriage again. "The man touched his hat respectfully, and replied that he had brought us round the other way that we might see more of the country. "We laughed to ourselves at the idea of seeing the country, shut up in a close carriage and hardly daring to let the tips of our noses peep out to meet the bitter, biting cold. Besides, what was there to see? It was a flat, bare country, telling plainly of the near neighbourhood of the sea, and with its present mantle of snow, features of no kind were to be discerned. Roads, fields, and all were undistinguishable. "'I wonder he knows his way,' we said to each other more than once, and as we drove on farther we could not resist a slight feeling of alarm as to the weather. The sky grew unnaturally dark and gloomy, with the blue-grey darkness that so often precedes a heavy fall of snow, and we felt immensely relieved when at last the carriage slackened before a pair of heavy old-fashioned gates, which were almost immediately opened by a young woman who ran out from one of the two lodges guarding each a side of the avenue. "The drive up to the house looked very pretty even then--or rather as if it would be exquisitely so in spring and summer time. "'I'm sure there must be lots and lots of primroses and violets and periwinkles down there in those woody places,' I cried. 'Oh Mary, Mary, _do_ take this house.' "Mary smiled, but I could see that she too was pleased. And when we saw the house itself the pleasant impression was not decreased. It was built of nice old red stone, or brick, with grey mullions and gables to the roof. The hall was oak wainscotted all round, and the rooms that opened out of it were home-like and comfortable, as well as spacious. Certainly it was too large, a great deal too large, but then we could lock off some of the rooms. "'People often do so,' I said. 'I think it is a delicious house, don't you, Mary?' "One part was much older than the other, and it was curiously planned, the garden, the terraced garden behind which I had heard of, rising so, that after going upstairs in the house you yet found yourself on a level with one part of this garden, and could walk out on to it through a little covered passage. The rooms into which this passage opened were the oldest of all--one in particular, tapestried all round, struck me greatly. "'I hope it isn't haunted,' I said suddenly. Mary smiled, but the young woman looked grave. "'You don't mean to say it _is_?' I exclaimed. "'Well, Miss, I was housemaid here several years, and I certainly never saw nor heard nothing. But the young gentlemen did used to say things like that for to frighten us, and for me I'm one as never likes to say as to those things that isn't for us to understand.' "'I do believe it _is_ haunted,' I cried, more and more excited, and though Mary checked me I would not leave off talking about it. "We were turning to go out into the gardens when an exclamation from Mary caught my attention. "'It is snowing again and _so_ fast,' she said, 'and just see how dark it is.' "''Twill lighten up again when the snow leaves off, Miss,' said the woman. 'It is not three o'clock yet. I'll make you a bit of fire in a minute if you like, in one of the rooms. In here----' she added, opening the door of a small bedroom next to the tapestry room, 'it'll light in a minute, the chimney can't be cold, for there was one yesterday. I put fires in each in turns.' "We felt sorry to trouble her, but it seemed really necessary, for just then our driver came to the door to tell us he had had to take out the horses and put them into the stable. "'They seemed dead beat,' he said, 'with the heavy roads. And besides it would be impossible to drive in the midst of such very thick falling snow. 'Twould be better to wait an hour or two, till it went off. There was a bag in the carriage--should he bring it in?' "We had forgotten that we had brought with us some sandwiches and buns. In our excitement we had never thought how late it was, and that we must be hungry. Now, with the prospect of an hour or two's enforced waiting with nothing to do, we were only too thankful to be reminded of our provisions. The fire was already burning brightly in the little room--'Mr. Walter's room' the young woman called it--'That must be the gentleman that was to be with Mr. Turner to-day,' I whispered to Mary--and she very good-naturedly ran back to her own little house to fetch the necessary materials for a cup of tea for us. "'It is a fearful storm,' she informed us when she ran back again, white from head to foot, even with the short exposure, and indeed from the windows we could see it for ourselves. 'The snow is coming that thick and fast, I could hardly find my own door,' she went on, while she busied herself with preparations for our tea. 'It is all very well in summer here, but it is lonesome-like in winter since the family went away. And my husband's been ill for some weeks too--I have to sit up with him most nights. Last night, just before the snow began, I did get such a fright--all of a sudden something seemed to come banging at our door, and then I heard a queer breathing like. I opened the door, but there was nothing to be seen, but perhaps it was that that made me look strange when Miss here,' pointing to me, 'asked me if the house was haunted. Whatever it was that came to our door certainly rushed off this way.' "'A dog, or even a cat, perhaps,' said Mary. "The woman shook her head. "'A cat couldn't have made such a noise, and there's not a dog about the place,' she said. "I listened with great interest--but Mary's thoughts were otherwise engaged. There was not a doubt that the snow-storm, instead of going off, was increasing in severity. We drank our tea and ate our sandwiches, and put off our time as well as we could till five o'clock. It was now of course perfectly dark but for the light of the fire. We were glad when our friend from the lodge returned with a couple of tallow candles, blaming herself for having forgotten them. "'I really don't know what we should do,' said Mary to her. 'The storm seems getting worse and worse. I wonder what the driver thinks about it. Is he in the house, do you know?' "'He's sitting in our kitchen, Miss,' replied the young woman. 'He seems very much put about. Shall I tell him to come up to speak to you?' "'Thank you, I wish you would,' said Mary. 'But I am really sorry to bring you out so much in this dreadful weather.' "The young woman laughed cheerfully. "'I don't mind it a bit, Miss,' she said; 'if you only knew how glad I shall be if you come to live here. Nothing'd be a trouble if so be as we could get a kind family here again. 'Twould be like old times.' "She hastened away, and in a few minutes returned to say that the driver was downstairs waiting to speak to us----" "Laura, my dear," said grandmother, "do you know it is a quarter to ten. How much more is there?" Aunty glanced through the pages-- "About as much again," she said. "No, scarcely so much." "Well then, dears, it must wait till to-morrow," said grandmother. "_Oh_, grandmother!" remonstrated the children. "Aunty said it was a shorter story than yours, grandmother," said Molly in a half reproachful voice. "And are you disappointed that it isn't?" said aunty, laughing. "I really didn't think it was so long as it is." "Oh! aunty, I only wish it was _twenty_ times as long," said Molly. "I shouldn't mind hearing it all over again this minute, only you see I do dreadfully want to hear the end. I am sure they had to stay there all night, and that something frightens them. Oh it's 'squisitely delicious," she added, "jigging" up and down on her chair. "You're a 'squisitely delicious little humbug," said aunty, laughing. "Now good-night all three of you, and get to bed as fast as you can, as I don't want 'grandmother dear' to scold me for your all being tired and sleepy to-morrow." CHAPTER XIII. A CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE.--PART II. "And as for poor old Rover, I'm sure he meant no harm." OLD DOGGIE. "Molly is too sharp by half," said aunty, the following evening, when she was preparing to go on with her story. "We _had_ to stay there all night--that was the result of Mary's conversation with the driver, the details of which I may spare you. Let me see, where was I? 'The driver scratched his head,'--no,--ah, here it is! 'He was waiting downstairs to speak to us; 'and the result of the speaking I have told you, so I'll go on from here---- "It was so cold downstairs in the fireless, deserted house, that Mary and I were glad to come upstairs again to the little room where we had been sitting, which already seemed to have a sort of home-like feeling about it. But once arrived there we looked at each other in dismay. "'Isn't it dreadful, Mary?' I said. "'And we shall miss the morning train from East Hornham--the only one by which we can get through the same day--that is the worst of all,' she said. "'Can't we be in time? It is only two or three miles from here to East Hornham,' I said. "'Yes, but you forget I _must_ see Mr. Turner again. If I fix to take this house, and it seems very likely, I must not go away without all the particulars for father. There are ever so many things to ask. I have a list of father's, as long as my arm, of questions and inquiries.' "'Ah, yes,' I agreed; 'and then we have to get our bag at the hotel, and to pay our bill there.' "'And to choose rooms there to come to at first,' said Mary. 'Oh yes, our getting away by that train is impossible. And then the Christmas trains are like Sunday. Even by travelling all night we cannot get home, I fear. I must telegraph to mother as soon as we get back to East Hornham.' "The young woman had not returned. We were wondering what had become of her when she made her appearance laden with everything she could think of for our comfort. The bed, she assured us, could not be damp, as it had been 'to the fire' all the previous day, and she insisted on putting on a pair of her own sheets, coarse but beautifully white, and fetching from another room additional blankets, which in their turn had to be subjected to 'airing,' or 'firing' rather. To the best of her ability she provided us with toilet requisites, apologising, poor thing, for the absence of what we 'of course, must be used to,'--as she expressed it, in the shape of fine towels, perfumed soap, and so on. And she ended by cooking us a rasher of bacon and poached eggs for supper, all the materials for which refection she had brought from her own cottage. She was so kind that I shrank from suggesting to Mary the objection to the proposed arrangement, which was all this time looming darkly before me. But when our friend was about to take her leave for the night I could keep it back no longer. "'Mary,' I whispered, surprised and somewhat annoyed at my sister's calmness, 'are you going to let her go away? You and I _can't_ stay here all night alone.' "'Do you mean that you are frightened, Laura dear?' she said kindly, in the same tone. 'I don't see that there is anything to be frightened of; and if there were, what good would another girl--for this young woman is very little older than I--do us?' "'She knows the house, any way, and it wouldn't seem so bad,' I replied, adding aloud, 'Oh, Mrs. Atkins'--for I had heard the driver mention her name--'can't you stay in the house with us? We shall feel so dreadfully strange.' "'I would have done so most gladly, Miss,' the young woman began, but Mary interrupted her. "'I know you can't,' she said; 'your husband is ill. Laura, it would be very wrong of us to propose such a thing.' "'That's just how it is,' said Mrs. Atkins. 'My husband has such bad nights he can't be left, and there's no one I could get to sit with him. Besides, it's such a dreadful night to seek for any one.' "'Then the driver,' I said; 'couldn't he stay somewhere downstairs? He might have a fire in one of the rooms.' "Mrs. Atkins wished it had been thought of before. 'Giles,'--which it appeared was the man's name--would have done it in a minute, she was sure, but it was too late. He had already set off to seek a night's lodging and some supper, no doubt, at a little inn half a mile down the road. "'An inn?' I cried. 'I wish we had gone there too. It would have been far better than staying here.' "'Oh, it's a very poor place--'The Drover's Rest,' they call it. It would never do for you, Miss,' said Mrs. Atkins, looking distressed that all her efforts for our comfort appeared to have been in vain. 'Giles might ha' thought of it himself,' she added, 'but then you see it would never strike him but what here--in the Grange--you'd be as safe as safe. It's not a place for burglaries and such like, hereabouts.' "'And of course we shall be quite safe,' said Mary. 'Laura dear, what has made you so nervous all of a sudden?' "I did not answer, for I was ashamed to speak of Mrs. Atkins' story of the strange noises she had heard the previous night, which evidently Mary had forgotten, but I followed the young woman with great eagerness, to see that we were at least thoroughly well defended by locks and bolts in our solitude. The tapestry room and that in which we were to sleep could be locked off from the rest of the empty house, as a door stood at the head of the little stair leading up to them--so far, so well. But Mrs. Atkins proceeded to explain that the door at the _outside_ end of the other passage, leading into the garden, could not be locked except from the outside. "'I can lock you in, if you like, Miss,' she said, 'and come round first thing in the morning;' but this suggestion did not please us at all. "'No, thank you,' said Mary, 'for if it is fine in the morning I mean to get up very early and walk round the gardens.' "'No, thank you,' said I, adding mentally, 'Supposing we _were_ frightened it would be too dreadful not to be able to get out.'--'But we can lock the door from the tapestry room into the passage, from our side, can't we?' I said, and Mrs. Atkins replied 'Oh yes, of course you can, Miss,' turning the key in the lock of the door as she spoke. 'Master never let the young gentlemen lock the doors when they were boys,' she added, 'for they were always breaking the locks. So you see, Miss, there's a hook and staple to this door, as well as the lock.' "'Thank you, Mrs. Atkins,' said Mary, 'that will do nicely, I am sure. And now we must really not keep you any longer from your husband. Good-night, and thank you very much.' "'Good-night,' I repeated, and we both stood at the door of the passage as she made her way out into the darkness. The snow was still falling very heavily, and the blast of cold wind that made its way in was piercing. "'Oh, Mary, come back to the fire,' I cried. 'Isn't it _awfully_ cold? Oh, Mary dear,' I added, when we had both crouched down beside the welcome warmth for a moment, 'won't it be _delicious_ to be back with mother again? We never thought we'd have such adventures, did we? Can you fancy this house ever feeling _home-y_, Mary? It seems so dreary now.' "'Yes, but you've no idea how different it will seem even to-morrow morning, if it's a bright day,' said Mary. 'Let's plan the rooms, Laura. Don't you think the one to the south with the crimson curtains will be best for father?' "So she talked cheerfully, more, I am sure--though I did not see it at the time--to encourage me than to amuse herself. And after awhile, when she saw that I was getting sleepy, she took a candle into the outer room, saying she would lock the door and make all snug for the night. I heard her, as I thought, lock the door, then she came back into our room and also locked the door leading from it into the tapestry room. "'You needn't lock that too,' I said sleepily; 'if the tapestry door is locked, we're all right!' "'I think it's better,' said Mary quietly, and then we undressed, so far as we could manage to do so in the extremely limited state of our toilet arrangements, and went to bed. "I fell asleep at once. Mary, she afterwards told me, lay awake for an hour or two, so that when she did fall asleep her slumber was unusually profound. I think it must have been about midnight when I woke suddenly, with the feeling--the indescribable feeling--that something had awakened me. I listened, first of all with _only_ the ear that happened to be uppermost--then, as my courage gradually returned again, I ventured to move slightly, so that both ears were uncovered. No, nothing was to be heard. I was trying to compose myself to sleep again, persuading myself that I had been dreaming, when again--yes most distinctly--there _was_ a sound. A sort of shuffling, scraping noise, which seemed to come from the direction of the passage leading from the tapestry room to the garden. Fear made me selfish. I pushed Mary, then shook her gently, then more vigorously. "'Mary,' I whispered. 'Oh, Mary, _do_ wake up. I hear such a queer noise.' "Mary, poor Mary awoke, but she had been very tired. It was a moment or two before she collected her faculties. "'Where are we? What is it?' she said. Then she remembered. 'Oh yes--what is the matter, Laura?' "'Listen,' I said, and Mary, calmly self-controlled as usual, sat up in bed and listened. The sound was quite distinct, even louder than I had heard it. "'Oh, Mary!' I cried. 'Somebody's trying to get in. Oh, Mary, what _shall_ we do? Oh, I am so frightened. I shall die with fright. Oh, I wish I had never come!' "I was on the verge of hysterics, or something of the kind. "Mary, herself a little frightened, as she afterwards confessed--in the circumstances what young girl could have helped being so?--turned to me quietly. Something in the very tone of her voice seemed to soothe me. "'Laura dear,' she said gravely, 'did you say your prayers last night?' "'Oh yes, oh yes, indeed I did. But I'll say them again now if you like,' I exclaimed. "Even then, Mary could hardly help smiling. "'That isn't what I meant,' she said. 'I mean, what is the _good_ of saying your prayers if you don't believe what you say?' "'But I do, I do,' I sobbed. "'Then why are you so terrified? You asked God to take care of you. When you said it you believed He would. Why not believe it now? _Now_, when you are tried, is the time to show if you do mean what you say. I am sure God _will_ take care of us. Now try, dear, to be reasonable, and I will get up and see what it is.' "'But don't leave me, and I will try to be good,' I exclaimed, jumping out of bed at the same moment that she did, and clinging to her as she moved. 'Oh, Mary, don't you think perhaps we'd better go back to bed and put our fingers in our ears, and by morning it wouldn't seem anything.' "'And fancy ever after that there had been something mysterious, when perhaps it is something quite simple,' said Mary. 'No, I shouldn't like that at all. Of course I won't do anything rash, but I would like to find out.' "'The fire, fortunately, was not yet quite out. Mary lighted one of the candles with a bit of paper from a spark which she managed to coax into a flame. The noise had, in the meantime, subsided, but just as we had got the candle lighted, it began again. "'Now,' said Mary, 'you stay here, Laura, and I'll go into the next room and listen at the passage door.' She spoke so decidedly that I obeyed in trembling. Mary armed herself with the poker, and, unlocking our door, went into the tapestry room, first lighting the second candle, which she left with me. She crossed the room to the door as she had said. _I_ thought it was to listen; in reality her object was to endeavour to turn the key in the lock of the tapestry room door, which she had _not_ been able to do the night before, for once the door was shut the key would not move, and she had been obliged to content herself with the insecure hold of the hook and staple. Now it had struck her that by inserting the poker in the handle of the key she might succeed in turning it, and thus provide ourselves with a double defence. For if the intruder--dog, cat, whatever it was--burst the outer door and got into the tapestry room, my fears, she told me afterwards, would, she felt sure, have become uncontrollable. It was a brave thing to do--was it not? She deserved to succeed, and she did. With the poker's help she managed to turn the key, and then with a sigh of relief she stood still for a moment listening. The sounds continued--whatever it was it was evidently what Mrs. Atkins had heard the night before--a shuffling, rushing-about sound, then a sort of impatient breathing. Mary came back to me somewhat reassured. "'Laura,' she said, 'I keep to my first opinion. It is a dog, or a cat, or some animal.' "'But suppose it is a _mad_ dog?' I said, somewhat unwilling to own that my terrors had been exaggerated. "'It is possible, but not probable,' she replied. 'Any way it can't get in here. Now, Laura, it is two o'clock by my watch. There is candle enough to last an hour or two, and I will make up the fire again. Get into bed and _try_ to go to sleep, for honestly I do not think there is any cause for alarm.' "'But Mary, I _can't_ go to sleep unless you come to bed too, and if you don't, I can't believe you think it's nothing,' I said. So, to soothe me, she gave up her intention of remaining on guard by the fire, and came to bed, and, wonderful to relate, we both went to sleep, and slept soundly till--what o'clock do you think? "It was _nine_ o'clock when I awoke; Mary was standing by me fully dressed, a bright frosty sun shining into the room, and a tray with a cup of tea and some toast and bacon keeping hot by the fire. "'Oh, Mary!' I cried, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. "'Are you rested?' she said. 'I have been up since daylight--not so very early _that_, at this season--Mrs. Atkins came and brought me some breakfast, but we hadn't the heart to waken you, you poor child.' "'And oh, Mary, what about the noise? Did she hear it?' "'She wasn't sure. She half fancied she did, and then she thought she might have been imagining it from the night before. But get up, dear. It is hopeless to try for the early train; we can't leave till to-night, or to-morrow morning; but I am anxious to get back to East Hornham and see Mr. Turner. And before we go I'd like to run round the gardens.' "'But, Mary,' I said, pausing in my occupation of putting on my stockings, 'are you still thinking of taking this house?' "'Still!' said Mary. 'Why not?' "'Because of the noises. If we can't find out what it is, it would be very uncomfortable. And with father being so delicate too, and often awake at night!' "Mary did not reply, but my words were not without effect. We ran round the gardens as she had proposed--they were lovely even then--took a cordial farewell of Mrs. Atkins, and set off on our return drive to East Hornham. I must not forget to tell you that we well examined that part of the garden into which the tapestry room passage led, but there were no traces of footsteps, the explanation of which we afterwards found to be that the snow had continued to fall till much later in the night than the time of our fright. "Mr. Turner was waiting for us in considerable anxiety. We had done, he assured us, the most sensible thing possible in the circumstances. He had not known of our non-arrival till late in the evening, and, but for his confidence in Giles, would have set off even then. As it was, he had sent a messenger to Hunter's Hall, and was himself starting for the Grange. "Mary sent me out of the room while she spoke to him, at which I was not over well pleased. She told him all about the fright we had had, and that, unless its cause were explained, it would certainly leave an uncomfortable feeling in her mind, and that, considering our father's invalid state, till she had talked it over with our mother she could not come to the decision she had hoped. "'It may end in our taking Hunter's Hall,' she said, 'though the Grange is far more suitable.' "Mr. Turner was concerned and perplexed. But Mary talked too sensibly to incline him to make light of it. "'It is very unfortunate,' he said; 'and I promised an answer to the other party by post this evening. And you say, Miss Berkeley, that Mrs. Atkins heard it too. You are _sure_, Miss, you were not dreaming?' "'_Quite_ sure. It was my sister that heard it, and woke me,' she replied; 'and then we both heard it.' "Mr. Turner walked off, metaphorically speaking, scratching his head, as honest Giles had done literally in his perplexity the night before. He promised to call back in an hour or two, when he had been to the station and found out about the trains for us. "We packed our little bag and paid the bill, so that we might be quite ready, in case Mr. Turner found out any earlier train by which we might get on, for we had telegraphed to mother that we should do our best to be back the next day. I was still so sleepy and tired that Mary persuaded me to lie down on the bed, in preparation for the possibility of a night's journey. I was _nearly_ asleep when a tap came to the door, and a servant informed Mary that a gentleman was waiting to speak to her. "'Mr. Turner,' said she carelessly, as she passed into the sitting-room. "But it was not Mr. Turner. In his place she found herself face to face with a very different person--a young man, of seven or eight and twenty, perhaps, tall and dark--dark-haired and dark-eyed that is to say--grave and quiet in appearance, but with a twinkle in his eyes that told of no lack of humour. "'I must apologise for calling in this way, Miss Berkeley,' he said at once, 'but I could not help coming myself to tell how _very_ sorry I am about the fright my dog gave you last night at the Grange. I have just heard of it from Mr. Turner.' "'Your dog?' repeated Mary, raising her pretty blue eyes to his face in bewilderment. "'Yes,' he said, 'he ran off to the Grange--his old home, you know--oh, I beg your pardon! I am forgetting to tell you that I am Walter H----,--in the night, and must have tried to find his way into my room in the way he used to do. I always left the door unlatched for him.' "Instead of replying, Mary turned round and flew straight off into the room where I was. "'Oh, Laura,' she exclaimed, 'it _was_ a dog; Mr. Walter H---- has just come to tell us. Are you not delighted? Now we can fix for the Grange at once, and it will all be right. Come quick, and hear about it.' "I jumped up, and, without even waiting to smooth my hair, hurried back into the sitting-room with Mary. Our visitor, very much amused at our excitement, explained the whole, and sent downstairs for 'Captain,' a magnificent retriever, who, on being told to beg our pardon, looked up with his dear pathetic brown eyes in Mary's face in a way that won her heart at once. His master, it appeared, had been staying at East Hornham the last two nights with an old friend, the clergyman there. Both nights, on going to bed late, he had missed 'Captain,' whose usual habit was to sleep on a mat at his door. The first night he was afraid the dog was lost, but to his relief he reappeared again early the next morning; the second night, also, his master happening to be out late at Mr. Turner's, with whom he had a good deal of business to settle, the dog had set off again on his own account to his former quarters, with probably some misty idea in his doggy brain that it was the proper thing to do. "'But how did you find out where he had been?' said I. "'I went out early this morning, feeling rather anxious about 'Captain,'' said our visitor; 'and I met him coming along the road leading from the Grange. Where he had spent the night after failing to get into his old home I cannot tell; he must have sheltered somewhere to get out of the snow and the cold. Later this morning I walked on to the Grange, and, hearing from Ruth Atkins of your fright and her own, I put 'two and two together,' and I think the result quite explains the noises you heard.' "'Quite,' we both said; 'and we thank you so much for coming to tell us.' "'It was certainly the very least I could do,' he said; 'and I thank you very much for forgiving poor old Captain.' "So we left East Hornham with lightened hearts, and, as our new friend was travelling some distance in our direction, he helped us to accomplish our journey much better than we could have managed it alone. And after all we _did_ get back to our parents on Christmas day, though not on Christmas eve." Aunty stopped. "Then you did take the Grange, aunty?" said the children. Aunty nodded her head. "And you never heard any more noises?" "Never," said aunty. "It was the pleasantest of old houses; and oh, we were sorry to leave it, weren't we, mother?" "Why did you leave it, grandmother dear?" said Molly. "When your grandfather's health obliged him to spend the winters abroad; then we came here," said grandmother. "Oh yes," said Molly, adding after a little pause, "I _would_ like to see that house." Aunty smiled. "Few things are more probable than that you will do so," she said, "provided you can make up your mind to cross the sea again." "Why? how do you mean, aunty?" said Molly, astonished, and Ralph and Sylvia listened with eagerness to aunty's reply. "Because," said aunty,--then she looked across to grandmother. "Won't you explain to them, mother?" she said. "Because, my darlings, that dear old house will be your home--your happy home, I trust, some day," said grandmother. "Is my father thinking of buying it?" asked Ralph, pricking up his ears. "No, my boy, but some day it will be his. It is your uncle's now, but he is _much_ older than your father, and has no children, so you see it will come to your father some day--sooner than we have thought, perhaps, for your uncle is too delicate to live in England, and talks of giving it up to your father." "But _still_ I don't understand," said Ralph, looking puzzled. "Did my _uncle_ buy it?" "No, no. Did you never hear of old Alderwood Grange?" "Alderwood," said Ralph. "Of _course_, but we never speak of it as 'The Grange,' you know, and I have never seen it. It has always been let since I can remember. I never even heard it described. Papa does not seem to care to speak of it." "No, dear," said aunty. "The happiest part of his life began there, and you know how all the light seemed to go out of his life when your mother died. It was there he--Captain's master--got to know her, the 'Mary' of my little adventure. You understand it all now? He was a great deal in the neighbourhood--at the little town I called East Hornham--the summer we first came to Alderwood. And there they were married; and there, in the peaceful old church-yard, your dear mother is buried." The children listened with sobered little faces. "Poor papa!" they said. "But some day," said grandmother, "some day I hope, when you three are older, that Alderwood will again be a happy home for your father. It is what your mother would have wished, I know." "Well then, you and aunty must come to live with us there. You must. Promise now, grandmother dear," said Molly. Grandmother smiled, but shook her head gently. "Grandmother will be a _very_ old woman by then, my darling," she said, "and perhaps----" Molly pressed her little fat hand over grandmother's mouth. "I know what you're going to say, but you're _not_ to say it," she said. "And _every_ night, grandmother dear, I ask in my prayers for you to live to be a hundred." Grandmother smiled again. "Do you, my darling?" she said. "But remember, whatever we _ask_, God knows best what to _answer_." CHAPTER XIV. HOW THIS BOOK CAME TO BE WRITTEN. "Ring out ye merry, merry bells, Your loudest, sweetest chime; Tell all the world, both rich and poor, 'Tis happy Christmas time." "Grandmother," said Ralph, at breakfast on what Molly called "the morning of Christmas Eve," "I was going to ask you, only the story last night put it out of my head, if I might ask Prosper to spend to-morrow with us. His uncle and aunt are going away somewhere, and he will be quite alone. Besides he and I have made a plan about taking the shawl to the old woman quite early in the morning. You don't know _how_ pleased he was when I told him you had got it for her, grandmother--just as pleased as if he had bought it for her with his own money." "Then he is a really unselfish boy," said grandmother. "Certainly you may ask him. I had thought of it too, but somehow it went out of my head. And, as well as the shawl, I shall have something to send to Prosper's old friend. She must have a good dinner for once." "That'll be awfully jolly," said Ralph. Sylvia and Molly listened with approval, for of course they had heard all about the mystery of Ralph's wood-carrying long ago. "At Christmas time we're to try to make other people happy," said Molly, meditatively. "_I_ thought of something that would make a great lot of people happy, if you and aunty would do it, grandmother dear?" "I don't think you did _all_ the thinking about it, Molly," said Sylvia, with a slight tone of reproach. "I do think I did some." "Well, I daresay you did. We did it together. It couldn't be for _this_ Christmas, but for another." "But what is it?" asked grandmother. "It is that you and aunty should make a book out of the stories you've told us, and then you see lots and lots of other children would be pleased as well as us," said Molly. "Of course you'd have to put more to it, to make it enough. I don't _mind_ if you put some in about me, grandmother dear, if you would _like_ to very much." "No," said Sylvia, "that would be very stupid. Grandmother couldn't make a book about _us_. We're not uncommon enough. We couldn't be _heroines_, Molly." "But children don't care about heroines," said Molly. "Children like to hear about other children, just really what they do. Now, don't they, grandmother dear? And _isn't_ my plan a good one?" * * * * * Will _you_ answer little Molly's question, children dear? For dear you all are, whoever and wherever you be. Boys and girls, big and little, dark and fair, brown-eyed and blue-eyed, merry and quiet--all of you, dear unknown friends whose faces I may never see, yet all of whom I love. I shall be so glad--so very glad, if this little simple story-book of mine helps to make this Christmas Day a happy and merry one for you all. THE END. * * * * * _Macmillan's Prize Library_ A Carefully Selected Series of Illustrated Books suitable for Presentation. _Baker, Sir Samuel W._ Cast up by the Sea. _Besant, Sir Walter._ Life of Captain Cook. _Bradley, A. G._ Life of Wolfe. _Buckland, Frank._ Curiosities of Natural History. Vols. I.-III. _Buckley, A. B._ Through Magic Glasses. _Butler, Sir William._ General Gordon. _Cooper, J. Fenimore._ The Last of the Mohicans. The Deerslayer. The Pathfinder. The Pioneers. _Corbett, Sir Julian._ For God and Gold. Sir Francis Drake. _Creasy, Sir E._ The Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World. _Dickens, Charles._ Oliver Twist. The Old Curiosity Shop. Christmas Books. Barnaby Rudge. _Edgeworth, Maria._ Lazy Lawrence and other Stories. _Eliot, George._ Scenes of Clerical Life. _Finny, Violet Geraldine._ Revolt of the Young MacCormacks. _Fowler, W. Warde._ A Year with the Birds. Tales of the Birds. More Tales of the Birds. _Fraser, Edward._ Famous Fighters of the Fleet. _Gilmore, Rev. John._ Storm Warriors; or Life-Boat Work on the Goodwin Sands. _Grimm, The Bros._ Household Stories. _Henley, W. E._ Lyra Heroica. A Book of Verse for Boys. _Hooper, G._ Life of Wellington. _Hughes, T._ Tom Brown's School Days. Alfred the Great. _Keary, A. and E._ Heroes of Asgard. _Kingsley, Charles._ Hereward the Wake. Westward Ho! The Heroes. The Water-Babies. Madam How and Lady Why. Glaucus. _Kipling, Rudyard._ Selected Stories. _Laughton, Sir J. K._ Life of Nelson. _Marryat, Captain._ Newton Forster. The Pirate and the Three Cutters. Peter Simple. Japhet in Search of a Father. Mr. Midshipman Easy. Masterman Ready. The Phantom Ship. _Metelerkamp, Sanni._ Outa Karel's Stories. _Mitchell, S. Weir._ The Adventures of François. _Molesworth, Mrs._ Carrots. Tell Me a Story. The Tapestry Room. The Cuckoo Clock. Grandmother Dear. Herr Baby. Us. The Rectory Children. Two Little Waifs. Four Winds Farm. The Ruby Ring. Mary. Nurse Heatherdale's Story. The Woodpigeons and Mary. The Story of a Year. Edmée. A Tale of the French Revolution. _Morier, James._ The Adventures of Hajji Baba. _Norton, H. E._ A Book of Courtesy. _Oman, Sir C. W._ Warwick the Kingmaker. _Perry, W. C._ The Boy's Iliad. The Boy's Odyssey. _Scott, Sir Walter._ Kenilworth. Count Robert of Paris. _Sharp, Evelyn._ Micky. The Children Who Ran Away. The Other Boy. The Youngest Girl in the School. _Thackeray, W. M._ Henry Esmond. _Yonge, Charlotte M._ Little Duke. The Prince and the Page. Unknown to History. The Dove in the Eagle's Nest. The Chaplet of Pearls. 
35281	----	THE JOYOUS STORY of TOTO. by LAURA E. RICHARDS. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. H. GARRETT. BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1885. Copyright, 1885, BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. _TO MY CHILDREN_ This Story IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED. CHAPTER I. Toto was a little boy, and his grandmother was an old woman (I have noticed that grandmothers are very apt to be old women); and this story is about both of them. Now, whether the story be true or not you must decide for yourselves; and the child who finds this out will be wiser than I. Toto's grandmother lived in a little cottage far from any town, and just by the edge of a thick wood; and Toto lived with her, for his father and mother were dead, and the old woman was the only relation he had in the world. The cottage was painted red, with white window-casings, and little diamond-shaped panes of glass in the windows. Up the four walls grew a red rose, a yellow rose, a woodbine, and a clematis; and they all met together at the top, and fought and scratched for the possession of the top of the chimney, from which there was the finest view; so foolish are these vegetables. Inside the cottage there was a big kitchen, with a great open fireplace, in which a bright fire was always crackling; a floor scrubbed white and clean; a dresser with shining copper and tin dishes on it; a table, a rocking-chair for the grandmother, and a stool for Toto. There were two bedrooms and a storeroom, and perhaps another room; and there was a kitchen closet, where the cookies lived. So now you know all about the inside of the cottage. Outside there was a garden behind and a bit of green in front, and three big trees; and that is all there is to tell. As for Toto, he was a curly-haired fellow, with bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and a mouth that was always laughing. His grandmother was the best grandmother in the world, I have been given to understand, though that is saying a great deal, to be sure. She was certainly a very good, kind old body; and she had pretty silver curls and pink cheeks, as every grandmother should have. There was only one trouble about her; but that was a very serious one,--she was blind. Her blindness did not affect Toto much; for he had never known her when she was not blind, and he supposed it was a peculiarity of grandmothers in general. But to the poor old lady herself it was a great affliction, though she bore it, for the most part, very cheerfully. She was wonderfully clever and industrious; and her fingers seemed, in many ways, to see better than some people's eyes. She kept the cottage always as neat as a new pin. She was an excellent cook, too, and made the best gingerbread and cookies in the world. And she knit--oh! how she _did_ knit!--stockings, mittens, and comforters; comforters, mittens, and stockings: all for Toto. Toto wore them out very fast; but he could not keep up with his grandmother's knitting. Clickety click, clickety clack, went the shining needles all through the long afternoons, when Toto was away in the wood; and nothing answered the needles, except the tea-kettle, which always did its best to make things cheerful. But even in her knitting there were often trials for the grandmother. Sometimes her ball rolled off her lap and away over the floor; and then the poor old lady had a hard time of it groping about in all the corners (there never was a kitchen that had so many corners as hers), and knocking her head against the table and the dresser. The kettle was always much troubled when anything of this sort happened. He puffed angrily, and looked at the tongs. "If _I_ had legs," he said, "I would make some use of them, even if they _were_ awkward and ungainly. But when a person is absolutely _all_ head and legs, it is easy to understand that he should have no heart." The tongs never made any reply to these remarks, but stood stiff and straight, and pretended not to hear. But the grandmother had other troubles beside dropping her ball. Toto was a very good boy,--better, in fact, than most boys,--and he loved his grandmother very much indeed; but he was forgetful, as every child is. Sometimes he forgot this, and sometimes that, and sometimes the other; for you see his heart was generally in the forest, and his head went to look after it; and that often made trouble. He always _meant_ to get before he went to the forest everything that his grandmother could possibly want while he was away. Wood and water he never forgot, for he always brought those in before breakfast. But sometimes the brown potatoes sat waiting in the cellar closet, with their jackets all buttoned up, wondering why they were not taken out, as their brothers had been the day before, and put in a wonderful wicker cage, and carried off to see the great world. And the yellow apples blushed with anger and a sense of neglect; while the red apples turned yellow with vexation. And sometimes,--well, sometimes _this_ sort of thing would happen: one day the old lady was going to make some gingerbread; for there was not a bit in the house, and Toto could _not_ live without gingerbread. So she said, "Toto, go to the cupboard and get me the ginger-box and the soda, that's a good boy!" Now, Toto was standing in the doorway when his grandmother spoke, and just at that moment he caught sight of a green lizard on a stone at a little distance. He wanted very much to catch that lizard; but he was an obedient boy, and always did what "Granny" asked him to do. So he ran to the cupboard, still keeping one eye on the lizard outside, seized a box full of something yellow and a bag full of something white, and handed them to his grandmother. "There, Granny," he cried, "that's ginger, and _that's_ soda. Now may I go? There's a lizard--" and he was off like a flash. [Illustration: "Oh, oh! what a dreadful face he made!"] Well, Granny made the gingerbread, and at tea-time in came Master Toto, quite out of breath, having chased the lizard about twenty-five miles (so he said, and he ought to know), and hungry as a hunter. He sat down, and ate his bread-and-milk first, like a good boy; and then he pounced upon the gingerbread, and took a huge bite out of it. Oh, oh! what a dreadful face he made! He gave a wild howl, and jumping up from the table, danced up and down the room, crying, "Oh! what _nasty_ stuff! Oh, Granny, how _could_ you make such horrid gingerbread? Br-r-rr! oh, dear! I never, never, _never_ tasted anything so horrid." The poor old lady was quite aghast. "My dear boy," she said, "I made it just as usual. You must be mistaken. Let me--" and then _she_ tasted the gingerbread. Well, she did not get up and dance, but she came very near it. "What does this mean?" she cried. "I made it just as usual. What can it be? Ah!" she added, a new thought striking her. "Toto, bring me the ginger and the soda; bring just what you brought me this afternoon. Quick! don't stop to examine the boxes; bring the same ones." Toto, wondering, brought the box full of something yellow, and the bag full of something white. His grandmother tasted the contents of both, and then she leaned back in her chair and laughed heartily. "My dear little boy," she said, "you think I am a very good cook, and I myself think I am not a very bad one; but I certainly can_not_ make good gingerbread with mustard and salt instead of ginger and soda!" Toto thought there _were_ some disadvantages about being blind, after all; and after that his grandmother always tasted the ingredients before she began to cook. Now, it happened one day that the grandmother was sitting in the sun before the cottage door, knitting; and as she knitted, from time to time she heaved a deep sigh. And one of those sighs is the reason why this story is written; for if the grandmother had not sighed, and Toto had not heard her, none of the funny things that I am going to tell you would have happened. Moral: always sigh when you want a story written. Toto was just coming home from the wood, where he had been spending the afternoon, as usual. As he came round the corner of the cottage he heard his grandmother sigh deeply, as if she were very sad about something; and this troubled Toto, for he was an affectionate little boy, and loved his grandmother dearly. "Why, Granny!" he cried, running up to her and throwing his arms round her neck. "Dear Granny, why do you sigh so? What is the matter? Are you ill?" The grandmother shook her head, and wiped a tear from her sightless eyes. "No, dear little boy!" she said. "No, I am not ill; but I am very lonely. It's a solitary life here, though you are too young to feel it, Toto, and I am very glad of that. But I do wish, sometimes, that I had some one to talk to, who could tell me what is going on in the world. It is a long time since any one has been here. The travelling pedler comes only once a year, and the last time he came he had a toothache, so that he could not talk. Ah, deary me! it's a solitary life." And the grandmother shook her head again, and went on with her knitting. Toto had listened to this with his eyes very wide open, and his mouth very tight shut; and when his grandmother had finished speaking, he went and sat down on a stone at a little distance, and began to think very hard. His grandmother was lonely. The thought had never occurred to him before. It had always seemed as natural for her to stay at home and knit and make cookies, as for him to go to the wood. He supposed all grandmothers did so. He wondered how it felt to be lonely; he thought it must be very unpleasant. _He_ was never lonely in the wood. "But then," he said to himself, "I have all my friends in the wood, and Granny has none. Very likely if I had no friends I should be lonely too. I wonder what I can do about it." Then suddenly a bright idea struck him. "Why," he thought,--"why should not my friends be Granny's friends too? They are very amusing, I am sure. Why should I not bring them to see Granny, and let them talk to her? She _couldn't_ be lonely then. I'll go and see them this minute, and tell them all about it. I'm sure they will come." Full of his new idea, the boy sprang to his feet, and ran off in the direction of the wood. The grandmother called to him, "Toto! Toto! where are you going?" but he did not hear her. The good woman shook her head and went on with her knitting. "Let the dear child amuse himself as much as he can now. There's little enough amusement in life." But Toto was not thinking of his own amusement this time. He ran straight to the wood, and entered it, threading his way quickly among the trees, as if he knew every step of the way, which, indeed, he did. At length, after going some way, he reached an open space, with trees all round it. Such a pretty place! The ground was carpeted with softest moss, into which the boy's feet sunk so deep that they were almost covered; and all over the moss were sprinkled little star-shaped pink flowers. The trees stood back a little from this pretty place, as I said; but their long branches met overhead, as they bent over to look down into--what do you think?--the loveliest little pool of water that ever was seen, I verily believe. A tiny pool, as round as if a huge giant had punched a hole for it with the end of his umbrella or walking-stick, and as clear as crystal. The edge of the pool was covered all round with plants and flowers, which seemed all to be trying to get a peep into the clear brown water. I have heard that these flowers growing round the pool had become excessively vain through looking so constantly at their own reflection, and that they gave themselves insufferable airs in consequence; but as this was only said by the flowers which did _not_ grow near the pool, perhaps it was a slight exaggeration. They were certainly very pretty flowers, and I never wondered at their wanting to look at themselves. You see I have been in the wood, and know all about it. It was in this pretty place that Toto stopped. He sat down on a great cushion of moss near the pool, and began to whistle. Presently he heard a rustling in the tree-tops above his head. He stopped whistling and looked up expectantly. A beechnut fell plump on his nose, and he saw the sharp black eyes of a gray squirrel peering at him through the leaves. "Hello, Toto!" said the squirrel. "Back again already? What's the matter?" "Come down here, and I'll tell you," said Toto. The squirrel took a flying leap, and alighted on Toto's shoulder. At the same moment a louder rustling was heard, among the bushes this time, a sound of cracking and snapping twigs, and presently a huge black bear poked his nose out of the bushes, and sniffed inquiringly. "What's up?" he asked. "I thought you fellows had gone home for the night, and I was just taking a nap." "So we had," said Toto; "but I came back because I had something important to say. I want to see you all on business. Where are the others?" [Illustration: "Well," said Toto, "it's about my grandmother."] "Coon will be here in a minute," answered the bear. "He stopped to eat the woodchuck's supper. Chucky was so sound asleep it seemed a pity to miss such an opportunity. The birds have all flown away except the wood-pigeon, and she told me she would come as soon as she had fed her young ones. What's your business, Toto?" and Bruin sat down in a very comfortable attitude, and prepared to listen. "Well," said Toto, "it's about my grandmother. You see, she--oh! here's Coon! I'll wait for him." As he spoke, a large raccoon came out into the little dell. He was very handsome, with a most beautiful tail, but he looked sly and lazy. He winked at Toto, by way of greeting, and sat down by the pool, curling his tail round his legs, and then looking into the water to see if the effect was good. At the same moment a pretty wood-pigeon fluttered down, with a soft "Coo!" and settled on Toto's other shoulder. "Now then!" said the squirrel, flicking the boy's nose with his tail, "go on, and tell us all about it!" So Toto began again. "My grandmother, you see: she is blind; and she's all alone most of the time when I'm out here playing with all of you, and it makes her lonely." "Lonely! What's that?" asked the raccoon. "I know what it is!" said the bear. "It's when there aren't any blueberries, and you've hurt your paw so that you can't climb. It's a horrid feeling. Isn't that it, Toto?" "N-no, not exactly," said Toto, "for my grandmother never climbs trees, anyhow. She hasn't anybody to talk to, or listen to; nobody comes to see her, and she doesn't know what is going on in the world. That's what she means by 'lonely.'" "Humph!" said the raccoon, waving his tail thoughtfully. "Why don't you both come and live in the wood? She couldn't be lonely here, you know; and it would be very convenient for us all. I know a nice hollow tree that I could get for you not far from here. A wild-cat lives in it now, but if your grandmother doesn't like wild-cats, the bear can easily drive him away. He's a disagreeable fellow, and we shall be glad to get rid of him and have a pleasanter neighbor. Does--a--does your grandmother scratch?" "No, certainly not!" said Toto indignantly. "She is the best grandmother in the world. She never scratched anybody in her life, I am sure." "No offence, no offence," said the raccoon. "_My_ grandmother scratched, and I thought yours might. Most of them do, in my experience." "Besides," Toto went on, "she wouldn't like at all to live in a hollow tree. She is not used to that way of living, you see. Now, _I_ have a plan, and I want you all to help me in it. In the morning Granny is busy, so she has not time to be lonely. It's only in the afternoon, when she sits still and knits. So I say, why shouldn't you all come over to the cottage in the afternoon, and talk to Granny instead of talking here to each other? I don't mean _every_ afternoon, of course, but two or three times a week. She would enjoy the stories and things as much as I do; and she would give you gingerbread, I'm sure she would; and perhaps jam too, if you were _very_ good." "What's gingerbread?" asked the bear. "And what's jam? You do use such queer words sometimes, Toto." "Gingerbread?" said Toto. "Oh, it's--well, it's--why, it's _gingerbread_, you know. You don't have anything exactly like it, so I can't exactly tell you. But there's molasses in it, and ginger, and things; it's good, anyhow, very good. And jam--well, jam is sweet, something like honey, only better. You will like it, I know, Bruin. "Well, what do you all say? Will you come and try it?" The bear looked at the raccoon; the raccoon looked at the squirrel; and the squirrel looked at the wood-pigeon. The pretty, gentle bird had not spoken before; but now, seeing all the other members of the party undecided, she answered quietly and softly, "Yes, Toto; I will come, and I am sure the others will, for they are all good creatures. You are a dear boy, and we shall all be glad to give pleasure to you or your grandmother." The other creatures all nodded approval to the wood-pigeon's little speech, and Toto gave a sigh of relief and satisfaction. "That is settled, then," he said. "Thank you, dear pigeon, and thank you all. Now, when will you come? To-morrow afternoon? The sooner the better, I think." The raccoon looked critically at his reflection in the water. "Chucky bit my ear yesterday," he said, "and it doesn't look very well for making visits. Suppose we wait till it is healed over. Nothing like making a good impression at first, you know." "Nonsense, Coon!" growled the bear. "You are always thinking about your looks. I never saw such a fellow. Let us go to-morrow if we are going." "Besides," said Toto, laughing, "Granny is blind, and will not know whether you have any ears or not, Master Coon. So I shall expect you all to-morrow. Good-by, all, and thank you very much." And away ran Toto, and away went all the rest to get their respective suppers. CHAPTER II. "Granny," said Toto the next day, when the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, "I am expecting some friends here this afternoon." "Some friends, Toto!" exclaimed his grandmother in astonishment. "My dear boy, what friend have you in the world except your old Granny? You are laughing at me." "No, I am not, Granny," said the boy. "Of course you are the _best_ friend, very much the best; but I have some other very good ones. And I have told them about your being lonely," he went on hurriedly, glancing towards the wood, "and they are coming to see you this afternoon, to talk to you and tell you stories. In fact, I think I hear one of them coming now." "But _who are they_?" cried the astonished old woman, putting her hand up at the same time to settle her cap straight, and smoothing her apron, in great trepidation at the approach of these unexpected visitors. "Oh," said Toto, "they are--here is one of them!" and he ran to meet the huge bear, who at that moment made his appearance, walking slowly and solemnly towards the cottage. He seemed ill at ease, and turned frequently to look back, in hopes of seeing his companions. "Grandmother, this is my friend Bruin!" said Toto, leading the bear up to the horrified old lady. "I am very fond of Bruin," he added, "and I hope you and he will be great friends. He tells the most _delightful_ stories." Poor Granny made a trembling courtesy, and Bruin stood up on his hind-legs and rocked slowly backwards and forwards, which was the nearest approach he could make to a bow. (N. B. He looked so very formidable in this attitude, that if the old lady had seen him, she would certainly have fainted away. But she did not see, and Toto was used to it, and saw nothing out of the way in it.) "Your servant, ma'am," said the bear. "I hope I see you well." Granny courtesied again, and replied in a faltering voice, "Quite well, thank you, Mr. Bruin. It's--it's a fine day, sir." "It is indeed!" said the bear with alacrity. "It is a _very_ fine day. I was just about to make the same remark myself. I--don't know when I have seen a finer day. In fact, I don't believe there ever _was_ a finer day. A--yesterday was--a--_not_ a fine day. A-- "Look here!" he added, in a low growl, aside to Toto, "I can't stand much more of this. Where is Coon? He knows how to talk to people, and I don't. I'm not accustomed to it. Now, when I go to see _my_ grandmother, I take her a good bone, and she hits me on the head by way of saying thank you, and that's all. I have a bone somewhere about me now," said poor Bruin hesitatingly, "but I don't suppose she--eh?" "No, certainly not!" replied Toto promptly. "Not upon any account. And here's Coon now, and the others too, so you needn't make any more fine speeches." Bruin, much relieved, sat down on his haunches, and watched the approach of his companions. The raccoon advanced cautiously, yet with a very jaunty air. The squirrel was perched on his back, and the wood-pigeon fluttered about his head, in company with a very distinguished-looking gray parrot, with a red tail; while behind came a fat woodchuck, who seemed scarcely more than half-awake. The creatures all paid their respects to Toto's grandmother, each in his best manner; the raccoon professed himself charmed to make her acquaintance. "It is more than a year," he said, "since I had the pleasure of meeting your accomplished grandson. I have esteemed it a high privilege to converse with him, and have enjoyed his society immensely. Now that I have the further happiness of becoming acquainted with his elegant and highly intellectual progenitress, I feel that I am indeed most fortunate. I--" But here Toto broke in upon the stream of eloquence. "Oh, _come_, Coon!" he cried, "your politeness is as bad as Bruin's shyness. Why can't we all be jolly, as we usually are? You need not be afraid of Granny. "Come," he continued, "let us have our story. We can all sit down in a circle, and fancy ourselves around the pool. Whose turn is it to-day? Yours, isn't it, Cracker?" "No," said the squirrel. "It is Coon's turn. I told my story yesterday." "You see, Granny," said Toto, turning to his grandmother, "we take turns in telling stories, every afternoon. It is _such_ fun! you'd like to hear a story, wouldn't you, Granny?" "Very much indeed!" replied the good woman. "Will you take a chair, Mr.--Mr. Coon?" she asked. "Thank you, no," replied the raccoon graciously. "My mother earth shall suffice me." And sitting down, he curled up his tail in a very effective manner, and looked about him meditatively, as if in search of a subject for his story. "My natural diffidence," he said, "will render it a difficult task, but still--" "Oh yes, we know!" said the squirrel. "Your natural diffidence is a fine thing. Go ahead, old fellow!" At this moment Mr. Coon's sharp eyes fell upon the poultry-yard, on the fence of which a fine Shanghai cock was sitting. His face lighted up, as if an idea had just struck him. "That is a very fine rooster, madam!" he said, addressing the grandmother,--"a remarkably fine bird. That bird, madam, reminds me strongly of the Golden-breasted Kootoo." "And what is the Golden-breasted Kootoo?" asked the grandmother. The raccoon smiled, and looked slyly round upon his auditors, who had all assumed comfortable attitudes of listening, sure that the story was now coming. "The story of the Golden-breasted Kootoo," he said, "was told to me several years ago by a distinguished foreigner, a learned and highly accomplished magpie, who formerly resided in this vicinity, but who is now, unhappily, no longer in our midst." "That's a good one, that is!" whispered the wood chuck to Toto. "He ate that magpie about a year ago; said he loved her so much he couldn't help it. What a fellow he is!" "Hush!" said Toto. "He's beginning!" And Mr. Coon, dropping his airs and graces, told his story in tolerably plain language, as follows:-- THE GOLDEN-BREASTED KOOTOO. Once upon a time--and a good time it was--there lived a king. I do not know exactly what his name was, or just where he lived; but it doesn't matter at all: his kingdom was somewhere between Ashantee and Holland, and his name sounded a little like Samuel, and a little like Dolabella, and a good deal like Chimborazo, and yet it was not quite any of them. But, as I said before, it doesn't matter. We will call him the King, and that will be all that is necessary, as there is no other king in the story. This King was very fond of music; in fact, he was excessively fond of it. He kept four bands of music playing all day long. The first was a brass band, the second was a string band, the third was a rubber band, and the fourth was a man who played on the jews-harp. (Some people thought he ought not to be called a band, but he said he was all the jews-harp band there was, and that was very true.) The four bands played all day long on the four sides of the grand courtyard, and the king sat on a throne in the middle and transacted affairs of state. And when His Majesty went to bed at night, the grand chamberlain wound up a musical-box that was in his pillow, and another one in the top bureau-drawer, and they played "The Dog's-meat Man" and "Pride of the Pirate's Heart" till daylight did appear. One day it occurred to the King that it would be an excellent plan for him to learn to sing. He wondered that he had never thought of it before. "You see," he said, "it would amuse me very much to sing while I am out hunting. I cannot take the bands with me to the forest, for they would frighten away the wild beasts; and I miss my music very much on such occasions. Yes, decidedly, I will learn to sing." [Illustration: "Take this man and behead him!" said the King.] So he sent for the Chief Musician, and ordered him to teach him to sing. The Chief Musician was delighted, and said they would begin at once. So he sat down at the piano, and struck a note. "O King," he said, "please sing this note." And the King sang, in a loud, deep voice, [Treble clef B] The Chief Musician was enchanted. "Superb!" he cried. "Magnificent! Now, O King, please to sing _this_ note!" and he struck another note: [Bass clef G] The King sang, in a loud, deep voice, [Treble clef B] The Chief Musician looked grave. "O King," he said, "you did not quite understand me. We will try another note." And he struck another: [Treble clef C] The King sang, in a loud, deep voice, [Treble clef B] The Chief Musician looked dejected. "I fear, O King," he said, "that you can never learn to sing." "What do you mean by that, Chief Musician?" asked the King. "It is your business to teach me to sing. Do you not know how to teach?" "No man knows better," replied the Chief Musician. "But Your Majesty has no ear for music. You never can sing but one note." At these words the King grew purple in the face. He said nothing, for he was a man of few words; but he rang a large bell, and an executioner appeared. "Take this man and behead him!" said the King. "And send me the Second Musician!" The Second Musician came, looking very grave, for he had heard the shrieks of his unhappy superior as he was dragged off to execution, and he had no desire to share his fate. He bowed low, and demanded His Majesty's pleasure. "Teach me to sing!" said His Majesty. So the Second Musician sat down at the piano, and tried several notes, just as the Chief Musician had done, and with the same result. Whatever note was struck, the King still sang, [Treble clef B] Now the Second Musician was a quick-witted fellow, and he saw in a moment what the trouble had been with his predecessor, and saw, too, what great peril he was in himself. So he assumed a look of grave importance, and said solemnly, "O King, this is a very serious matter. I cannot conceal from you that there are great obstacles in the way of your learning to sing--" The King looked at the bell. "BUT," said the Second Musician, "they can be overcome." The King looked away again. "I beg," said the Second Musician, "for twenty-four hours' time for consideration. At the end of that time I shall have decided upon the best method of teaching; and I am bound to say this to Your Majesty, that IF you learn to sing--" "WHAT?" said the King, looking at the bell again. "That WHEN you learn to sing," said the Second Musician hastily,--"_when_ you learn to sing, your singing will be like no other that has ever been heard." This pleased the King, and he graciously accorded the desired delay. Accordingly the Second Musician took his leave with great humility, and spent all that night and the following day plunged in the deepest thought. As soon as the twenty-four hours had elapsed he again appeared before the King, who was awaiting him impatiently, sitting on the music-stool. "Well?" said the King. "Quite well, O King, I thank you," replied the Second Musician, "though somewhat fatigued by my labors." "Pshaw!" said the King impatiently. "Have you found a way of teaching me to sing?" "I have, O King," replied the Second Musician solemnly; "but it is not an easy way. Nevertheless it is the only one." The King assured him that money was no object, and begged him to unfold his plan. "In order to learn to sing," said the Second Musician, "you must eat a pie composed of all the singing-birds in the world. In this way only can the difficulty of your having no natural ear for music be overcome. If a single bird is omitted, or if you do not consume the whole pie, the charm will have no effect. I leave Your Majesty to judge of the difficulty of the undertaking." Difficulty? The King would not admit that there was such a word. He instantly summoned his Chief Huntsman, and ordered him to send other huntsmen to every country in the world, to bring back a specimen of every kind of singing-bird. Accordingly, as there were sixty countries in the world at that time, sixty huntsmen started off immediately, fully armed and equipped. After they were gone, the King, who was very impatient, summoned his Wise Men, and bade them look in all the books, and find out how many kinds of singing-birds there were in the world. The Wise Men all put their spectacles on their noses, and their noses into their books, and after studying a long time, and adding up on their slates the number of birds described in each book, they found that there were in all nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine varieties of singing-birds. They made their report to the King, and he was rather troubled by it; for he remembered that the Second Musician had said he must eat every morsel of the pie himself, or the charm would have no effect. It would be a _very_ large pie, he thought, with nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine birds in it. "The only way," he said to himself, "will be for me to eat as little as possible until the huntsmen come back; then I shall be very hungry. I have never been _very_ hungry in my life, so there is no knowing how much I could eat if I were." So the King ate nothing from one week's end to another, except bread and dripping; and by the time the huntsmen returned he was so thin that it was really shocking. At last, after a long time, the sixty huntsmen returned, laden down with huge bags, the contents of which they piled up in a great heap in the middle of the courtyard. A mountain of birds! Such a thing had never been seen before. The mountain was so high that everybody thought the full number of birds must be there; and the Chief Cook began to make his preparations, and sent to borrow the garden roller from John the gardener, as his own was not big enough to roll out such a quantity of paste. The King and the Wise Men next proceeded to count the birds. But alas! what was their sorrow to find that the number fell short by one! They counted again and again; but it was of no use: there were only nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight birds in the pile. The next thing was to find out what bird was missing. So the Wise Men sorted all the birds, and compared them with the pictures in the books, and studied so hard that they wore out three pairs of spectacles apiece; and at last they discovered that the missing bird was the "Golden breasted Kootoo." The chief Wise Man read aloud from the biggest book:-- "The Golden-breasted Kootoo, the most beautiful and the most melodious of singing birds, is found only in secluded parts of the Vale of Coringo. Its plumage is of a brilliant golden yellow, except on the back, where it is streaked with green. Its beak is--" "There! there!" interrupted the King impatiently; "never mind about its beak. Tell the Lord Chamberlain to pack my best wig and a clean shirt, and send them after me by a courier; and, Chief Huntsman, follow me. We start this moment for the Vale of Coringo!" [Illustration: "He rode on horseback, and was accompanied only by the Chief Huntsman and the jews-harp band."] And actually, if you will believe it, the King _did_ start off in less than an hour from the counting of the birds. He rode on horseback, and was accompanied only by the Chief Huntsman and the jews-harp band, the courier being obliged to wait for the King's best wig to be curled. The poor Band had a hard time of it; for he had a very frisky horse, and found it extremely difficult to manage the beast with one hand and hold the jews-harp with the other; but the King, with much ingenuity, fastened the head of the horse to the tail of his own steady cob, thereby enabling the musician to give all his attention to his instrument. The music was a trifle jerky at times; but what of that? It was music, and the King was satisfied. They rode night and day, and at length arrived at the Vale of Coringo, and took lodgings at the principal hotel. The King was very weary, as he had been riding for a week without stopping. So he went to bed at once, and slept for two whole days. [Illustration: "Seizing his gun, he hastily descended the stairs."] On the morning of the third day he was roused from a wonderful dream (in which he was singing a duet with the Golden-breasted Kootoo, to a jews-harp accompaniment) by the sound of music. The King sat up in bed, and listened. It was a bird's song that he heard, and it seemed to come from the vines outside his window. But what a song it was! And what a bird it must be that could utter such wondrous sounds! He listened, too enchanted to move, while the magical song swelled louder and clearer, filling the air with melody. At last he rose, and crept softly to the window. There, on a swinging vine, sat a beautiful bird, all golden yellow, with streaks of green on its back. It was the Golden-breasted Kootoo! There could be no doubt about it, even if its marvellous song had not announced it as the sweetest singer of the whole world. Very quietly, but trembling with excitement, the King put on his slippers and his flowered dressing-gown, and seizing his gun, he hastily descended the stairs. It was early dawn, and nobody was awake in the hotel except the Boots, who was blacking his namesakes in the back hall. He saw the King come down, and thought he had come to get his boots; but the monarch paid no attention to him, quietly unbolted the front door, and slipped out into the garden. Was he too late? Had the bird flown? No, the magic song still rose from the vines outside his chamber-window. But even now, as the King approached, a fluttering was heard, and the Golden-breasted Kootoo, spreading its wings, flew slowly away over the garden wall, and away towards the mountain which rose just behind the hotel. The King followed, clambering painfully over the high wall, and leaving fragments of his brocade dressing-gown on the sharp spikes which garnished it. Once over, he made all speed, and found that he could well keep the bird in sight, for it was flying very slowly. A provoking bird it was, to be sure! It would fly a little way, and then, alighting on a bush or hanging spray, would pour forth a flood of melody, as if inviting its pursuer to come nearer; but before the unhappy King could get within gunshot, it would flutter slowly onward, keeping just out of reach, and uttering a series of mocking notes, which seemed to laugh at his efforts. On and on flew the bird, up the steep mountain; on and on went the King in pursuit. It is all very well to _fly_ up a mountain; but to crawl and climb up, with a heavy gun in one's hand, and one's dressing-gown catching on every sharp point of rock, and the tassel of one's nightcap bobbing into one's eyes, is a very different matter, I can tell you. But the King never thought of stopping for an instant; not he! He lost first one slipper, and then the other; the cord and tassels of his dressing-gown tripped him up, so that he fell and almost broke his nose; and finally his gun slipped from his hold and went crashing down over a precipice; but still the King climbed on and on, breathless but undaunted. At length, at the very top of the mountain, as it seemed, the bird made a longer pause than usual. It lighted on a point of rock, and folding its wings, seemed really to wait for the King, singing, meanwhile, a song of the most inviting and encouraging description. Nearer and nearer crept the King, and still the bird did not move. He was within arm's-length, and was just stretching out his arm to seize the prize, when it fluttered off the rock. Frantic with excitement, the King made a desperate clutch after it, and-- PART II. At eight o'clock the landlady knocked at the King's door. "Hot water, Your Majesty," she said. "Shall I bring the can in? And the Band desires his respects, and would you wish him to play while you are a-dressing, being as you didn't bring a music-box with you?" Receiving no answer, after knocking several times, the good woman opened the door very cautiously, and peeped in, fully expecting to see the royal nightcap reposing calmly on the pillow. What was her amazement at finding the room empty; no sign of the King was to be seen, although his pink-silk knee-breeches lay on a chair, and his ermine mantle and his crown were hanging on a peg against the wall. The landlady gave the alarm at once. The King had disappeared! He had been robbed, murdered; the assassins had chopped him up into little pieces and carried him away in a bundle-handkerchief! "Murder! police! fire!!!!" In the midst of the wild confusion the voice of the Boots was heard. "Please, 'm, I see His Majesty go out at about five o'clock this morning." Again the chorus rose: he had run away; he had gone to surprise and slay the King of Coringo while he was taking his morning chocolate; he had gone to take a bath in the river, and was drowned! "Murder! police!" The voice of the Boots was heard again. "And please, 'm, he's a sittin' out in the courtyard now; and please, 'm, I think he's crazy!" Out rushed everybody, pell-mell, into the courtyard. There, on the ground, sat the King, with his tattered dressing-gown wrapped majestically about him. An ecstatic smile illuminated his face, while he clasped in his arms a large bird with shining plumage. "Bless me!" cried the poultry-woman. "If he hasn't got my Shanghai rooster that I couldn't catch last night!" The King, hearing voices, looked round, and smiled graciously on the astonished crowd. "Good people," he said, "success has crowned my efforts. I have found the Golden-breasted Kootoo! You shall all have ten pounds apiece, in honor of this joyful event, and the landlady shall be made a baroness in her own right!" "But," said the poultry-woman, "it is my Shang--" "Be still, you idiot!" whispered the landlady, putting her hand over the woman's mouth. "Do you want to lose your ten pounds and your head too? If the King has caught the Golden-breasted Kootoo, why, then it _is_ the Golden-breasted Kootoo, as sure as I am a baroness!" and she added in a still lower tone, "There hasn't been a Kootoo seen in the Vale for ten years; the birds have died out." Great were the rejoicings at the palace when the King returned in triumph, bringing with him the much-coveted prize, the Golden-breasted Kootoo. The bands played until they almost killed themselves; the cooks waved their ladles and set to work at once on the pie; the huntsmen sang hunting-songs. All was joy and rapture, except in the breast of one man; that man was the Second Musician, or, as we should now call him, the Chief Musician. He felt no thrill of joy at sight of the wondrous bird; on the contrary, he made his will, and prepared to leave the country at once; but when the pie was finished, and he saw its huge dimensions, he was comforted. "No man," he said to himself, "can eat the whole of that pie and live!" Alas! he was right. The unhappy King fell a victim to his musical ambition before he had half finished his pie, and died in a fit. His subjects ate the remainder of the mighty pasty, with mingled tears and smiles, as a memorial feast; and if the Golden-breasted Kootoo _was_ a Shanghai rooster, nobody in the kingdom was ever the wiser for it. CHAPTER III. The raccoon's story was received with general approbation; and the grandmother, in particular, declared she had not passed so pleasant an hour for a very long time. The good woman was gradually becoming accustomed to her strange visitors, and ventured to address them with a little more freedom, though she still trembled and clutched her knitting-needles tighter when she heard the bear's deep tones. "It is really very good of you all," she said, "to take compassion upon my loneliness. Before I came to this cottage I lived in a large town, where I had many friends, and I find the change very great, and the life here very solitary. Indeed, if it were not for my dear little Toto, I should lead quite the life of a hermit." "What is a hermit?" asked the bear, who had an inquiring mind, and liked to know the meaning of words. "It is a crab," said the parrot. "I have often seen them in the West Indies. They get into the shells of other crabs, and drive the owners out. A wretched set!" "Oh, dear!" cried the grandmother. "That is not at all the kind of hermit I mean. A hermit in this country is a man who lives quite alone, without any companions, in some uninhabited region, such as a wood or a lonely hillside." "Is it?" exclaimed the bear and the squirrel at the same moment. "Why, then, we know one." "Certainly," the squirrel went on; "Old Baldhead must be a hermit, of course. He lives alone, and in an uninhabited region; that is, what _you_ would call uninhabited, I suppose." "How very interesting! Where does he live?" asked Toto. "Who is he? How is it that I have never seen him?" "Oh, he lives quite at the other end of the wood!" replied the squirrel; "some ten miles or more from here. You have never been so far, my dear boy, and Old Baldhead isn't likely to come into our part of the wood. He paid us one visit several years ago, and that was enough for him, eh, Bruin?" "Humph! I think so!" said Bruin, smiling grimly. "He seemed quite satisfied, I thought." "Tell us about his visit!" cried Toto eagerly. "I have never heard anything about him, and I know it must be funny, or you would not chuckle so, Bruin." "Well," said the bear, "there isn't much to tell, but you shall hear all I know. _I_ call that hermit, if that is his name, a very impudent fellow. Just fancy this, will you? One evening, late in the autumn, about three years ago, I was coming home from a long ramble, very tired and hungry. I had left a particularly nice comb of honey and some other little things in my cave, all ready for supper, for I knew when I started that I should be late, and I was looking forward to a very comfortable evening. "Well, when I came to the door of my cave, what should I see but an old man with a long gray beard, sitting on the ground eating my honey!" Here the bear looked around with a deeply injured air, and there was a general murmur of sympathy. "Your course was obvious!" said the raccoon. "Why didn't you eat him, stupid?" "Hush!" whispered the wood-pigeon softly. "You must not say things like that, Coon! you will frighten the old lady." And indeed, the grandmother seemed much discomposed by the raccoon's suggestion. "Wouldn't have been polite!" replied Bruin. "My own house, you know, and all that. Besides," he added in an undertone, with an apprehensive glance at the grandmother, "he was old, and probably very--" "Ahem!" said Toto in a warning voice. "Oh, certainly not!" said the bear hastily, "not upon any account. I was about to make the same remark myself. A--where was I?" "The old man was eating your honey," said the woodchuck. [Illustration: "I only stood up on my hind legs."] "Of course!" replied Bruin. "So, though I would not have hurt him _for the world_" (with another glance towards the grandmother), "I thought there would be no harm in frightening him a little. Accordingly, I first made a great noise among the bushes, snapping the twigs and rustling the leaves at a great rate. He stopped eating, and looked and listened, listened and looked; didn't seem to like it much, I thought. Then, when he was pretty thoroughly roused, I came slowly forward, and planted myself directly in front of the cave." "Dear me!" cried the grandmother. "How very dreadful! poor old man!" "Well now, ma'am!" said Bruin appealingly, "he had no right to steal my honey; now had he? And I didn't hurt a hair of his head," he continued. "I only stood up on my hind-legs and waved my fore-paws round and round like a windmill, and roared." A general burst of merriment greeted this statement, from all except the grandmother, who shuddered in sympathy with the unfortunate hermit. "Well?" asked Toto, "and what did he do then?" "Why," said Bruin, "he crouched down in a little heap on the ground, and squeezed himself against the wall of the cave, evidently expecting me to rush upon him and tear him to pieces; I sat down in front of him and looked at him for a few minutes; then, when I thought he had had about enough, I walked past him into the cave, and then he ran away. He has never made me another visit." "No," said the squirrel; "he went home to his own cave at the other end of the wood, and built a barricade round it, and didn't put his nose out of doors for a week after. I have a cousin who lives in that neighborhood, and he told me about it." "Have you ever been over there?" asked Toto. "Yes, indeed!" replied the squirrel, "hundreds of times. I often go over to spend the day with my cousin, and we amuse ourselves by dropping nuts on the hermit's head as he sits in front of his cave. I know few things more amusing," he continued, turning to the grandmother, "than dropping nuts on a bald head. You can make bets as to how high they will go on the rebound. Have you ever tried it, ma'am? sitting in a tree, you know." "Never!" replied the grandmother with much dignity. "In my youth it was not the custom for gentlewomen to sit in trees for any purpose; and if it had been, I trust I should have had more respect for age and infirmity than to amuse myself in the manner you suggest." The squirrel was somewhat abashed at this, and scratched his ear to hide his embarrassment. The pause which ensued gave the raccoon an opportunity for which he had been waiting. He addressed the grandmother in his most honeyed accents:-- "Our ways, dear madam," he said, "are necessarily very different from yours. There must be much in our woodland life that seems rough, and possibly even savage, to a person of refinement and culture like yourself. While we roam about in the untutored forest" ("Hear! hear!" interrupted the squirrel. "'Untutored forest' is good!"), "you remain in the elegant atmosphere of your polished home. While we fare hardly, snatching a precarious and scanty subsistence from roots and herbs, you, lapped in intellectual and highly cultivated leisure, while away the hours by manufacturing gingerbread and--a--jam." The raccoon here waved his tail, and gave Toto a look whose craftiness cannot be described in words. Toto took the hint. "Dear me!" he cried. "Of course! how stupid of me! Grandmother, is there any gingerbread in the house? My friends have never tasted any, and I should like to give them some of yours." "Certainly, my dear boy," said the good old lady; "by all means. I have just made some this afternoon. Bring a good plateful, and bring a pot of raspberry jam, too. Perhaps Mr. Coon would like a little of that." Mr. Coon _did_ like a little of that. In fact, Mr. Coon would have liked the whole pot, and would have taken it, too, if it had not been for Toto, who declared that it must be share and share alike. He gave them each a spoon, and let them help themselves in turn, observing the strictest impartiality. The feast seemed to be highly enjoyed by all. "Well, Bruin, how do you like jam?" asked Toto. "Very much, very much indeed!" replied the bear. "Something like honey, isn't it, only entirely different? What kind of creatures make it? Butterflies?" "Lady makes it herself, stupid!" muttered the woodchuck, who was out of temper, having just tried to get a spoonful out of turn, and failed. "Didn't you hear her say so? Butterflies never make anything except butter." The little squirrel sat nibbling his gingerbread in a state of great satisfaction. "Who's to tell the story next time?" he asked presently. "Parrot," answered the raccoon, with his mouth full of jam. "Parrot promised ever so long ago to tell us a story about Africa. Didn't you, Polly?" The parrot drew herself up with an air of offended dignity. "The gentlemen of my acquaintance, Mr. Coon," she said, "call me Miss Mary. I am 'Polly' to a few intimates only." "Oh, indeed!" said the raccoon. "I beg your pardon, Miss Mary. No offence, I trust?" Miss Mary unbent a little, and condescended to explain. "My real name," she said, "is Chamchamchamchamkickeryboo; but, not understanding the subtleties of our African languages, I do not expect you to pronounce that. 'Miss Mary' will do very well; though," she added, "I _have_ been called Princess in happier days." "When was that?" inquired Toto. "Tell us about it, Miss Mary." "No, no!" interrupted the bear. "No more stories to-night. It is too late. We must be getting home, or the owls will be after us." "To-morrow, then," cried Toto. "Will you all come to-morrow? Then we will hear the parrot's story." The animals all promised to come on the morrow, and each in turn took leave of the grandmother, thanking her for the treat they had had. The bear, after making his best bow, led the way towards the forest, followed by the raccoon, the woodchuck, the squirrel, the parrot, and the wood-pigeon. And soon the whole company disappeared among the branches. CHAPTER IV. "I was born," said the parrot, "in Africa." It was a lovely afternoon; and Toto's friends were again assembled around the cottage-door. The parrot, as the story-teller of the day, was perched in great state on the high back of an old-fashioned easy-chair, which Toto had brought out for his grandmother. The old lady sat quietly knitting, with Bruin on one side of her, and Coon on the other; while Toto lay on the grass at her feet, alternately caressing the wood-pigeon and poking the woodchuck to wake him up. When the parrot said, "I was born in Africa," all the animals looked very wise, but said nothing; so she added, "Of course, you all know where Africa is." "Of course," said the raccoon hastily; "certainly, I should hope so! We know _where_ it is; if you come to that, we know where it is." "Coon," said Toto, laughing, "what a humbug you are! How is Africa bounded, old fellow? Tell us, if you know so well." "North by the Gulf States, south by Kalamazoo, east by Mt. Everest, and west by the Straits of Frangipanni," replied the raccoon, without a moment's hesitation. Miss Mary looked much disgusted. "Africa," she said, "as every person of _education_ knows [with a withering glance at the raccoon], is the exact centre of the universe. It is the most beautiful of all lands,--a land of palm-trees and crocodiles, ivory and gold-dust, sunny fountains and--" "Oh!" cried Toto eagerly, "excuse me for interrupting, Miss Mary; but _are_ the sands really golden? 'Where Afric's sunny fountains,' you know, 'roll down their golden sands,'--is that really true?" "Certainly," replied Miss Mary. "Dear me, yes. A fountain wouldn't be called a fountain in Africa if it hadn't golden sands. It would be called a cucumber-wood pump," suggested the woodchuck drowsily. "Toto," said the parrot sharply, "if I am interrupted any more, I shall go home. Will that woodchuck be quiet, or will he not?" "He will, he will!" cried Toto. "We will all be very quiet, Miss Mary, and not say a word. Pray go on." Miss Mary smoothed her feathers, which had become quite ruffled, and continued,-- "I was not a common wild parrot,--I should think not, indeed! My mother came of a distinguished family, and was the favorite bird of the great Bhughabhoo, King of Central Africa; and I, as soon as I was fully fledged, became the pet and darling of his only daughter, the Princess Polpetti. Ah! happy, indeed, were the first years of my life! I was the Princess's constant companion. She used to make songs in my honor, and sing them to her royal father while he drank his rum-and-water. They were lovely songs. Would you like to hear one of them?" All the company declared that it was the one desire of their hearts. So, clearing her throat, and cocking her head on one side, Miss Mary sang:-- "'Chamchamchamchamkickeryboo, Fairest fowl that ever grew, Fairest fowl that ever growed, How you brighten my abode! How you ornament the view, Chamchamchamchamkickeryboo! "'Chamchamchamchamkickeryboo, You have wit and beauty, too; You can dance, and you can sing; You can tie a pudding-string. Is there aught you _cannot_ do, Chamchamchamchamkickeryboo?' "That was her opinion of my merits," continued the parrot modestly. "Indeed, it was the general opinion. "As I was saying, I was the Princess's constant companion. All day I followed her about, sitting on her shoulder, or flying about her head. All night I slept perched on her nose-ring, which she always hung upon a hook when she went to bed. "Ah! that nose-ring! I wish I had never seen it. It was the cause of all my misfortunes,--of my lovely Princess's death and my own exile. And yet it was a lovely thing in itself. "I observe, madam," continued the parrot, addressing the grandmother, "that you wear no nose-ring. Such a pity! There is no ornament so becoming. In Africa it is a most important article of dress,--I may say _the_ most important. Can I not persuade you to try the effect?" "Thank you," replied the grandmother, smiling. "I fear I am too old, Miss Mary, even if it were the custom in this country to wear nose-rings, which I believe it is not. But how was the Princess's nose-ring the cause of your misfortunes? Pray tell us." The parrot looked sadly at the grandmother's nose, and shook her head. "Such a pity!" she repeated. "It would be so becoming! You would never regret it. However," she added, "you shall hear the rest of my sad story. "The Princess's nose-ring was, as you may infer from the fact of my being able to swing in it, a very large one. She was a connoisseur in nose-rings, and had a large collection of them, of which collection this was the gem. It was of beaten gold, incrusted with precious stones. No other nose in the kingdom could have sustained such a weight; but hers--ah, hers was a nose in a thousand." "Pardon me!" said the raccoon softly, "do I understand that a long nose is considered a beauty in Africa?" "It is, indeed," replied the parrot. "It is, indeed. You would be much admired in Africa, Mr. Coon." The raccoon looked sidewise at his sharp-pointed nose, and stroked it complacently. "Ah!" he observed, "I agree with you, Miss Mary, as to Africa being the centre of the earth. Pray go on." "I need hardly say," continued the parrot, "that the jewelled nose-ring was the envy of all the other princesses for miles around. Foremost among the envious ones was the Princess Panka, the daughter of a neighboring king. She never could have worn the nose-ring; her nose was less than half an inch long, and she was altogether hideous; but she wanted it, and she made up her mind to get it by foul means, if fair ones would not do. Accordingly she bribed the Princess's bogghun." "The Princess's _what_?" asked the bear. "Bogghun," repeated the parrot testily. "The Princess's bogghun! Don't tell me you don't know what a bogghun is!" "Well, I don't," replied sturdy Bruin; "and what's more, I don't believe any one else does!" The parrot looked around, but as no one seemed inclined to give any information respecting bogghuns, she continued, "The bogghun is a kind of lizard, found only on the island of Bogghun-Chunka. It is about five feet long, of a brilliant green color. It invariably holds the end of its tail in its mouth, and moves by rolling, while in this position, like a child's hoop. In fact, it is used as a hoop by African children; hence the term 'bogghun.' It feeds on the chunka, a triangular yellow beetle found in the same locality; hence the name of the island, Bogghun-Chunka. [Illustration: "She caressed the bogghun."] "The bogghun is a treacherous animal, as I have found to my cost. The one belonging to my mistress was a very beautiful creature, and much beloved by her, yet he betrayed her in the basest manner, as you shall hear. "The Princess Panka, finding that the bogghun was very fond of molasses candy, bribed him by the offer of three pounds of that condiment to deliver the Princess into her hands. The plot was arranged, and the day set. On that day, as usual, the bogghun rolled up to the door after dinner, and the Princess, taking me on her shoulder, went out for her usual afternoon play. She caressed the bogghun,--ah! faithless wretch! how could he bear the touch of that gentle hand?--and then struck him lightly with her silver hoop-stick; he rolled swiftly away, and we followed, Polpetti bounding as lightly as a deer, while I sat upon her shoulder, undisturbed by the rapid motion. "Away rolled the bogghun, away and away, over the meadows and into the forest; away and away bounded the Princess in pursuit. The golden nose-ring flashed and glittered in the sunlight; the golden bangles on her wrists and ankles tinkled and rang their tiny bells as she went. Faster and faster! faster and faster! The monkeys, swinging by their tails from the branches, chattered with astonishment at us; the wild parrots screamed at us; all the birds sang and chirped and twittered,-- 'Come! come! tweedle-dee-dum! See! see! tweedle-de-dee! Hi! hi! kikeriki! They have no wings, and yet they fly.' And truly we did seem to fly, so swift was our motion. At length I became alarmed, and begged the Princess to turn back. She had never before gone so far in the forest unattended, I told her; and there was no knowing what dangers might lurk in its leafy depths. But, alas! she was too much excited to listen to my remonstrances. On and on rolled the treacherous bogghun, and on and on she bounded in pursuit. "Suddenly, as we went skimming across an open glade, a sharp twang was heard: I saw a white flash in the air; and the next moment I was hurled violently to the ground. Recovering myself in an instant, I saw my lovely Princess stretched lifeless on the ground, with an arrow quivering in her heart! "At the same moment the bogghun stopped; and out from the surrounding coppice rushed the Princess Panka and her attendants. "'Where is my molasses candy?' asked the bogghun. Three of the attendants presented him with three one-pound packages; and thus in a moment I understood the whole villanous plot. The Princess Panka rushed to where Polpetti lay, and snatched the golden nose-ring from her lovely nose. Fastening it in her own hideous snub, she sprang to her feet with a shrill yell of triumph. 'At last!' she cried,--'at last I have it!' "'Hideous witch!' I exclaimed. 'You have no nose to wear it in! You are uglier than the blue-faced monkey, or the toad with three tails. The very sight of you makes the leaves drop off the trees with horror. You odious, squint-eyed--' "'Catch that parrot!' shrieked the enraged Panka. 'Wring that parrot's neck! Pull his feathers out! Let me get at him!' "I rose in the air, and flying round her head, continued--'Snub-nosed, monkey-faced, bald-headed [this adjective was not exactly correct, but I was too angry to choose my words], hump-backed _Ant-eater_!!!' and with the last word, the most opprobrious epithet that can be applied to an African, I gave the creature a peck in the face that sent her tumbling over backwards, and flew off among the trees. A storm of arrows followed me, but I escaped unhurt, and flying rapidly, was soon far away from the spot." [Illustration: "'Hideous witch!' I exclaimed."] Here the parrot paused to take breath, having become quite excited in telling her story. "Ahem!" said the woodchuck. "May I be permitted to ask a question, Miss Mary?" "Certainly," replied the parrot graciously. "What is it, Woodchuck?" "Did I understand," said the woodchuck cautiously, "that the bogghun _never_ takes his tail out of his mouth?" "Never!" replied the parrot. "Never, upon any occasion!" "Then how," asked Chucky, "did he eat the molasses candy?" "Woodchuck," said the parrot, with great severity, "the question does credit neither to your head nor to your heart. I decline to answer it!" The woodchuck looked sulky, and scratched his nose expressively. The raccoon, who had been on the point of asking the same question himself, frowned at him, and said he was ashamed of him. "Pray continue your story, Miss Mary!" said he. "I assure you we are all, with perhaps _one_ exception [the woodchuck sniffed audibly], quite faint with excitement and suspense. What became of you after the Princess's death?" "I remained in the forest," said the parrot. "I could not go back to the village without the Princess; the King would have put me to death if I had made my appearance. "For some time I lived alone, associating as little as possible with the uneducated birds of the forest. At length, finding my life very solitary, I accepted the claw and heart of a rich and respectable green parrot, who offered me a good home and the devotion of a life-time. With him I passed several quiet and happy years; but finally we were both surprised and captured by a band of American sailors, who had penetrated to this distance in the forest in search of ivory. They treated us kindly, and carried us miles and miles till we came to a river, where other sailors were waiting with a boat. In this we embarked, and after rowing for several days, came to the mouth of the river, near which their ship was waiting for them. "In the confusion of boarding, my husband managed to make his escape. He flew back to the shore, calling to me to follow him; but, alas! I was too closely guarded, and I never saw him again. He was a very worthy parrot, and a kind husband, though sometimes greedy in the matter of snails." The parrot sighed, meditated for a few moments, with her head on one side, on the virtues of her departed lord, and then continued,-- "My life on board ship was a very pleasant one. Petted and caressed by the sailors, I soon lost my shyness, and became once more accustomed to the society of men. I learned English quickly, and could soon whistle 'Yankee Doodle' and 'Three Cheers for the Red, White, and Blue.' One phrase I objected very much to repeating, 'Polly wants a cracker.' I disliked crackers extremely, and could not endure the name of Polly; but for some time I could not get anything to eat without making this stupid remark. "One day I received a shock which nearly caused me to faint. I was sitting on the taffrail, watching two of my particular friends, Joe Brown and Simeon Plunkett, who were splicing ropes. They always spliced better, I noticed, when my eye was on them. They were talking about some adventure in the forest, and suddenly I caught the words, 'golden nose-ring.' I had been half dozing; but this roused me at once, and I began to listen with all my ears." "How many ears has she?" growled the woodchuck, in a low tone. "Twenty-five," replied the raccoon, in the same tone. "They are invisible to idiots, which is probably the reason why you have never noticed them." "'How did you get that nose-ring?' asked Joe Brown. 'You have begun to tell me once or twice, and something has always stopped you. Were there many of them lying around? I shouldn't mind having that myself.' "Judge of my feelings when Simeon Plunkett, before replying, pulled out from the breast of his flannel shirt a huge golden ring, set with jewels,--_the_ identical golden nose-ring which had caused the death of my lovely Princess. I shuddered, and came very near falling from the taffrail; but, composing myself, I listened eagerly, and heard Simeon tell the other how, as he and his mates were returning to their boat (he had been with a second exploring party sent out from the ship), they found a well, and stopped to fish in it." "To fish in a well?" interrupted Bruin. "What did they do that for?" "To see what they could catch," replied the parrot. "What do people fish for in this country? "The first thing they caught was the body of a young woman, with this golden ring in her nose. Her feet were up, and her head was down; and altogether, Simeon said, it was very evident that, in stooping over either to drink or to admire her beauty in the well, the weight of the ring had overbalanced her, and caused her to fall in. "When I heard this news I flapped my wings and crowed, to the great astonishment of the two sailors. My enemy was dead, and Polpetti avenged. My joy was great, and I wanted to thank Simeon Plunkett for being the bearer of such good news; so I perched on his knee, and sang him the sweetest song I knew,--a song which had often brought tears to the eyes of my lost husband. But he only said, 'Princess [they all called me Princess, I should observe], if any other bird made such a row as that, I'd wring its neck.' The Americans, I find, have absolutely _no_ ear for music. "We reached America after a pleasant and prosperous voyage. [Illustration: "But he only said, 'Princess, if any other bird made such a row as that, I'd wring its neck.'"] "After that my adventures may be told in a few words. Joe Brown presented me, as a great treasure, to the captain's wife, Mrs. Jeremy Jibb; but I found her a most unpleasant person to live with. She kept me in a cage,--a tin cage,--me, the favorite companion of the Princess Royal of Central Africa! She fed me on crackers, called me Polly all the time, and treated me in a most degrading manner generally. If I had been a canary-bird, her manner could not have been more insufferably patronizing. After enduring this life for several weeks, I managed to make my escape one day while Mrs. Jibb was cleaning my cage. After a long flight, I reached this forest, in whose pleasant retirement I have remained ever since. Here I find society and snails, both of excellent quality; and, with these, what more does one require? And here I hope to pass the remainder of my days." The parrot's story, with the various pauses and interruptions, had occupied a good deal of time; and when it was finished the party broke up, promising to reassemble on the following day. Before they separated, Toto asked, as usual, who was to tell the next story. "Tell it yourself, Toto," said the wood-pigeon; and all the rest chimed in, "Yes, Toto shall tell the next himself." So it was settled; and they all shook paws, and departed. CHAPTER V. The next day it rained, so the party of friends did not assemble as usual. The bear stayed in his cave, sucking his paw, and listening to the chatter of the squirrel, who came to spend the day with him. The raccoon, after one look at the weather, curled himself up in his tree-house and went to sleep. As for the woodchuck, he never woke up at all, for nobody came to wake him, and he could not do it for himself. Poor Toto was very disconsolate. He never stayed indoors for an ordinary rain, but this was a perfect deluge; so he stood by the window and said, "Oh, dear! oh, _dear_!! oh, DEAR!!!" as if he did not know how to say anything else. His good grandmother bore this quietly for some time; but at length she said, "Toto, do you know what happened to the boy who said 'Oh, dear!' too many times?" "No!" said Toto, brightening up at the prospect of a story. "What did happen to him? Tell me, Granny, please!" "Come and hold this skein of yarn for me, then," replied the grandmother, "and I will tell you as I wind it. "Once upon a time there was a boy--" "What was his name?" interrupted Toto. "Chimborazo," replied the grandmother. "I should have told you his real name in a moment, if you had not interrupted me, but now I shall call him Chimborazo, and that will be something for you to remember." Toto blushed and hung his head. "This boy," continued the grandmother, "invariably put the wrong foot out of bed first when he got up in the morning, and consequently he was always unhappy." "May I speak?" murmured Toto softly. "Yes, you may speak," said the old lady. "What is it?" "Please, grandmother," said Toto, "which _is_ the wrong foot?" "Don't you know which your right foot is?" asked the grandmother. "Why, yes, of course," replied Toto. "And do you know the difference between right and wrong?" "Why, yes, of course," said Toto. "Then," said the grandmother, "you know which the wrong foot is. "As I was saying, Chimborazo was a very unhappy boy. He pouted, and he sulked, and he said, 'Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!' He said it till everybody was tired of hearing it. "'Chimborazo,' his mother would say, 'please don't say, "Oh, dear!" any more. It is very annoying. Say something else.' "'Oh, dear!' the boy would answer, 'I can't! I don't know anything else to say. Oh, dear! oh, _dear_!! oh, DEAR!!!' "So one day his mother could not bear it any longer, and she sent for his fairy godmother, and told her all about it. "'Humph!' said the fairy godmother. 'I will see to it. Send the boy to me!' "So Chimborazo was sent for, and came, hanging his head as usual. When he saw his fairy godmother, he said, 'Oh, dear!' for he was rather afraid of her. "'"Oh, dear!" it is!' said the godmother sharply; and she put on her spectacles and looked at him. 'Do you know what a bell-punch is?' "'Oh, dear!' said Chimborazo. 'No, ma'am, I don't!' "'Well,' said the godmother, 'I am going to give you one.' "'Oh, dear!' said Chimborazo, 'I don't want one.' "'Probably not,' replied she, 'but that doesn't make much difference. You have it now, in your jacket pocket.' "Chimborazo felt in his pocket, and took out a queer-looking instrument of shining metal. 'Oh, dear!' he said. "'"Oh, dear!" it is!' said the fairy godmother. 'Now,' she continued, 'listen to me, Chimborazo! I am going to put you on an allowance of "Oh, dears." This is a self-acting bell-punch, and it will ring whenever you say "Oh, dear!" How many times do you generally say it in the course of the day?' "'Oh, dear!' said Chimborazo, 'I don't know. Oh, _dear_!' "'_Ting! ting!_' the bell-punch rang twice sharply; and looking at it in dismay, he saw two little round holes punched in a long slip of pasteboard which was fastened to the instrument. "'Exactly!' said the fairy. 'That is the way it works, and a very pretty way, too. Now, my boy, I am going to make you a very liberal allowance. You may say "Oh, dear!" forty-five times a day. There's liberality for you!' "'Oh, dear!' cried Chimborazo, 'I--' "'_Ting!_' said the bell-punch. "'You see!' observed the fairy. 'Nothing could be prettier. You have now had three of this day's allowance. It is still some hours before noon, so I advise you to be careful. If you exceed the allowance--' Here she paused, and glowered through her spectacles in a very dreadful manner. "'Oh, dear!' cried Chimborazo. 'What will happen then?' "'You will see!' said the fairy godmother, with a nod. '_Something_ will happen, you may be very sure of that. Good-by. Remember, only forty-five!' And away she flew out of the window. "'Oh, dear!' cried Chimborazo, bursting into tears. 'I don't want it! I won't have it! Oh, _dear_! oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, DEAR!!!' [Illustration: "Good-by. Remember, only forty-five!"] "'Ting! ting! ting-ting-ting-_ting_!' said the bell-punch; and now there were ten round holes in the strip of pasteboard. Chimborazo was now really frightened. He was silent for some time; and when his mother called him to his lessons he tried very hard not to say the dangerous words. But the habit was so strong that he said them unconsciously. By dinner-time there were twenty-five holes in the cardboard strip; by tea-time there were forty! Poor Chimborazo! he was afraid to open his lips, for whenever he did the words would slip out in spite of him. "'Well, Chimbo,' said his father after tea, 'I hear you have had a visit from your fairy godmother. What did she say to you, eh?' "'Oh, dear!' said Chimborazo, 'she said--oh, dear! I've said it again!' "'She said, "Oh, dear! I've said it again!"' repeated his father. 'What do you mean by that?' "'Oh, dear! I didn't mean that,' cried Chimborazo hastily; and again the inexorable bell rang, and he knew that another hole was punched in the fatal cardboard. He pressed his lips firmly together, and did not open them again except to say 'Good-night,' until he was safe in his own room. Then he hastily drew the hated bell-punch from his pocket, and counted the holes in the strip of cardboard; there were forty-three! 'Oh, _dear_!' cried the boy, forgetting himself again in his alarm, 'only two more! Oh, _dear_! oh, DEAR! I've done it again! oh--' 'Ting! TING!' went the bell-punch; and the cardboard was punched to the end. 'Oh, dear!' cried Chimborazo, now beside himself with terror. 'Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, _dear_!! what will become of me?' "A strange whirring noise was heard, then a loud clang; and the next moment the bell-punch, as if it were alive, flew out of his hand, out of the window, and was gone! "Chimborazo stood breathless with terror for a few minutes, momentarily expecting that the roof would fall in on his head, or the floor blow up under his feet, or some appalling catastrophe of some kind follow; but nothing followed. Everything was quiet, and there seemed to be nothing to do but go to bed; so to bed he went, and slept, only to dream that he was shot through the head with a bell-punch, and died saying, 'Oh, dear!' "The next morning, when Chimborazo came downstairs, his father said, 'My boy, I am going to drive over to your grandfather's farm this morning; would you like to go with me?' "A drive to the farm was one of the greatest pleasures Chimborazo had, so he answered promptly, 'Oh, _dear_!' "'Oh, very well!' said his father, looking much surprised. 'You need not go, my son, if you do not want to. I will take Robert instead.' "Poor Chimborazo! He had opened his lips to say, 'Thank you, papa. I should like to go _very_ much!' and, instead of these words, out had popped, in his most doleful tone, the now hated 'Oh, dear!' He sat amazed; but was roused by his mother's calling him to breakfast. "'Come, Chimbo,' she said. 'Here are sausages and scrambled eggs; and you are very fond of both of them. Which will you have?' "Chimborazo hastened to say, 'Sausages, please, mamma,'--that is, he hastened to _try_ to say it; but all his mother heard was, 'Oh, _dear_!' "His father looked much displeased. 'Give the boy some bread and water, wife,' he said sternly. 'If he cannot answer properly, he must be taught. I have had enough of this "Oh, dear!" business.' "Poor Chimborazo! He saw plainly enough now what his punishment was to be; and the thought of it made him tremble. He tried to ask for some more bread, but only brought out his 'Oh, _dear_!' in such a lamentable tone that his father ordered him to leave the room. He went out into the garden, and there he met John the gardener, carrying a basket of rosy apples. Oh! how good they looked! "'I am bringing some of the finest apples up to the house, little master,' said John. 'Will you have one to put in your pocket?' "'Oh, _dear_!' was all the poor boy could say, though he wanted an apple, oh, so much! And when John heard that he put the apple back in his basket, muttering something about ungrateful monkeys. "Poor Chimborazo! I will not give the whole history of that miserable day,--a miserable day it was from beginning to end. He fared no better at dinner than at breakfast; for at the second 'Oh, dear!' his father sent him up to his room, 'to stay there until he knew how to take what was given him, and be thankful for it.' He knew well enough by this time; but he could not tell his father so. He went to his room, and sat looking out of the window, a hungry and miserable boy. "In the afternoon his cousin Will came up to see him. 'Why, Chimbo!' he cried. 'Why do you sit moping here in the house, when all the boys are out? Come and play marbles with me on the piazza. Ned and Harry are out there waiting for you. Come on!' "'Oh, dear!' said Chimborazo. "'What's the matter?' asked Will. 'Haven't you any marbles? Never mind. I'll give you half of mine, if you like. Come!' "'Oh, DEAR!' said Chimborazo. "'Well,' said Will, 'if that's all you have to say when I offer you marbles, I'll keep them myself. I suppose you expected me to give you all of them, did you? I never saw such a fellow!' and off he went in a huff. * * * * * "'Well, Chimborazo,' said the fairy godmother, 'what do you think of "Oh, dear!" now?' [Illustration: "Touching his lips with her wand."] "Chimborazo looked at her beseechingly, but said nothing. "'Finding that forty-five times was not enough for you yesterday, I thought I would let you have all you wanted to-day, you see,' said the fairy wickedly. "The boy still looked imploringly at her, but did not open his lips. "'Well, well,' she said at last, touching his lips with her wand, 'I think that is enough in the way of punishment, though I am sorry you broke the bell-punch. Good-by! I don't believe you will say "Oh, dear!" any more.' "And he didn't." CHAPTER VI. The rain continued for several days; and though Toto, mindful of the sad story of Chimborazo, tried hard not to say "Oh, dear!" still he found the time hang very heavy on his hands. On the fourth day, however, the clouds broke away, and the sun came out bright and beautiful. Toto snatched up his cap, kissed his grandmother, and flew off to the forest. Oh, how glad he was to be out of doors again, and how glad everything seemed to be to see him! All the trees shook down pearls and diamonds on him (very wet ones they were, but he did not mind that), the birds sang to him, the flowers nodded to him, the sunbeams twinkled at him; everything seemed to say, "How are you, Toto? Hasn't it been a lovely rain, and aren't you glad it is over?" He went straight to the forest pool, hoping to find some of his companions there. Sure enough, there was the raccoon, sitting by the edge of the pool, making his toilet, and stopping every now and then to gaze admiringly at himself in the clear mirror. "Good-morning, Coon!" said Toto; "admiring your beauty as usual, eh?" "Well, Toto," replied the raccoon complacently, "my view of the matter is this: what is the use of having beauty if you don't admire it? That is what it's for, I suppose." "I suppose so," assented Toto. "And you can't expect other people to admire you if you don't admire yourself!" added the raccoon impressively. "Remember that! How's your grandmother?" "She's very well," replied Toto, "and she hopes to see you all this afternoon. She has made a new kind of gingerbread, and she wants you to try it. I have tried it, and it is very good indeed." "Your grandmother," said the raccoon, "is in many respects the most delightful person I have ever met. I, for one, will come with pleasure. I can't tell about the rest; haven't seen them for a day or two. Suppose we go and hunt them up." "With all my heart!" said Toto. They had not gone far before they met the wood-pigeon flying along with a bunch of berries in her bill. "Where are you going, Pigeon Pretty?" inquired Toto; "and who is to have those nice berries? I am sure they are not for yourself; I believe you never get anything for yourself, you are so busy helping others." "These berries are for poor Chucky," replied the wood-pigeon. "Ah, Coon," she added reproachfully, "how could you hurt the poor fellow so? He is really ill this morning in consequence." "What have you been doing to Chucky, you naughty Coon?" asked Toto. "Biting his nose off?" "Oh, no!" said the raccoon, looking rather guilty, in spite of his assurance. "Dear me, no! I didn't bite it _off_. Certainly not! I--I just bit it a little, don't you know! it was raining, and I hadn't anything else to do; and he was _so_ sound asleep, it was a great temptation. But I won't do it again, Pigeon Pretty," he added cheerfully, "I won't really. Take him the berries, with my love, and say I hope they will do him good!" and with a crafty wink, Master Coon trotted on with Toto, while Pigeon Pretty flew off in the opposite direction. They soon arrived at the mouth of the bear's cave, and looking in, saw the worthy Bruin quietly playing backgammon with his devoted friend Cracker. The latter was chattering as usual. "And so _I_ said to him," he was saying as Toto and Coon approached, "'_I_ think it is a mean trick, and I'll have nothing to do with it. And what is more, I'll put a stop to it if I can!' So he said he'd like to see me do it, and flounced off into the water." "Humph!" said Bruin, "I never did think much of that muskrat." "What's all this?" asked the raccoon, walking in. "Anything the matter, Cracker?" [Illustration: "Bruin playing backgammon with his friend Cracker."] "Good-morning, Coon!" said Bruin. "Morning, Toto! Sit down, both of you. Cracker was just telling me--" "It is that muskrat that lives in the pool, you know, Coon!" broke in the squirrel excitedly. "He wants to marry the Widow Bullfrog's daughter, and she won't have him, because she's engaged to young Mud Turtle. So now the muskrat has contrived a plan for carrying her off to-night whether she will or no; and if you will believe it, he came to _me_ and asked me to help him,--me, the head squirrel of the whole forest!" and little Cracker whisked his tail about fiercely, and looked as if he could devour a whole army of muskrats. "Don't frighten us, Cracker!" said the raccoon, with a look of mock terror. "I shall faint if you look so ferocious. I shall, indeed! Hold me, Toto!" "Now, Coon, you know I won't have Cracker teased!" growled the bear. "He's a good little fellow, and if he wants to help the Widow Bullfrog out of this scrape, he shall. I believe she is a very respectable person. Now, I don't know whether I can do anything about it myself. I'm rather large, you see, and it won't do for me to go paddling about in the pool and getting the water all muddy." "Certainly not!" said the squirrel, "you dear old monster. I should as soon think of asking the mountain to come and hunt mosquitoes. But Coon, now--" "Oh, I'm ready!" exclaimed the raccoon. "Delighted, I'm sure, to do anything I can. What shall I do to the muskrat? Eat him?" "I suppose that would be the easiest thing to do," said the bear. "What do you say, Cracker?" "He is very hard to catch," replied the squirrel. "In fact, you _cannot_ catch a muskrat unless you put tar on his nose." "That is true," said the raccoon. "I had forgotten that, and I haven't any tar just now. Would pitch or turpentine do as well, do you think? They all begin with 'A', you know." "I'm afraid not!" said the squirrel. "'Tar to catch a Tartar,' as the old saying goes; and the muskrat is certainly a Tartar." "Look here!" said Toto, "I think we have some tar at home, in the shed. I am quite sure there is some." "Really?" said the squirrel, brightening up. "Good boy, Toto! Tell me where I can find it, and I'll go and get it." "No!" said Toto. "It's in a bucket, and you couldn't carry it, Cracker! I'll go and fetch it, while you and Coon are arranging your plan of action." So away ran Toto, and the squirrel and the raccoon sat down to consult. "The first thing to do," said Coon, "is to get the muskrat out of his hole. Now, my advice is this: do you go to Mrs. Bullfrog, and borrow an old overcoat of her husband's." "Husband's dead," said the bear. "That's no reason why his overcoat should be dead, stupid!" replied the raccoon. "It isn't likely that he was buried in his overcoat, and it isn't likely that she has cut it up for a riding-habit. Borrow the overcoat," he continued, turning to the squirrel again, "and put it on. Old Bullfrog was a very big fellow, and I think you can get it on. Then you can sit on a stone and whistle like a frog." "I can't sit down in a frog's overcoat!" objected the squirrel. "I know I can't. It's not the right shape, and I don't sit down in that way. And I can't whistle like a frog either." "Dear me!" said the raccoon peevishly. "What _can_ you do? I am sure _I_ could sit down in any coat I could wear at all. Well, then," he added after a pause, "you can _stand_ on a stone, and _look_ like a frog. I suppose you can do that?" "I suppose so," said Cracker, dubiously. "And Toto," continued the raccoon, "can hide himself in the reeds on one side of you, and I on the other. Toto whistles beautifully, and he can imitate Miss Bullfrog's voice to perfection. The muskrat will be sure to come up when he hears it, and the moment he pops his head out of the water, you can drop some tar on his nose, and _then_--" "Then what?" asked the squirrel anxiously. "I will attend to the rest of it," said Coon, with a wink. "See that I have cards to the Mud Turtle's wedding, will you? Here comes Toto," he added, "with tar enough to catch fifty muskrats. Off with you, Cracker, and ask the Widow Frog for the overcoat." The squirrel disappeared among the bushes, and at the same time Toto came running up with the tar-bucket. "Well," he said breathlessly, "is it all arranged? Oh! I ran all the way, and I am _so_ tired!" and he dropped down on a mossy seat, and fanned himself with his cap. Bruin brought a piece of honeycomb to refresh him, and Coon told him the proposed plan, which delighted the boy greatly. "And I am to do the whistling?" he exclaimed. "I must practise a bit, for I have not done any frog-whistling for some time." And with that he began to whistle in such a wonderfully frog-like way, that Bruin almost thought he must have swallowed a frog. "How do you do that, Toto?" he asked. "I wish I could learn. You just purse your mouth up so, eh? Ugh! wah! woonk!" And the bear gave a series of most surprising grunts and growls, accompanied with such singular grimaces that both Toto and the raccoon rolled over on the ground in convulsions of laughter. "My dear Bruin," cried Toto, as soon as he could regain a little composure, "I don't think--ha! ha! ha!--I really do _not_ think you will ever be mistaken for a frog." "Ho! ho! ho!" cried the raccoon, bursting into another fit of laughter as he looked towards the mouth of the cave. "Look at Cracker. Oh, my eye! _will_ you look at Cracker? Oh, dear me! I shall certainly die if I laugh any more. Ho! ho!" Bruin and Toto turned, and saw the squirrel hobbling in, dressed in a green frog-skin, and looking--well, did you ever see a squirrel in a frog-skin? No? Then you never saw the funniest thing in the world. Poor Cracker, however, seemed to see no fun in it at all. "It's all very well for you fellows to laugh," he said ruefully. "I wonder how you would like to be pinched up in an abominable, ill-fitting thing like this? Ugh! I wouldn't be a frog for all the beechnuts in the world. Come on!" he added sharply. "Let us get the matter over, and have done with it. I can't stand this long." Accordingly the three started off, leaving Bruin shaking his head and chuckling at the mouth of the cave. Arrived at the pool, they stationed themselves as had been previously arranged: the squirrel on a large stone at the very edge of the pool, with the tar-bucket beside him; the raccoon crouching among the tall reeds on one side of the stone, while Toto lay closely hidden on the other, behind a clump of tall ferns. When all was ready, Toto began to whistle. At first he whistled very softly, but gradually the notes swelled, growing clearer and shriller, till they seemed to fill the air. Presently a ripple was seen in the clear water, and the sharp black nose of a muskrat appeared above the surface. "Lovely creature!" exclaimed the muskrat. "Adored Miss Bullfrog, is it possible that you have changed your mind, and decided to listen to my suit?" [Illustration: "'Oh, rapture!' cried the muskrat."] "I have," said the squirrel softly. "Oh, rapture!" cried the muskrat. "Come, then, at once with me! Let us fly, or rather swim, before your tyrannical parent discovers us! Leap down, my lovely one, with your accustomed grace and agility, into the arms of your faithful, your adoring muskrat! Come!" "You must come a little nearer," whispered the squirrel coyly. "I want to be sure that it is _really_ you; such a sudden step, you know! Please put your whole head out, my love, that I may be _quite_ sure of you!" The eager muskrat thrust his head out of the water; and plump! the squirrel dropped the tar on the end of his nose. The muskrat gave a wild shriek, and plunging his nose among the rushes on the bank, tried to rub off the tar. But, alas! the tar stuck to the rushes, and his nose stuck to the tar, and there he was! At that instant the raccoon leaped from his hiding-place. Toto, still concealed behind the clump of ferns, heard the noise of a violent struggle; then came several short squeaks; then a crunching noise; and then silence. Coming out from his hiding-place, he saw the raccoon sitting quietly on a stone, licking his chops, and smoothing his ruffled fur. He smiled sweetly at Toto, and said, "It's all right, my boy! you whistled beautifully; couldn't have done it better myself!" (N. B. Coon's whistling powers were nearly equal to those of the bear.) "But where is the muskrat?" asked Toto, bewildered. "What have you done with him?" "Eaten him, my dear!" replied Coon, benignly. "It is always the best plan in any case of this sort; saves trouble, you see, and prevents any further inquiry in the matter; besides, I was always taught in my youth never to waste anything. The flavor was not all I could have wished," he added, "and there was more or less stringiness; but what will not one do in the cause of friendship! Don't mention it, Cracker, my boy! I am sure you would have done as much for me. And now let us help you off with the overcoat of the late lamented Bullfrog; for to speak in perfect frankness, Cracker, it is _not_ what one would call becoming to your style of beauty." CHAPTER VII. On account of the woodchuck's illness, and at the special request of Pigeon Pretty, the story-telling was postponed for a day or two. Very soon, however, Chucky recovered sufficiently to ride as far as the cottage on Bruin's back; and on a fine afternoon the friends were all once more assembled, and waiting for Toto's story. "I don't know any long stories," said Toto, "at least not well enough to tell them; so I will tell two short ones instead. Will that do?" "Just as well," said the raccoon. "Five minutes for refreshments between the two, did you say? My view precisely." Toto smiled, and began the story of THE TRAVELLER, THE COOK, AND THE LITTLE OLD MAN. Once upon a time there was a little old man who lived in a well. He was a very small little old man, and the well was very deep; and the only reason why he lived there was because he could not get out. Indeed, what better reason could he have? He had long white hair, and a long red nose, and a long green coat; and this was all he had in the world, except a three-legged stool, a large iron kettle, and a cook. There was not room in the well for the cook; so she lived on the ground above, and cooked the little old man's dinner and supper in the iron kettle, and lowered them down to him in the bucket; and the little old man sat on the three-legged stool, and ate whatever the cook sent down to him, with a cheerful heart, if it was good; and so things went on very pleasantly. [Illustration: "The old man thought it was raining."] But one day it happened that the cook could not find anything for the old man's dinner. She looked high, and she looked low, but nothing could she find; so she was very unhappy; for she knew her master would be miserable if he had no dinner. She sat down by the well, and wept bitterly; and her tears fell into the well so fast that the little old man thought it was raining, and put up a red cotton umbrella, which he borrowed for the occasion. You may wonder where he borrowed it; but I cannot tell you, because I do not know. Now, at that moment a traveller happened to pass by, and when he saw the cook sitting by the well and weeping, he stopped, and asked her what was the matter. So the cook told him that she was weeping because she could not find anything to cook for her master's dinner. "And who is your master?" asked the traveller. "He is a little old man," replied the cook; "and he lives down in this well." "Why does he live there?" inquired the traveller. "I do not know," answered the cook; "I never asked him." "He must be a singular person," said the traveller. "I should like to see him. What does he look like?" But this the cook could not tell him; for she had never seen the little old man, having come to work for him after he had gone down to live in the well. "Does he like to receive visitors?" asked the traveller. "Don't know," said the cook. "He has never had any to receive since I have been here." "Humph!" said the other. "I think I will go down and pay my respects to him. Will you let me down in the bucket?" "But suppose he should mistake you for his dinner, and eat you up?" the cook suggested. "Pooh!" he replied. "No fear of that; I can take care of myself. And as for his dinner," he added, "get him some radishes. There are plenty about here. I had nothing but radishes for my dinner, and very good they were, though rather biting. Let down the bucket, please! I am all right." "What are radishes?" the cook called after him as he went down. "Long red things, stupid! with green leaves to them!" he shouted; and then, in a moment, he found himself at the bottom of the well. The little old man was delighted to see him, and told him that he had lived down there forty years, and had never had a visitor before in all that time. "Why do you live down here?" inquired the traveller. "Because I cannot get out," replied the little old man. "But how did you get down here in the first place?" "Really," he said, "it is so long ago that I hardly remember. My impression is, however, that I came down in the bucket." "Then why, in the name of common-sense," said the traveller, "don't you go _up_ in the bucket?" The little old man sprang up from the three-legged stool, and flung his arms around the traveller's neck. "My _dear_ friend!" he cried rapturously. "My precious benefactor! Thank you a thousand times for those words! I assure you I never thought of it before! I will go up at once. You will excuse me?" "Certainly," said the traveller. "Go up first, and I will follow you." The little old man got into the bucket, and was drawn up to the top of the well. But, alas! when the cook saw his long red nose and his long green coat, she said to herself, "This must be a radish! How lucky I am!" and seizing the poor little old man, she popped him into the kettle without more ado. Then she let the bucket down for the traveller, calling to him to make haste, as she wanted to send down her master's dinner. [Illustration: "'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good!"] Up came the traveller, and looking around, asked where her master was. "Where should he be," said the cook, "but at the bottom of the well, where you left him?" "What do you mean?" exclaimed the traveller. "He has just come up in the bucket!" "_Oh!_" cried the cook. "Oh! _oh!!_ O-O-O-H!!! was that my master? Why, I thought he was a radish, and I have boiled him for his own dinner!" "I hope he will have a good appetite!" said the traveller. The cook was a good woman, and her grief was so excessive that she fell into the kettle and was boiled too. Then the traveller, who had formerly been an ogre by profession, said, "'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good! My dinner was very insufficient;" and he ate both the little old man and the cook, and proceeded on his journey with a cheerful heart. * * * * * "The traveller was a sensible man," said Bruin. "Did you make up that story, Toto?" "Yes," replied Toto. "I made it up the other day,--one of those rainy days. I found a forked radish in the bunch we had for tea, and it had a kind of nose, and looked just like a funny little red man. So I thought that if there was a radish that looked like a man, there might be a man that looked like a radish, you see. And now--" "Ahem!" said the raccoon softly. "_Did_ you say five minutes for refreshments, Toto, or did I misunderstand you?" and he winked at the company in a very expressive manner. Toto ran to get the gingerbread; and for some time sounds of crunching and nibbling were the only ones that were heard, except the constant "click, click," of the grandmother's needles. Bruin sat for some time watching in silence the endless crossing and re-crossing of the shining bits of steel. Presently he said in a timid growl,-- "Excuse me, ma'am; do you make the gingerbread with those things?" "With what things, Mr. Bruin?" asked the grandmother. "Those bright things that go clickety-clack," said the bear. "I see some soft brown stuff on them, just about the color of the gingerbread, and I thought possibly--" "Oh," said the grandmother, smiling, "you mean my knitting. No, Mr. Bruin, gingerbread is made in a very different way. I mix it in a bowl, with a spoon, and then I put it in a pan, and bake it in the oven. Do you understand?" Poor Bruin rubbed his nose, and looked helplessly at Coon. The latter, however, merely grinned diabolically at him, and said nothing; so he was obliged to answer the grandmother himself. "Oh, of course," he said. "If you mix it with a _spoon_, I should say certainly. As far as a spoon goes, you know, I--ah--quite correct, I'm sure." Here the poor fellow subsided into a vague murmur, and glared savagely at the raccoon. But now the gentle wood-pigeon interposed, with her soft, cooing voice. "Toto," she said, "were we not promised two stories to-day? Tell us the other one now, dear boy, for the shadows are beginning to lengthen." "I made this story myself, too," said Toto, "and it is called THE AMBITIOUS ROCKING-HORSE. There was once a rocking-horse, but he did not want to be a rocking-horse. He wanted to be a trotter. So he went to a jockey-- "What's a jockey?" inquired the bear. A man who drives fast and tells lies. He went to a jockey and asked him if he would like to buy a trotter. "Where is your trotter?" asked the jockey. "Me's him," said the rocking-horse. That was all the grammar he knew. "Oh!" said the jockey. "You are the trotter, eh?" "Yes," said the rocking-horse. "What will you give me for myself?" "A bushel of shavings," said the jockey. The rocking-horse thought that was better than nothing, so he sold himself. Then the jockey took him to another jockey who was blind, and told him (the blind jockey) that this was the Sky-born Snorter of the Sarsaparillas, and that he could trot two miles in a minute. So the blind jockey bought him, and paid ten thousand dollars for him. [Illustration: "'Me's him,' said the rocking-horse."] There was a race the next day, and the blind jockey took the Sky-born Snorter to the race-course, and started him with the other horses. The other horses trotted away round the course, but the Sky-born Snorter stayed just where he was, and rocked; and when the other horses came round the turn, there he was waiting for them at the judge's stand. So he won the race; and the judge gave the prize, which was a white buffalo, to the blind jockey. The jockey put the Sky-born Snorter in the stable, and then went to get his white buffalo; and while he was gone, the other jockeys came into the stable to see the new horse. "Why, he's a rocking-horse!" said one of them. "Hush!" said the Sky-born Snorter. "Yes, I am a rocking-horse, but don't tell my master. He doesn't know it, and he paid ten thousand dollars for me." "Whom did he pay it to?" asked the jockeys. "To the other jockey, who bought me from myself," replied the Snorter. "Oh! and what did _he_ give for you?" "A bushel of shavings," said the Snorter. "Ah!" said one of the jockeys. "A bushel of shavings, eh? Now, how would you like to have those shavings turned into gold?" "Very much indeed!" cried the Sky-born. "Well," said the jockey, "bring them here, and we will change them for you." So the rocking-horse went and fetched the shavings, and the jockeys set fire to them. The flames shot up, bright and yellow. "See!" cried the jockeys. "The shavings are all turned into gold. Now we will see what we can do for you." And they took the Sky-born Snorter and put him in the fire, and he turned into gold too, and was all burned up. And the blind jockey drove the white buffalo all the rest of his life, and never knew the difference. Moral: don't be ambitious. * * * * * They all laughed heartily at the fate of the Sky-born Snorter; and the wood-pigeon said, "Both your stories have a most melancholy ending, Toto. One hero boiled and eaten up, and the other burned! It is quite dreadful. I think I must tell the next story myself, and I shall be sure to tell one that ends cheerfully." "Yes, yes!" cried all the others. "Pigeon Pretty shall be the next story-teller!" "And now," continued the pigeon, "my Chucky must go home to his supper, for he is not well yet, by any means, and must be very careful of himself. Climb up on Bruin's back, Chucky dear! so, that is right. Good-night, Toto. Good-night, dear madam. Now home again, all!" and flying round and round the bear's head, Pigeon Pretty led the way towards the forest. CHAPTER VIII. "Is this one of your own stories that you are going to tell us, Pigeon Pretty?" inquired the squirrel, when they were next assembled around the cottage door. "No," replied the wood-pigeon. "This is a story I heard a short time ago. I was flying home, after paying a visit to some cousins of mine who live in a village some miles away. As I passed by a pretty white cottage, something like this, I noticed that there were crumbs scattered on one of the window-sills. 'Here lives somebody who is fond of birds!' said I to myself, and as I was rather hungry, I stopped to pick up some of the crumbs. The window was open, and looking in, I saw a pretty and neatly furnished room. Near the window was a bed, in which lay a boy of about Toto's age. He was evidently ill, for he had a bandage tied round his head, and he looked pale and thin. Beside the bed sat a little girl, apparently a year or two older; a sweet, pretty girl, as one would wish to see. She was reading aloud to her brother (I suppose he was her brother) from a large red book. Neither of the children noticed me, so I sat on the window-sill for some time, and heard the whole of this story, which you shall now hear in your turn. It is called THE STORY OF THE TAIL OF THE BARON'S WAR-HORSE. Many years ago there lived a Baron, famous in peace and war, but chiefly in the latter. War was his great delight, fighting his natural occupation; and he was never so much in his element as when leading his valiant troops to battle, mounted on his noble iron-gray charger. Ah! what a charger that was!--stately and strong, swift and sure, fiery and bold, yet ready to obey his master's lightest touch or softest word; briefly, a horse in ten thousand. Right proud the Baron was of his gallant steed; and right well did they love each other, horse and master. The vassals of the Baron knew no greater pleasure than to see their lord ride by mounted on Gray Berold; it filled their souls with joy, and caused them to throw up their caps and shout "Hi!" in a hilarious manner. As for the lovely Ermengarde, the Baron's young and beautiful wife, she would far rather have gone without her dinner than have missed the sight. Whenever Gray Berold was brought to the door, she hastened out, and overwhelmed him with caresses and words of endearment, proffering meanwhile the toothsome sugar and the crisp and sprightly apple, neither of which the engaging animal disdained to accept. In truth, it was a goodly sight to see the golden locks of the lady (for was she not known in all the country as Ermengarde of the Fair Tresses?) mingling with the wavy silver of the charger's mane as he bent his head lovingly over his fair young mistress,--a goodly sight, and one which often sent the bold Baron rejoicing on his way, with a tender smile on his otherwise slightly ferocious countenance. It chanced one day that a great tournament was about to take place in the neighborhood. All the knights in the country round, and many bold champions from a greater distance, were to show their prowess in riding at the ring, and in friendly combat with each other. Among the gallant knights, who so ready for the tournament as our bold Baron? He fairly pranced for the fray; for there had been no war for two months, and he was very weary of the long peaceful days. He had been practising for a week past, riding at any number of rings of different sizes, and tilting with his squire, whom he had run through the body several times, thereby seriously impairing that worthy's digestive powers. And now the eventful morning was come. The vassals were assembled in the courtyard of the castle, a goodly array, to see their master depart in pomp and pride. Gray Berold was brought round to the door, magnificently caparisoned, his bridle and housings glittering with precious stones. The gallant steed pawed the ground, and tossed his head proudly, as impatient of delay as his master. From a balcony above leaned the lovely Ermengarde, her golden tresses crowned with a nightcap of rare and curious design; for the Baron was making an early start, and his fair lady had not yet completed her toilet. Amid the vociferous cheers of his vassals, the Baron descended the steps, armed _cap-à-pie_, his good sword by his side, and his mace, battle-axe, cutlass, and shillalah displayed about his stately person in a very imposing manner. He could scarcely walk, it is true, so many and so weighty were his accoutrements; but then, as he himself aptly observed, he did not want to walk. He got into the saddle with some difficulty, owing to the tendency of his battle-axe to get between his legs; but once there, the warrior was at home. An attendant handed him his lance, with its glittering pennon. Gray Berold pranced and curvetted, making nothing of the enormous weight on his back; the Lady Ermengarde waved her broidered kerchief; and, with a parting glance at his lovely bride, the Baron rode slowly out of the courtyard. But, alas! he was not destined to ride far. Alas for the proud Baron! Alas and alack for the gallant steed! He had scarcely ridden a hundred paces when he heard a fearful growl behind him, which caused him to turn quickly in his saddle. What was his horror to see a huge bear spring out of the woods and come rushing towards him! For one moment the Baron was paralyzed; the next, he wheeled his horse round, and couching his lance, prepared to meet his savage assailant. [Illustration: "The bear caught the charger by the tail."] But Gray Berold had not bargained for this. Many a fair fight had he seen in battle-field and in tourney; many a time he had faced danger as boldly as his rider, and had borne the brunt of many a fierce attack. But those fights were with men and horses. He knew what they were, and how they should be met; but this was something very different. This great creature, that came rushing along with its head down and its mouth open, was something Berold did not know; moreover, it was something he did not like. Stand there and be rushed at by a thing that was neither horse nor man? Not if he knew it! And just when the bear was close upon him, Gray Berold, with a squeal of mingled terror and anger, wheeled short round. The bear made a spring, and caught the charger by the tail. The terrified animal bounded forward; the Baron made a downward stroke with his battle-axe that would have felled an ox, and Master Bruin (no offence to you, my dear fellow! it's the name of all your family, you know) rolled over and over in the dust. But alas! and alas! _he took the tail with him_! That noble tail, the pride of the stable-yard, the glory of the grooms, lay in the road, a glittering mass of silver; and it was a tailless steed that now galloped frantically back into the castle-court, from which only a few short minutes ago he had so proudly emerged. The Baron was mad with fury. Pity for his gallant horse, rage and mortification at the ridiculous plight he was in, anxiety lest he should be late for the tournament, all combined to make him for a time beside himself; he rushed up and down the courtyard, whirling his battle-axe round his head, and uttering the most fearful imprecations. Finally, however, yielding to the tears and entreaties of his retainers, he calmed his noble frenzy, and set himself to think what was best to be done. "Give up the tournament? Perish the thought! Ride another horse than Berold? Never while he lives! Ride him tailless and unadorned? Shades of my ancestors forbid!" thus cried the Baron at every new suggestion of his sympathizing retainers. At last the head groom had an idea. "Let us fasten on another tail," he said, "an't please your worship!" "Ha!" cried the Baron, starting at the notion. "'Tis well! Ho! there, Hodge, Barnaby, Perkin! Cut me the tails from the three cart-horses, and tie them together. And be quick about it, ye knaves!" The three grooms flew to execute their master's mandate, and returned in a few minutes, bearing a magnificent tail, whose varied hues of black, sorrel, and white, showed it to be the spoil of Dobbin, Smiler, and Bumps, the three stout Flemish cart-horses. "By my halidome, a motley tail!" exclaimed the Baron. "But it boots not, so it be a tail! Fasten it on with all speed, for time presses!--ha! what is this!" Well might the Baron start, and exclaim. The moment the three grooms touched the flanks of Gray Berold, before they had time to lay hands on the stump of his tail, they found themselves flying through the air, and tumbling in a very uncomfortable sort of way against the wall of the courtyard. Marry, that was a brave kick! and when he had given it, the charger looked round after the unhappy grooms, and tossed his stately head, and snorted, evidently meaning to say, "_Don't_ you want to try it again?" But the grooms did not want to try it again. They picked themselves up, and rubbed their poor shins and their poor heads, and proceeded to hobble off on their poor feet as fast as they could. But they did not hobble far, for the voice of the Baron was heard in angry expostulation. [Illustration: "They found themselves flying through the air."] "How now, varlets!" cried that nobleman. "Do you slink away like beaten hounds because, forsooth, the good beast shakes off a fly, or lashes out his heels in playful sport? Shame on ye, coward hinds! Back, I command ye, and tie me on that tail. Obey, sirrahs, or else--hum--ha--hrrrrugh!!!" and the Baron waved his battle-axe, and looked as if he had swallowed the meat-chopper and the gridiron and the blunderbuss, all at one mouthful. Hodge, Barnaby, and Perkin were in a bad way, assuredly. On the one hand was the charger, snorting defiance, and with his heels all ready for the next kick, should they presume to touch him; on the other was the furious Baron, also snorting, and with his battle-axe all ready for the next whack, should they presume _not_ to touch him. Here were two sharp horns to a dilemma! Cautiously the poor knaves crept up once more behind Gray Berold. "Vault thou upon his back, Perkin!" whispered Barnaby. "Perchance from there--" Whizz! whack! thud!--This time Berold did not wait for them to touch him: the sound of their voices was enough; there they all lay again in a heap against the wall, moaning sore and cursing the day they were born. But now the Baron's humor changed. "Beshrew me!" he cried. "'Tis a gallant steed. He will not brook, at such a moment, the touch of hireling hands. 'Tis well! give _me_ the tail, my masters! and ye shall see." Alas! they did see; they saw their Baron rolling over and over on the ground. They saw their Baron roll; they heard their Baron rave; they turned and fled for their lives. At this moment the portal swung open, and the Lady Ermengarde appeared. She had seen all from an upper window, and she now hastened to raise her fallen lord, who sat spluttering and cursing on the ground, unable to rise, owing to the weight of his armor. "Oh! blame not the steed!" cried the lovely lady. "Chide not the gallant beast, good my lord! 'twas not the touch, 'twas the _tail_, he could not brook. Tie the rustic tail of a plebeian cart-horse on Gray Berold? Oh! fie, my lord! it may not be. _I_ will provide a tail for your charger!" "You!" exclaimed the Baron. "What mean you, lady?" The Lady Ermengarde replied by drawing from the embroidered pouch which hung from her jewelled girdle a pair of shears. Snip! snap! snip! snap! and before her astonished lord could interfere, the golden tresses, the pride of the whole country-side, were severed from her head. Deftly she tied the shining curls together; lightly she stepped to where Gray Berold stood. She stroked his noble head; she spoke to him; she showed him the tresses, and told him what she had done. Then with her own hands she tied them on to the stump of his tail with her embroidered girdle; and Gray Berold moved not fore-leg nor hind, but stood like a steed of granite till it was done. The retainers were dissolved in tears; the Baron sobbed aloud as he climbed, with the assistance of seven hostlers, into the saddle; but the heroic lady smiled, and bade them be of good cheer. She could get a black wig, she said; and she had always thought she should look better as a brunette. And to make a long story short, said the wood-pigeon, she _did_ get a black wig, and looked like a beauty in it. And the Baron went to the tournament, and won all the prizes. And Gray Berold lived to be sixty years old, and wore the golden tail to the end of his days. And that's all. CHAPTER IX. "Oh! what a delightful story, Pigeon Pretty!" cried Toto. "Did you hear any more like it? I wish I had that red book! Did the boy look as nice as his sister? What was his name?" "His name," said the pigeon, "was Jim, I think. And he did not--no, Toto, he certainly did _not_ look as nice as his sister. In fact, although I pitied him because he was ill, I thought he looked like a disagreeable sort of boy." "Red hair?" interposed the squirrel, looking at the raccoon. "Freckled face?" asked the raccoon, looking at the squirrel. "Why, yes!" said the pigeon, in surprise. "He _had_ red hair and a freckled face; but how should you two know anything about him?" The squirrel and the raccoon nodded at each other. "Same boy, I should say!" said Cracker. "Same boy, _I_ should say!" answered Coon. "What is it?" asked Toto, curious as usual. "Tell us about it, one of you! It is early yet, and we have plenty of time." "Well, I will tell you," said the squirrel. "I meant to keep it and tell it next time, for I cannot make up stories as easily as some of you, and this is something that really happened; but I might just as well tell it now, especially as Pigeon Pretty has told you about the boy. "You need not be at all sorry for that boy," he continued. "He is a bad boy, and he deserves all he got, and more too." "Dear, dear!" said the grandmother. "I am sorry to hear that. What did he do, Mr. Cracker?" "He tried to rob my Uncle Munkle of his winter store!" replied the squirrel. "And he got the worst of it, that's all." "Who is your Uncle Munkle?" asked Toto. "I don't know him, do I?" "No," said Cracker. "He lives quite at the other end of the wood, where people sometimes go for fagots and nuts and such things. Nobody ever comes near our end of the wood, because they are afraid of Bruin. "My uncle is a Munk," he continued, "and a most excellent person." "A monk?" interrupted the grandmother in amazement. "Yes, a Chipmunk!" said the squirrel. "It's the same thing, I believe, only we spell it with a _u_. Third cousin to a monkey, you know." Toto and his grandmother both looked quite bewildered at this; but the raccoon smiled sweetly, and said,-- "Go on, Cracker, my boy! never try to explain things _too_ fully; it's apt to be a little tedious, and it is always better to leave something to the imagination." "I am going on," said Cracker. "As I said before, people sometimes go into that part of the wood; there are one or two hives not far from it." "One or two hives?" interrupted Toto. "What _do_ you mean, Cracker?" "Why, a lot of houses together," said the squirrel. "Don't you call them hives? The only other creatures I know that live in that kind of way (and a very poor way it is, to my thinking) are the bees, and their places are called hives." "A collection of houses, Mr. Cracker," said the grandmother gently, "is called a village or a town, according to its size; a village being a small collection." "Oh!" said the squirrel. "Thank you, ma'am! I will try to remember that. Well, this boy Jim lives in the nearest village, and sometimes goes into the forest. Now, the autumn is slipping away fast, as we all know; and last week my Uncle Munkle, who is always fore-handed and thrifty, thought it was high time to be getting in his winter store of nuts and acorns. So he sent for his nephews to come and help him (he has no children of his own). We all went, of course, and Coon went with us, for my uncle always gives us a feast after the nuts are in, and Coon always goes wherever there is anything to--" "What?" said the raccoon, looking up sharply. "Wherever there is anything to be _done_!" said the squirrel hastily. "The second day, as we were all hard at work shelling the beechnuts, I heard a noise among the bushes,--a crackling noise that did not sound like any animal I knew. I looked, and saw two eyes peering out from the leaves of a young beech-tree. 'That is a boy,' said I to myself, 'and he means mischief!' So I skipped off without saying anything to the others, and crept softly round behind the bushes, making no more noise than an eel in the mud. There I found, not one boy, but two, crouching among the bushes, and watching the nut-shelling. They were whispering to each other; and I crept nearer and nearer till I could hear all they said. "'When shall we come?' said one. "'To-night,' said the other, who had red hair and a freckled face, 'when the moon is up, and the little beggars are all asleep. Then we can easily knock them on the head, and get the nuts without being bitten. They bite like wild-cats when they are roused, these little fellows.' "'All right!' said the other, whose face I could not see. 'I'll bring a bag and be here at eight o'clock.' "'_Will_ you?' thought I, and I crept away again, having heard all I wanted to know. I went back to the others, and presently a snapping and crackling told me that the boys were gone. Then I went to Uncle Munkle and told him what I had heard. He was very angry, and whisked his tail about till he nearly whisked it off. 'Call your large friend,' he said, 'and we will hold a council.' So I waked Coon--" "Waked Coon?" exclaimed the woodchuck slyly. "What! do you mean to say he was not working twice as hard as any of the others?" "I had been, my good fellow!" said the raccoon loftily. "I had been; and exhausted with my labors. I was snatching a moment's hard-earned repose. Go on, Cracker." "Well," continued the squirrel, "we held a council, and settled everything beautifully. Uncle Munkle, who has very particularly sharp teeth, was to get into the nut-closet and wait there. The rest of us were to be ready together on the nearest branch, and Coon was to hide himself somewhere close by. No one was to move until Uncle Munkle gave the signal, and then--well, you shall hear how it happened. We all went on with our work until sunset. Then we had supper, and a game of scamper, and then we began to prepare for business. We sharpened our claws on the bark of the trees till they were as sharp as--as--" "Razors," suggested Toto. "Don't know what that means," said the squirrel. "As sharp as Coon's nose, then; that will do." "We filled our cheek-pouches with three-cornered pebbles and nut-shells. Then, when the moon rose, and all the forest was quiet, we retired to our posts. We had waited some time, and were becoming rather impatient, when suddenly a distant sound was heard; the sound of snapping and cracking twigs. It grew louder and louder, louder and louder; and presently we saw a freckled face looking out from among the leaves. "Cautiously the boy advanced, and soon another boy appeared, not so ill-looking as the first. He carried a bag in his hand. The two came softly to the foot of our tree, and looked up. The leaves twinkled in the moonlight; but all was still, not a sound to be heard. The two whispered together a moment; then the freckled boy began slowly and carefully to climb the tree. We saw his red head coming nearer and nearer, nearer and nearer. We knew he must be near Uncle Munkle's hole. We all held our breath and listened for the signal. "Presently the boy stopped climbing, and we saw him stretch out his hand. Then--oh! such a screech! You _never_ heard such a screech, not even from a wild-cat. Another yell, and another. That was the signal. Now we knew what Uncle Munkle meant by saying, 'I may not give the signal _myself_, but you will hear it all the same.' "Instantly we sprang at the boy, ten strong, healthy squirrels, teeth and claws and all. I don't think he enjoyed himself very much for the next few minutes. He yelled all the time, and at last he lost his hold on the tree, and fell heavily to the ground. Also, Coon had been biting his legs a little. But when he fell, Coon started after the other boy, who was dancing about the foot of the tree in a frenzy of terror and amazement. When he saw Coon coming, he started on a run; but Coon jumped on his back and got him by the ear, and then rode him round and round the forest till he howled as loud as the other one had." "A very pleasant ride I had, too," said the raccoon placidly. "My young friend was excitable, very excitable, but that only made it the more lively. Yes. I don't know when I have enjoyed anything more." "But what became of the first boy after he fell?" asked Toto eagerly. [Illustration: "His father took him away in a wheelbarrow."] "Well, my dear, he lay still," said the squirrel. "He lay still. He had broken his leg, so it was really the only thing for him to do. And when Coon came back from riding the other boy he jumped backwards and forwards over him till his father came and took him away in a wheelbarrow. Every time Coon jumped, he grinned at the boy; and every time he grinned, the boy screamed; so one inferred that he did not like it, you know. "Altogether," said the little squirrel, in conclusion, "it was a great success; a great success; really, worthy of our end of the wood. And _such_ a feast as Uncle Munkle gave us the day after!" CHAPTER X. It was agreed by all hands at the next meeting, that Bruin must tell the story. "You have not told a story for a long, long time, Bruin," said Toto,--"not since we began to meet here; and Granny wants to hear one of your stories; don't you, Granny?" "Indeed," said the grandmother, "I should like very much to hear one of Mr. Bruin's stories. I am told they are very delightful." Mr. Bruin bowed in his peculiar fashion, and murmured something which sounded like "How-wow-mumberygrubble." The old lady knew, however, that it was meant for "Thank you, ma'am," and took the will for the deed. Bruin sucked his paw thoughtfully for a few minutes; then, raising his head with an air of inspiration,--"Pigeon Pretty," he asked, "what kind of a bear was that in your story?" "Really, Bruin, I do not know," replied the wood-pigeon. "It said 'a bear,' that was all." "You see," continued Bruin, "there are so many kinds of bears,--black, brown, cinnamon, grizzly, polar,--really, there is no end to them. I thought, however, that this might possibly have been the Lost Prince of the Poles." Here Bruin paused a moment and looked about. "The Lost Prince of the Poles!" exclaimed Toto. "What a fine name for a story! Tell us now, Bruin; tell us all about him." "Listen, then," said the bear, "and you shall hear about THE LOST PRINCE OF THE POLES. The polar bears, as you probably know, are a large and powerful nation. They are governed by a king, who is called the Solar-Polarity of the Hypopeppercorns. "Oh!" cried Toto. "What _does_ that mean?" Nobody knows what it means. That is the great charm of the title. Gives it majesty, you understand. The present Solar-Polarity is, I am told, quite worthy of his title, for he is very majestic, and knows absolutely nothing. He sits on the top of the North Pole, and directs the movement of the icebergs. At the time of which I am going to tell you, which was so long ago as to be no particular time at all, the Solar-Polarity had an only son,--a most promising young bear,--the heir to the kingdom. He was brought up with the greatest care possible, and when he had arrived at a suitable age, his father begged him to choose a mate among the youngest and fairest of the she-bears, or, as they are more elegantly termed, bearesses. To the amazement of the Solar-Polarity, the Prince flatly refused. "I will not marry one of these cold, white creatures!" he said; "I am tired of white. I want to marry one of those things;" and he pointed to the north, where the Northern Lights were shooting up in long streamers of crimson and green and purple. "One of those things!" cried his father. "My dear son, are you mad? Those are Rory-Bories; they are not the sort of thing one can marry. It's--it's ridiculous to think of such a thing." "Well," said the Prince, "then I will marry the creature that is most like them. There must be some creature that has those pretty colors. I will go and ask the Principal Whale." So he went and asked the Principal Whale if he knew any creature that was colored like the Rory-Bories. "Frankly," said the whale, "I do not. Doubtless there are such, but I have never happened to meet any of them. I will tell you what I will do, however," he said, seeing the Prince's look of disappointment. "I am just starting on a voyage to the Southern seas; and if you like I will take you with me, and you can look about you and decide for yourself." The young bear was delighted with this proposition, and proceeded at once to assume the full-dress costume of the polar bears, which consists in tying three knots in the tail. "A--_ex_cuse me!" interrupted the raccoon, "I thought no bears had any tails to speak of;" and he glanced complacently at his own magnificent tail, which was curled round his feet. [Illustration: "He sailed away for the Southern seas."] They have none to speak of; which makes it all the more remarkable for them to be able to tie three knots in them. As soon as this was accomplished, the Prince declared that he was ready to start. "So am I," said the Principal Whale. And taking the Prince of the Poles on his back, he sailed away for the Southern seas. They went on and on for several days without any adventures; till one day the young bear saw a huge jelly-fish floating towards them. "See!" he cried, "there is a lovely creature, as bright and beautiful as the Rory-Bories. Surely this is the creature for me to marry!" "I don't think you would like to marry that," said the whale. "That is a jelly-fish. But we will go and speak to it, and you can judge for yourself." So the whale swam up to the jelly-fish, who looked at them, but said nothing. "My dear," said the Prince, "you are very beautiful." "Yah!" said the jelly-fish (who was in reality extremely ignorant, and had never gone to dancing-school), "that's more than I can say for you!" "I am sorry to hear you say that," said the Prince, mildly. "Will you marry me, and be Princess of the Poles?" "Marry your grandmother!" replied the jelly-fish in a very rude manner; and off it flounced under the water. The young bear looked sadly after it. "It was very pretty," he said; "why did it want me to marry my grandmother?" "It didn't," replied the whale. "That was only its way of speaking. An unmannerly minx! Don't think any more about it," and they continued their voyage. A couple of days after this they met the swordfish and his daughter. "These are some friends of mine," said the Principal Whale. "We will see if they can aid us in our search." The swordfish greeted them kindly, and invited them to come down and make him a visit. "Thank you," said the whale. "We have not time to stop now. We are in search of a creature as bright in color as the Rory-Bories. My young friend here, the Prince of the Poles, is anxious to marry such a creature, if he can only find her." But the swordfish shook his head, and said he could not think of any one who would answer the description. "_I_ will marry you if you wish," said the swordfish's daughter, who was much struck by the appearance of the young bear. "I am considered very agreeable, and I think I could make you happy." "But you are not bright," cried the poor Prince in distress. "You are even black, saving your presence. I don't wish to hurt your feelings, but really you are not at all the sort of creature I was looking for; though I have no doubt," he added, "that you are extremely agreeable." "You might play I was a Rory-Bory behind a cloud on a dark night," suggested the swordfish's daughter. But the Prince did not think that would do, and the whale agreed with him. "One cannot play," he said, "when one is married." Accordingly they bade a friendly farewell to the swordfish and his daughter, and continued their voyage. After several days they saw in the distance the coast of Africa. As they approached it, the Prince saw something bright on the land, near the edge of the water. "See!" he cried, "there is something very bright and beautiful. Let us go nearer, and see what it is." So they went nearer, and saw a long line of scarlet flamingoes, drawn up on the beach like a company of soldiers. "Prince," said the Principal Whale, "your journey has not been in vain. I really think these are the creatures you have been looking for." As he spoke, the flamingoes, who had caught sight of the strange creatures approaching the shore, rose into the air, with a great flapping of wings, and flew slowly away. The Prince was in ecstasies. "Oh, Whale!" he cried, "these _are_ Rory-Bories, real live Rory-Bories! See how they shoot up, like long streamers! See how they glow and shine! One still remains on the shore, the loveliest of all. She is my bride! She is the Princess of the Poles! Swim close to the shore, good Whale!" The whale swam up to the shore, the water being fortunately deep enough to allow him to do so, and the bear addressed the solitary flamingo, which still stood upon the beach, watching them with great curiosity. This was, in fact, the Princess of the Flamingoes; and besides being rather curious by nature, she thought it would be beneath her dignity to fly away just because some strange creatures were approaching. So she stood still, in an attitude of royal ease. "Lovely creature!" said the Prince, "tell me, oh, tell me, are you really and truly a Rory-Bory? I am sure you must be, from your brilliant and exquisite beauty." "Not quite," answered the flamingo. "Not _quite_ the same thing, though very nearly. I am a flamingo, and the Rory-Bory is a flaming go; pronounced differently, you perceive. That is the principal difference between the two families, though there are some other minor variations, which may be caused by the climate. What is your pleasure with me, and what might you happen to be?" "My pleasure is to marry you!" exclaimed the young bear rapturously. "I am a white bear, and am called the Prince of the Poles. After my father's death I shall become Solar-Polarity of the Hypopeppercorns. Will you be my bride, and reign with me as queen? You shall sit upon the North Pole, and direct the movements of the icebergs." The flamingo closed one eye, and drew up one leg in an attitude of graceful and maidenly coyness. "Your manners and bearing interest me much," she said after a pause; "and I should be glad to do as you suggest, but I fear it is impossible. We are not allowed to marry any one with more than two legs; and you, I perceive, have four." The poor Prince was quite staggered by this remark, for he was proud of his legs, which, though short, were finely formed. He was silent in dismay. But now the Principal Whale interposed. "Would it not be possible to make an exception in this case?" he asked. "My young friend has come a very long way in search of you, and has quite set his heart on this marriage." "Alas!" said the flamingo, "I fear not. It is the first law in the kingdom, and I dare not break it." "What shall I do, then?" cried the Prince in despair. "If I cannot have you, I will go back and marry the swordfish's daughter, and you would be sorry to have me do that if you knew how ugly she was." "In difficult cases," said the flamingo, "we always consult the hippopotamouse. I should advise you to do the same." "The hippopotamouse?" exclaimed the Prince. "Where is he to be found? Tell me, that I may fly to him at once." "He lives in the middle of the central plain of Pongolia," replied the flamingo. "In that case," said the Principal Whale, "I must leave you, my Prince, as travelling on land is one of the pleasures I must deny myself, being constitutionally unfitted for it." The Prince thanked the whale warmly for his kindness, and after taking a most affecting leave of the Flamingo Princess, he set off for the central plain of Pongolia. He travelled night and day, and after many days he arrived at the very middle of the plain. There he found the hippopotamouse, sitting in the middle of a river, nibbling a huge cheese. This singular animal combined all the chief qualities of a hippopotamus and a mouse. His appearance was truly astonishing, and filled the mind of the Prince with mingled feelings. He stood for some time gazing at him in silent amazement. Presently the hippopotamouse looked up sharply. "Well," he said, "what do you want? Do you think I am pretty?" "N-no!" replied the young bear. "You may be good; but I don't think you are pretty. I want," he continued, "to marry the Flamingo Princess. I am the Prince of the Poles, son of the Solar-Polarity of the Hypopeppercorns. You may have heard of my father." "Oh! ah! yes!" said the hippopotamouse. "I've heard of _him_. Well, why _don't_ you marry her?" "Because I have four legs," answered the Prince sadly; "and it is against the law for a flamingo to marry any one with more than two." "True. I had forgotten that," said the hippopotamouse. "Can you suggest any way out of the difficulty?" inquired the Prince. Without making any reply, the hippopotamouse plunged into meditation and the cheese at the same moment, and nibbled and meditated in silence for several hours; while the unhappy Prince stood first on one leg, and then on the other, endeavoring in vain to conceal his impatience. Finally, when he was quite exhausted with waiting, the hippopotamouse took his head out of the cheese. [Illustration: "My young friend," he said, "I see but one way."] "My young friend," he said, "I see but one way out of the difficulty, and that is for you to walk about on two of your legs until they are worn out. Then, you perceive, you will have, unless my calculations have misled me, exactly two left,--the proper number to enable you legally to marry the Flamingo Princess. You may find this fatiguing," he continued, seeing the Prince's look of dismay; "but really I can see nothing else for you to do; and when you reflect that everything is more or less fatiguing, and that I have worn out five complete sets of teeth on this very cheese, you may become reconciled to your lot. Good-by. I wish you well." And without more ado, he plunged into the cheese once more. The unhappy Prince uttered one wild howl, and turning away, fled into the savage wilds of the Pongolian forest. * * * * * Here Bruin paused, shook his head, and sighed deeply. "Oh! go on, Bruin," cried Toto eagerly. "How _can_ you stop there? Go on immediately, and tell us the rest!" Alas! there is little more to tell; for from that moment the Prince of the Poles has never been seen or heard of. The Flamingo Princess waited long and anxiously for his return; but he never came. I believe she finally married an ostrich, who led her a terrible life. The Principal Whale called at the coast of Africa on his way back from the Southern seas, and hearing the sad intelligence of the Prince's disappearance, departed in great sadness for his Northern home, to break the news to the Solar-Polarity of the Hypopeppercorns. When that potentate heard of the disappearance of his son, he fell off the North Pole, and broke his neck; and the whole nation assumed the mourning costume of the polar bears, which consists in tying a sailor's knot in the left ear, and a granny's knot in the right. And thus ends, in sadness and despair, the story of "The Lost Prince of the Poles." CHAPTER XI. One afternoon (it was not a "story" afternoon, for the grandmother was very busy, dyeing some of her homespun yarn) Toto went off to the forest early, intending to have a game of scamper with Coon and Cracker. As he sauntered along with his hands in his pockets, he met the woodchuck. Master Chucky looked very spruce and neat, and was trotting along with an air of great self-satisfaction. "Hallo! you Chucky," exclaimed Toto, "where are you going?" The woodchuck stopped, and glanced around with his sharp little eyes. "Is any one with you, Toto?" he asked,--"Coon, or Cracker, or any of those fellows?" "No," answered Toto in some surprise. "I was just going to find them. Do you want them?" "No, indeed!" exclaimed the woodchuck. "You see," and he lowered his voice confidentially, "I am going to a rinktum, and I don't want those fellows to know about it." "What is a rinktum?" asked Toto. "And why don't you want them to know about it?" "Why, a rinktum is a rabbit's ball, of course. What else should it be?" answered Chucky. "The rabbits have invited me; but at the last one Coon ate up all the supper, and bit the rabbits if they tried to get any; so they determined not to invite him again, and asked me not to say anything about it." "Oh, Chucky," exclaimed Toto, "I wish you would take me! I have never been to a rabbit's ball, and I should like to go _so_ much! and I wouldn't eat anything at all!" he added, seeing that the woodchuck looked doubtful. Chucky brightened up at the last remark, and said, "Well, after all, I don't see why I shouldn't take you. They are always glad to see people, if they will only behave themselves. So come along, Toto;" and the fat little creature hurried along, with Toto following him. "You may have some difficulty," he said as they went along, "in getting into the ball-room, but I think you will be able to squeeze through. It is in the Big Burrow, which is certainly large enough for any reasonable creature. Here we are now at the mouth of the burrow." They were crossing a rough, uneven meadow, with trees and shrubs thickly scattered over it; and the woodchuck stopped at a large juniper-bush, in front of which sat a black rabbit. "How do you do, Woodchuck?" inquired the rabbit. "And who is this with you?" "This is a--a--a boy, in fact," said the woodchuck in some embarrassment. "He is a great friend of mine, and has never seen a rinktum in his life, so I ventured to bring him. He--he won't eat anything!" he added in a whisper. The rabbit bowed to Toto by way of reply, and pulling aside the branches of the juniper-bush, disclosed a large hole in the ground. "Follow me," said the woodchuck; "I will lead the way." And he disappeared through the mouth of the hole. Toto dropped on his hands and knees, and followed as best he could. The path was _very_ narrow, and wound about and about in a very inconvenient manner. Several times the boy was stuck so fast that it seemed as if he _could not_ get any farther; but he always managed, by much wriggling, to squeeze through the tight places. It was perfectly dark, but there was no possibility of his losing his way, for obvious reasons. At last he saw a glimmer of light ahead. It grew brighter and brighter; and at last Toto emerged from the passage, and found himself in a large cave, which in one part was high enough to allow him to stand upright. He immediately crawled over to this part, and getting on his feet, looked about at the strange scene before him. The Big Burrow was lighted by the United Company of Glow-worms. These little creatures had arranged themselves in patterns all over the walls and roof of the cave, and were shining with all their might. The effect was truly lovely, and Toto could not help wishing that his grandmother's cottage were lighted in the same way. The floor was crowded with rabbits of every size and color, and they were all dancing. Black rabbits, brown rabbits, white rabbits, big and little rabbits, racing round and round, jumping up and down, shaking their ears, and wiggling their noses. Oh, what a good time they were having! "Would you like to dance?" asked a very large white rabbit, who seemed to be the master of ceremonies, looking up at Toto. "Thank you," said Toto. "I do not know the step, and I should only make confusion among the dancers, I fear." "Oh, you will have no difficulty in learning the step," said the white rabbit. "Nothing could be easier: first you jump up, then wriggle your hind-legs in the air, then turn round three times, rub your nose with your right fore-paw, jump again, rub your nose with your left hind-paw, turn round--" "But I have only two legs," objected Toto meekly. [Illustration: "Would you like to dance?"] "Dear, dear!" said the master of ceremonies. "That does seem to be a difficulty, doesn't it? What a pity! Haven't you ever had any more?" "No," said Toto. "We are not made that way, you see. But don't mind me," he added, seeing that the hospitable rabbit seemed really distressed. "I only came to look on, and I am enjoying myself very much indeed, I assure you." "Pretty sight, isn't it, Toto?" said the woodchuck, bustling up, while the master of ceremonies went off to attend to his duties. "See that young white rabbit with the black nose and tail? She is the belle of the evening, I should say. Lovely creature! I have just danced twice with her." "What _is_ that brown rabbit doing?" exclaimed Toto. "He has been standing on his head before her, and now he is lying on his back and kicking his feet in the air. I think he is in a fit." "No, no," said the woodchuck. "Oh, no. He is merely expressing his devotion to her, that is all. He has been in love with her for a long time," he added, "but I don't think it will ever come to anything. He has no whiskers to speak of, and he comes from a very inferior sort of burrow. She ought not to dance with him at all, in point of fact, but she is _so_ amiable!" "It is a pity they have no music," said Toto. "I don't see how they manage to dance. Would they like me to whistle for them, do you think, Chucky?" "Oh, _wouldn't_ they!" cried the woodchuck in delight. "What a nice boy you are, Toto! I am _so_ glad I brought you!" So Toto whistled a merry tune, and the rabbits nearly went mad with delight. They capered, and jumped, and wriggled their hind-legs, and rubbed their noses, till Toto really thought they would dance themselves into small pieces; and when he stopped, they all tumbled down on the ground in little black and white and brown heaps, and lay panting and exhausted. The master of ceremonies came up to Toto, and after making him nine very polite bows, thanked him warmly for the pleasure he had given them. "This is certainly _the_ rinktum of the season," he said, "and much of its success is owing to your kindness." He then begged Toto to come into the supper-room, and led the way to an adjoining cave. Toto followed, with a comical glance at the woodchuck, to remind him that he had not forgotten his promise. The supper was served in superb style, worthy of "_the_ rinktum of the season." There was cabbage-soup and broccoli broth. There were turnips and carrots, celery and beets and onions, in profusion; and in the centre of the room rose a lofty mountain of crisp green lettuce. Ah! that was a supper to do a rabbit's heart good! Toto, mindful of his promise, showed great self-denial with regard to the raw vegetables, and even remained firm against the attractions of the cabbage-soup. The white rabbit was quite melancholy over his guest's persistent refusal to eat of his good cheer. "But perhaps," he said, "creatures of your race never eat. I see that your nose does not wiggle when you speak, so perhaps you cannot eat, eh?" "Oh, yes," said Toto in an off-hand way. "Yes, we _can_; and sometimes we _do_. I have eaten in the course of my life, and I may do it again, but not to-night." At this moment the guests all came pouring into the supper-room; and Toto began to think that it would be wise for him to slip away quietly, as it must be near his own supper-time, and his grandmother would be wondering where he was. So he took a friendly leave of the master of ceremonies, and nodding to the woodchuck, he left the supper-room, made his way through the ball-room, and dropping once more on his hands and knees, proceeded to wriggle his way as best he might through the underground passage. A very grimy and dusty boy he was when he came out again from behind the juniper-bush. He shook himself as well as he could, laughed a little over the recollection of the unsuccessful rabbit suitor kicking his heels in the air to express his devotion, and started on his way home. He had spent a much longer time than he had meant to at the rinktum, and it was growing quite dark. He hurried along, for his way lay through a part of the wood where he did not like to go after dark. The owls lived there, and Toto did not like the owls, because none of his friends liked them. They were surly, growly, ill-tempered birds, and were apt to make themselves very disagreeable if one met them after dark. Indeed, it was said that Mrs. Growler, the old grandmother owl of the family, had once eaten several of Cracker's brothers and sisters. The squirrel did not like to talk about it, but Toto knew that he hated the owls bitterly. "I hope I shall not meet any of them," said the boy to himself as he entered the wood. "I am not afraid of them, of course,--it would be absurd for a boy to be afraid of an owl,--but I don't like them." The thought had scarcely crossed his mind, when he heard a sound of flapping wings; and a moment after a huge white owl flew down directly in front of him, and spreading its broad pinions, completely barred his passage. "Who?" said the owl. [Illustration: "'Who?' said the owl. 'Toto,' said the boy."] "Toto," said the boy shortly. "Let me pass, please. I'm in a hurry." "You're late!" said the owl severely. "I know it," replied Toto. "That's why I asked you to let me pass. I don't want to talk to you, Mrs. Growler, and I don't suppose you want to talk to me." "Whit!" cried Mrs. Growler (for it was no other than that redoubtable female). "Don't give me any of your impudence, sir! What do you mean by coming into our wood after dark, and then insulting me? Here, Hoots! Flappy! Horner! Come here, all of you! Here's this imp of a boy who's always making mischief here with that thieving raccoon. Let us give him a lesson, and teach him to stay where he belongs, and not come spying and prying into our wood!" Immediately a rushing sound was heard from all sides, and half-a-dozen owls came hooting and screaming around our hero. Toto held his ground manfully, though he saw that the odds were greatly against him. One owl was all very well; but seven or eight owls, all armed with powerful beaks and claws, and all angry, were quite another matter, especially as the darkness, which exactly suited them, made it difficult for him to tell in which direction he should beat his retreat, supposing he were able to beat it at all. He set his back against a tree, and faced the hooting, flapping crowd, whose great round eyes glared fiercely at him. "I've never done any harm to any of you," he said boldly. "I've never thrown stones at you, and I've never taken more than one egg at a time from your nests. You have always hated me, Mother Growler, because I am a friend of Coon; and you're afraid of Coon, you know you are. Come, let me go home quietly, and I'll promise not to come into your part of the wood again. "I'm sure, there's no inducement for coming," he added in a lower tone. "It's the scraggiest part of the whole forest,--only fit for owls to live in!" "Hoo! hoo!" cried Mother Growler in a rage. "I'm afraid of Coon, am I? A nasty, thieving creature, with an amount of tail that is simply disgusting! And our wood is scraggy, is it? Hoo! Give it to him, children!" "Peck him!" cried all the owls in chorus; "scratch him! tear him! hustle him!" and, with wings and claws spread, they came flying at Toto. Toto put one arm before his face, and prepared to defend himself as well as he could with the other. His blood was up, and he had no thought of trying to escape. If he could only get Mother Growler by the head now, and wring her neck! But blows were falling like hail on his own head now,--sharp blows from horny beaks and crooked talons. They were tearing his jacket off. He was dazed, almost stunned, by the beating of the huge wings in his face. Decidedly, our Toto is in a bad way. Suddenly a loud crackling noise was heard among the bushes. It came nearer; it grew louder. Toto listened, with his heart in his mouth. Surely, but one animal there was big enough to make a noise like that. "_Bruin!_" he cried, with all the breath he could gather, panting and struggling as he was. "Bruin! help! help!" A portentous growl answered his cry. The boughs crackled and burst right and left, and the next instant the bear sprang through the bushes. "What is it?" he cried. "Toto, that was your voice. Where are you, boy? What is the matter?" "Here!" cried Toto faintly. "Here, Bruin! The owls--" But at that moment the little fellow's voice failed, and he sank bleeding and exhausted on the ground. "How-grrrrr-wow-_wurra_-WURRA-WURRA-WOW!!!" In two minutes more there were no owls in that part of the wood. Hoots, Horner, and the rest, when they saw the fiery eyes and glittering teeth of the bear, and heard his terrible roar, as he rushed upon them, loosed their hold of the boy, and flew for their lives. As for Mother Growler-- "I _did_ say," remarked Bruin, taking some feathers out of his mouth, "that I never would eat another owl unless it was plucked. Feathers are certainly a most inferior article of food; but in a case of this kind it is really the only thing to do. As Coon says, it settles the matter, and there is no further trouble about it. And now," continued the good bear, "how is my dear boy? Why, Toto! look up, boy. They are all gone, and you are cock of the whole wood. Come, my Toto! I'll eat them all, if they have hurt the boy!" he added in an undertone. But Toto made no reply. He had, in point of fact, fainted from exhaustion and excitement. Bruin sniffed at him, and poked him from head to foot; then, finding that no bones were broken, he lifted the boy gently by the waistband of his breeches, and shambled off in the direction of the cottage. CHAPTER XII. The grandmother all this time was wondering very much where her Toto was. "What can have become of the boy?" she said to herself for the twentieth time. "He is always punctual at supper-time; and now it is more than an hour past. It must be quite dark, too, in the wood. Where _can_ he be?" And she went to the door and listened, as she had been listening ever since six o'clock. "Toto!" she said aloud. "Toto, do you hear me?" But no sound came in reply, save the distant hoot of an owl; and reluctantly the good woman closed the door again, and went back to her knitting. She felt very anxious, very much troubled; but what could she do? Blind and alone, she was quite helpless. Suppose the boy should have wandered off into some distant part of the forest, and lost his way? Suppose he should have encountered some fierce wild beast, unlike the friendly creatures with whom he played every day? Suppose--But here the current of her anxious thoughts was interrupted by a sound; a curious sound,--a soft _thud_ against the door, followed by a scratching noise, and a sound of heavy breathing. The poor grandmother turned cold with fear; she did not dare to move for some minutes; but the thud was repeated several times, as if somebody were trying to knock. She tottered towards the door, and said in a tremulous voice, "Who is there?" "Only Bruin, ma'am," was the reply, in a meek growl. Oh, how relieved the grandmother was! With hands that still trembled she unfastened the door. "Oh, Mr. Bruin!" she cried. "Dear Mr. Bruin, I am so glad you have come! Can you tell me anything about Toto? He has not come home, and I am very anxious indeed. I fear he may have met some wild creature, and--" "Well, ma'am," said the bear slowly, "as for being wild--well, yes; perhaps you _would_ call her wild. And I don't say she was amiable, and she was certainly very free in the matter of claws; very free, indeed, she was!" "What _do_ you mean, Mr. Bruin?" cried the poor old lady. "Claws? Oh! then I know he _has_ been attacked, and you know all about it, and have come to break it to me. My boy! my boy! Tell me quickly where he is, and what has happened to him!" "Don't be alarmed, ma'am," said Bruin. "Pray don't be alarmed! there are no bones broken, I assure you; and as for _her_, you need have no further anxiety. I--I saw to the matter myself, and I have no reason to think--no, I really have _no_ reason to think that you will have any further trouble with her." "_Her!_" said the bewildered old grandmother. "I don't--I _can't_ understand you, Mr. Bruin. I want to know what has become of Toto, my boy." "Certainly, certainly," said the bear hastily. "Very natural, I'm sure; don't mention it, I beg of you. As for a little blood, you know," he added apologetically, "that couldn't be helped, you see. I didn't come up quite soon enough; but we know the blood is _there_, after all; and a little of it outside instead of inside,--why, what difference does it make? He has plenty left, you know." "Bruin, Bruin!" cried a faint voice, "do stop! You will frighten her to death with your explanations. Here I am, Granny dear, safe and sound, barring a few scratches." And Toto, who had been gradually recovering his senses during the last few minutes, raised himself from the doorstep on which the bear had laid him, and flung his arms round his grandmother's neck. The poor old woman gave a cry of joy, and then burst into tears, being quite overcome by the sudden change from grief and anxiety to security and delight. At the sight of her tears, the worthy Bruin uttered a remorseful growl, and boxed his own ears several times very severely, assuring himself that he was quite the most stupid beast that ever lived, and that he was always making a mess of it. "I didn't mean to frighten you, ma'am," he said, "I didn't indeed; but I am such a stupid! And now," he added, "I think I must be going. Good-night, ma'am." "What!" cried Toto, turning from his grandmother, and throwing his arms in turn round the bear's huge shaggy neck. "Going, before we have thanked you? Going off without a word, after saving my life? Oh, you unnatural old Bruin! you shall not stir! Do you know, Granny, that he has saved my life from the owls, and that if it had not been for him you would have no Toto at all, but only a hundred little bits of him?" And he told the whole story in glowing words, while Bruin hung his head and shuffled from one foot to another, much abashed at hearing his own praises. And when the grandmother had heard all about it, what did she do? Why, she too put her arms round the huge shaggy neck; and if ever a bear came near being hugged to death, it was that bear. "And now," said the grandmother, when she had recovered her composure, and had thanked and blessed Bruin till he did not know whether he had one head or seven, "it is very late, and I am sure you must be tired. Why will you not stay and spend the night with us? There is a beautiful fire in the kitchen, and a nice soft rug in front of it, on which you could sleep very comfortably. Do stay!" The bear rubbed his nose and looked helplessly at Toto. "I don't think--" he began. "Of course he will stay," said Toto decidedly. "There isn't any 'thinking' about it. He will stay. Walk in, old fellow, and sit down in front of the fire, and Granny will give us both some supper. Oh! my Granny dear, if you _knew_ how hungry I am!" It would have been a pleasant sight, had there been any one there to enjoy it, to see the trio gathered around the bright wood-fire an hour later. The grandmother sat in her high-backed arm-chair, in snowy cap and kerchief, knitting and smiling, smiling and knitting, as happy and contented as a grandmother could possibly be. On the other side of the hearth sat the bear, blinking comfortably at the fire, while Toto leaned against his shaggy side, and chattered like a magpie. "How jolly this is!" he said. "It reminds me of Snow-White and Rose-Red, when the bear came and slept in front of the fire. By the way, Bruin, you are not an enchanted prince, are you? The bear in that story was an enchanted prince. What fun if you should be!" "Not to my knowledge," replied the bear, shaking his head. "Not--to--my--knowledge. Never heard of such a thing in our branch of the family. I had a cousin once who travelled with a showman, but that is the only thing of the kind that I know of." "Tell us about your cousin!" said Toto, eager, as usual, for a story. "How came he to take to the show business?" [Illustration: "The man taught him to beat the drum."] "It took him," said Bruin. "He was taken when he was a little fellow, only a few months old. The man who caught him made a pet of him at first; taught him to dance, and shake paws, and beat the drum. He was a drummer in the army,--the man, I mean. He was very kind, and my cousin grew extremely fond of him." "What was your cousin's name?" asked Toto. "They called him 'Grimshaw;'" said Bruin. "His master's name was Shaw, and he was grim, you know, when he didn't like people, and so they called him 'Grimshaw.' He mostly _didn't_ like people," added the bear reflectively. "He certainly didn't like the showman." "Then Shaw was not the showman?" said Toto. "Oh, dear, no!" said Bruin. "A war broke out, and Shaw's regiment was ordered off, and he couldn't take Grimshaw with him. He was very big then, and the other soldiers didn't like him. He had a way of going into the different tents and taking anything he happened to fancy for supper; and if any one said anything to him, he boxed that one's ears. They always tumbled down when he boxed their ears, and they made a great fuss about it, and so finally his master was obliged to sell him to the showman. _His_ name was Jinks. "He taught my cousin several new tricks, and took him all over the country, exhibiting him in the different towns and villages. You see," said Bruin apologetically, "he--I mean Grimshaw--didn't know any better. He was so young when he was taken that he didn't remember much about his family, and didn't know what an undignified sort of thing it was to be going about in that way. One day, however, Jinks undertook to make him waltz with a piece of meat on his nose, without attempting to eat it. Grimshaw would not do that, because he didn't think it was reasonable; and I don't think it was. So then Jinks attempted to beat him, and Grimshaw boxed his ears, and he tumbled down and didn't get up again. Grimshaw waited a few minutes, and finding that he did not seem inclined to move, he ran away and took to the woods." "But why did not the showman get up?" inquired the grandmother innocently. "I think it highly probable that he was dead, madam," replied Bruin. "But I cannot say positively, as I was not there. "After this Grimshaw lived alone for some time, wandering about from one forest to another. One day, as he was roaming up and down, he came suddenly upon a party of soldiers, three or four in number, sitting round a fire, and cooking their dinner. The moment they saw the bear, they dropped everything, and ran for their lives, leaving the good chops to burn, which was a sin. It was a good thing for Grimshaw, however, as he was very hungry; so he sat down by the fire and made a hearty meal. After he had dined comfortably, he began to look about him, and spied a big drum, which the soldiers had left behind in their flight. Seizing the drumsticks, he began to beat a lively tattoo. In a few moments he heard a rustling among the bushes, and saw a man's head thrust cautiously out. What was his delight to recognize his old master, Sergeant Shaw! He threw down the drumsticks and uttered a peculiar howl. It was answered by a shrill whistle, and in another moment Shaw and Grimshaw were in each other's arms. When the other soldiers ventured to return, they found the two gravely dancing a hornpipe, with great mutual satisfaction." "Oh! how delightful!" exclaimed Toto. "And did they stay together after that?" [Illustration: "They found the two dancing a hornpipe."] "No, that was impossible," replied the bear. "But they spent a couple of days together, and parted with the utmost good-will. "After roaming about for some time longer, my cousin met some other bears, who invited him to join them. To their great amazement, one of them turned out to be Grimshaw's elder brother; he recognized Grimshaw by one of his ears, out of which he had himself bitten a piece in their infancy. This was a very joyful meeting, and led to the restoration of Grimshaw to his parents, who were still alive. He spent the remainder of his life in peace and happiness; and that is all there is to tell about him. "And now," continued Bruin, "you ought to have been asleep long ago, Toto, and I have been keeping you awake with my long story. Off with you, now! And good-night to you too, dear madam. I will lie here in front of the fire; and if any creature, human or otherwise, comes to disturb the house during the night, I will attend to that creature!" CHAPTER XIII. The grandmother thought, the next morning, that she had not passed such a pleasant evening, or such a comfortable and restful night, for a long time. "Dear me!" she said, after Bruin had departed, with many thanks and at least ten profound bows,--"dear me! what a difference it makes, having a bear in the house! one feels so secure; and one does not think of waking up to listen, every time a branch snaps outside, or a door creaks in the house. I wonder--" But the grandmother did not tell Toto what she wondered. The next fine afternoon, the animals all came to the cottage in good season, for they were to have a story from their kind hostess herself this time, and it was to be about a giant. "And if you will believe it," said the raccoon, "our poor Chucky here does not--ha! ha!--actually does not know what a giant is! Will you kindly explain to him, dear madam?" "Ugh!" grunted the woodchuck. "I don't believe you know yourself, Coon, for all your airs! You said this morning it was a kind of vegetable, and now--" "Stop quarrelling, and listen to the story, will you?" said Bruin. "Wow!" When the bear said "Wow" in that manner, all the others knew it meant business; and as he lay down at the grandmother's feet, they all drew nearer, and were silent in expectation. "A giant," said the grandmother, "is like a man, only very much bigger; very, _very_ much bigger. The giant about whom I am going to tell you was one of the largest of his kind, being no less than fourteen miles high." There was a general murmur of amazement. "Fourteen miles high!" the old lady repeated. "His name was as short as he himself was long, for it was neither more nor less than _Crump_; and he fell in love with the Lady Moon. He fell so deeply in love with her that it was quite impossible for him to get out again; so he informed her of the fact, and begged her to marry him. 'Come and share my mammoth lot, And shine in my gigantic cot!' That was what he said, or words to that effect. "But the Lady Moon replied, 'Dear Crump, I would gladly do as you suggest, but the thing is not possible. I have no body, but only a head; and I could not think of going into church to be married without any body, to say nothing of legs and feet.' "'Is that your only objection?' asked Giant Crump. "'The only one, upon my lunar honor!' replied the Lady Moon. "'Then I think I can manage it,' said the giant. Accordingly he went and gathered together all the silver there was in the world at that time, and out of it he made a beautiful silver body, with arms and legs all complete. And when it was finished he made a silver dress, and silver slippers, and a silver moonshade, and dressed the body up in the most fashionable and delightful manner. Then, when all was ready, he called to the Lady Moon, and told her that her body was ready, and that she had only to come down and put it on. "'But I cannot come down,' said the Lady Moon. 'Nothing would induce me to come down without a body. You must bring it up here.' "Now that was not an easy thing to do; for though Crump was very big, he was not nearly big enough. What are fourteen miles, compared with two hundred and forty thousand? However, he was a very persevering giant, and had no idea of giving up; and he was very clever too. So he sat down on the ground and reflected for the space of seven years, and at the end of that time a thought struck him. "He rose at once, and went to work and made a pair of stilts, high enough to reach to the moon. That was quite a piece of work, as you may imagine; but when they were finished, a new difficulty arose: how was he to get up on them? This required more reflection, and Crump sat and thought about it for six weeks more. Then another thought struck him, which was really an extremely clever one. He made a long ladder, as long as the stilts. He set this up against one of the stilts, and climbed up and put one foot on it; and then he set the ladder against the other stilt, and climbed up and put the other foot on that; this was very difficult, but it was also very clever. I forgot to say that he took the silver body up with him. Then he called out to the Lady Moon, 'Here I am, dear Lady Moon, and here is your silver body. Stop now, stop your rolling, and let me fasten it on for you, and then come down and be my beautiful silver bride.' And he held up the silver body, which shone and sparkled in the most enchanting manner. [Illustration: "Here I am, dear Lady Moon."] "But the Lady Moon replied, 'Stop rolling, indeed! that is quite out of the question, I assure you. I have never done such a thing, and I am not going to begin at my time of life. No, no, Giant Crump; if you want me, you must catch me!' and she went rolling on in the most heartless and unfeeling way. "There was nothing for the poor giant to do but follow; so, tucking the silver body under his arm, he set off on his tall stilts, and walked after the Lady Moon. Round and round the world went she, and round and round went the giant after her; and as I have never heard of his catching up with her, he is very likely walking round and round still." * * * * * "Is that all?" inquired the insatiable Toto. "What a very short story, Granny!" "It is rather short," said the grandmother; "but I don't see how it could be made any longer. I will, however, if you wish, tell you another short story, and that will be equal to one long one. Listen, therefore, and you shall hear the story of Hokey Pokey." So they listened, and heard it. "Hokey Pokey was the youngest of a large family of children. His elder brothers, as they grew up, all became either butchers or bakers or makers of candlesticks, for such was the custom of the family. But Hokey Pokey would be none of these things; so when he was grown to be a tall youth he went to his father and said, 'Give me my fortune.' "'Will you be a butcher?' asked his father. "'No,' said Hokey Pokey. "'Will you be a baker?' "'No, again.' "'Will you make candlesticks?' "'Nor that either.' "'Then,' said his father, 'this is the only fortune I can give you;' and with that he took up his cudgel and gave the youth a stout beating. 'Now you cannot complain that I gave you nothing,' said he. "'That is true,' said Hokey Pokey. 'But give me also the wooden mallet which lies on the shelf, and I will make my way through the world.' "His father gave him the mallet, glad to be so easily rid of him, and Hokey Pokey went out into the world to seek his fortune. He walked all day, and at nightfall he came to a small village. Feeling hungry, he went into a baker's shop, intending to buy a loaf of bread for his supper. There was a great noise and confusion in the back part of the shop; and on going to see what was the matter, he found the baker on his knees beside a large box or chest, which he was trying with might and main to keep shut. But there was something inside the box which was trying just as hard to get out, and it screamed and kicked, and pushed the lid up as often as the baker shut it down. "'What have you there in the box?' asked Hokey Pokey. "'I have my wife,' replied the baker. 'She is so frightfully ill-tempered that whenever I am going to bake bread I am obliged to shut her up in this box, lest she push me into the oven and bake me with the bread, as she has often threatened to do. But to-day she has broken the lock of the box, and I know not how to keep her down.' "'That is easily managed,' said Hokey Pokey. 'Do you but tell her, when she asks who I am, that I am a giant with three heads, and all will be well.' So saying, he took his wooden mallet and dealt three tremendous blows on the box, saying in a loud voice,-- 'Hickory Hox! I sit by the box, Waiting to give you a few of my knocks. "'Husband, husband! whom have you there?' cried the wife in terror. "'Alas!' said the baker; 'it is a frightful giant with three heads. He is sitting by the box, and if you open it so much as the width of your little finger, he will pull you out and beat you to powder.' "When the wife heard that she crouched down in the box, and said never a word, for she was afraid of her life. "The baker then took Hokey Pokey into the other part of the shop, thanked him warmly, and gave him a good supper and a bed. The next morning he gave him for a present the finest loaf of bread in his shop, which was shaped like a large round ball; and Hokey Pokey, after knocking once more on the lid of the box, continued his travels. "He had not gone far before he came to another village, and wishing to inquire his way he entered the first shop he came to, which proved to be that of a confectioner. The shop was full of the most beautiful sweetmeats imaginable, and everything was bright and gay; but the confectioner himself sat upon a bench, weeping bitterly. "'What ails you, friend?' asked Hokey-Pokey; 'and why do you weep, when you are surrounded by the most delightful things in the world?' "'Alas!' replied the confectioner. 'That is just the cause of my trouble. The sweetmeats that I make are so good that their fame has spread far and wide, and the Rat King, hearing of them, has taken up his abode in my cellar. Every night he comes up and eats all the sweetmeats I have made the day before. There is no comfort in my life, and I am thinking of becoming a rope-maker and hanging myself with the first rope I make.' "'Why don't you set a trap for him?' asked Hokey Pokey. "'I have set fifty-nine traps,' replied the confectioner, 'but he is so strong that he breaks them all.' "'Poison him,' suggested Hokey Pokey. "'He dislikes poison,' said the confectioner, 'and will not take it in any form.' "'In that case,' said Hokey Pokey, 'leave him to me. Go away, and hide yourself for a few minutes, and all will be well.' [Illustration: "The confectioner thanked him warmly."] "The confectioner retired behind a large screen, having first showed Hokey Pokey the hole of the Rat King, which was certainly a very large one. Hokey Pokey sat down by the hole, with his mallet in his hand, and said in a squeaking voice,-- 'Ratly King! Kingly Rat! Here your mate comes pit-a-pat. Come and see; the way is free; Hear my signal: one! two! three!' And he scratched three times on the floor. Almost immediately the head of a rat popped up through the hole. He was a huge rat, quite as large as a cat; but his size was no help to him, for as soon as he appeared, Hokey Pokey dealt him such a blow with his mallet that he fell down dead without even a squeak. Then Hokey Pokey called the confectioner, who came out from behind the screen and thanked him warmly; he also bade him choose anything he liked in the shop, in payment for his services. "'Can you match this?' asked Hokey Pokey, showing his round ball of bread. "'That can I!' said the confectioner; and he brought out a most beautiful ball, twice as large as the loaf, composed of the finest sweetmeats in the world, red and yellow and white. Hokey Pokey took it with many thanks, and then went on his way. "The next day he came to a third village, in the streets of which the people were all running to and fro in the wildest confusion. "'What is the matter?' asked Hokey Pokey, as one man ran directly into his arms. "'Alas!' replied the man. 'A wild bull has got into the principal china-shop, and is breaking all the beautiful dishes.' "'Why do you not drive him out?' asked Hokey Pokey. "'We are afraid to do that,' said the man; 'but we are running up and down to express our emotion and sympathy, and that is something.' "'Show me the china-shop,' said Hokey Pokey. "So the man showed him the china-shop; and there, sure enough, was a furious bull, making most terrible havoc. He was dancing up and down on a Dresden dinner set, and butting at the Chinese mandarins, and switching down finger-bowls and teapots with his tail, bellowing meanwhile in the most outrageous manner. The floor was covered with broken crockery, and the whole scene was melancholy to behold. "Now when Hokey Pokey saw this, he said to the owner of the china-shop, who was tearing his hair in a frenzy of despair, 'Stop tearing your hair, which is indeed a senseless occupation, and I will manage this matter for you. Bring me a red cotton umbrella, and all will yet be well.' "So the china-shop man brought him a red cotton umbrella, and Hokey Pokey began to open and shut it violently in front of the door. When the bull saw that, he stopped dancing on the Dresden dinner set and came charging out of the shop, straight towards the red umbrella. When he came near enough, Hokey Pokey dropped the umbrella, and raising his wooden mallet hit the bull such a blow on the muzzle that he fell down dead, and never bellowed again. "The people all flung up their hats, and cheered, and ran up and down all the more, to express their gratification. As for the china-shop man, he threw his arms round Hokey Pokey's neck, called him his cherished preserver, and bade him choose anything that was left in his shop in payment for his services. "'Can you match these?' asked Hokey Pokey, holding up the loaf of bread and the ball of sweetmeats. "'That can I,' said the shop-man; and he brought out a huge ball of solid ivory, inlaid with gold and silver, and truly lovely to behold. It was very heavy, being twice as large as the ball of sweetmeats; but Hokey Pokey took it, and, after thanking the shop-man and receiving his thanks in return, he proceeded on his way. "After walking for several days, he came to a fair, large castle, in front of which sat a man on horseback. When the man saw Hokey Pokey, he called out,-- "'Who are you, and what do you bring to the mighty Dragon, lord of this castle?' "'Hokey Pokey is my name,' replied the youth, 'and strange things do I bring. But what does the mighty Dragon want, for example?' "'He wants something new to eat,' said the man on horseback. 'He has eaten of everything that is known in the world, and pines for something new. He who brings him a new dish, never before tasted by him, shall have a thousand crowns and a new jacket; but he who fails, after three trials, shall have his jacket taken away from him, and his head cut off besides.' "'I bring strange food,' said Hokey Pokey. 'Let me pass in, that I may serve the mighty Dragon.' "Then the man on horseback lowered his lance, and let him pass in, and in short space he came before the mighty Dragon. The Dragon sat on a silver throne, with a golden knife in one hand, and a golden fork in the other. Around him were many people, who offered him dishes of every description; but he would none of them, for he had tasted them all before; and he howled with hunger on his silver throne. Then came forward Hokey Pokey, and said boldly,-- "'Here come I, Hokey Pokey, bringing strange food for the mighty Dragon.' "The Dragon howled again, and waving his knife and fork, bade Hokey Pokey give the food to the attendants, that they might serve him. "'Not so,' said Hokey Pokey. 'I must serve you myself, most mighty Dragon, else you shall not taste of my food. Therefore put down your knife and fork, and open your mouth, and you shall see what you shall see.' "So the Dragon, after summoning the man-with-the-thousand-crowns and the man-with-the-new-jacket to one side of his throne, and the man-to-take-away-the-old-jacket and the executioner to the other, laid down his knife and fork and opened his mouth. Hokey Pokey stepped lightly forward, and dropped the round loaf down the great red throat. The Dragon shut his jaws together with a snap, and swallowed the loaf in two gulps. "'That is good,' he said; 'but it is not new. I have eaten much bread, though never before in a round loaf. Have you anything more? Or shall the man take away your jacket?' "'I have this, an it please you,' said Hokey Pokey; and he dropped the ball of sweetmeats into the Dragon's mouth. "When the Dragon tasted this, he rolled his eyes round and round, and was speechless with delight for some time. At length he said, 'Worthy youth, this is very good; it is extremely good; it is better than anything I ever tasted. Nevertheless, it is not new; for I have tasted the same kind of thing before, only not nearly so good. And now, unless you are positively sure that you have something new for your third trial, you really might as well take off your jacket; and the executioner shall take off your head at the same time, as it is getting rather late. Executioner, do your--' [Illustration: "People," he said, "I am Hokey Pokey."] "'Craving your pardon, most mighty Dragon,' said Hokey Pokey, 'I will first make my third trial;' and with that he dropped the ivory ball into the Dragon's mouth. "'Gug-wugg-gllll-grrr!' said the Dragon, for the ball had stuck fast, being too big for him to swallow. "Then Hokey Pokey lifted his mallet and struck one tremendous blow upon the ball, driving it far down the throat of the monster, and killing him most fatally dead. He rolled off the throne like a scaly log, and his crown fell off and rolled to Hokey Pokey's feet. The youth picked it up and put it on his own head, and then called the people about him and addressed them. "'People,' he said, 'I am Hokey Pokey, and I have come from a far land to rule over you. Your Dragon have I slain, and now I am your king; and if you will always do exactly what I tell you to do, you will have no further trouble.' "So the people threw up their caps and cried, 'Long live Hokey Pokey!' and they always did exactly as he told them, and had no further trouble. "And Hokey Pokey sent for his three brothers, and made them Chief Butcher, Chief Baker, and Chief Candlestick-maker of his kingdom. But to his father he sent a large cudgel made of pure gold, with these words engraved on it: 'Now you cannot complain that I have given you nothing!'" CHAPTER XIV. "Ya-Ha!" said the raccoon, yawning and stretching himself. "Ya-a-_hoo_! Hm-a-yeaow! oh, dear me! what a pity!" "What, for instance, is the matter?" demanded the squirrel, dropping a hickory-nut down on the raccoon's nose. "I knew a raccoon once who yawned till his head broke in two, and the top rolled off." "Hm!" said the raccoon. "Not much loss if it was like some people's heads. "I was sighing," he continued, "you very stupid Cracker! to think that summer is gone, and that winter will be here before we can say 'Beechnuts.'" "Ah!" said the squirrel, looking grave. "That, indeed! To be sure; yes." "The leaves are falling fast," continued the raccoon meditatively; "the birds are all gone, except Pigeon Pretty and Miss Mary, and they are going in a day or two. Very soon, my Cracker, we shall have to roll ourselves up and go to sleep for the winter. No more gingerbread and jam, my boy. No more pleasant afternoons at the cottage; no more stories. Nothing but a hollow tree and four months' sleep. Ah, dear me!" and Coon sighed again, and shook his head despondingly. "By the way," said Cracker, "Toto tells me that he and his people don't sleep in winter any more than in summer. Queer, isn't it? I suppose it has something to do with their having only two legs." "Something to do with their having two heads!" growled the raccoon. "They don't sleep with their legs, do they, stupid?" "They certainly don't sleep _without_ them!" said the squirrel rather sharply. "Look here!" replied the raccoon, rising and shaking himself, "should you like me to bite about two inches off your tail? It won't take me a minute, and I would just as lief do it as not." Affairs were becoming rather serious, when suddenly the wood-pigeon appeared, and fluttered down with a gentle "Coo!" between the two friends, who certainly seemed anything but friendly. "What are you two quarrelling about?" she asked. "How extremely silly you both are! But now make friends, and put on your very best manners, for we are going to have a visitor here in a few minutes. I am going to call Chucky and Miss Mary, and do you make everything tidy about the pool before she comes." And off flew Pigeon Pretty in a great hurry. "_She?_" said Cracker inquiringly, looking at Coon. "She _said_ 'she'!" replied Coon, bestirring himself, and picking up the dead branches that had fallen on the smooth green moss-carpet. "Perhaps it is that aunt of Chucky's who has been making him a visit," suggested the squirrel. "Oh, well!" said the raccoon, stopping short in his work. "If Pigeon Pretty thinks I am going to put this place in order for a woodchuck's aunt, she is very much mistaken, that's all. I never heard of such--" But here he stopped, for a loud rustling in the underbrush announced that the visitor, whoever she might be, was close at hand. The bushes separated, and to the utter astonishment of both Coon and Cracker, who should appear but the grandmother herself, escorted by Toto and Bruin, and attended also by the wood-pigeon and the parrot, who fluttered about her head with cries of pleasure. Toto led the old lady to the mossy bank beside the pool, where she sat down, rather out of breath, and a little bewildered, but evidently much pleased at having accomplished such a feat. The raccoon hastened to express his delight in the finest possible language, while the little squirrel turned a dozen somersaults in succession, by way of showing how pleased he was. As for the worthy Bruin, he fairly beamed with pleasure, and even went so far as to execute a sort of saraband, which, if the grandmother could have seen it, would certainly have alarmed her a good deal. "My dear friends," said the old lady, "it gives me great pleasure to be here, I assure you. Toto has for some time had his heart quite set on my seeing you once--though, alas! my _seeing_ is only _hearing_--in your own pleasant home, before you separate for the winter. So, thanks to our kind friend, Mr. Bruin, I am actually here. How warm and soft the air is!" she continued. "What a delightful cushion you have found for me! and is that a brook, that is tinkling so pleasantly?" "That is the spring, Granny!" said Toto eagerly. "It bubbles up, as clear as crystal, out of a hole in the rock, and then it falls over into the pool. And the pool is round, as round as a cup; and there are ferns and purple flags growing all around it, and the trees are all reflected in it, you know; and there are turtles in it, and there used to be a muskrat, only Coon ate him, and--and--oh! it's so jolly!" and here Toto paused, fairly out of breath. Indeed, it was very lovely by the pool, in the soft glow of the Indian summer day. The spring murmured and tinkled and sang to them; the trees dropped yellow leaves on them, like fairy gold; and then the sun laughed, and sent down flights of his golden arrows, to show them what a very poor thing earthly gold was, after all. So they all sat and talked around the pool, of the summer that was past and the winter that was coming. Then the grandmother made a little speech which she had been thinking over for some time. It was a very short speech; but it was very much to the point. "Dear friends," she said, "you are all sad at the prospect of the long winter; but I have a plan which will make the winter a joyous season, instead of a melancholy one. I have plenty of room in my cottage, warmth, and food, and everything comfortable; and I want you all to come and spend the winter with Toto and me. There is a large wood-pile where you can climb or sit when you are tired of the house. You shall sleep when you please, and wake when you please; and we will be a happy and united family. Come, my friends, what do you say?" [Illustration: "Then the grandmother made a little speech."] What did they say? Indeed, they did not know what to say. There was silence around the pool for a few minutes. Then the bear looked at the raccoon, the raccoon looked at the squirrel, and the squirrel looked at the wood-pigeon; and finally the gentle bird answered, as she usually did, for all. "Dear, dear madam," she said, "we can imagine nothing so delightful as to live with you and our dear Toto. We all accept your invitation thankfully and joyfully; and we will all do our best to be a help, rather than a burden, to you." All the animals nodded approval. Then Toto, who had been waiting breathless for the answer, seized the bear by the paws, and the raccoon seized the squirrel, and they all danced round and round till there was no breath left in their bodies; and the woodchuck--who had been asleep behind a tree, and had waked up just in time to hear the grandmother's speech--danced all alone on his hind-legs, to the admiration of all beholders. And then Cracker went and brought some nuts, and Coon brought apples, and Bruin brought great shining combs of honey, and they sat and feasted around the pool, and were right merry. And then they all went back to the cottage,--the grandmother, and Toto, and Bruin, and Coon, and Cracker, and Chucky, and Pigeon Pretty, and Miss Mary,--and there they all lived and were happy; and if you ever lead half such a merry life as they did, you may consider yourself extremely fortunate. THE END. _Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications._ MRS. DODGE'S POPULAR BOOK. [Illustration: A PORTRAIT OF DOROTHY AT SIXTEEN.] DONALD AND DOROTHY. By MARY MAPES DODGE. Beautifully Illustrated and Bound. Price $2.00. _An honest tribute from an admiring friend._ "DEAR MRS. DODGE,--I have just finished your book called 'Donald and Dorothy' for the third or fourth time, and would like very much to know whether Dorothy is a real person, and if so, what is her name? I am nearly as old as Dorothy was at the close of the book, so am very much interested in her. I would also like to know how old she is, and where she lives. If you would be kind enough to reply, you would greatly oblige "Your admiring friend," ----. ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON * * * * * "Do you remember how you used to play 'Pilgrim's Progress' when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me tie my piece-bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks, and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the cellar to the house-top."--_Vide_ "LITTLE WOMEN." A GIFT BOOK FOR THE FAMILY. LITTLE WOMEN. _ILLUSTRATED._ This, the most famous of all the famous books by Miss ALCOTT, is now presented in an illustrated edition, with =Nearly Two Hundred Characteristic Designs=, drawn and engraved expressly for this work. It is safe to say that there are not many homes which have not been made happier through the healthy influence of this celebrated book, which can now be had in a fit dress for the centre table of the domestic fireside. _One handsome small quarto volume, bound in cloth, with emblematic cover designs. Price, $2.50._ ROBERTS BROTHERS, _Publishers, Boston_. 
39081	----	THE DORRANCE DOMAIN _By_ CAROLYN WELLS _Illustrated by_ PELAGIE DOANE GROSSET & DUNLAP _Publishers_ NEW YORK _Copyright, 1905_, BY W. A. WILDE COMPANY, _All rights reserved_. The Dorrance Domain. Made in the United States of America [Illustration: "IF THAT'S THE DORRANCE DOMAIN, IT'S ALL RIGHT. WHAT DO YOU THINK, FAIRY?"] Contents CHAPTER PAGE I. COOPED UP 9 II. REBELLIOUS HEARTS 22 III. DOROTHY'S PLAN 35 IV. THE DEPARTURE 48 V. THE MAMIE MEAD 60 VI. THE DORRANCE DOMAIN 73 VII. MR. HICKOX 86 VIII. MRS. HICKOX 99 IX. THE FLOATING BRIDGE 112 X. THE HICKOXES AT HOME 124 XI. SIX INVITATIONS 137 XII. GUESTS FOR ALL 149 XIII. AN UNWELCOME LETTER 161 XIV. FINANCIAL PLANS 174 XV. A SUDDEN DETERMINATION 188 XVI. A DARING SCHEME 201 XVII. REGISTERED GUESTS 214 XVIII. AMBITIONS 226 XIX. THE VAN ARSDALE LADIES 239 XX. A REAL HOTEL 252 XXI. UPS AND DOWNS 265 XXII. TWO BOYS AND A BOAT 278 XXIII. AN UNWELCOME PROPOSITION 290 XXIV. DOROTHY'S REWARD 307 The Dorrance Domain CHAPTER I COOPED UP "I _wish_ we didn't have to live in a boarding-house!" said Dorothy Dorrance, flinging herself into an armchair, in her grandmother's room, one May afternoon, about six o'clock. She made this remark almost every afternoon, about six o'clock, whatever the month or the season, and as a rule, little attention was paid to it. But to-day her sister Lilian responded, in a sympathetic voice, "_I_ wish we didn't have to live in a boarding-house!" Whereupon Leicester, Lilian's twin brother, mimicking his sister's tones, dolefully repeated, "I wish _we_ didn't have to live in a boarding-house!" And then Fairy, the youngest Dorrance, and the last of the quartet, sighed forlornly, "I wish we didn't have to live in a _boarding-house_!" There was another occupant of the room. A gentle white-haired old lady, whose sweet face and dainty fragile figure had all the effects of an ivory miniature, or a painting on porcelain. "My dears," she said, "I'm sure I wish you didn't." "Don't look like that, grannymother," cried Dorothy, springing to kiss the troubled face of the dear old lady. "I'd live here a million years, rather than have you look so worried about it. And anyway, it wouldn't be so bad, if it weren't for the dinners." "I don't mind the dinners," said Leicester, "in fact I would be rather sorry not to have them. What I mind is the cramped space, and the shut-up-in-your-own-room feeling. I spoke a piece in school last week, and I spoke it awful well, too, because I just meant it. It began, 'I want free life, and I want fresh air,' and that's exactly what I do want. I wish we lived in Texas, instead of on Manhattan Island. Texas has a great deal more room to the square yard, and I don't believe people are crowded down there." "There can't be more room to a square yard in one place than another," said Lilian, who was practical. "I mean back yards and front yards and side yards,--and I don't care whether they're square or not," went on Leicester, warming to his subject. "My air-castle is situated right in the middle of the state of Texas, and it's the only house in the state." "Mine is in the middle of a desert island," said Lilian; "it's so much nicer to feel sure that you can get to the water, no matter in what direction you walk away from your house." "A desert island would be nice," said Leicester; "it would be more exciting than Texas, I suppose, on account of the wild animals. But then in Texas, there are wild men and wild animals both." "I like plenty of room, too," said Dorothy, "but I want it inside my house as well as out. Since we are choosing, I think I'll choose to live in the Madison Square Garden, and I'll have it moved to the middle of a western prairie." "Well, children," said Mrs. Dorrance, "your ideas are certainly big enough, but you must leave the discussion of them now, and go to your small cramped boarding-house bedrooms, and make yourselves presentable to go down to your dinner in a boarding-house dining-room." This suggestion was carried out in the various ways that were characteristic of the Dorrance children. Dorothy, who was sixteen, rose from her chair and humming a waltz tune, danced slowly and gracefully across the room. The twins, Lilian and Leicester, fell off of the arms of the sofa, where they had been perched, scrambled up again, executed a sort of war-dance and then dashed madly out of the door and down the hall. Fairy, the twelve year old, who lived up to her name in all respects, flew around the room, waving her arms, and singing in a high soprano, "Can I wear my pink sash? Can I wear my pink sash?" "Yes, yes," said Mrs. Dorrance, "you may wear anything you like, if you'll only keep still a minute. You children are too boisterous for a boarding-house. You _ought_ to be in the middle of a desert or somewhere. You bewilder me!" But about fifteen minutes later it was four decorous young Dorrances who accompanied their grandmother to the dining-room. Not that they wanted to be sedate, or enjoyed being quiet, but they were well-bred children in spite of their rollicking temperaments. They knew perfectly well how to behave properly, and always did it when the occasion demanded. And, too, the atmosphere of Mrs. Cooper's dining-room was an assistance rather than a bar to the repression of hilarity. The Dorrances sat at a long table, two of the children on either side of their grandmother, and this arrangement was one of their chief grievances. "If we could only have a table to ourselves," Leicester often said, "it wouldn't be so bad. But set up side by side, like the teeth in a comb, cheerful conversation is impossible." "But, my boy," his grandmother would remonstrate, "you must learn to converse pleasantly with those who sit opposite you. You can talk with your sisters at other times." So Leicester tried, but it is exceedingly difficult for a fourteen year old boy to adapt himself to the requirements of polite conversation. On the evening of which we are speaking, his efforts, though well meant, were unusually unsuccessful. Exactly opposite Leicester sat Mr. Bannister, a ponderous gentleman, both physically and mentally. He was a bachelor, and his only idea regarding children was that they should be treated jocosely. He also had his own ideas of jocose treatment. "Well, my little man," he said, smiling broadly at Leicester, "did you go to school to-day?" As he asked this question every night at dinner, not even excepting Saturdays and Sundays, Leicester felt justified in answering only, "Yes, sir." "That's nice; and what did you learn?" As this question invariably followed the other, Leicester was not wholly unprepared for it. But the discussion of air-castles in Texas, or on a prairie, had made the boy a little impatient of the narrow dining-room, and the narrow table, and even of Mr. Bannister, though he was by no means of narrow build. "I learned my lessons," he replied shortly, though there was no rudeness in his tone. "Tut, tut, my little man," said Mr. Bannister, playfully shaking a fat finger at him, "don't be rude." "No, sir, I won't," said Leicester, with such an innocent air of accepting a general bit of good advice, that Mr. Bannister was quite discomfited. Grandma Dorrance looked at Leicester reproachfully, and Mrs. Hill, who was a sharp-featured, sharp-spoken old lady, and who also sat on the other side of the table, said severely, to nobody in particular, "Children are not brought up now as they were in my day." This had the effect of silencing Leicester, for the three older Dorrances had long ago decided that it was useless to try to talk to Mrs. Hill. Even if you tried your best to be nice and pleasant, she was sure to say something so irritating, that you just _had_ to lose your temper. But Fairy did not subscribe to this general decision. Indeed, Fairy's chief characteristic was her irrepressible loquacity. So much trouble had this made, that she had several times been forbidden to talk at the dinner-table at all. Then Grandma Dorrance would feel sorry for the dolefully mute little girl, and would lift the ban, restricting her, however, to not more than six speeches during any one meal. Fairy kept strict account, and never exceeded the allotted number, but she made each speech as long as she possibly could, and rarely stopped until positively interrupted. So she took it upon herself to respond to Mrs. Hill's remark, and at the same time demonstrate her loyalty to her grandmother. "I'm sure, Mrs. Hill," Fairy began, "that nobody could bring up children better than my grannymother. She is the best children bring-upper in the whole world. I don't know how your grandmother brought you up,--or perhaps you had a mother,--some people think they're better than grandmothers. I don't know; I never had a mother, only a grandmother, but she's just the best ever, and if us children aren't good, it's our fault and not hers. She says we're boist'rous, and I 'spect we are. Mr. Bannister says we're rude, and I 'spect we are; but none of these objectionaries is grandma's fault!" Fairy had a way of using long words when she became excited, and as she knew very few real ones she often made them up to suit herself. And all her words, long or short came out in such a torrent of enthusiasm and emphasis, and with such a degree of rapidity that it was a difficult matter to stop her. So on she went. "So it's all right, Mrs. Hill, but when we don't behave just first-rate, or just as children did in your day, please keep a-remembering to blame us and not grandma. You see," and here Fairy's speech assumed a confidential tone, "we don't have room enough. We want free life and we want fresh air, and then I 'spect we'd be more decorious." "That will do, Fairy," said Mrs. Dorrance, looking at her gravely. "Yes'm," said Fairy, smiling pleasantly, "that'll do for one." "And that makes two! now you've had two speeches, Fairy," said her brother, teasingly. "I have not," said Fairy, "and an explanationary speech doesn't count!" "Yes, it does," cried Lilian, "and that makes three!" "It doesn't, does it, grandma?" pleaded Fairy, lifting her big blue eyes to her grandmother's face. Mrs. Dorrance looked helpless and a little bewildered, but she only said, "Please be quiet, Fairy; I might like to talk a little, myself." "Oh, that's all right, grandma dear," said Fairy, placidly; "I know how it is to feel conversationary myself." The children's mother had died when Fairy was born, and her father had given her the name of Fairfax because there had always been a Fairfax Dorrance in his family for many generations. To be sure it had always before been a boy baby who was christened Fairfax, but the only boy in this family had been named Leicester; and so, one Fairfax Dorrance was a girl. From the time she was old enough to show any characteristics at all, she had been fairy-like in every possible way. Golden hair, big blue eyes and a cherub face made her a perfect picture of child beauty. Then she was so light and airy, so quick of motion and speech, and so immaculately dainty in her dress and person, that Fairy seemed to be the only fitting name for her. No matter how much she played rollicking games, her frock never became rumpled or soiled; and the big white bow which crowned her mass of golden curls always kept its shape and position even though its wearer turned somersaults. For Fairy was by no means a quiet or sedate child. None of the Dorrances were that. And the youngest was perhaps the most headstrong and difficult to control. But though impetuous in her deeds and mis-deeds, her good impulses were equally sudden, and she was always ready to apologize or make amends for her frequent naughtiness. And so after dinner, she went to Mrs. Hill, and said with a most engaging smile, "I'm sorry if I 'fended you, and I hope I didn't. You see I didn't mean to speak so much, and right at the dinner table, too, but I just _have_ to stand up for my grannymother. She's so old, and so ladylike that she can't stand up for herself. And I was 'fraid you mightn't understand, so I thought I'd 'pologize. Is it all right?" Fairy looked up into Mrs. Hill's face with such angelic eyes and pleading smile, that even that dignified lady unbent a little. "Yes, my dear," she said; "it's all right for you to stand up for your grandmother, as you express it. But you certainly do talk too much for such a little girl." "Yes'm," said Fairy, contritely, "I know I do. It's my upsetting sin; but somehow I can't help it. My head seems to be full of words, and they just keep spilling out. Don't you ever talk too much, ma'am?" "No; I don't think I do." "You ought to be very thankful," said Fairy, with a sigh; "it is an awful affliction. Why once upon a time----" "Come, Fairy," said Mrs. Dorrance; "say good-night to Mrs. Hill, and come up-stairs with me." "Yes, grandma, I'm coming. Good-night, Mrs. Hill; I'm sorry I have to go just now 'cause I was just going to tell you an awful exciting story. But perhaps to-morrow----" "Come, Fairy," said Mrs. Dorrance; "come at once!" And at last the gentle old lady succeeded in capturing her refractory granddaughter, and led the dancing sprite away to her own room. CHAPTER II REBELLIOUS HEARTS Although Mrs. Cooper's boarders were privileged to sit in the parlor in the evening, the Dorrances rarely availed themselves of this permission. For the atmosphere of the formal and over-punctilious drawing-room was even more depressing than that of the dining-room. And even had the children wanted to stay there, which they didn't, Mrs. Dorrance would have been afraid that their irrepressible gayety would have been too freely exhibited. And another thing, they had to study their next day's lessons, for their hours between school and dinner-time were always spent out of doors. And so every evening they congregated in their grandmother's room, and were studious or frivolous as their mood dictated. To-night they were especially fractious. "Grannymother," exclaimed Lilian, "it just seems as if I _couldn't_ live in this house another minute! there is nobody here I like, except our own selves, and I just hate it all!" "Did _you_ go to school to-day, my little man?" said Leicester, shaking his finger in such funny imitation of Mr. Bannister, that Lilian had to laugh, in spite of her discontentment. "I'm so tired of him, too," went on Lilian, still scowling. "Can't we go and live somewhere else, grandmother?" Mrs. Dorrance sighed. She knew only too well the difficulty of securing desirable rooms in a desirable locality with her four lively young charges; and especially at the modest price she was able to pay. Already they had moved six times in their two years of boarding-house life, and Mrs. Dorrance dreaded the thought of a seventh similar experience. "Lilian, dear," she said, gently, "you know how hard it is to find any nice boarding-house where they will take four noisy children. And I'm sure, in many respects, this is the best one we've ever found." "I suppose it is," said Dorothy, looking up from the French lesson she was studying, "but I know one thing! as soon as I get through school, and I don't mean to go many years more, we're going to get away from boarding-houses entirely, and we're going to have a home of our own. I don't suppose it can be in Texas, or the Desert of Sahara, but we'll have a house or an apartment or something, and live by ourselves." "I wish you might do so," said her grandmother, "but I fear we cannot afford it. And, too, I think I would not be able to attend to the housekeeping. When we used to have plenty of servants, it was quite a different matter." "But granny, dear," cried Dorothy, "I don't mean for you to housekeep. I mean to do that myself. After I get through school, you know, I'll have nothing to do, and I can just as well keep house as not." "Do you know how?" asked Fairy, staring at her oldest sister with wide-open blue eyes. "Can you make a cherry pie?" sang Leicester. "I don't believe you can, Dot; and I'll tell you a better plan than yours. You wait until _I_ get out of school, and then I'll go into some business, and earn enough money to buy a big house for all of us." "Like the one in Fifty-eighth Street?" said Dorothy, softly. The children always lowered their voices when they spoke of the house on Fifty-eighth Street. Two years ago, when their grandfather died, they had to move out of that beautiful home, and none of them, not even little Fairy, could yet speak of it in a casual way. The children's father had died only a few years after their mother, and the four had been left without any provision other than that offered by their Grandfather Dorrance. He took them into his home on Fifty-eighth Street, and being a man of ample means, he brought them up in a generous, lavish way. The little Dorrances led a happy life, free from care or bothers of any sort, until when Dorothy was fourteen, Grandfather Dorrance died. His wife knew nothing of his business affairs, and placidly supposed there was no reason why she should not continue to live with the children, in the ways to which they had so long been accustomed. But all too soon she learned that years of expensive living had made decided inroads upon Mr. Dorrance's fortune, and that for the future her means would be sadly limited. Mrs. Dorrance was a frail old lady, entirely unused to responsibilities of any kind; her husband had always carefully shielded her from all troubles or annoyances, and now, aside from her deep grief at his death, she was forced suddenly to face her changed circumstances and the responsibility of her four grandchildren. She was crushed and bewildered by the situation, and had it not been for the advice and kind assistance of her lawyer, Mr. Lloyd, she would not have known which way to turn. Dorothy, too, though only fourteen years old, proved to be a staunch little helper. She was brave and plucky, and showed a courage and capability that astonished all who knew her. After Mr. Dorrance's affairs were settled up, it was discovered that the family could not remain in the home. Although the house was free of incumbrance, yet there was no money with which to pay taxes, or to pay the household expenses, even if they lived on a more moderate scale. Only a few years before his death, Mr. Dorrance had invested a large sum of money in a summer hotel property. This had not turned out advantageously, and though Mrs. Dorrance could not understand all of the business details, she finally became aware that she had but a net income of two thousand dollars to support herself and her grandchildren. Helpless and heart-broken as she was, she yet had a certain amount of indomitable pride, which though it might break, would never bend. In her quiet, gentle way she accepted the situation, and endeavored to find a suitable boarding-place that would come within her means. The big house had been rented to strangers, as Mr. Lloyd considered that a better investment than selling it. The furniture had been sold, except a few choice personal belongings which had been stored away against better days. With a cheerful placidity, which was but the reaction of her utter helplessness, Mrs. Dorrance began her new life. The children took the change more easily. Although they fretted and stormed more, yet that very fact gave a sort of outlet to their disappointment, and, too, their youth allowed them to adapt themselves more easily to the changed conditions. And had it been possible for them to have a home of their own, they would perhaps have been as happy as in their grandfather's mansion. But Mrs. Dorrance well knew her own limitations, and realized that at her age she could not take up the unaccustomed cares of housekeeping. And so they boarded; and it was unsatisfactory to all concerned; principally because children do not agree with boarding-houses and _vice versa_. * * * * * "Well, there is one thing to look forward to," said Dorothy, in her cheerful way; "it's the first of May now. In a month, school will be over for this term, and then we can go to the seashore or the country, and get away from Mrs. Cooper's for the summer, anyhow." "Yes," exclaimed Lilian, "won't it be fun! I vote for the country this year. What do you say, Leicester?" The twins, though possessing strong individual opinions, usually referred all questions to each other, though this by no means implied a change of mind on the part of either. "Country's all right," said Leicester, "but I like mountains. Mountainous country, you know; I don't mean Pike's Peak or Mount Washington." "I like the seashore," said Fairy. "'Course you needn't go there just 'cause I like it,--but I do think it's awful nice. There's the water you know, and the big waves come in all tumble-bumble,--oh, it's beautiful to see them! And if I could have a new bathing-suit trimmed with red braid like Gladys Miller's, I do think----" "Wait a minute, Fairy," said her grandmother; "you're doing your thinking too soon. I'm sorry, children, more sorry than I can tell you, but I don't see how we can go away this summer, to the mountains or seashore or anywhere else." "Oh, grannymother!" cried Dorothy in dismay; "you don't mean we must stay in the city all summer!" "I'm afraid so, my dear. I can't see any hope for anything else." "But grandma, we went last year, and we stayed all summer, and we had a lovely time." This from Lilian, whose brown eyes were already filling with tears. "In the city! all summer! well, I just guess _not_!" shouted Leicester. "I'm going off of Manhattan Island, if I have to go as a tramp." "Tramping isn't so bad," said Lilian, brightening up; "we could carry our things in handkerchiefs slung on sticks over our shoulders." "But grannymother couldn't tramp," said Fairy. "The streets will be broad and the lanes will be narrow, So we'll have to take grannymother in a wheel-barrow," chanted Dorothy. "But tell us truly, granny, dear, why can't we go away?" Grandmother Dorrance looked sad, but her face wore that air of placid determination which the children had come to look upon as indicative of final and unalterable decision. "This last winter," she said, "was much more expensive than the winter before. There was the doctor and the nurse, when Fairy was ill; we are paying a little more board here than we did at Mrs. Watson's; and then, somehow, your clothes seem to cost more every year. I don't know how it is, I'm sure," and the sweet old face assumed the worried look that always pained Dorothy's heart, "but somehow there isn't any money left for a summer trip." "But grandma," said Leicester, with a great desire to be businesslike, "can't we find a place to board in the country, for just the same price as we pay here?" "No, it always costs a little more per week at any summer place than in the city. And that is not all; there are the traveling expenses, and you'd all need new summer clothes, and there are many extra expenses, such as laundry work, and things that you children know nothing about." Dorothy sat thinking. She had closed her French book and sat with her elbows on the table in front of her, and her chin in her hands. Dorothy Dorrance was a very pretty girl, although it had never occurred to her to think so. She had dark eyes like her father's, but had inherited her mother's blonde hair. Not golden, but a light golden-brown, which fell into soft shining curls which tossed about her temples, and escaped from the thick twist at the back of her head. She had a sunshiny smile, which was almost always visible, for Dorothy was light-hearted and of a merry nature. She was an all-round capable girl, and could turn her hand to almost anything she undertook. She had a capable mind too, and often astonished her grandmother by her intelligent grasp of business matters or financial problems. Indeed, Dorothy at sixteen had a far more practical knowledge of the ways and means of existence than Mrs. Dorrance at seventy. "Grandmother," she said at last, after she had sat for some minutes staring straight ahead of her, and looking, as Leicester said, "almost as if she were really thinking." "Grandmother, I think we are old enough now,--at any rate I am,--to know something about our income. How much money do we have a year?" "That's easily told, my child; since your grandfather's death we have very little. I own the house on Fifty-eighth Street, but from the rent of that I have to pay taxes and repairs. Of course Mr. Lloyd attends to all these matters, and his judgment is always right, but I can't help thinking there is very little profit in that house." "Wouldn't it be better to sell that house, and invest the money in some other way?" said Dorothy, straightforwardly. "Mr. Lloyd says not, dearie, and of course he knows. Then besides that, I own the large hotel property which your grandfather bought a few years before he died. But as I cannot rent it, and cannot sell it, it is not only no source of income to me, but it is a great expense." "Oh, 'Our Domain' up in the mountains," said Dorothy. "Yes, 'Our Domain'; but I wish it were the Domain of somebody else," said her grandmother. This hotel property had always been called "Our Domain," by the family and when Mr. Dorrance was alive, had been looked upon as a sort of a joke, but the present view of the situation did not seem at all humorous. "Never mind," said Leicester, who was always hopeful, "I think it's very nice to own a Domain. It makes us seem like landed proprietors, and some day, who knows, it may prove valuable." CHAPTER III DOROTHY'S PLAN One afternoon, about a week later, the children were again in their grandmother's room waiting for dinner-time. To be exact, they weren't in the room, but were literally half in and half out. For Mrs. Dorrance's room had two front windows, and two children were hanging out of each, in a precarious and really dangerous way. The twins, in one window, were vying with each other as to which could lean out farthest, without falling out; and in the other window Dorothy was leaning out as far as possible, and at the same time trying to keep a very excited Fairy from pitching headlong to the street. The simple explanation of this acrobatic performance is, that they were looking for the postman. Not that they really thought he would come any sooner for their endangering their lives, but each young Dorrance considered it of the highest importance to catch the first glimpse of him. "Oh, dear, do you suppose the house is sold?" said Lilian, for the dozenth time. "Hi!" screamed Dorothy; "there he is! we'll soon know now." Dorothy having won the game, they all tumbled into the room again, and Leicester started down-stairs for the mail. "Gently, my boy, gently," warned his grandmother. "Don't go down whooping like a wild Indian." Leicester assumed a sudden air of decorum, and disappeared; while the girls clustered around their grandmother, all talking at once. "What do you think, grandmother?" cried Dorothy, "guess,--which way do you guess?" "I guess, no," said Mrs. Dorrance, who was used to guessing games. "I guess, _yes_!" shouted Lilian; "of course it's sold! and we'll have lots of money and we'll go to Europe, and Africa, and Chicago, and everywhere!" "And over to Brooklyn," chimed in Fairy; "I do want to go to Brooklyn, 'cause I've never been there and Gladys Miller says it's awful funny, and besides----" "A letter! here's a letter," cried Leicester, bouncing into the room; "open it, open it quick, granny dear!" "I can't," said the old lady, helplessly; "you children make such a noise, I'm all bewildered. Open it, Dorothy, and read it aloud; and the rest of you, do try to keep still." Eagerly, Dorothy tore open the letter, and began to read it: MRS. ELIZABETH DORRANCE: _Dear Madam_:--I had a final interview to-day with Mr. Ware. As you know, he had about concluded to buy your hotel, but he has been making inquiries concerning it, and has learned that it has not been occupied for several years. He fears that he cannot make it pay as a business venture, and has therefore definitely decided not to buy it. I do not wish to discourage you, my dear madam, but it looks to me as if it would not be possible to sell the hotel this season, and indeed, I doubt if you can ever dispose of it to your satisfaction. The next best course, in my opinion, would be for you to allow it to be sold at auction. This plan would enable you to pay the back taxes now due, and relieve you of further obligations of the same sort,--though I fear there would be little or no margin of profit for you in this arrangement. However, should you think best to adopt this course, please advise me promptly, and I will take the necessary steps in the matter. I am, my dear madam, Respectfully yours, LEWIS H. LLOYD. At the conclusion of this letter the four Dorrance children groaned in concert. Their concerted groan was an old-established affair, and by reason of much practice they had brought it to a high state of perfection. It began with a low wail which deepened and strengthened through several bass notes, and then slid up to high C with a wild, final shriek. It was most effective as an expression of utter exasperation, but Mrs. Dorrance, though accustomed to it, lived in a state of fear lest it might cause the landlady to request them to give up their rooms. "Oh, dear," said Lilian, after the groan had subsided, "I felt sure that Ware man was going to take the old place. I think he's mean!" "I think Mr. Lloyd is mean," broke in Dorothy. "I don't like him!" "It isn't his fault, my dear," said her grandmother. "He has done all in his power to sell the place, but it seems to be unsalable, except at auction. And that would probably mean that our financial affairs would be in no better state than they are now." "I'd like to see Our Domain," said Leicester, thoughtfully; "what's it like, grandmother?" "I don't know, dear; I've never seen it. Your grandfather never saw it either. He bought the property through an agent, merely as a speculation." "Ho!" cried Leicester, "the idea of owning a Domain that nobody has ever seen! why, perhaps there is nothing there at all, and so of course nobody will buy it." "People!" exclaimed Dorothy, suddenly, her eyes shining, and her whole air expressive of a wonderful discovery. And, too, when Dorothy said, "People!" in that tone of voice, the others had learned that she meant to announce one of her plans. As a rule, her plans were wild and impracticable schemes, but they were always interesting to listen to. "People, I'll tell you exactly what we'll do. Grandma says we can't afford any extra expense this summer. So,--we'll go and live in our Domain!" "Well, of all crazy things," said Lilian, in a disappointed tone. "I thought you were going to say something nice." "It _is_ nice," said Dorothy; "you think it isn't, because you don't know anything about it. I know all about it. Now listen and I'll tell you." "Know all about it!" said Leicester; "you don't even know where it is!" "Anybody can find that out," went on Dorothy; "and then when we find out, all we have to do is to go there. And then we'll live in the house, no matter what it is. It's ours, and so we won't have to pay any rent, and we girls will do all the housework and cooking, and so it won't cost near as much as boarding. And the difference will pay our traveling expenses to the Domain, wherever it is. And we won't need any new clothes to go to a place like that, and it will be perfectly lovely, as good as a prairie or a Texas, or anything! Now then!" "Whew!" exclaimed Leicester; "I do believe you've struck it right this time. It will be great! I'll do my share of the work,--it will be just like camping out. What do you suppose the house is like?" "Isn't it lovely not to know!" cried Lilian; "everything about it will be such a surprise. When can we go, grandmother?" "Oh, my dears, how you rattle on," said Mrs. Dorrance, half-laughing, and yet beginning to take an interest in Dorothy's plan. Fairy was keeping up a running fire of conversation, but nobody paid any attention to her. "Where is the place, grandmother?" asked Dorothy, who was taking it all a little more seriously than the others; "you must know at least what state it's in." "Oh, yes, I know that. It's on the shore of Lake Ponetcong,--in the northern part of New Jersey." "What a fearful name!" cried Leicester; "but I don't care if it's called Alibazan, so long as there's a lake there. You never told us about the lake before." "A lake!" said Lilian, with an ecstatic air; "I shall just stay on that all the time. I shall have a rowboat and a sailboat and a canoe----" "And a cataraman," supplemented her brother; "you can use the hotel for a boathouse, Lilian, and we'll build a little cabin to live in." "Don't go so fast, children," said Mrs. Dorrance; "if you'll give me a minute to think, I'm not sure but I could see some sense in this arrangement." "Oh, granny, dear," cried Dorothy, clasping her hands beseechingly; "do take a minute to think. Take several minutes, and think hard, and see if you can't think some sense into it." "As you say," began Mrs. Dorrance, while the children were breathlessly quiet in their anxiety, "the living expenses would be very much less than in any boarding-house. And in a country-place like that, you would not need elaborate clothes. But there are many things to be considered; you see, I've no idea what the house is like, or in what condition we would find it." "Oh, never mind that," pleaded Dorothy; "let's take our chances. That will be the fun of it, to go there, not knowing what we're going to. And anyway, we'll have room enough." "Yes," said Mrs. Dorrance, smiling; "in a hotel you will probably have room enough. But what do you mean by saying you can do the housework? In the first place you're not strong enough, and secondly, you don't know how." "I'll do the work," said Fairy. "I don't care if I am only twelve, I can cook; 'cause when I went to Gladys Miller's one day, she had a little stove and she showed me how. I'll do all the cooking, and you other girls can do the domesticker work. Leicester can do all the man's work, and grannymother can be a Princess of high degree, and just sit and look on. And then on some days----" "Oh, yes, we know how to work," interrupted Dorothy. It was always necessary to interrupt Fairy if anybody wanted to say anything. "And I won't mind how much I have to do, if we have some outdoors around us. Only think, it's May out of doors now, and here we have to stay shut up in this old boarding-house, same as in December." "You may go out for a while if you care to, little girl," said Leicester, assuming a grown-up air. "I don't want to go out on paved streets," said Dorothy; "I want green fields and trees and cows." "I want free life and I want fresh air," sang Leicester, "and I do believe we are going to get it. Come, granny, speak the word,--say we may go." "I can't say, positively," said Mrs. Dorrance, "until I write to Mr. Lloyd and see what he thinks of it. If he agrees to the plan, I suppose we might try it. But it is all so uncertain." "Never mind the uncertainty," said Dorothy; "just leave it all to me. Now see here, grandmother, for twelve years you've looked after us children, and taken care of us, and now, I think we're getting old enough to look after ourselves. Anyway, let us try it. Let us all go up to the Domain, and spend the summer there. We'll do the best we can, and if we fail it will be our own fault. You're not to have any responsibility, you're just to be there as a kind of guardian angel and general adviser. Nothing very dreadful can happen to us,--at least, nothing half so dreadful as staying in the city all summer. Now just write to Mr. Lloyd, and don't ask his opinion, but tell him you've decided to do this, and just ask him how to get there." "We can tell how to get there, ourselves," said Leicester; "let's look it up on the map. Fairy, get the big atlas, will you?" Though Fairy was always called upon to wait on the other children, it was by no means an imposition, for the child was always dancing around the room anyway, and dearly loved to do things for people. Soon three of the Dorrance children were gathered around the table studying the map. Fairy, in order to see better, had climbed up on the table, and was eagerly following with her tiny forefinger the track of Leicester's pencil. "It isn't so very far, after all," he announced. "It's just across the ferry, and then up on the railroad till you get to it. It looks awfully near. Oh, I wish we were going to start to-morrow." "Why can't we?" said Lilian, who always favored quick action. "There's _no_ reason," said Mrs. Dorrance, smiling at the impetuous children; "of course we can _just_ as well take the seven o'clock train to-morrow morning as not!" "Now you're teasing, grandma," said Lilian; "truly, when can we go?" "Just the minute school closes," answered Dorothy. "I suppose we must stay for that,--I must, anyway; but we could get off the last week in May." Here the announcement of dinner put an end to their planning for the present, but so gay of heart were they over their happy anticipations, that for once they didn't mind the gloomy dining-room and their irritating fellow boarders. CHAPTER IV THE DEPARTURE After several interviews with Mr. Lloyd, and after discussing the matter with several other friends whose advice she valued, Mrs. Dorrance concluded that it was best to try Dorothy's plan. It did seem hard to keep the children in the city all summer, and however the experiment might result it could do no great harm in any way. They were to start the last week in May, and though Mr. Lloyd had offered to go up with them, Grandma Dorrance had concluded that would not be necessary. For all Mrs. Dorrance's gentle, helpless manner, the fine old lady had a certain reserve force, which often manifested itself in an unexpected decision. Leicester, too, showed himself capable of rising to an emergency, and now that there was occasion for him to be looked upon as the man of the family, he determined to play well the part. He suddenly seemed to be as old as Dorothy, and though he deferred to her judgment, he made many good suggestions which she was glad to accept. Indeed, the thought more than once occurred to Grandma Dorrance that the experiences of the coming summer would teach the children a great deal, and strengthen their characters in many ways, whatever else its results might be. Not that the Dorrance children became sedate and responsible all at once. By no means. Their discussions were quite as animated as formerly, if not more so; and as the time of departure drew nearer, they became so excited and excitable that had they not been going away, there is a possibility that Mrs. Cooper might have invited them to do so. Many of their friends came to see them during their last few days in the city, and nearly all brought them gifts or remembrances of some sort. Grandma Dorrance viewed with dismay the collection of souvenirs that the children planned to take with them. It was the live gifts that troubled her most, and she was finally obliged to stipulate that they should be allowed to carry only one pet each. So Dorothy took a dog, a large and beautiful St. Bernard, which she had owned for some years. But as he was even less desirable in a boarding-house than children, they had been obliged to make his home with a friend who lived on Long Island. Dorothy had been in the habit of visiting him frequently, and a great friendship existed between them. The twins chose a pair of rabbits, because they had never had any rabbits before, and as Leicester said, "What's a Domain without rabbits?" Fairy hesitated long, between a kitten and a canary, but finally chose the kitten, as being less trouble and more comfort; and the bird was about to be returned to its donor. But Grandma Dorrance declared that she too was entitled to a pet and would take the bird for hers, whereupon Fairy was ecstatically happy. * * * * * It was a difficult caravan to plan and to move, but one Monday morning the departure was successfully accomplished. Two carriages and a dray-load of trunks and boxes formed the procession. Mrs. Dorrance had concluded that much of the necessary work of the house, especially at first, would be too hard for the girls; and had therefore decided to take with them a strong young Irish girl to help. One of the waitresses, who was about to leave Mrs. Cooper's service anyway, seemed just the right one. Her name was Tessie, and she was a devoted friend of the young Dorrances. Her Irish sense of humor made her delight in their pranks, and it was to the satisfaction of all that she accompanied the party. They crossed the city without attracting attention, but the procession that filed onto the ferry-boat could not long remain unnoticed. Fairy persisted in dancing ahead, and then dancing back to know which way to go next. She carried her kitten in a basket, and talked to it incessantly through the slats. Lilian carried the bird-cage, and Leicester, a box containing the rabbits. Dorothy led her big dog by a leash, and as she had assumed a sudden dignity, born of the occasion, she made with the magnificent and stately animal beside her, an impressive picture. Tessie was entrusted with the care of Grandma Dorrance; and this was a wise arrangement, for though accustomed to traveling, Mrs. Dorrance was also accustomed to lean on some one else for the responsibilities of the trip. Dorothy saw this more plainly than ever during their journey, and resolved more strongly than ever that she would relieve her grandmother of all possible care, and be a real help and support to her. It was just as she reached this decision that Fairy lifted the lid of her basket and peeped in to talk to the kitten. But she opened the lid a trifle too wide and the frightened kitten jumped out and ran to the edge of the deck, where the poor little thing sat quivering, and shivering, and apparently just about to tumble into the water. Involuntarily the four Dorrances gave one of their best concerted groans. The low moaning notes and the final shriek roused Dare, the great dog, to a sudden wild excitement. Breaking away from Dorothy's hold, he flew after the tiny Maltese kitten, and taking her head in his mouth, rescued her from imminent peril. But Fairy, not appreciating that it was a rescue, looked upon it as a massacre, and began to howl piteously. Whereupon Dare deposited the squirming kitten at Fairy's feet, and added his bark, which was no faint one, to the general pandemonium. All of which so disturbed poor Mrs. Dorrance, that she was glad to have Tessie lead her into the cabin, and there make her as comfortable as possible with a pillow and some smelling-salts. Meantime peace and quiet had been restored to the party on deck, and they were waving joyful farewells to the tall buildings on Manhattan Island. "There's the old Flatiron," cried Leicester; "good-bye, old Flatiron! hope I won't see you again for a long while." "There's the new Flatiron too," cried Lilian. "I don't want to see that again for ever so long, either." "You'll see flatirons enough, my lady," said Dorothy, "when you find yourself doing the laundry work for a large and able-bodied family." "I won't have to do that, will I?" cried Lilian, aghast; "nobody told me that!" "Well, we needn't wash the clothes," said Dorothy; "but likely we'll have to help iron; that is, if we wear any white dresses." "I'll promise not to wear any white dresses," said Leicester. "I don't care what I wear, if we just once get into the country," said Lilian. "Oh Dorothy, what _do_ you suppose it will be like?" "Just like Mrs. Cooper's," said Dorothy, smiling. "Well it can't be like that," said Lilian; "and so I don't care what it is." Another excitement came when they were all getting packed into the train. Dare had to travel in the baggage-car, of which he expressed his disapproval by long and continuous growlings. The rabbits were put there, too, but they made less fuss about it. The bird and the kitten were allowed in the car with the children, and this arrangement added to the general gayety. Although Mrs. Dorrance naturally considered herself in charge of the expedition, and though Dorothy felt sure she was, and though Leicester hoped he might be, yet it was really quick-witted Tessie who looked after things and kept matters straight. The ride through northern New Jersey was not picturesque, and as there was very little to look at from the windows, the four soon returned to their favorite game of guessing what the new home would be like. "What shall we call it?" asked Leicester; "it ought to have a name." "And a nice one, too," said Dorothy; "for, do you know, I think we shall live there always." "Wait 'til you see it," said Lilian; "we may not even want to stay over night." "We couldn't stay always," said Fairy; "how would we go to school?" "I suppose we couldn't," said Dorothy; "but after we all get through school, then we can; and it will be lovely to have a home of our own, so let's get a good name for it." "Why not the Domain?" said Leicester. "That's what we've always called it, and so it sounds natural." "That isn't enough by itself," said Dorothy. "How do you like the Dorrance Domain?" They all liked this, and so The Dorrance Domain was decided upon, and they all rushed to tell grandma the name of her new home. It was noon when the train reached the Ponetcong Station. Here they all bundled out, bag and baggage, children and animals. But as the boat, in which they were to continue their journey did not leave until one o'clock, there was ample time to get some luncheon,--which more than pleased the four hungry Dorrances. Upon inquiry, they were directed to a small country hotel and soon found themselves confronted with many small portions of not over-attractive looking viands. But for once, the children cared little about what they ate or how it was served, so eager were they at the prospect of soon reaching their new home. "What do you suppose it will be like?" said Lilian, quite as if she were propounding a brand-new conundrum. "I've s'posed everything I can possibly think of," said Leicester; "but I'm willing to guess again if you want me to." "It isn't worth while guessing much more," said Dorothy; "for very soon we will _know_. Now, Lilian, you and Fairy stay here with grandma, and Leicester and I will go over to that little store across the street and buy some things to take with us for supper to-night. Tessie may go too, to help us carry them." But this plan was far from acceptable. "That isn't fair!" cried Lilian; "buying things for our own home is the most fun yet, and I think we all ought to go together." "So do I," said Fairy. "Let Tessie stay with grandma, and us four will go to purchase the eatabubbles." Fairy did not stutter, but, when excited, she was apt to put extra syllables in her words. "Come on, then," said Dorothy, and with Dare bounding beside them, the four ran across the road to the little grocery shop. "Let's be very sensible," said Dorothy, "and get just the right things. You know young housekeepers always do ridiculous things when they go to buy provisions. Now what do we need most?" "Bread," said the twins together, and surely nobody could have criticised their suggestion as ridiculous. "Yes," said Dorothy, and then turning to the grocer, she said politely, "Have you any bread?" "Yes, miss," replied the grocer, staring in amazement at the four excited children; "what kind?" "Why, just bread," said Dorothy; "fresh bread, you know. Is there more than one kind?" "Yes, miss. Square loaf, long loaf, twist loaf and raisin bread." "Oh!" exclaimed Dorothy, appalled by this superabundant variety. But Leicester came to the rescue. "Raisin bread," said he; "that's the kind. And then we want some butter, if you please." "Print, pat or tub?" "Oh, not a whole tub full," said Dorothy, diligently trying to be sensible; "we couldn't carry a tub. I think we'll take a--a print." "Yes, miss; anything else?" The weight of responsibility was so great, that no one spoke for a moment, and then Fairy, in a burst of confidence began: "You see, mister, we've never bought anything before; we've just eaten other people's things; but now we've got a home of our own, a really truly home, and these things are to eat in it. So of course you see we have to be very careful what we buy. We're trying very hard to be sensible housekeepers, 'cause my sister says we must, and she knows everything in the world. And so if you could 'vise us a little, we'd know better 'bout selectioning." After this speech, a few questions from the grocer resulted in a frank and straightforward statement of the case by Dorothy, and then a judicious selection was made of immediate necessities for the commissary department of The Dorrance Domain. CHAPTER V THE MAMIE MEAD As the man of the family and courier of the expedition, Leicester had assumed an air of importance, and looked after the baggage checks, tickets and time-tables with an effect of official guardianship. "Why, it's a steamboat!" exclaimed Fairy, as a diminutive steamer came puffing up to the dock. "I thought it would be a canal-boat." "People don't travel to a Domain in a canal-boat, my child," said Leicester, instructively. "But you said we'd go on the canal," insisted Fairy; "and I want to see what a canal is like. There is one in my geography----" "Skip aboard, kidlums, and you'll soon see what a canal is like," said Leicester, who was marshaling his party over the gangplank. The _Mamie Mead_ was the very smallest steamboat the children had ever seen, and it seemed like playing house to establish themselves on its tiny deck. Dare seemed to find it inadequate to his ideas of proportion, and he stalked around, knocking over chairs and camp-stools with a fine air of indifference. Grandma Dorrance, who by this time was rather tired by the journey, was made as comfortable as possible, and then the children prepared to enjoy the excitements of their first trip on a canal. The smoothness of the water amazed them all, and they wondered why it wasn't more like a river. The locks, especially, aroused awe and admiration. By the time they went through the first gate they had made the acquaintance of the captain, and could watch the performance more intelligently. It seemed nothing short of magic to watch the great gates slowly close, and then to feel their own boat rising slowly but steadily, as the water rushed in from the upper sluice. "It's just like Noah and the Ark," exclaimed Fairy, "when the floods made them go up and up." "It's exactly like that," agreed Dorothy, as the waters kept rising; "and we've nearly as many animals on board as he had." All too soon they had risen to the level of the lake, and another pair of great gates swung open to let them through. "Are we going to stay on top?" asked Fairy; "or must we go down again?" "You'll stay on top this time, little missie," said good-natured old Captain Kane, smiling at Fairy. "This boat ain't no submarine to dive down into the lake." "But you dived up into the lake," insisted Fairy. "That was the only way to get here, miss. But any day you would like to go back and dive down, here's the man that will take you. The _Mamie Mead_ is always glad of passengers. She don't get none too many nowadays." "Why doesn't she?" asked Leicester, with interest. "Well, you see, sir, since the hotel's been empty, they ain't no call for _Mamie_ much. So whenever you kids wants a free ride, just come down to the dock and wave something. If so be's I'm goin' by, I'll stop and take you on. Is the place you're goin' near the hotel?" "Near the hotel!" cried Dorothy; "why we're going _to_ the hotel." "You can't. 'Tain't open." "I know it," said Dorothy; "but it will be when we get there. We have all the keys." "For the land's sake! And what are you goin' to do there?" "We're going to live there," exclaimed Leicester; "we own the place,--that is, my grandmother does." "Own it? Own the Dorrance place?" "Yes; we're all Dorrances." "For the land's sake! Well, when you want to go down to the station for anything, this here boat's at your service,--that is, if I'm up this way." "Do you come up this way often?" asked Dorothy, who appreciated the possible value of this offer. "I allus comes once a week, miss. I goes over to Dolan's Point every Saturday. Will you be here till Saturday?" "Saturday! Why we're going to stay all summer." "Beggin' your pardon, miss, but I don't think as how you will. Just the few of you shakin' around in that big hotel! It's ridikilus!" "Ridiculous or not, we're going to do it," said Leicester, stoutly; "but we thank you for your offer, Captain Kane, and very likely we'll be glad to accept it." "Well, there's your home," said Captain Kane, as a large white building began to be visible through the trees. Without a word, the Dorrance children looked in the direction the captain indicated. High up on the sloping shore of the lake, they saw a great house which seemed to be an interminable length of tall, white columns supporting tiers of verandas. "Oh!" exclaimed Dorothy, "that can't be it! that great, big place!" "It looks like the Pantheon," said Lilian. "You mean the Parthenon," said Leicester; "but I never can tell them apart, myself. Anyway, if that's the Dorrance Domain, it's all right! What do you think, Fairy?" Fairy looked at the big hotel, and then said thoughtfully, "I guess we'll have room enough." "I guess we will," cried Dorothy, laughing; and then they all ran to Grandma Dorrance, to show her the wonderful sight. The good lady was also astounded at the enormous size of the hotel, and greatly impressed with the beauty of the scene. It was about three o'clock, on a lovely May afternoon, and the hotel, which faced the west, gleamed among trees which shaded from the palest spring tints to the dark evergreens. It was at the top of a high slope, but behind it was a background of other hills, and in the distance, mountains. "_Aren't_ you glad we came? Oh, grannymother, _aren't_ you glad we came?" cried Dorothy, clasping her hands in ecstasy. "Indeed I am, dear; but I had no idea it was such an immense house. How can we take care of it?" "That question will come later," said Leicester; "the thing is now, how shall we get to it. How _do_ people get to it, Captain Kane?" "Steps," answered the captain, laconically. "Up from the dock?" "Yep; a hundred and forty of 'em." "Oh, how can grandmother climb all those?" "Settin'-places all the way along," suggested the captain, cheerfully. "Oh, you mean landing-places on the stair-way?" "Yep; so folks can rest. I guess your grandma'll get up all right; but what about all your trunks and things?" "Why I don't know," said Leicester, suddenly losing his air of capable importance. "Well, there's old Hickox; you might get him." "Where can we find Mr. Hickox?" "He's most generally settin' around the dock. Favorite restin'-place of his. Think I can see him there now." After a few moments more the _Mamie Mead_ bumped against the dock. "Our own dock!" cried Dorothy; "oh, isn't it gorgeous!" Probably such an excited crowd had never before landed from the _Mamie Mead_. The children all talked at once; Grandma Dorrance seemed rejuvenated by the happy occasion; Tessie was speechless with delight; Dare gave short, sharp barks expressive of deep satisfaction and the canary bird burst into his most jubilant song. Doubtless the kitten was purring contentedly, if not audibly. The trunks and other luggage were put out on the dock, and Mr. Hickox sauntered up and viewed them with an air of great interest. "I guess this is where I come in handy," he said, with a broad smile and a deferential bob of his head that somehow seemed to serve as a general introduction all around. Mr. Hickox was a strange looking man. He was very tall, indeed, by far the tallest man the children had ever seen; and he was also very thin. Or perhaps _lean_ is a more expressive word to describe Mr. Hickox, for he gave no impression of ill-health, or emaciation, but rather the leanness of muscular strength. His brown hair and side-whiskers were touched with gray, and his tanned face was wrinkled, but he did not seem like an old man. His blue eyes twinkled with good-humor, and his voice was delightfully kind. Instinctively the Dorrance children felt that they had found a friend in this strange man, and they were grateful. "Could you tell us, sir," said Leicester, "how we are going to get these trunks and things up to the hotel?" "Well, yes, I can tell you that. I'm going to lug them up myself." "What, carry them?" said Leicester, in surprise. "Well, no; not carry them,--not exactly carry them. You see I've got a little contraption of my own; a sort of cart or dray, and I'll just put all that duffle of yours into it, and it'll be up to the top before you're there yourselves." "You don't drag it up the stairs!" "No, I go up the back way,--a roundabout, winding path of my own. But don't you worry,--don't worry,--Hickox'll look after things. It'll be all right." Although Mr. Hickox spoke in short staccato jerks, his remarks seemed to carry authority; and nodding his head in a manner peculiar to himself, he went off after his cart. "He's all right, he is," declared Captain Kane; "but his old woman, she isn't so right. But never mind 'bout that. You'll see old Mrs. Hickox sooner or later and then you can size her up for yourself. Well, me and _Mamie_ must be gettin' along. You all jest stay here till Hickox comes back, and he'll get you up the hill all right." As Captain Kane went away the children could hear him chuckling to himself, and murmuring, "Goin' to live in the hotel! well, well!" As Grandma Dorrance would want frequent rests by the way, Dorothy proposed that she should start on up the steps with Tessie, while the rest waited for Mr. Hickox. That long specimen of humanity soon came briskly along, trundling a queer sort of push-cart, which it was quite evident was of home manufacture. "I made it myself," he declared, pointing with pride to the ungainly vehicle. "I was surprised that I could do it," he added modestly; "Mrs. Hickox, she was surprised, too. But she generally is surprised. You don't know my wife, do you?" "No," said Dorothy, politely; "we haven't that pleasure." "H'm," said Mr. Hickox, rubbing down his side-whiskers; "she's a nice woman,--a very nice woman, but you must take her easy. Yes, when you meet her, you must certainly take her easy. She doesn't like to be surprised." "Do you think she will be surprised at us?" asked Lilian, who was well aware that many people thought the Dorrances surprising. "Yes; I think she will. I certainly think she will. Why, to tell the truth, I'm some surprised at you myself,--and I ain't half so easy surprised as Mrs. Hickox." As he talked, Mr. Hickox was bundling the luggage into his cart. He picked up trunks and boxes as if they weighed next to nothing, and deposited them neatly and compactly in his queer vehicle. "Any of the live stock to go?" he inquired. "No," said Dorothy, "we'll take the animals; unless,--yes, you might take the rabbits; their cage is so heavy." "Yes, do," said Leicester; "then I'll carry the bird-cage, and you girls can manage the dog and the kitten." So everything else was put into the dray, even the provisions they had bought at the grocery shop, and the children watched with astonishment, as Mr. Hickox started off, easily pushing the load along a winding path. "He's the strongest man I ever saw," exclaimed Leicester; "and I'd like to go along with him to see how he does it." "No, you come with us," said Fairy, dancing around, and clasping her brother's hand; "come on; now we're going up a million steps and then we will come to our own Domain." Climbing the steps was anything but a work of toil, for continually new delights met their eyes, and they paused often to exclaim and comment. About half-way up they found grandma and Tessie sitting on one of the small landings, waiting for them. "Now we'll go the rest of the way together," said Dorothy, "for we must all see our Domain at the same time. Go as slowly as you like, grandmother, we're in no hurry." CHAPTER VI THE DORRANCE DOMAIN Alternately resting and climbing, at last they reached the top, and for the first time had a full view of the Dorrance Domain. "Oh," said Dorothy in an awe-struck whisper, "that's our home! All of it!" Leicester, from sheer lack of words to express his feelings, turned double somersaults on the grass, while Fairy danced around in her usual flutterbudget way, singing at the top of her voice. Lilian, the practical, after one look at the great building, said excitedly, "Grandmother, where are the keys, quick?" The hotel itself was a white frame building, about two hundred feet long and three stories high. Huge pillars supported verandas that ran all around the house on each story. Broad steps led up to the main entrance, and at one corner was a large tower which rose for several stories above the main part of the house. Although the whole place had a deserted aspect,--the shutters were all closed, and the lawns uncared for,--yet it did not seem out of repair, or uninhabitable. Indeed, the apparent care with which it had been closed up and made secure was reassuring in itself, and the children eagerly followed Lilian who had gained possession of the front door key. With little difficulty they succeeded in unfastening the great front doors and threw them wide open to admit the May sunshine. They found themselves at first in a large hall which ran straight through the house. It was furnished in red, with a velvet carpet and satin brocade sofas, which seemed to the Dorrances quite the most beautiful furnishings they had ever looked upon. Arched off from this hall was a good-sized room, which Leicester declared to be the office, and as soon as the windows of that could be thrown open, the desks and safe and other office furniture proved he was right. Opening a wicket door, he flew in behind the great desk, and throwing open a large book which was there, he turned it around towards Dorothy with a flourish, and asked her to register. "Oh," she cried, wild with excitement, "it's just like the Sleeping Beauty's palace. Everything is just as they went off and left it. Who registered last, Leicester?" "The last is Mr. Henry Sinclair, who arrived here in July, summer before last." "And nobody's been here since!" exclaimed Lilian; "just think of it! It seems as if we ought to register." "You may if you like," said Leicester; "it's our register, you know." But the ink was all dried up, and the pens all rusty, so they left the office and went to make further explorations. Across the hall from the office was the great parlor. Many hands make light work at opening windows, and in a jiffy the parlor was flooded with sunshine. Then there were more exclamations of delight, for the parlor appointments were truly palatial. Gorgeous frescoes and wall decorations, mirrors in heavily gilded frames, brocaded hangings, ornate furniture, and a wonderful crystal chandelier made a general effect that contrasted most pleasurably with Mrs. Cooper's unpretentious drawing-room. Even a piano was there, and flinging it open, Dorothy struck up a brisk two-step, and in a moment the twins were dancing up and down the long room, while Fairy, who had been dancing all the time, simply kept on. Grandma Dorrance sank onto a sofa and watched her happy grandchildren, no less happy herself. It was a daring experiment, and she did not know how it would turn out, but she was glad that at last she was able to give the children, for a time at least, that desire of their heart,--a home in the country. After the grand parlor, and several smaller reception rooms, all equally attractive, they went back across the hall, and through the office to investigate the other side of the house. Here they found the dining-rooms. One immense one, containing a perfect forest of tables and chairs, and two smaller ones. One of the smaller ones which overlooked the lake, Dorothy declared should be their family dining-room. "There's more room in the big dining-room," said Lilian, slyly. "Yes, there is," said Dorothy; "and I _do_ hate to be cramped. Perhaps we had better use the big one, and each one have a whole table all to ourselves." "No," said Grandma Dorrance, "we'll use the small one every day, and then some time when we invite all Mrs. Cooper's family to visit us, we can use the large one." "Oh," groaned Lilian, "don't mention Mrs. Cooper's dining-room while we're in this one." After the dining-rooms came the kitchens, supplied with everything the most exacting housekeeper could desire; but all on the large scale requisite for a summer hotel. "I should think _anybody_ could cook here," said Dorothy; "and as I propose to do the cooking for the family, I'm glad everything is so complete and convenient." "You never can cook up all these things," said Fairy, looking with awe at the rows of utensils; "not even if we have seventeen meals a day." "_Will_ you look at the dish towels!" exclaimed Lilian, throwing open the door of a cupboard, where hundreds of folded dish towels were arranged in neat piles. At this climax, Mrs. Dorrance sank down on a wooden settle that stood in the kitchen, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, "It's too much, girls, it's too big; we never can do anything with it." "Now you mustn't look at it that way, granny, dear," said Dorothy, brightly; "this is our home; and you know, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. And if a home and all its fixings are too big, instead of too little, why, you'll have to manage it somehow just the same. Of course, I'm overpowered too, at this enormous place, but I won't own up to it! I will _never_ admit to _anybody_ that I think the rooms or the house unusually large. I _like_ a big house, and I like spacious rooms! I _hate_ to be cramped,--as possibly you may have heard me remark before." "Good for you, Dot!" cried Leicester. "I won't be phased either. We're here, and we're here to stay. We're not going to be scared off by a few square miles of red velvet carpet, and some sixty-foot mirrors!" "I think the place rather small, myself," said Lilian, who rarely allowed herself to be outdone in jesting; "I confess _I_ have a little of that cramped feeling yet." At this they all laughed, and went on with their tour of the house. Merely taking a peep into the numerous pantries, laundries, storerooms and servants' quarters, they concluded to go at once to inspect the bedrooms. "Don't go up these stairs," said Leicester turning away from the side staircase. "Let's go back to the main hall, and go up the grand staircase, as if we had just arrived, and were being shown to our rooms." "Oh, _isn't_ it fun!" cried Fairy, as she hopped along by her brother's side. "I never had such a fun in my whole life! Wouldn't it be awful if we were really guests instead of purporietors?" "_You_ wouldn't be a guest," said Leicester, teasingly; "no well-conducted summer hotel would take a flibbertigibbet like you to board!" "Nobody would take us Dorrances to board anyway, if they could help it," said Fairy, complacently; "we all know how obnoxiorous we are." "I know," said Grandma Dorrance, sighing; "and if we can only make a little corner of this big place habitable, I shall certainly feel a great relief in not being responsible for you children to any landlady." "Oh, come now, granny, we're not so bad, are we?" said Leicester, patting the old lady's cheek. "You're not bad at all. You're the best children in the world. But just so sure as you get shut up in a boarding-house you get possessed of a spirit of mischief, and I never know what you are going to do next. But up here I don't _care_ what you do next." By this time they had reached the entrance hall, and assuming the air of a proprietor, Leicester, with an elaborate flourish and a profound bow, said suavely: "Ah, Mrs. Dorrance, I believe. Would you like to look at our rooms, madam? We have some very fine suites on the second floor that I feel sure will please you. Are these your children, madam?" "We're her grandchildren," volunteered Fairy, anxious to be in the game. "Incredible! Such a young and charming lady with grandchildren! Now I should have said _you_ were the grandmother," with another elaborate bow to Fairy. Laughing at Leicester's nonsense, they all went up-stairs together, and discovered a perfect maze of bedrooms. Scattering in different directions, the children opened door after door, pulled up blinds, and flung open windows, and screamed to each other to come and see their discoveries. Tessie followed the tribe around, wondering if she were really in fairyland. The unsophisticated Irish girl had never seen a house like this before, and to think it belonged to the people with whom she was to live, suddenly filled her with a great awe of the Dorrance family. "Do you like it, Tessie?" asked Mrs. Dorrance, seeing the girl's amazed expression. "Oh, yis, mum! Shure, I niver saw anything so grand, mum. It's a castle, it is." "That's right, Tessie," said Leicester; "a castle is the same as a domain. And all these millions of bedrooms are part of our Domain. Our very own! Hooray for the Dorrance Domain!" The wild cheer that accompanied and followed Leicester's hurrah must have been audible on the other side of Lake Ponetcong. At any rate it served as a sort of escape-valve for their overflowing enthusiasm, which otherwise must soon have gotten beyond their control. "I think," said Mrs. Dorrance, "that it would be wise for you each to select the bedroom you prefer,--for to-night at least. If you choose to change your minds to-morrow, I don't know of any one who will object." "Oh!" said Lilian, "to think of changing your room in a hotel just as often as you like, and nobody caring a bit! I shall have a different one every night." "That won't be my plan," said her grandmother, laughing; "I think I shall keep the one I'm in, for mine, and make no change." As it was a large, pleasant, southwest room, with a delightful view of the lake, it was thought to be just the one for grandma, and they all willingly agreed. "Do you suppose there are sheets and pillow-slips and things?" asked Dorothy, and a pell-mell rush of four explorers soon brought about the discovery of a wonderful linen room. Grandma and Tessie were called to look, and all exclaimed at the sight. It was a large room with shelves on all four sides and the shelves were piled with neatly-folded clean linen,--sheets, counterpanes, towels,--everything that was necessary. "Whoever left this house last," said grandma, "was a wonderful housekeeper. I should like to see her and compliment her personally." "Shure, it's wonderful, mum!" said Tessie, still a little dazed by the succession of wonders. "Well then, children," went on grandma, "pick out your rooms, and Tessie can make up your beds for you, and when Mr. Hickox brings the trunks, they can be brought right up here." "How clever you are, grannymother," cried Dorothy, kissing her. "I said I'd direct the arrangements,--and yet I never once thought of all that." "Never mind, dearie, we don't expect an old head to grow on young shoulders all at once. And besides, you'll have enough to do down-stairs. Did I hear you say you're going to get supper? And is anybody going to build a fire in the kitchen?" "I'll build the fire," cried Leicester, "just as soon as I select my room from the hotel clerk." The boy ran down the hall and in a few moments returned, saying that he had made a selection, and would take the tower-room. Of course they all flew to see it, and found a large octagon-shaped room with windows on five sides, leaving only enough wall space for the necessary furniture. But it was a beautiful room, "just like being outdoors," Leicester said, and they all applauded his choice. Just then the door-bell was heard to ring, and this gave the children a new sensation. "Our own door-bell!" cried Dorothy; "only to think of that! Tessie, please go down to the door!" and Tessie went, with the four Dorrances following close behind her. CHAPTER VII MR. HICKOX It was Mr. Hickox who was at the door. By a winding path he had pushed his cart full of luggage up the hill, and now expressed his willingness to deposit the goods where they belonged. The big man seemed to think nothing of carrying the trunks, one after another, up to the bedrooms; and meantime the children carried the provisions to the kitchen. Although Dorothy was nominally housekeeper, and wanted to assume entire charge of all household arrangements, Grandma Dorrance had a long and serious talk with Mr. Hickox regarding ways and means. It was most satisfactory; for whenever any apparent difficulty arose, the kind-hearted man summarily disposed of it by waving his hand and remarking: "Don't worry. Hickox'll look after things. It'll be all right!" So convincing was his attitude that Mrs. Dorrance at last felt satisfied that there were no serious obstacles in their path; and like the sensible lady she was, she determined to let Dorothy have full power and manage her new home in any way she saw fit. Dorothy's nature was, perhaps, a little over-confident. She was not inclined to hesitate at anything; indeed, the more difficult the undertaking, the greater her determination to succeed. And so, when Mrs. Dorrance informed Mr. Hickox that Miss Dorothy was the housekeeper, and was in authority, Dorothy rose to the occasion and assumed at once a certain little air of dignity and responsibility that sat well upon her. She, too, was encouraged by Mr. Hickox's continued assertions that it would be all right. She learned from him that the nearest place where they might buy provisions was Woodville, where a certain Mr. Bill Hodges kept a store. His wares included everything that a country store usually deals in, "and Bill himself," said Mr. Hickox, "is just the cleverest man in these parts." "How do we get there?" asked Leicester, who had declared his willingness to consider going to market as part of his share of the work. "Well, there're several ways. Haven't got a horse, have you?" Mr. Hickox said this casually, as if he thought Leicester might have one in his pocket. "No," said Leicester; "we don't own a horse. Is it too far to walk?" "No; 'tain't any too much of a sprint for young legs like yours. It's two miles around by the road and over the bridge. But it's only a mile across by the boat." "But we haven't any boat." "Haven't any boat! well I should say you had. Why there is half-a-dozen rowboats belongs to this hotel; and a catboat too, and a sneak-box,--my land! you've got everything but a steamboat." "And Captain Kane said we could use his steamboat," cried Dorothy, gleefully; "so we've really got a whole navy at our disposal!" "So you have, so you have," agreed Mr. Hickox, rubbing his long hands together, in a curious way he had; "and don't you worry. Whenever you want anything that you can't get with your navy, Hickox'll look after it. It'll be all right!" "Do you live near here, Mr. Hickox?" asked Lilian. "Well, yes, miss. Just a piece up the road. And if you want some nice fresh garden truck, now and then,--just now and then;--we haven't got enough to supply you regular." "We'll be very glad to have it, whenever you can spare it," said Dorothy; "I'll send for it." "Well, no, Miss Dorothy. I'd some rather you wouldn't send for it. You see Mrs. Hickox she's apt to--to be surprised at anything like that." "Oh, very well," said Dorothy; "bring it whenever it's convenient. We're always glad of fresh vegetables. And eggs,--do you have eggs?" "Now and again,--just now and again. But when we have them to spare I'll bring 'em. It'll be all right. Now I must jog along; Mrs. Hickox will be surprised if I don't get home pretty soon." "One thing more, Mr. Hickox," said Mrs. Dorrance. "Are there ever any burglars or marauders around this neighborhood?" "Land, no, ma'm! Bless your heart, don't you worry a mite! Such a thing was never heard of in these parts. Burglars! ho, ho, well I guess not! Why I've never locked my front door in my life, and I never knew anybody around here that did." After Mr. Hickox's departure, Leicester observed thoughtfully, "What a very surprisable woman Mrs. Hickox seems to be." "Yes," agreed Dorothy; "I'm anxious to see her. I think I'd like to surprise her a few times." "Well, he's a nice man," said Lilian; "I like him." "Yes, he is nice," said Leicester; "and isn't that jolly about the boats? I'm going right out to hunt them up." "Hold on, my First Gold-Stick-In-Waiting," said Dorothy; "I think you promised to make a kitchen fire." "Sure enough, Major-domo," returned Leicester, gaily; "I'll do that in a jiffy. Where's the kindling-wood?" "Where's the kindling-wood, indeed," returned Dorothy; "_you_'re to make the fire, and you're also to make the kindling-wood, and the paper and the matches! I'm not employing assistants who don't assist." "All right, my lady. I'll make your fire, even if I have to split up that big settle for fire-wood." With a wild whoop, Leicester disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. "Oh, grannymother," cried Dorothy, "isn't it splendid that we can make just as much noise as we want to! Now you sit right here on the veranda, and enjoy the view; and don't you budge until you're called to supper." And with another war-whoop scarcely less noisy than her brother's, Dorothy went dancing through the big rooms, followed by her two sisters. When she reached the kitchen, she found a fine fire blazing in the range. Leicester sat on the settle, with his hands in his pockets, and wearing a complacent air of achievement. "Anything the matter with that fire?" he inquired. "How did you ever do it in such a minute?" cried his twin, gazing admiringly at her brother. "Magic," said Leicester. "Magic in the shape of Tessie," said Dorothy, laughing, as the good-natured Irish girl appeared from the pantry. "Right you are," said Leicester; "that's Tessie's own fire. And she didn't have to split up the furniture, for she says there's lots of wood and coal in the cellar." "Well, did you ever!" cried Dorothy; "I wouldn't be a bit surprised to learn that there was a gold mine in the parlor, or a pearl fishery up in the tower." "I'd rather learn that there is something to eat somewhere," said Leicester; "I'm simply starving. What's the use of three sisters if they can't get a fellow some supper?" "That's so," agreed Dorothy; "and we all must go right to work. You can't help with this part, Leicester. You skip away now, your turn will come later. Now girls," she went on, as Leicester vanished, not without the usual accompaniment of an ear-splitting yell, "we're going to have an awful lot of fun; and we can make just as much noise and racket as we please; but all the same there's a lot of work to be done, and we're going to do it, and do it properly. It's a great deal easier if we have system and method, and so we'll divide up the work and each of us must do our own part, and do it thoroughly and promptly." "Hear, hear!" cried Lilian, who adored her older sister, and was more than willing to obey her commands. "What can I do?" screamed Fairy, who was dancing round and round the kitchen, perching now on the window-seat, now on the table, and now on the back or arm of the old settle. "We must each have our definite work," went on Dorothy, who was herself sitting on the back of a chair with her feet on the wooden seat. "Tessie will have her share, but she can't do everything. So there's plenty for us to do. Grandma is not to do a thing, that's settled. If four women and a man can't take care of one dear old lady, it's high time they learned how." As the youngest of the four "women" was just then clambering up the cupboard shelves, and singing lustily at the top of her voice, some people might have thought that the dear old lady in question had an uncertain outlook. But Dorothy was entirely undisturbed by the attitudes of her audience, and continued her discourse. "I shall do the cooking,--that is, most of it. I'm a born cook, and I love it; besides I want to learn, and so I'm going to try all sorts of dishes, and you children will have to eat them,--good or bad." "I like to make cake and fancy desserts," said Lilian. "All right, you can make them. And I'll make croquettes and omelets, and all sorts of lovely things, and Tessie can look after the boiling of the potatoes and vegetables, and plain things like that. You haven't had much experience in cooking, have you, Tessie?" "No, Miss Dorothy; but I'm glad to learn, and I'll do just whatever you tell me." "Fairy can set the table, and help with the dusting. We girls will each take care of our own rooms, and Tessie can take care of Leicester's. I'll attend to grandma's room myself." "Let me help with that," said Lilian. "Yes, we'll all help; and we'll keep the parlors tidy, and Tessie can wash the dishes and look after the dining-room and kitchen. Leicester can help with the out-of-door work; the grass ought to be mowed and the paths kept in order. But good gracious! none of this work is going to amount to much. If we're spry, we can do it all up in less than no time, and have hours and hours left every day to play, and read, and go out on the lake, and tramp in the woods, and just enjoy ourselves. Oh, isn't it great!" and jumping to the floor with a bang, Dorothy seized the hands of the others, and in a moment all four were dancing around in a ring, while the three Dorrance voices loudly proclaimed that there was no place like home. Tessie had begun to grow accustomed to the boisterous young people, and as she thought everything they did was nothing short of perfection, she readily adapted herself to her own part. "What about the laundry-work, Miss Dorothy?" she asked. "Why, I don't know," said Dorothy. "I hadn't really thought of that. I wonder if we can find a laundress anywhere around. We must ask Mr. Hickox." "Now, Miss Dorothy, if you'll let me, I'm just sure I can do the washing and ironing. With all these beautiful tubs and things, it'll be no trouble at all, at all." "Why if you could, Tessie, that would be fine. Let me see, we won't have many white dresses or fancy things, but there'll be lots of sheets and table linen. You know we're a pretty big family." "Yes, miss; but I'm sure I can do it all. I'm strong, and I'm a good washer." "Well, we'll try it, anyway," said Dorothy, "and see how you get along. We girls will help a little more with your work on Mondays and Tuesdays, and then I think it will all come out right." Dorothy was a singular mixture of capability and inconsequence. Her power of quick decision, and her confidence in her own ability, made her words a little dictatorial; but the gentleness of her nature, and the winning smile which accompanied her orders took from them any touch of unpleasant authority. Dorothy's whole attitude was one of good comradeship, and though much given to turbulent demonstration of her joy of living, she was innately of an equable temperament and had never been known to lose her temper. Lilian, on the other hand, was more excitable, and more prone to hasty decisions which were afterwards rejected or revised. Lilian could get very angry upon occasion, but she had a fine sense of justice; and if she found herself in the wrong, she was more than ready to confess it and to make amends. The two girls really exercised a good influence over one another, and the bonds of affection between them were very strong. Indeed the four Dorrances were a most loyal quartet; and though they teased each other, and made fun of each other, it was always in an honest good-humored spirit that was quite willing to take as much as it gave. CHAPTER VIII MRS. HICKOX At six o'clock the family sat down to supper. Dorothy had a lingering desire to use the great dining-room, but Mrs. Dorrance had persuaded her that it was far more sensible to use the smaller one, and she had pleasantly acquiesced. Indeed the smaller one was a large apartment, about four times the size of Mrs. Cooper's dining-room. The outlook across the lake was charming, and the room itself prettily decorated and furnished. Fairy had wanted to use small tables, letting two sit at each table, but again Grandma Dorrance had gently insisted on a family table. So the small tables had been taken from the room, and a good-sized round dining-table substituted, at which Mrs. Dorrance presided. Leicester sat opposite her, Dorothy on one side, and the two younger girls on the other. Very attractive the table looked, for the china, glass and plated silverware were all practically new, and of pretty design. Tessie was an experienced and willing waitress; and it is safe to say that the Dorrance family had never before so enjoyed a meal. Many hands had made light work, and Dorothy's had made light biscuits, and also a delicious omelet. They had strawberry jam and potted cheese, and some sliced boiled ham, all of which they had bought at the grocery shop on the way up. "It's a sort of pick-up supper," said Dorothy; "but I'm not saying this by way of apology. You will very often have a pick-up supper. Indeed, I think almost always. We're going to have dinner in the middle of the day, because that's the better arrangement in the country." Just at that moment, nobody seemed to care what the dinner hour might be, so interested were they in the supper under consideration. "I think pick-ups are lovely," said Fairy, taking a fourth biscuit; "I never tasted anything so good as these biscuits, and I do hope Dorothy'll make them three times a day. They are perfectly deliciorous!" "You're very flattering," said Dorothy. "But I won't promise to make them three times a day." "I could eat them six times a day," declared Leicester; "but I don't want Dot to be cooking all the time. What do you think, girls, there are lots of boats of every sort and kind. Shall we go out rowing this evening, or wait till to-morrow?" "You'll wait till to-morrow," said grandma, quietly. "All right, grandma," said Leicester; "we'll start to-morrow morning right after breakfast; will you go, too?" "No, not on your first trip. I may go with you some time later in the season. And I'll tell you now, children, once for all, that I'm going to trust you to go on the lake whenever you choose; with the understanding that you're to be sensible and honorable about it. The lake is very treacherous; and if there is the least doubt about its being safe to venture out, you must ask Mr. Hickox about it, and if he advises you against it, you must not go. Also I trust you to act like reasonable human beings when you are in a boat, and not do foolish or rash things. In a word, I trust you not to get drowned, and somehow I feel sure you won't." "Good for you, grannymother!" cried Leicester; "you're of the right sort. Why I've known grandmothers who would walk up and down the dock wringing their hands, for fear their geese weren't swans,--no, I guess I mean for fear their chickens weren't ducks. Well, anyhow, it doesn't make any difference; you're the best grandmother in the world, and always will be." After supper the Dorrances strolled through the hotel, and finally seated themselves in the great parlor. Fairy plumped herself down in the middle of the floor, and sat cross-legged, with her chin in her hands. "What's the matter, baby?" asked Leicester; "aren't these satin sofas good enough for you?" "Yes, but I like to sit in the middle, and then I can look all around. I am just goating over it." "Goat away; we're all doing the same thing," said Dorothy; "now grandmother, you sit on this sofa; and I'll go 'way down to the other end of the room, and sit on that one, and then we'll holler at each other. It's _such_ a relief not to be cooped up in a little bunch." The twins seated themselves on opposite sides of the room, and then the conversation was carried on in loud tones, that delighted the hearts of these noise-loving young people. So merry were they that their laughter quite drowned the sound of the door-bell when it rang, and before they knew it, Tessie was ushering a visitor into the parlor. The great chandeliers had not been lighted, but the thoughtful Tessie had filled and lighted several side lamps, so they were quite able to see their somewhat eccentric-looking guest. She wore a black silk mantilla of an old-fashioned style; and her bonnet which was loaded with dangling black bugles, was not much more modern. She was a small, thin little woman, with bright, snapping black eyes, and a sharp nose and chin. "I'm Mrs. Hickox," she said, "and I'm surprised that you people should come to live in this great big hotel." As Leicester said afterwards, if there had been any doubt as to the lady's identity, they would have felt sure, as soon as she declared her surprise. "We are glad to see you, Mrs. Hickox," said Grandma Dorrance, rising with her gentle grace, and extending her hand in cordial greeting to her visitor. "Won't you be seated?" Mrs. Hickox sat down carefully on the edge of one of the chairs. "I'm surprised," she said, "that you should use this best room so common. Why don't you sit in some of the smaller rooms?" "We like this," said Grandma Dorrance, quietly. "May I present my grandchildren,--this is Dorothy." The four were duly introduced, and really behaved remarkably well considering they were choking with laughter at Mrs. Hickox's continual surprises. "Do you propose to live in the whole house?" asked Mrs. Hickox, after the children had seated themselves a little more decorously than usual. "Yes," said Mrs. Dorrance, "my grandchildren have been cooped up in small city rooms for so long, that they are glad to have plenty of space to roam around in." "'Tisn't good for children to be left so free. It makes 'em regular hobbledehoys. Children need lots of training. Now that Dorothy,--my husband tells me she's head of the house. How ridiculous!" "Perhaps it _is_ ridiculous, Mrs. Hickox," said Dorothy, dimpling and smiling; "but I'm over sixteen, and that's quite a big girl, you know." "Oh, you're big enough for your age, but there's no sense of your keeping house in a great big hotel like this." "There's no sense in our doing anything else, Mrs. Hickox," said Leicester, coming to his sister's rescue. "We own this place, and we can't sell it or rent it, so the only thing to do is to live in it." Mrs. Hickox shook her head until the jets on her bonnet rattled, and the children wondered if she wouldn't shake some of them off. "No good will come of it," she said. "This hotel has had six proprietors since it was built, and none of them could make it pay." "But we're not keeping a hotel, Mrs. Hickox," said Grandma Dorrance, smiling; "we're just living here in a modest, unpretentious way, and I think my grandchildren are going to be happy here." "Well, that's what Mr. Hickox said; but I wouldn't believe him, and I said I'd just come over to see for myself. It seems he was right, and I must say I am surprised." Mrs. Hickox was a nervous, fidgety woman, and waved her hands about in a continuous flutter. She was all the time picking at her bonnet-strings, or her dress-trimmings, or the fringe of her mantilla. Indeed once she pulled the feather of her bonnet over in front of her eyes and then tossed it back with a satisfied smile. "I often do that," she said, "to make sure it's there. It blew out one night, and I lost it. I found it again and sewed it in tight, but I get worried about it every once in a while. I'm awful fond of dress, and I hope you brought a lot of new patterns up from the city. I've got a new-fangled skirt pattern, but I don't like it because it has the pocket in the back. The idea! I was surprised at that. I like a pocket right at my finger-ends all the time." As Mrs. Hickox spoke she thrust her five finger-ends in and out of her pocket so rapidly and so many times, that Dorothy felt quite sure she would wear her precious pocket to rags. "What do you carry in your pocket?" asked Fairy, fascinated by the performance. "Many things," said Mrs. Hickox, mysteriously; "but mostly newspaper clippings. I tell you there's lots of good things in newspapers; and we have a paper 'most every week, so of course I can cut out a good many. The only trouble, cutting clippings out of a paper does spoil the paper for covering shelves. The papers on my pantry shelves now have had some clippings cut out of them, but I just set piles of plates over the holes. Well, I must be going. I just came over to be sociable. I'm your nearest neighbor, and of course up here in the country neighbors have to be neighborly, but I'm free to confess I don't favor borrowing nor lending. Woodville is nearer you than it is me, and I expect you'll do your trading there." "Of course we shall, Mrs. Hickox," said Dorothy, flushing a little; "we are not the sort of people who borrow from our neighbors. But Mr. Hickox told us that you sometimes had vegetables and eggs to sell; if that is so, we'd be glad to buy them." "When I have them, miss, I'll let you know," said Mrs. Hickox, shaking her bugles more violently than ever. "But you needn't come 'round inquiring for them; when I have them I'll let you know." "Thank you," said Dorothy, who was only amused, and not at all angry at her visitor's hostile attitude. But Lilian could not so easily control her indignation. "We can get vegetables and eggs at Woodville," she said. "We don't really need any of yours." "Oh, well, I guess that'll be the least of your troubles," said Mrs. Hickox, edging towards the door, with a restless, jerky gait. "You're lucky if the tank don't burst, or the windmill get out of order, or anything happen that will be really worth worrying over." By this time Mrs. Hickox had backed out and edged along until she was on the veranda. "Good-bye," she said, awkwardly; "come to see me, when you feel to do so; but I ain't noways set on having company. I like the little one best, though." This sudden avowal so startled Fairy, that she fell off the newel-post where she had been daintily balancing herself on one foot. As Leicester caught her in his arms, no harm was done, but Mrs. Hickox ejaculated, with a little more force than usual, "Well, I _am_ surprised!" "That's why I tumbled over," said Fairy, looking intently at Mrs. Hickox, "'cause _I_ was so s'prised that you said you liked me best. If you want me to, I'll come to see you with great pleasure and delight." "Come once in a while," said Mrs. Hickox, cautiously; "but I don't want you racing there all the time." "No, I won't race there all the time," said Fairy, seriously. "I'll just race down about once a day. Where do you live?" "I live in the yellow house,--the first one down the road. But you needn't come more than once a week." "All right," said Fairy, cheerfully; "we'll make it Wednesdays then. I love to have things to do on Wednesday, 'cause I used to take my music lesson on that day, and it's so lonesome not to have anything special to do." While Fairy was talking, Mrs. Hickox had shaken hands all around, and had backed down the steps. "Good-bye," she said, vigorously waving both hands as she went away. "Well, of all queer people!" exclaimed Dorothy, as they went back to the parlor. "I'm glad we haven't many neighbors, if they're all like that. Mr. Hickox is funny enough, but she's funnier yet." "We don't care whether we have neighbors or not, we've got the Dorrance Domain," said Leicester; "and that's enough to make us happy, and keep us so." "So say we all of us," cried Lilian; "the Dorrance Domain forever!" As usual, this was merely a signal for a series of jubilant hurrahs, and quiet Grandma Dorrance sat on her sofa, and listened contentedly to her happy, if noisy brood. CHAPTER IX THE FLOATING BRIDGE Next morning the young Dorrances experienced for the first time the joy of going to market. Their appointed household tasks were all done first, for Dorothy had insisted on that. Then she and Tessie had conferred as to what was needed, and she had made out a list. Grandma Dorrance had decreed against a sailboat for the children alone; but they were at liberty to go in a rowboat. So down the steps the four ran, and found Mr. Hickox waiting for them at the dock. He had put a boat in the water for them. It was a round-bottomed boat, but wide and roomy; easy to row and provided with two pairs of shining oars. "Can any of you row?" inquired Mr. Hickox, looking uncertainly at the children; "for I can't go along with you this morning. Mrs. Hickox, she wants me to work in the garden,--she says the weeds are higher 'n a kite." "We can row," said Leicester; "but not so very well. We haven't had much experience, you know. But we're going to learn." "I thought we'd each have a boat," said Fairy; "I want to learn to row. I want to be a 'sperinshed boat-lady." "You can learn to row, baby, but you can't go in a boat all by yourself until you _have_ learned." "But I 'most know how now." "Well I'll tell you how we'll fix it; two of us will row going over, and the other two can row coming back. To divide up evenly, suppose Dorothy and Lilian row over, and Fairy and I will row home." This was a bit of self-sacrifice on Leicester's part, for he was most eager to handle the oars himself. Mr. Hickox quite appreciated the boy's attitude, and nodded approvingly at him but he only said: "All right, sonny, you sit in the stern and steer, and I make no doubt these young ladies'll row you over in fine shape." Fairy was safely settled in the bow, with an admonition to sit still for once in her life; and then Dorothy and Lilian excitedly grasped the oars and splashed away. It was not very skilful rowing, but it propelled the boat, and by the aid of Leicester's steering, they made a progressive, if somewhat zigzag course. The morning was perfect. The lake calm and placid, with tiny soft ripples all over it. The green hills sloped down to its shore on all sides; while here and there, at long intervals, a house or a building gleamed white among the trees. The exhilarating air, and the excitement of the occasion roused the Dorrances' spirits far above normal,--which is saying a great deal. The arms of the rowers grew very tired; partly because they were so unused to vigorous exercise, and partly because the rowing was far more energetic than scientific. But the girls didn't mind being tired, and pulled away gleefully to an accompaniment of laughter and song. Leicester would have relieved them, but they had promised grandma they would not move around or change places in the boat until they had become more accustomed to nautical ways. But it was only a mile, after all, and they finally landed at Dolan's Point, and guided the bow of their boat up on to the beach in a truly shipshape manner. Fairy sprang out with a bound that landed her on the dry sand; Leicester followed, and then helped the exhausted but victorious galley-slaves to alight. "Isn't it glorious!" cried Dorothy, panting for breath, but aglow with happiness. "Fine!" agreed Lilian, but she looked a little ruefully at eight blisters on her pink palms. "That's all right," said Leicester, cheerfully; "you'll get calloused after a while; blisters always have to come first." "Oh, pooh, I don't mind them a bit," protested Lilian; for the Dorrances were all of a plucky disposition. On they went, following the directions given them by Mr. Hickox, and making wonderful explorations at every turn. Dolan's Point seemed to be occupied principally by a large boathouse. This belonged to a club-house, which was farther up the hill, and whose turrets and gables shining in the morning sunlight, looked like those of an old castle. Their way lay across the point, and then they were to cross a small arm of the lake by means of a bridge. Dorothy had hoped for a rustic bridge, and Leicester had told her that it would probably be two foot-planks and a hand-rail. But when they saw the bridge itself, they were really struck speechless with wonder and delight. It was a floating bridge, built of logs. It was perhaps eight feet wide, and was made by logs laid transversely and close together. They were held in place by immense iron chains which went alternately over and under the logs at their ends. Except at the sides of the bridge, the logs were not visible for they were covered with a deep layer of soil on which grew luxuriant green grass. The thick grass had been mowed and cared for until it resembled a soft velvet carpet. On either side of the bridge was a hand-rail of rope, supported at intervals by wooden uprights. The rope rails and the uprights were both covered with carefully trained vines. Among these were morning-glory vines, and their pink and purple blossoms made an exquisite floral decoration. Evidently the bridge was in charge of somebody who loved to care for it, and who enjoyed keeping it in order. "Do you suppose we walk on it?" asked Fairy, with a sort of awe in her voice. "Yes," said Leicester. "It must be meant for that; but isn't it the most beautiful thing you ever saw!" It certainly was, and the children stepped on to it gently, and walked slowly as one would walk in a church aisle. Although suspended at both ends, almost the whole length of the bridge rested on the water, and swayed gently with the rippling of the lake. It was a delicious sensation to walk on the unstable turf, and feel it move slightly under foot. As they advanced further, it seemed as if they were floating steadily along, and Fairy grasped Leicester's hand with a little tremor. When they reached the middle of the bridge they all sat down on the grass, and discussed the wonderful affair. "I shall spend most of my time here," said Dorothy; "it seems to be public property, and I like it better than any park I have ever seen." "It's lovely," agreed Lilian; "I'd like to bring a book and sit here all day and read." "But it's so funny," said Fairy; "it's a bridge, and it's a park, and it's a garden, and it's a front yard,--and yet all the time it's a bridge." "Well, let's go on," said Leicester. "I suppose it will keep, and we can walk back over it. And if we don't get our marketing done, we'll be like the old woman who didn't get home in time to make her apple-dumplings." "If she had found this bridge," declared Dorothy, "she never would have gone home at all, and her story would never have been told." But they all scrambled up and went on merrily towards the grocery store. The store itself was a delight, as real country stores always are. Mr. Bill Hodges was a storekeeper of the affable type, and expressed great interest in his new customers. He regaled them with ginger-snaps and thin slivers of cheese, which he cut off and proffered on the point of a huge shiny-bladed knife. This refreshment was very acceptable, and when he supplemented it with a glass of milk all around, Dorothy was so grateful that she felt as if she ought to buy out his whole stock. But putting on a most housewifely air, she showed Mr. Hodges her list of needs, and inquired if he could supply them. "Bless your heart, yes," he replied. "Bill Hodges is the man to purvide you with them things. Shall I send 'em to you?" "Oh, can you?" said Dorothy. "I didn't know you delivered goods. I'd be glad if you would send the bag of flour and the potatoes, but most of the smaller things we can carry ourselves." "Well I swan!" exclaimed Mr. Bill Hodges; "you're real bright, you air. How did ye come over? Walk?" "No, sir," said Leicester. "We came in a rowboat; and then walked across the Point and over the bridge. We think that bridge very wonderful." "And very beautiful," added Lilian. "Who keeps it so nice?" "And doesn't it ever fall down in the water?" asked Fairy; "or doesn't the mud wash off, or don't people fall off of it and get drownded? and how do you cut the grass, and how do you water the flowers? It's just like a conservatorory!" As Mr. Bill Hodges was something of a talker himself, he was surprised to be outdone in his own line by the golden-haired stranger-child, who, apparently without effort, reeled off such a string of questions. But as they referred to a subject dear to his heart he was delighted to answer them. "That bridge, my young friends, is my joy and delight. Nobody touches that bridge, to take care of it, but Bill Hodges,--that's me. I'm proud of that bridge, I am, and I don't know what I'd do, if I didn't have it to care for. I'm glad you like it; I ain't got nary chick nor child to run across it. So whenever you young folks feel like coming over to look at it, I'll be pleased and proud to have ye; pleased and proud, that's what I'll be; so come early and come often, come one and come all." "We'll bring our grandmother over to see it," said Dorothy, "just as soon as we can manage to do so." "Do," said Mr. Hodges, heartily. "Bring her along, bring her along. Glad to welcome her, I'm sure. Now I'll go 'long and help you tote your bundles to your boat. I don't have crowds of customers this time of day, and I can just as well go as not." The kind-hearted old man filled a basket with their purchases, and trudged along beside the children. "Ain't it purty!" he exclaimed as they crossed the bridge. "Oh, _ain't_ it purty?" "It is," said Dorothy. "I don't wonder you love it." "And there ain't another like it in the whole world," went on the prideful Hodges. "Of course there are floating bridges, but no-wheres is there one as purty as this." The children willingly agreed to this statement, and praised the bridge quite to the content of its owner. "Fish much?" Mr. Hodges inquired casually of Leicester. "Well, we haven't yet. You see we only arrived yesterday, and we're not fairly settled yet." "Find plenty of fishin' tackle over to my place. Come along when you're ready, and Bill Hodges'll fit ye out. Pretty big proposition,--you kids shakin' around in that great empty hotel." "Yes, but we like it," said Leicester; "it just suits us, and we're going to have a fine time all summer." "Hope ye will, hope ye will. There ain't been nobody livin' there now for two summers and I'm right down glad to have somebody into it." "Why do you suppose they couldn't make it pay as a hotel?" asked Dorothy. "Well, it was most always the proprietor's fault. Yes, it was the proprietor's fault. Nice people would come up there to board, and then Harding,--he was the last fellow that tried to run it,--he wouldn't treat 'em nice. He'd scrimp 'em, and purty nigh starve 'em. Ye can't keep boarders that way. And so of course the boarders kept leavin', and so the hotel got a bad name, and so nobody wants to try a hand at it again." When they reached the boat, Mr. Hodges stowed their basket away for them, helped the children in and pushed the boat off. With gay good-byes and promises to come soon again, the children rowed away. Leicester and Fairy took the oars this time, and Fairy's comical splashing about made fun for them all. She soon declared she had rowed enough for one day, but Leicester proved himself well able to get the boat across the lake without assistance. CHAPTER X THE HICKOXES AT HOME On Wednesday morning Fairy declared her intention of visiting Mrs. Hickox. She carried her kitten with her, and danced gaily along the road, singing as she went. She found the house without any trouble, as it was the only one in sight; and opening the front gate, she walked up the flower-bordered path to the house, still singing loudly. She wore the kitten around her neck as a sort of boa, and this seemed to be a satisfactory arrangement to all concerned, for the kitten purred contentedly. Fairy rapped several times at the front door, but there was no answer; so she walked leisurely around to the side of the house. There she saw another outside door, which seemed to open into a small room or ell attached to the house. She knocked at this door, and it was opened by Mrs. Hickox herself, but such a different looking Mrs. Hickox from the one who had called on them, that Fairy scarcely recognized her. Her hair was done up in crimping pins, and she wore a short black skirt and a loose white sacque. "Goodness me!" she exclaimed, "have you come traipsing over here a'ready? What's the matter with your hotel, that you can't stay in it?" "There's nothing a matter with the hotel, Mrs. Hickox," said Fairy, amiably; "but I said I'd come to see you on Wednesday, and so I came. I've brought my kitten." "You've brought your kitten! for the land sake what did you do that for? Don't you know this is my milk-room? The idea of a kitten in a milk-room! Well I _am_ surprised!" "Oh, I think a milk-room is just the place for a kitten. Couldn't you give her a little drink of milk, she's awfully fond of it." "Why I s'pose I could give her a little. Such a mite of a cat wouldn't want much; but I do hate cats; they're such pestering creatures." "But this one doesn't pester, Mrs. Hickox," said Fairy, earnestly. "She's such a dear good little kitty. Her name is Mike." "What a ridiculous name! I'm surprised that you should call her that." "It isn't much of a name," said Fairy, apologetically. "But you see it's only temporaneous. I couldn't think of just the right name, so I just call her Mike, because that's short for my kitten." "Mike! short for my kitten! Well so it is, but I never thought of it before." "All our other animals have regular names," volunteered Fairy. "Our dog,--his name's Dare; our two rabbits are Gog and Magog,--Leicester named them; or at least he named one, and let Lilian name the other. They're twins you know,--the rabbits, I mean. Then we have a canary bird and he's named Bobab. That's a nice name, isn't it?" "Nice name? It's heathenish! What a queer lot of children you are, anyway." "Yes, aren't we?" said Fairy, agreeably. "We Dorrances are all queer. I guess we inheritated it from my grandpa's people, because my grandma isn't a bit queer." "Oh, isn't she? I think she's queer to let you children come up here, and do what you are doing." "Oh, that isn't queer. You only think my grandma queer because you don't know her. Why, I used to think you quite queer before I knew you as well as I do now." "You consider yourself well acquainted now, do you?" "Oh, yes; when anybody visits anybody sociaberly, like I do you, they know each other quite well. But I think it's queer why you call this room a milk-room." Fairy looked around at the shelves and tables which were filled with jars and pans and baskets, and receptacles of all sorts. The floor was of brick, and the room was pleasantly cool, though the weather had begun to be rather warm. "I call it a milk-room because that's its name," said Mrs. Hickox, shortly. "But _why_ is that its name?" persisted Fairy. "You keep everything else here as well as milk. Why don't you call it the butter-room or the pie-room?" "Oh, I don't know. Don't pester me so with your questions. Here's a cookie; now I'll take you in the house, and show you the best room, and then you must go home. I don't like to have little girls around very much. Come along, but don't eat your cookie in the house; you'll make crumbs. Put it in your pocket until you get out of doors again." "I won't pester," said Fairy; "you just go on with your work, whatever you were doing, and I'll play around by myself." "By yourself! I guess you won't! Do you suppose I want a great girl like you rampoosing around my house! I've seen you fly around! You'd upset everything." "I expect I would, Mrs. Hickox," said Fairy, laughing. "I just certainly can't sit still; it gives me the widgets." "I guess I won't take you into the best room after all, then. Like as not you'd knock the doves over." "Oh, do let me go! What are the doves? I'll promise not to knock them over, and I'll hold Mike tight so she can't get away. Oh, come, oh, come; show me the best room!" As Mrs. Hickox's parlor was the pride of her life, and as she rarely had opportunity to exhibit it to anybody, she was glad of even a child to show it to. So bidding Fairy be very careful not to touch a thing, she led her through the hall and opened the door of the sacred best room. It was dark inside, and it smelled a little musty. Mrs. Hickox opened one of the window-blinds for the space of about two inches, but even while she was doing so, Fairy had flown around the room, and flung open all of the other window sashes and blinds. Then before Mrs. Hickox could find words to express her wrath at this desecration, Fairy had begun a running fire of conversation which left her hostess no chance to utter a word. "Oh, are these the doves? How perfectly lovely!" she cried, pausing on tip-toe in front of a table on which was a strange-shaped urn of white alabaster, filled with gaily-colored artificial flowers. On opposite sides of the rim of the urn were two stuffed white doves, facing each other across the flowers. "Where did you get them? Are they alive? Are they stuffed? What are their eyes made of? Were they your grandmother's? Oh, one of them had his wing broken. You sewed it on again, didn't you? But the stitches show. My sister has some glue, white glue, that would fix that bird up just fine. When I come next Wednesday, I'll bring that glue with me and we'll rip off that wing and fix it up all right." "Well, I _am_ surprised!" said Mrs. Hickox. "What do children like you know about such things? But still, if you think it would do well, I'd like to try it. I've got a newspaper clipping about that white glue, but I never saw any. Has your grandma unpacked her dress patterns yet?" "I don't know," said Fairy. "I don't think she has any. We never make our own dresses." "For the land sake! Why I thought they looked home-made. Well I _am_ surprised! But hurry up and see the room, for I want to get them shutters shut again." Fairy didn't see anything in the room that interested her greatly. The red-flowered carpet, the stiff black horsehair chairs, and the marble-topped centre-table moved her neither to admiration nor mirth. "I've seen it all, thank you," she said. "Do you want it shut up again? What do you keep it so shut up for? Do you like to have it all musty and damp? I should think some of your newspaper clippings would tell you to throw open your windows and let in the fresh air and sunshine." "Why they do say that," said Mrs. Hickox; "but of course I don't take it to mean the best room." "We do," said Fairy, dancing around from window to window as she shut the blinds. "We have that great big parlor over at the Dorrance Domain flung wide open most of the time; and the little parlors, too, and the dining-room and all our bedrooms." "Well, I _am_ surprised!" said Mrs. Hickox. "It must fade your carpets all out, doesn't it?" "I don't know; we haven't been there three days yet, so of course they haven't faded very much. I guess I must go home now. Leicester went out fishing this morning, and Dorothy and Lilian went to market, and I'm just crazy to see what they've accumerated." "Well, run along," said Mrs. Hickox; "and you can come again next Wednesday, but don't bring your kitten the next time. When you do come again, I wish you'd bring some of that white glue you were talking about; I would certainly like to try it. Here, wait a minute, I'll give you some gum-drops; then you'll remember the glue, won't you?" "I'd remember it anyway, Mrs. Hickox; but I do love candy, per-tickle-uly gum-drops." "Well, here's three; don't eat them all to-day." "Thank you, Mrs. Hickox," said Fairy, taking the three precious bits of candy. Then saying good-bye, she danced away with her kitten tucked under her arm. Shortly after Fairy's departure, Mr. Hickox came dawdling along towards his own home. "I do declare, Hickory Hickox, if you haven't been and wasted the whole morning, fooling with those Dorrance young ones! Now what have you been doing?" "Oh, nothin' in particular. Just helpin' 'em get settled a bit. Lookin' after their boats and things, and buildin' a little house for them rabbits of theirs. That Leicester, he's a smart chap; handy with tools, and quick to catch on to anything." "Well I _am_ surprised! Wasting a whole morning building a rabbit-coop!" "For the land's sake, Susan, it ain't wasted time. They pay me for all I do for 'em, and they pay me well, too." "They're extravagant people. They have no business to hire you to work around so much, when you've got plenty to do at home." "Oh, don't worry; Hickox'll look after things. It'll be all right." Though he spoke carelessly, Mr. Hickox was in reality much disturbed by his wife's sharp speeches. Long years of married life with her had not yet enabled his gentle, peace-loving nature to remain unruffled under her stormy outbursts of temper. He stood, unconsciously and nervously fumbling with a wisp of straw he had plucked from a near-by broom. "You're shiftless and idle, Hickory, and you don't know what's good for yourself. Now do stop fiddling with that straw. First thing you know, you'll be poking it in your ear. I cut out a newspaper clipping only yesterday, about a man who poked a straw in his ear, and it killed him. That's what you'll come to some day." "No, I won't." "Yes, you will! But just you remember this safe rule: never put anything in your ear, but your elbow. But you're so forgetful. I am surprised that a man _can_ be as forgetful as you are! Throw that straw away,--it's safer." "Yes, it's safer, Susan," and Mr. Hickox threw his straw away. "And when you sit down to dinner, I hope you will tie yourself into your chair. You may not fall off, but it's safer." Mrs. Hickox gave her husband a scornful look, which was all the reply she usually vouchsafed to his occasional shafts of mild sarcasm. "That big dog is a ridiculous extravagance," she went on. "He must eat as much as a man. I am surprised that people as poor as they are should keep such a raft of animals." "Why the Dorrances aren't poor." "Yes they are; and if they aren't they soon will be. Throwin' open that great big house for them few people, is enough to ruin a millionaire. That little girl says they use nearly every room in it." "So they do," said Mr. Hickox, chuckling; "when I went over there this morning, they was every one in a different room; happy as clams, and noisy as a brass band." "They're a terrible lot! I never saw anything like them." "That Dorothy is a smart one," declared Mr. Hickox, with an air of great conviction. "Some day she'll set Lake Ponetcong on fire!" "I wouldn't be at all surprised," said Mrs. Hickox, which was, all things considered, a remarkable statement. CHAPTER XI SIX INVITATIONS June came, and found the Dorrance Domain in full working order. The experiment seemed to be proving a complete success; and the six people who lived in the big hotel were collectively and individually happy. Grandma Dorrance realized that all was well, and gave the children absolute liberty to do as they pleased from morning to night, feeling grateful that the circumstances permitted her to do this. Besides enjoying their happiness, the dear old lady was quite happy and contented on her own account. The delightful bracing air made her feel better and stronger; and the entire freedom from care or responsibility quieted her nerves. Dorothy was complete mistress of the house. The responsibilities of this position had developed many latent capabilities of her nature, and she was daily proving herself a sensible, womanly girl, with a real talent for administration, and much executive ability. She was very kind to Tessie, realizing that the Irish, girl had no friends or companions of her own class around her; but Dorothy also preserved a certain dignified attitude, which became the relation of mistress and maid. She ordered the household affairs with good judgment, and was rapidly becoming an expert cook. This part of the domestic work specially appealed to her, and she thoroughly enjoyed concocting elaborate dishes for the delectation of her family. Sometimes these confections did not turn out quite right; but Dorothy was not discouraged, and cheerfully threw away the uneatable messes, and tried the same difficult recipes again, until she had conquered them. The flaw in Dorothy's character was an over self-confidence; but this was offset by her sunny good-humored disposition, and she gaily accepted the situation, when the others teased her about her failures. The days passed like beautiful dreams. The family rose late, as there was no special reason why they should rise early. The children spent much time on the water in their rowboats, and also renewed their acquaintance with Captain Kane, who took them frequently for a little excursion in the _Mamie Mead_. But perhaps best of all, Dorothy liked the hours she spent lying in a hammock, reading or day-dreaming. She was fond of books, and had an ambition to write poetry herself. This was not a romantic tendency, but rather a desire to express in beautiful, happy language the joy of living that was in her heart. She rarely spoke of this ambition to the others, for they did not sympathize with it, and frankly expressed very positive opinions that she was not a poet and never would be. Indeed, they said that Fairy had more imagination and poetic temperament then Dorothy. Dorothy was willing to agree to this, for she in no way over-estimated her own talent,--she was merely acutely conscious of her great desire to write things. So often for a whole afternoon she would lie in a hammock under the trees, looking across the lake at the hills and the sky, and assimilating the wonderful beauty of it all. This dreamy side of Dorothy's nature seemed to be in sharp contrast to her practical energetic power of work; it also seemed incongruous with her intense love of fun and her enjoyment of noisy, rollicking merriment. But these different sides reacted on each other, and combined with Dorothy's natural frankness and honesty, made a sweet and wholesome combination. Had Dorothy been an only child, she might have been given too much to solitude and introspection; but by the counteracting influences of her diverting family, and her care of their welfare, she was saved from such a fate. One day she was suddenly impressed with a conviction that Grandma Dorrance must often feel lonely, and that something ought to be done to give her some special pleasure. "We all have each other," said Dorothy to the other children, "but grandma can't go chasing around with us, and she ought to have somebody to amuse her, at least for a time. So I think it would be nice to invite Mrs. Thurston up here to spend a week with us." Mrs. Thurston was a lifelong friend of Mrs. Dorrance's, and moreover was a lady greatly liked by the Dorrance children. "It would be very nice," said grandma, much gratified by Dorothy's thoughtfulness; "I don't really feel lonely, you know; it isn't that. But I would enjoy having Mrs. Thurston here for a time, and I am sure she would enjoy it too." "Hooray for Mrs. Thurston!" shouted Leicester; "and say, Dot, I'd like to have company too. S'pose we ask Jack Harris to come up for a few days. I'm the only boy around these parts, and I declare I'd like to have a chum. Meaning no slight to my revered sisters." "I want Gladys Miller," said Fairy. "The twins have each other, and Dorothy has grandma, but I don't seem to have any little playmate, 'cept Mrs. Hickox, and she's so supernumerated." They all laughed at this, but Dorothy said, "Why, we'll each invite one guest. That's a fine idea! There's plenty of room, and as to the extra work, if we all do a little more each day, it won't amount to much. I'll ask Edith Putnam, and Lilian, of course, you'll want May Lewis." "Yes, of course," cried Lilian; "I'd love to have May up here. I never once thought of it before." "I'll tell you what!" exclaimed Leicester. "Now here's a really brilliant idea. Let Tessie invite some friend of hers too, and then she can help you girls with the work." "That _is_ a good idea," said Grandma Dorrance, approvingly. "We'd have to have extra help, with so many more people, and if Tessie has any friend who would like to come for a week, it would be very satisfactory. Of course we will pay her wages." "Wowly-wow-wow!" exclaimed Leicester; "won't we have rackets! I say, Dot, give Jack that other tower room, right over mine, will you? He'd like it first-rate." "Yes, and we'll give Mrs. Thurston that big pleasant room next to grandma's. Tessie and I will begin to-day to get the rooms ready." "Hold on, sis, don't go too fast; you haven't had any acceptances yet to the invitations you haven't yet sent!" "No, but they'll all come fast enough; we'll each write to-day, and we'll tell the people to get together, and all come up in a bunch," said Lilian. "I know May Lewis's mother wouldn't let her come alone, but with Mrs. Thurston, it will be all right." "And Captain Kane can bring the whole crowd up from the station," said Leicester; "and we'll row down to the lock to meet them. And we'll have flags and bonfires and Chinese lanterns for a celebration. There's lots of Chinese lanterns up in one of the storerooms,--we'll just have to get some candles. Jiminy! won't it be fun!" "Perhaps it will be too hard on you, Dorothy," said Mrs. Dorrance; "doubling the family means a great deal of extra cooking, you know." "Oh, that will be all right, grannymother; and perhaps the lady Tessie invites will be able to help out with the cooking." "Gladys's room must be next to mine," said Fairy, "so we can be sociarbubble. I shall take her to see Mrs. Hickox the first thing, and she'll proberly give us two gum-drops apiece." Fairy's friendship with Mrs. Hickox was a standing joke in the family, and that lady's far from extravagant gifts of confectionery caused great hilarity among the younger Dorrances. Full of their new project, they all flew to write their letters of invitation, and within an hour the six missives were ready, and Leicester volunteered to row over to Woodville with them. Tessie was delighted at the prospect, when Dorothy explained it to her. "Shure, I'll ask me mother," she exclaimed; "she's afther bein' a fine cook, Miss Dorothy, an' yez'll niver regret the day she comes. Indade, she can turn her hand to annythin'." Although Tessie was a superior type of Irish girl, and usually spoke fairly good English, when excited, she always dropped into a rich brogue which greatly delighted the children. "Just the thing, Tessie; write for your mother at once, or I'll write for you, if you like, and I hope she'll come up with the rest of them." "Shure, she will, Miss Dorothy; she lives all alone an' she can come as aisy as not. An' she's that lonesome for me, you wouldn't believe! Och, but she'll be glad of the chance." Feeling sure that most if not all of their guests would accept the invitations, Dorothy, Lilian and Tessie,--more or less hindered by Fairy, who tried hard to help,--spent the afternoon arranging the bedrooms. It was a delightful task, for everything that was needed seemed to be at hand in abundance. The hotel when built, had been most lavishly and elaborately furnished, even down to the smallest details. The successive proprietors had apparently appreciated the value of the appointments, and had kept them in perfect order and repair. Moreover, as their successive seasons had been a continuous series of failures, and few guests had stayed at the hotel, there had been little wear and tear. Although Mrs. Hickox had not lost her grudging demeanor regarding her eggs and vegetables, yet Fairy was able to wheedle some flowers from her now and then, with the result that the Dorrance Domain had assumed a most attractive and homelike general effect. Of course, the individual rooms showed the taste and hobbies of their several owners; while the large parlor which the family had come to use as a general living-room had entirely lost all resemblance to a hotel parlor, and had become the crowning glory of the Dorrance Domain. The Dorrances had a way of leaving the impress of their personality upon all their belongings; and since the big hotel belonged to them, it had necessarily grown to look like their home. "I think," said Dorothy, "if they all come, it would be nicer to use the big dining-room." "And the little tables," cried Fairy; "two at each one, you know. Me and Gladys at one, and Leicester and Jack at another, and grandma and----" "Oh, no, Fairy," said grandma, "that wouldn't be nice at all. It wouldn't even be polite. Use the big dining-room, if you wish, but let us all sit at one table. Surely, you can find a table big enough for ten." "Oh, yes," cried Leicester; "there are a lot of great big round table-tops in the storeroom. They're marked 'banquet tables'; one of those will be just the thing." "What do you do with a table-top, if it doesn't have any legs?" asked Fairy. "Do you put it on the floor, and all of us sit on the floor around it, like turkeys?" "I suppose you mean Turks," said Leicester, instructively; "but no, we don't arrange it just that way. We simply put the big round table-top on top of the table we are now using, and there you are!" "It will be beautiful," said Dorothy. "I do love a round table. You can make it look so lovely with flowers and things. I hope they'll all come." Dorothy's hopes were fulfilled, and every one of the six who were invited sent a delighted acceptance. Tessie's mother, perhaps, expressed the most exuberant pleasure, but all seemed heartily glad to come. They were invited for a week, and were expected to arrive one Thursday afternoon at about four o'clock. Vast preparations had been made, for every one was interested especially in one guest, and each made ready in some characteristic way. Dorothy, as housekeeper, spent all her energies on the culinary preparations. She delighted the heart of Mr. Bill Hodges by her generous orders, and she and Tessie had concocted a pantry-full of good things for the expected visitors. Lilian had put the hotel in apple-pie order, and given finishing touches to the guests' rooms, and Fairy had performed her part by inducing Mrs. Hickox to let them have an extra lot of flowers. These flowers were all of old-fashioned varieties which grew luxuriantly in Mrs. Hickox's garden; and arranged with Lilian's exquisite taste, and by her deft fingers, they made really lovely decorations for parlor, dining-room and bedrooms. CHAPTER XII GUESTS FOR ALL As the guests would reach the Dorrance Domain by daylight, Leicester's plan of illuminating the grounds was scarcely feasible. But he had hung the Chinese lanterns on the veranda, and among the trees, and had put candles inside them, so they could light them up, and have their celebration in the evening. It was arranged that the twins should row down to meet the _Mamie Mead_ and then get on board, and escort the guests up the lake, towing their own rowboat. Dorothy preferred to stay at home, to attend to some last important details in the kitchen, and Fairy said she would sit with grandma on the veranda, and await the arrival. Soon after four o'clock, Fairy ran into the house screaming to Dorothy that the _Mamie Mead_ was in sight. This gave Dorothy ample time to run up-stairs for a final brush to her hair, and a final adjustment of her ribbons, and there was no air of a flurried or perturbed housekeeper about the calm and graceful girl who sauntered out on the veranda to greet her guests. Fairy danced half-way down the steps to the dock, and then danced back again hand-in-hand with Gladys Miller. The others came up more slowly, and Grandma Dorrance rose with pleasure to welcome her dear friend Mrs. Thurston. Then there was a general chorus of excited greetings all around. The newcomers were so astonished and delighted at the novelty of the situation, that they could not restrain their enthusiasm; and the residents of the Dorrance Domain were so proud and happy to offer such unusual hospitality, that they too, were vociferously jubilant. But the stranger among the newcomers was of such appalling proportions that Dorothy couldn't help staring in amazement. Tessie's mother was quite the largest woman she had ever seen, and Dorothy privately believed that she must be the largest woman in the whole world. She was not only very tall, and also very broad, but she had an immense frame, and her muscles seemed to indicate a powerfulness far beyond that of an ordinary man. To this gigantic specimen of femininity Dorothy advanced, and said pleasantly: "I suppose this is Kathleen?" "Yis, mum; an' it's proud I am to be wid yez. The saints presarve ye, fur a foine young lady! An' wud yez be's afther showin' me to me daughter? Och, 'tis there she is! Tessie, me darlint, is it indade yersilf?" Tessie had caught sight of her mother, and unable to control her impatience had run to meet her. Though Tessie was a fair-sized girl she seemed to be quite swallowed up in the parental embrace. Her mother's arms went 'round her, and Leicester exclaimed, involuntarily, "Somebody ought to rescue Tessie! she'll have every bone cracked!" But she finally emerged, unharmed and beaming with happiness, and then she led her mother away to the kitchen, the big woman radiating joy as she went. "She jars the earth," said Jack Harris; "as long as she's on this side, the lake is liable to tip up, and flood this place of yours. But I say, Less, what a magnificent place it is! Do you run the whole shooting-match?" "Yes, we do," said Leicester, trying to look modest and unostentatious. "It isn't really too big, that is,--I mean,--we like it big." "Like it? I should think you would like it! It's just the greatest ever! I say, take me in the house, and let me see that, will you?" The girls wanted to go too, and so leaving the elder ladies to chat on the veranda, the children ran in, and the Dorrance Domain was exhibited to most appreciative admirers. Jack Harris was eager to see it all; and even insisted on going up through the skylight to the roof. This feat had not before been thought of by the Dorrance children, and so the whole crowd clambered up the narrow flight of stairs that led to the skylight, and scrambled out on the roof. Dorothy's dignity was less observable just now, and she and Edith Putnam romped and laughed with the other children as if they were all of the same age. The view from the roof was beautiful, and the place really possessed advantages as a playground. There was a railing all around the edge, and though the gables were sloping, many parts of the roof were flat, and Jack declared it would be a lovely place to sit on a moonlight night. Then down they went again, and showing the guests to their various rooms, made them feel that at last they were really established in the Dorrance Domain. This naturally broke the party up into couples, and Leicester carried Jack off to his own room first, to show him the many boyish treasures that he had already accumulated. Fairy flew around, as Jack Harris expressed it, "like a hen with her head off," and everywhere Fairy went, she dragged the more slowly moving Gladys after her, by one hand. Gladys was devoted to Fairy, and admired her thistledown ways; but being herself a fat, stolid child, could by no means keep up to Fairy's pace. Dorothy took Edith Putnam to her room, and being intimate friends the two girls sat down together, and became so engrossed in their chat, that when nearly a half-hour later, Lilian and May Lewis came in to talk with them, Edith had not yet even taken off her hat. Although dear friends of the Dorrances', Edith and May were of very different types. Edith Putnam was a round, rosy girl, very pretty and full of life and enthusiasm. She was decidedly comical, and kept the girls laughing by her merry retorts. She was bright and capable, but disinclined for hard work, and rather clever in shifting her share of it to other people's shoulders. May Lewis, on the other hand, was a plain, straightforward sort of girl; not dull, but a little diffident, and quite lacking in self-confidence. Not especially quick-witted,--yet what she knew, she knew thoroughly, and had no end of perseverance and persistence. She was of a most unselfish and helpful disposition, and Lilian well knew that without asking, May would assist her at her household tasks during the visit, and would even do more than her share. Dorothy frankly explained to the girls what the household arrangements were in the Dorrance Domain, and said, that since certain hours of the day must be devoted to regular work by the Dorrance sisters, the guests would at such times be thrown upon their own resources for entertainment. "Not I!" cried Edith; "I shall help you, Dorothy, in everything you have to do while I'm here. Indeed, I just think I'll do up your chores for you, and let you take a rest. I'm sure you need one. Not that you look so; I never saw you look so fat and rosy in your life; but you mustn't work too hard just because you have company. You mustn't do a single thing extra for us, will you?" "You mustn't dictate to your hostess, miss," returned Dorothy, gaily; "and I hardly think you can assist me very much, for I look after the cookery part, and I think you've given me to understand that you detest cooking. Also, I most certainly shall do extra things while you're here. It is my pleasure to entertain my guests properly," and Dorothy smiled in her most grown-up manner. "Good gracious! Dorothy Dorrance, did your manners come with your Domain, or where did you get that highfalutin air of yours?" "Oh, that was put on purposely to impress you with my importance," said Dorothy, dimpling into a little girl again. "But truly, I must skip down to the kitchen now, and see if my Parker House rolls are rising, rose or having risen. No, you can't come, Edith; you'd spoil the rolls,--though you'd do it in a most well-meaning way. Now you girls all go out, and disport yourselves on the lawn, while I do my noble duty. Though I'm free to confess I'm scared to death of that awe-inspiring mother-person that Tessie has imported." "I think she'll be helpful," said May Lewis. "She came up with us you know, and really she's wonderful. She looked after us all, and she's as funny as a red wagon." "Red wagon!" exclaimed Edith; "she's nearer the size of a red automobile, and she has the same kind of energy that automobiles are said to have. I don't own one myself, so I don't know." "I don't own one either," said Dorothy, "so I don't know how to manage one. But I suppose I must make a try at managing the bulky Kathleen,--so I may as well start." The whole troop ran down the wide staircase, except Fairy, who slid down the banister, and leaving the others in the hall, Dorothy ran away to the kitchen. There she found Kathleen proceeding in a manner quite in accordance with her appearance. She had assumed immediate and entire charge of the supper preparations, and was ordering Tessie about in a good-natured, but domineering way. "Lave me have a bit o' red pepper, darlint," she was saying, as Dorothy came in; "this dhressin' is flat for the want of it. Ah, Miss Dorothy, is that you, thin? an' I'm jist afther shlappin' together yer salad-dhressin'. I obsarved the things all shtandin' ready an' I whacked 'em up." "Why, that was very kind of you, Kathleen," said Dorothy; "it has helped me a great deal. Where are my rolls, Tessie?" "They was risin' too fast, miss," said Kathleen, entirely ignoring her daughter's presence, "an' I set 'em in the pantry forninst, to kape 'em back." "Good for you, Kathleen! you're a jewel. I was afraid those things would get too light. Now, if you'll get them for me, I'll mould them over." "Shure, I moulded them over, miss. They're all ready to bake, an' it's Kathleen as'll bake 'em for ye." "Well," said Dorothy, laughing, "there doesn't seem to be anything left for me to do. Will you dress the salad, Kathleen?" "I will that, miss! Now don't bother yer purty head anny more about the supper. Shure, it's Kathleen will attind to it all, intoirely. This shcapegrace, Tessie, will show me where things do be, an' yez needn't show so much as the tip av yer nose, until it's all on the table." "Kathleen, you're an angel in disguise, and not much disguised at that. Now look here, I'm very practical, and if you're going to stay here a week, we may as well understand each other from the start. I'd be delighted to leave this supper entirely in your hands; but are you sure that you can do everything satisfactorily? I'm rather particular, as Tessie can tell you, and to-night, I want everything especially nice, and well-served, in honor of my guests." "Now, there's talk for ye! You're the right kind of a lady to wurruk for. But, ye need have niver a fear; Kathleen'll do iverything jist as foine as yersilf or yer lady grandmother cud be afther desirin'." "Very well, Kathleen, I shall trust you with the whole affair then. You can broil chickens, of course?" "To a turrn, miss." Kathleen's large face was so expressive as she said this (and there was so much room on her face for expression), that Dorothy felt no further doubts as to the chickens. She ran from the kitchen, laughing, and joined the group on the veranda. "I'm a lady of leisure," she announced gaily; "that large and altogether delightful piece of architecture, called Kathleen, insists upon cooking the supper, over which I had expected to spend a hard-working hour." "Jolly for Kathleen!" exclaimed Leicester, throwing his cap high in the air, and catching it on his head; "I do hate to have Dot working for her living, while we're all enjoying ourselves." "Jolly for Kathleen!" echoed Jack Harris; "the lady of magnificent distances." And though Grandma Dorrance did not join audibly in the general hurrah, she was no less glad that her pretty Dorothy was relieved from household drudgery on that particularly merry occasion. CHAPTER XIII AN UNWELCOME LETTER The week at the Dorrance Domain passed all too quickly, in the opinion of the happy young people. There was so much to do, and every day seemed to bring new pleasures. The weather was of the most beautiful June variety, and the lake was as smooth as glass and most pleasant to ride upon. One day they all went out in rowboats, and called themselves a regatta. Another day, Captain Kane took them all for a sail in the _Mamie Mead_. But perhaps the nicest outing of all, was the day they had a picnic on the floating bridge. They carried their luncheon, and camped out on the bridge to eat it. Mr. Bill Hodges was delighted to grant them permission to do this, and brought them some fruit from his store as an addition to their feast. "It's the strangest thing," said Edith Putnam, "to be on the land and on the water at the same time. Here we are, sitting on what seems to be good solid grass and earth; and yet if you dug a hole in it, you'd strike the lake right away." "You'd strike logs first," corrected Jack Harris; "but if you bored through the logs you'd come to the water." "It's perfectly lovely to feel the little swaying motion," said May Lewis, who in her quiet way was greatly enjoying the novel experiences. "I shall hate to go back to the city. How I envy you, Lilian, with a whole summer of this before you." "But you're going away with your mother, next month, aren't you?" "Yes; but we'll be cooped up in one or two little rooms at some seashore place; it is very different from having a whole hotel all to yourself." "Indeed it is," said Dorothy; "we certainly did the wisest thing when we came up here this summer. And now that Kathleen is here, I have almost nothing to do in the kitchen, and the rest of the housework that I do have to look after is so light that I don't mind it a bit." "That's because you're so clever," said Edith, sighing; "you're systematic and orderly, and have everything arranged just so. I don't see how you do it. I should forget half the things, and get the other half all mixed up." "I believe you would," said Dorothy, laughing. "And I did get somewhat mixed up at first. But I learned by experience, and besides I was just _determined_ that I would succeed. Because I proposed the whole scheme, and of course, I wanted it to be a success." "And it is a success," returned Edith; "and you have made it so. You have lots of perseverance in your nature, Dorothy." "It's nice of you to call it by that name," said Dorothy; "but I think it's just stubbornness. I've always been stubborn." "We all are," said Leicester; "it's a Dorrance trait. Grandmother hasn't much of it, but Grandfather Dorrance was a most determined old gentleman." "There's only one thing that's bothering me, about our good times," said Dorothy. "And that is, that grandma can't enjoy them as much as we do. She doesn't care about going in the boats, and she can't take the long walks that we can." "It would be nice if you had a horse," said May; "then she could go for a drive sometimes." "That would be lovely," agreed Dorothy; "but I know we couldn't afford to buy a horse. We haven't very much money. That's the main reason we came up here, because grandma said we couldn't afford to go to the places we used to go to." "But you might hire a horse," suggested Jack; "you have a barn." "Yes, there is a small barn," said Leicester. "I think it would be great to hire a horse; that wouldn't cost much, Dot." "No," said Dorothy, "I don't believe it would. But who'd take care of the horse, and who'd drive grandma around?" "Why, I can drive," said Leicester, "or if grandma wouldn't trust me, Mr. Hickox could drive her. He could take care of the horse, too." "It's a good idea," said Dorothy; "let's go and ask Mr. Hodges about it now; he always knows about things of that sort." The whole crowd scrambled to their feet, and ran gaily towards Mr. Hodges' place. They were not surprised, when he declared he had just the thing for them. A fat, amiable old horse, who was well accustomed to the steep mountain roads, and guaranteed perfectly safe; also a light road-wagon that would hold four, and that was very easy and comfortable. He would rent them this turn-out for ten dollars a week, and he declared that they would find it most convenient; not only for pleasure drives, but for going to market or other errands. Indeed, he said, that the proprietor who had last tried to run the hotel, had engaged that horse for the season. It struck Dorothy as a good plan; and being always quick at decisions, she agreed then and there to take the horse and carriage for a week, saying she felt sure that Grandma Dorrance would approve. Leicester said he would drive it home, and any of the girls who wished to, could go with him, the rest going back in the boats. Dorothy said she would go with him, as she wanted to tell grandma about it herself. As Fairy expressed a great desire to ride behind the new horse, she and Gladys were tucked in the back seat, and they started off. Such a ride as it was. The hills were very steep, "perfectly perpendickle," Fairy called them, and if the old horse had not known just how to walk on the mountain roads, accidents might very easily have happened. As it was they reached home safely, and drove up triumphantly to the Dorrance Domain where grandma and Mrs. Thurston were sitting on the veranda. As the children had surmised, grandma was delighted with the opportunity to drive about, but said that she would feel safer if Mr. Hickox held the reins. As Mr. Hickox was never very far away, he had observed the horse's arrival, and came over to inquire into the matter. The explanation pleased him, and he said amiably, "Don't worry. Hickox'll look after the horse; it'll be all right." So Grandma Dorrance arranged with Mr. Hickox, by an addition to the payment they made him for his various services, to take care of the horse, and to drive them whenever they might require him to. Then she and Mrs. Thurston planned to go for a drive that very afternoon. As the Dorrance children were fond of all animals, the horse at once became a great pet, and though the elder ladies never went out except with Mr. Hickox, the young people went early and often, and both Dorothy and Leicester soon learned to be good and careful drivers. With another diversion added to their catalogue of pleasures, the days flew by faster than ever, and although the guests stayed a fortnight instead of only a week, everybody was sorry when the day came for them to depart. "It has been all pleasure," said Dorothy, "and not a bit of trouble; for you all made yourselves so handy and helpful that it was just like one big family." "It has been a great treat to me," said Mrs. Thurston. "I have enjoyed every minute of it, and I have improved wonderfully in health and strength. I think you are a wonder, Dorothy; not many girls of sixteen have your powers of management. It is a gift, just as other talents are, and you not only possess it, but you have appreciated and improved it." Dorothy blushed at Mrs. Thurston's kind praise, and inwardly resolved, that since Mrs. Thurston considered her household capability a talent, she certainly would endeavor to cultivate and improve it. So the guests all went away, except Kathleen. She begged so hard to be allowed to stay for a time longer, that Mrs. Dorrance consented. "Shure, it isn't the wages I do be afther wantin', mum, but I likes to shtay here, an' I'll do all the wurruk for me boord." This seemed a fair arrangement, as Kathleen really wanted to stay with her daughter, and the Dorrances were very glad of the big woman's services. She was an indefatigable worker, and really seemed to enjoy all sorts of hard work. She would rise early in the morning, and wash windows or scrub floors before breakfast time. She was so capable and willing, that it seemed as if she fairly took charge of the entire family; and she was so large and strong that no hard work baffled her, and no exertion tired her. Although the Dorrances naturally missed their guests, yet when they were alone again they were by no means lonely. They were a host in themselves; the children were congenial and thought there was nobody quite so nice as each other. The days went by happily, and each one only made them more glad that they owned the Dorrance Domain and that they had come to live in it. It was the third week in June when Grandma Dorrance received a letter from Mr. Lloyd, the contents of which were far from pleasant. She called the children together in the great parlor, which they had come to use as a living-room, and her pale face quite frightened Dorothy. "What is the matter, grannymother dear?" she said. "Has Mr. Lloyd found some one who wants to rent the hotel, and must we vacate at once?" "Oh, don't mention such a calamity as that," cried Leicester; "if a man came up here to rent this hotel I should tell him to march right straight back again. The house is engaged for the season." "It's far worse than that, children dear," said grandma; "Mr. Lloyd tells me in his letter that a great deal of repairing is necessary in the Fifty-eighth Street house. This will cost a great deal of money, and I have not enough to pay the bills." Mrs. Dorrance looked so pathetically helpless as she made this admission, that Dorothy flew to her and kissed her, exclaiming, "Don't worry, grandma dear, it must all come out right somehow, for you know we are saving money this summer." "I'm not so sure of that, Dorothy; I'm afraid we've been rather extravagant of late. Having so much company for a fortnight, was really very expensive; and the horse is an added expense, and the two servants,--and altogether I feel quite sure we have spent more money than we could well afford." "I never once thought of it, grandma," said Dorothy; "I just ordered the things that I thought it would be nice to have, and I didn't realize how the bills would count up. Are they very big?" "Yes," said Mrs. Dorrance. "Mr. Hodges' bill is quite three times as much as I had allowed for it; and I owe Mr. Hickox as much more. He has done a great deal of work for us, you know, and of course he must be paid." "Oh, isn't it dreadful," said Lilian, "to have our lovely summer spoiled by money troubles!" At this Fairy began to cry. The Dorrances didn't often cry, but when they did, they did it quite as noisily as they did everything else; and Fairy's manner of weeping, was to open her mouth as widely as possible in a succession of loud wails, at the same time digging her fists into her eyes. She presented such a ridiculous picture that the children couldn't help laughing. "Do stop that hullaballoo, baby," implored Leicester, "or we'll be so anxious to get rid of you that we'll offer you to Mr. Bill Hodges in settlement of his account." Fairy was not seriously alarmed by this awful threat, but she stopped crying, because she had suddenly thought of a way out of the difficulty. "I'll tell you how we can get some money," she said earnestly; "sell the horse!" The other children laughed at this, but Grandma Dorrance said gently, "We can't do that, dear, for the horse isn't ours. We can't sell the hotel, for nobody seems to want it; so I can't see any way by which we can get any money except to sell the Fifty-eighth Street house." The children looked aghast at this, for it was their cherished dream some day to return to the big city house to live. They didn't quite know how this was to be accomplished, but they had always thought that when Leicester began to earn money, or perhaps if Dorothy became an author, they would be able to return to the old home. And so Grandma Dorrance's announcement fell on them like a sudden and unexpected blighting of their hopes. CHAPTER XIV FINANCIAL PLANS Dorothy felt it the most. As the oldest, she had the greatest sense of responsibility, and she felt that she ought in some way to amend the family fortunes, but just how she did not know. She well knew how difficult it is for a girl to earn any money without being especially trained in some branch of usefulness; and she had often thought that she would learn some one thing well, and so be prepared against a day of misfortune. And now the day of misfortune had come, and she was not ready for it. She could not bear to think of selling the town house; she would far rather sell the hotel, but that, it seemed, was out of the question. Leicester, on the other hand, took a more cheerful view of the situation. "Oh, I don't believe we'll have to sell the house," he said. "It isn't so bad as that, is it, grandma?" "I don't know, Leicester," said the old lady helplessly; "I never did know much about business matters, and now I feel more confused than ever when I try to straighten them out." "But if we could just get through this summer, grandmother, when we go back to the city in the fall I feel sure I can get a position of some kind and earn a salary that will help us all out." "You are a good boy, Leicester," said Mrs. Dorrance; "but it is very uncertain about your getting a position; and too, I don't want you to leave school yet." "No, indeed," said Dorothy. "It wouldn't be right for Leicester to leave school at fourteen; and anyway, I think he ought to go through college. Now I am sixteen, and I have education enough for a girl. So I'm the one to get a position of some kind in the fall, and earn money to help along." "What could you do?" asked Lilian looking at her sister. She had ample faith that Dorothy could do anything she wanted to, and was merely anxious to know in which direction she would turn her talents. "I don't know," said Dorothy, very honestly; "skilled labor is the only thing that counts nowadays, and I'm really not fitted for anything. I would like best to write things; but I don't believe anybody would buy them,--at least, not at first. So I suppose the only thing that I could do would be to go into a store." "And sell candy?" asked Fairy, with a dawning interest in the plan. "Don't talk like that, Dorothy dear," said grandma, gently; "of course I wouldn't let you go into a store, and also, I'm very much afraid that your poetry wouldn't find a ready market. That may come later, but it will probably be after years of apprenticeship." "Well, something must be done," said Dorothy decidedly; "and you can't do it, grandma; so we children must. I think we are old enough now to take the responsibility off of your shoulders; or at least to help you in these troubles." "I wish you could, my dear child, but I fear there is no practical way by which we can raise the money that I must have, except to sell the city house. It seems like a great sacrifice for a small reason; for you see if we just had money enough to pay our living expenses this summer, I could manage, I think, to come out nearly even by fall. But there is no way to provide for our living this summer, that I can see." "Now I'm getting a clearer understanding of the case," said Leicester; "then if we children could earn money enough this summer to run the Dorrance Domain, we'd come out all right?" "Yes, I think so, but how could you earn any?" "I don't know," said Leicester, "but I've often read how other boys earned money,--and country boys, too. We might pick huckleberries and sell them, or we might raise a garden and sell things." "Who would you sell them to?" asked Lilian, who was always practical. "Now I think a more sensible way would be to economize. Send away Tessie and Kathleen both; and then get along with fewer good things to eat. You know we've had everything just as we wanted it, and I'm sure we could cut down our table expenses. Then we could give up the horse,--although he is a dear----" At this Fairy's wails began again, for she was devotedly attached to old Dobbin, the horse, and couldn't bear to think of parting with him. "I think," said Grandma Dorrance, "that we will have to ask Mr. Lloyd to come up here and advise us; and then whatever he thinks best, we will do." "Don't you have to pay Mr. Lloyd for his advice?" asked Dorothy, suddenly struck by the thought of what seemed to her an unnecessary expense. "Yes," said Mrs. Dorrance; "that is, I pay him for attending to all of my business, and of course that includes his advice." "I suppose we couldn't get along without him," said Dorothy, sighing; "but it does seem awful to pay him money that we need so much ourselves." Mrs. Dorrance had a happy faculty of deferring unpleasant things to some future time; and not worrying about them meanwhile. "Well," she said, "I will write to Mr. Lloyd to-morrow, and ask him to come up here; or if he can't come, to write me a letter advising me what to do. And until he comes, or his letter comes, we can't do anything in the matter, and there is no use worrying over it. I'd hate to discharge the servants, for you girls couldn't get along without anybody to help; and if we keep Tessie, Kathleen is no added expense, for her work well pays for her board." This was not quite logical, but all were too miserable to notice it. For once the Dorrances went up-stairs to their beds without any whoops or hurrahs for Dorrance Domain. As they were going up the great staircase, Lilian offered another of her practical, if not very attractive suggestions. "We could," she said, "shut up the Domain, and all go to board with Mrs. Hickox for the rest of the summer. I'm sure she'd take us quite cheaply." At this Leicester started the old Dorrance groan, which had not been heard before since their arrival at Lake Ponetcong. They all joined in heartily, and groaned in concert, in loud, horrible tones that echoed dismally through the long corridors. It was characteristic of their different natures that Grandma Dorrance went to bed, and immediately fell asleep in spite of her anxiety about her affairs; while Dorothy lay awake far into the night pondering over the problem. She could form no plan, she was conscious only of a dogged determination that she would somehow conquer the existing difficulties, and triumphantly save the day. She thought of Lilian's practical suggestions, and though she admitted them practical, she could not think them practicable. Surely there must be some way other than boarding at Mrs. Hickox's, or living on bread and tea. "At any rate," she thought to herself as she finally fell asleep, "nothing will be done until Mr. Lloyd is heard from, and that will give me at least two or three days to think of a plan." But try as she would, the next day and the next, no acceptable plan would come into Dorothy's head. "We are the most helpless family!" she thought to herself, as she lay in the hammock under the trees. "There is positively nothing that we can do, that's of any use. But I will do something,--I _will_! I WILL!" and by way of emphasizing her determination she kicked her heel right through the hammock. The other children did not take it quite so seriously. They were younger, and they had a hazy sort of an idea that money troubles always adjusted themselves, and somehow got out of the way. Leicester and Dorothy talked matters over, for though younger, he considered himself the man of the house, and felt a certain responsibility for that reason. But he could no more think of a plan than Dorothy could, and so he gave the problem up in despair, and apparently Dorothy did also. However, even a serious trouble like this, was not sufficient to cast down the Dorrances' spirits to any great extent. They went their ways about as usual; they rowed and fished and walked and drove old Dobbin around, while their faces showed no sign of gloom or depression. That was the Dorrance nature, to be happy in spite of impending disaster. Mr. Lloyd's letter came, but instead of helping matters, it left them in quite as much of a quandary as ever. He said that it would be impossible to sell the town house during the summer season. That the repairs must be made, or the tenants would not be willing to stay. He advised Mrs. Dorrance to retrench her expenses in every possible way, and stated further, that although the repairs must be made at once, it would not be necessary to pay the bills immediately on their presentation. He said that although he would be glad to run up to see them in their country home, he could not leave the city at present, but he might be able to visit them later on. Altogether it was not a satisfactory letter, and Leicester expressed open disapproval. "That's a nice thing," he said, "to tell us not to pay our bills! As if we wanted to live with a lot of debts hanging over our heads!" "I think it's lucky that we don't have to pay them right off," said Dorothy; "something may happen before we have to pay them." Dorothy had a decided touch of the Micawber element in her nature and usually lived in the hope of something happening. And, to do her justice, it often did. To the surprise of the others Fairy seemed very much impressed by the gravity of the situation, and more than that she seemed to think that it devolved on her to do something to relieve it. She walked over to Mrs. Hickox's to make her usual Wednesday visit, and though she skipped along as usual she was really thinking seriously. She found Mrs. Hickox sitting on a bench under a tree paring apples, and Fairy sat down beside her. "Of course I'm only twelve," she began, "but really I can do a great many things; only the trouble is none of them seem to be remunerary." The two had become great friends, and though Mrs. Hickox was a lady of uncertain affections, she had taken a great fancy to Fairy, and in her queer way showed a real fondness for the child. She had also become accustomed to Fairy's manner of plunging suddenly into a subject. "What is it you want to do now?" she said. "Well, you see," said Fairy, "we've failed, or absconded, or something like that; I don't know exactly all about it, but we're awful poor, and we can't have anything more to eat. Some of us want to come to board with you, and some of us don't. You see it's very complicrated." "Yes, it seems to be," said Mrs. Hickox; "but how did you get so poor all of a sudden? I always said you were all crazy and now I begin to believe it. Your grandmother----" "Don't you say a word against my grannymother!" cried Fairy, with flashing eyes. "She's the loveliest, best and wisest lady in the whole world. Only somehow she just happened to lose her money, and so of course us children want to help her all we can, and I just don't happen to know what to do to earn money, that's all. And I thought you might know some way to tell me." "I don't believe there's anything a child of your age could do to earn money," said Mrs. Hickox. "But now that I come to think of it, I did cut out a clipping just the other day, telling how to earn a good salary at home." "Oh, that will be just the thing!" cried Fairy, dancing around in glee; "I'd love to earn a big salary and stay right there at the Dorrance Domain to do it. Do try to find it." Mrs. Hickox was in the habit of sticking away her clippings in various queer places. She pulled out a bunch from behind the clock, and ran them over; "How to Take Out Ink Stains," "How to Wash Clothes in Six Minutes," "How to Protect an Iron Lawn Fence," "How to Stuff Birds, Taught by Mail," "Sure Cure for Rheumatism," "Recipe for Soft Soap." None of these seemed to be what was wanted, so Mrs. Hickox hunted through another bunch which she took out of an old and unused teapot. Fairy danced around with impatience while her hostess went through several collections. "Oh, here it is," she said, at last, and then she read to the child a most promissory advertisement which set forth a tempting description of how any one might earn a large fortune by directing envelopes. The two talked it over, and Fairy wrote for Mrs. Hickox a sample of her penmanship, whereupon the lady at once declared that the scheme was impossible. For she said nobody could read such writing as that, and if they could, they wouldn't want to. Fairy's disappointment was quite in proportion to the vivid anticipations she had held, and she was on the verge of one of her volcanic crying spells, when Mr. Hickox came in. "Well, well, what's the trouble?" he said in his cheery way, and when Fairy explained, he responded: "Well, well, little miss, don't you worry,--don't you worry one mite! Hickox'll fix it. It'll be all right!" And so comforting was this assurance, and so sanguine was the Dorrance temperament, that Fairy felt at once that everything was all right, and dismissed the whole subject from her mind. CHAPTER XV A SUDDEN DETERMINATION One afternoon, Dorothy sat on the front veranda, day-dreaming. It was difficult to say which was the front veranda,--the one that faced the road, or the one that looked out on the lake. The house could be considered to front either way. But Dorothy was on the veranda that faced the road, and it was a lovely warm, hazy day, almost the last of June, and notwithstanding her responsibilities, Dorothy was in a happy frame of mind. She watched with interest, a carriage that was coming along the road towards her. It was nothing unusual in the way of a carriage, but there was so little passing, that anything on four wheels was always noticeable. This was a buggy, and contained a lady and gentleman who seemed to be driving slowly and talking fast. To Dorothy's surprise, when they reached the entrance of the Dorrance Domain, they turned in, and drove up towards the house. As they stopped in front of the steps, Dorothy rose to greet them; but though courteous in manner, beyond bestowing a pleasant smile, they took no notice of her. The gentleman got out first, then helped the lady out, and after a blank look around for a moment, as if expecting somebody, he threw his lines carelessly around the whip and escorted the lady into the house. The doors were all open as usual, and Dorothy was so amazed to see them walk past her, that she said nothing. Grandma Dorrance was lying down in her room; the twins had gone out rowing, and Fairy was down at the dock with Mr. Hickox, fishing. The two servants were far away in the kitchen, and so the strangers walked through the great hall and out on the west veranda without seeing anybody. Nonplussed, they returned to the office, and noted the unused look of the desks and counters there. "Where do you suppose the clerk can be?" said the gentleman. "Let us ask that young girl on the veranda," said the lady, and together they returned to where Dorothy was sitting. "Excuse me," said the strange gentleman, "but can you tell me where I may find the clerk of this hotel?" "There isn't any clerk," said Dorothy, smiling, as she rose to greet them. "Then will you tell me where I can find the proprietor?" Like a flash, an inspiration came to Dorothy. She realized in an instant that these people were looking for board; and equally quickly came the thought that she might take them to board, and so earn some of the money that she had been worrying about. It would certainly be no more difficult to have boarders than visitors. And so, on the impulse of the moment, Dorothy replied: "I am the proprietor." "But I mean the proprietor of the hotel,--the owner of the place." "My grandmother is the owner of this hotel; and if anybody is proprietor of it, I am. May I ask if you are looking for board?" "Yes, we are," said the lady, impulsively; "and if you are the proprietor, I'm quite sure we want board at this hotel." "Will you sit down, and let us talk this matter over," said Dorothy, offering them veranda chairs. "I would like to explain just how things are." The strangers seated themselves, and looked at Dorothy with some curiosity and a great deal of interest. It was certainly unusual to come across a pretty girl of sixteen, who, in her ruffled lawn frock looked quite like the typical guest of a summer hotel, and then to be calmly told that she was the proprietor. Dorothy also looked with interest at her visitors. The man was tall and large, of perhaps middle age; his face was kind and serious, but a smile seemed to lurk in his deep blue eyes. The lady seemed to be younger, and was very pretty and vivacious. She had curly brown hair, and her brown eyes fairly danced with fun at the idea of Dorothy as a hotel proprietor. "You see," said Dorothy, as they all sat down, "this hotel is my grandmother's property; but as we couldn't rent it, we have all come here to live for the summer. My grandmother is quite old, and not at all strong, so the household management is entirely in my charge. I would be very glad to take some boarders if I could satisfy them and make them comfortable. I have never kept boarders, but," and here Dorothy's smile brought out all her dimples, "I have entertained company successfully." "I should be delighted to come," exclaimed the lady, "if you are quite sure you want us, and if your grandmother would not object." "Oh, no, she would not object; the question is, whether I could make your stay satisfactory to you. We have plenty of room; I could promise you a good table and good service. But as there are no other guests, you might be lonely." "We are not afraid of being lonely," said the gentleman, "for my wife and I are not dependent on the society of other people. But let me introduce myself before going further; I am Mr. James Faulkner, of New York City. Mrs. Faulkner and myself have been staying over at the Horton House, and that hotel is far too gay and noisy to suit our tastes. I'm a scientific man, and like to spend much of my day in quiet study. Mrs. Faulkner, too, likes to be away from society's demands, at least for a season. Therefore I must confess your proposition sounds most attractive, if the minor details can be arranged." "I am Dorothy Dorrance," Dorothy responded, by way of her own introduction, "and my grandfather was Robert Hampton Dorrance. He has been dead for two years, and he left us this hotel property, which as we have been unable to rent, we decided to occupy. I would be glad to add to our income, and if you think you could be comfortable here, might we not try it for a week?" "Oh, do let us try it," cried Mrs. Faulkner, eagerly; "do say yes, James,--this is such a lovely spot, and this hotel is quite the most attractive I have seen anywhere. Only fancy having no other guests but ourselves! it would be ideal. Oh, we must certainly come! I will decide it; we will come for a week at any rate." "Very well, my dear, you shall have your own way. May I ask your rates, Miss Dorrance?" Dorothy hesitated. She felt very inexperienced, and while she was fearful of over-charging, yet her practical instincts made her also beware of undervaluing the accommodations she knew she could supply. "I don't know," she said, frankly, "what I ought to charge you. But you may have the best rooms in the house, and,"--here she smiled, involuntarily,--"as many of them as you wish. We have a really superior cook, and an experienced waitress. We have boats, and a horse and carriage, which you may use when you care to. As I know nothing of summer hotel charges, I would be glad if you would tell me what you think would be right for you to pay." Dorothy's frank honesty, and her gentle refined courtesy made a most favorable impression on Mr. Faulkner, and he responded cordially. "For what you offer, Miss Dorrance, I think it would be fair if we should pay you the same as we are now paying over at the Horton House; that is, fifteen dollars a week, each, for Mrs. Faulkner and myself." Dorothy considered a moment. She was a quick thinker, and she realized that this amount of money would help considerably towards the living expenses of the family. And the price could not be exorbitant since Mr. Faulkner offered it himself. "That will be entirely satisfactory to me," she said, "and I shall hope, on my part, to satisfy you. When would you like to come?" "I'd like to come to-morrow," said Mrs. Faulkner. "I've stood the Horton House just as long as I can. And our week is up to-morrow. But, excuse me, my dear, aren't you very young for these responsibilities?" "I'm sixteen," said Dorothy, "and grandmother thinks my talents are of the domestic order. But I could not undertake to have you here were it not that our cook is not merely a cook, but a general manager and all-round housekeeper. And now, Mrs. Faulkner, if you really think of coming, wouldn't you like to select your rooms?" Just at this moment, Fairy came flying through the long hall at her usual break-neck pace, and landed turbulently in the midst of the group. "Oh, Dorothy," she cried, "we caught fish, and fish, and fish!" "This is my sister Fairy," said Dorothy, "and I must explain, that when I said it would be quiet here, I neglected to mention that there are four of us children; and the truth is we are dreadfully noisy at times. Fairy, dear, this is Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner, who are perhaps coming to board with us." With the pretty politeness that always underlay the boisterousness of the Dorrances, Fairy put out her hand to the strangers, saying: "I'm very glad to see you. Are you really coming to stay with us? You must 'scuse me for rushing out like that, and nearly knocking you over, but I was so 'cited about my fish." Fairy always looked more than usually fairy-like when she was excited. Her gold curls tumbled about her face, and the big white bow which topped them stood at all sorts of flyaway angles. She poised herself on one foot, and waved her hands dramatically as she talked. Mrs. Faulkner was charmed with the child, and being possessed of some artistic ability, she privately resolved to make a sketch of Fairy at the first opportunity. The two sisters escorted the guests through the hall, if Fairy's hop, skip and jump could be called an escort, and Dorothy showed them the lake view from the west piazza. Mrs. Faulkner was enthusiastic over this, and declared that nothing would induce her to stay anywhere else but at the Dorrance Domain. Mr. Faulkner, too, was impressed by the beauty of the lake. It was always most picturesque in the late afternoon, and just now the clouds, lit up by the western sun, were especially beautiful. The lake itself was not calm, but was covered with smooth little hills of water, which here and there broke into white foam. Some distance out, a boat could be seen, containing two people. "That's my brother and sister," said Dorothy; "they are twins. They are fourteen, and are perhaps the noisiest of us all. You see," she went on, smiling, "I'm preparing you for the worst. Grandmother had great difficulty with the New York boarding-house keepers, because they thought the Dorrance children too lively. So I want you to be fully warned that we do make a great deal of noise. Somehow we can't help it." "We don't yell so much as we used to," said Fairy, hopefully; "you see, Mrs. Faulkner, when we used to be cooped up in a boarding-house we just had to make an awful racket, 'cause we were so miserabubble. But here we have room enough to scamper around, and so we don't holler so much." "I rather think we can survive your demonstrations of animal spirits," said Mr. Faulkner, with his kindly smile. "It will be a pleasant relief from the brass band which is the noise-producer over at the Horton House." "We haven't any brass band," said Dorothy, suddenly realizing that they lacked many things popularly supposed to belong to a summer hotel. "That's one reason why I want to come," said Mrs. Faulkner. "I hope you will decide to come," said Dorothy; "and now, if you will excuse me a minute, I think I will ask my grandmother to come down and sanction our plan." Leaving the strangers to be entertained by Fairy, Dorothy ran up to her grandmother's room and tapped at the door. A few moments served to explain matters to Mrs. Dorrance, and though a little bewildered by Dorothy's sudden proposal, she thought the plan a good one, and went down prepared to give the strangers a cordial reception. The Faulkners were much pleased with the gentle, gracious old lady, and Mrs. Dorrance decided at a glance that the newcomers were sensible and kindly people. CHAPTER XVI A DARING SCHEME The more they talked over the matter the more it seemed a sensible and feasible plan for all concerned. Mrs. Dorrance felt sure that with their two capable servants, and Mr. Hickox's varied usefulness, two boarders would make no more responsibility for Dorothy than her five guests had. It was therefore decided to try the plan for a week, and if both sides were satisfied, to continue for the season. Then Dorothy took the strangers up to select their rooms, and Mrs. Faulkner was as delighted at the idea of choosing from so many empty rooms, as the Dorrances had been on the night of their own arrival. Agreeing to return the next day with their luggage, the Faulkners drove away, leaving the Dorrances in a high state of delighted excitement. "You see," said Dorothy to her grandmother, "something _has_ happened. I felt sure it would, though of course, I had no idea it would be the Faulkners. But thirty dollars a week will help a lot, and I'm sure we can make them have a good time. They're lovely people,--you can see that at a glance. Mrs. Faulkner is so sweet, I think I'd be willing to pay her just to sit around and smile at me." "Instead of her paying you to let her do it," said grandma. "But it is a good plan, Dorothy; for now we can afford to keep Kathleen, and pay her fair wages, which I did not otherwise feel justified in doing." "And Kathleen is a whole army of servants, all in one," said Dorothy. "She'll be delighted at the idea of staying with us. I'll go and tell her about it now." "I'll go, too," cried Fairy. "I want to hear her talk." Out to the kitchen the two girls ran and noisily burst in upon Tessie and her mother. The two Irish women were feeling rather blue, for Mrs. Dorrance had told them that she could not afford to let them both stay with her, and she was not sure that she ought to keep even Tessie. "Arrah thin, darlints, yez'll be afther breakin' down the dures! Why musht ye always come so shlam-bang?" "We can't help it, Kathleen," cried Dorothy; "we're just made so, I guess. But this time we've something to tell you,--something important." "Im-porrtant, is it? Sorra a good thing cud yez tell me, ixcipt that yer lady grandmother wud be afther lettin' me shtay here wid yez. Me an' Tessie is afther grievin' sore at thoughts of lavin' yez." "That's just it, Kathleen," screamed Fairy, who in her excitement and enthusiasm was scrambling up Kathleen's broad back. It was a favorite trick of Fairy's to clamber up and perch herself on the big woman's shoulder, and the good-natured giantess assisted her with sundry pushings and pullings. "That's jist it, is it? Well thin yez naden't be afther tellin' me anny more. Yez can kape the rist of yer importance to yersilves. If we can shtay up here, me and Tessie, we'll wurruk our finger ends off fer ye, wid no wages but a bite an' a sup." "No, that won't do, Kathleen. Now just listen; we want to engage you as cook, and Tessie as waitress for the Dorrance Domain. It has become a hotel,--a regular summer hotel, and the boarders will arrive to-morrow." "For the love of all the saints, miss! Is it boorders yez'll be afther takin'? Shure, an' that's foine. And it's Kathleen as 'll cook fer yez. An' Tessie, you young rascal, see to it that you wait on the table jist grand! Do there be manny a-comin', miss?" "Two," replied Dorothy; "and they're lovely people." "Yes, lovely people," cried Fairy, who, still on Kathleen's shoulder, was emphasizing her remarks by pounding Kathleen with her little fists; "one is a great, big, lovely gentleman, with big, blue eyes, and grayish-blackish hair. That's Mr. Faulkner. And his wife's a beautiful little lady, who smiles, and smiles, and smiles. Oh, they're scrumptious people, and I expect they will stay all summer. Oh, Dorothy, the twins are coming! let's go and tell them!" Fairy sprang from Kathleen's shoulder to the table, and from there bounded to the floor, and grasping Dorothy's hand, the two ran away to tell the news, and met the twins on the veranda. Lilian and Leicester were as glad as the rest to learn of the advent of the Faulkners, and at once began to make plans for the comfort and entertainment of their boarders. "I shall take Mr. Faulkner out fishing," said Leicester, "and show him all the best spots to fish." "I don't believe he'll care much for fishing," said Mrs. Dorrance. "He seems to me to be so interested in his scientific work, that I imagine he spends little time in recreation. I think that you'll all have to try to be a little quieter than usual, especially in the house." "We will, granny dear," said Lilian; "if we're going to keep boarders, we're going to do it properly; I guess the Dorrances know when they can cut up jinks, and when they can't." "Isn't it funny, though," said Leicester, "to think of our living in this hotel because nobody would rent it _as_ a hotel, and now here we are, running a hotel ourselves. I'm going to get out the big register, and clean up that inkstand thing, and have the office all in working-order for them to register when they come to-morrow. Dorothy, you can be proprietor, but I'll be the clerk; and then after they register, I'll ring the bell for a bell-boy. And then I'll be the bell-boy. And then I'll send myself for a porter, and Mr. Hickox'll be the porter. Oh, it'll be great!" "Shall we eat in the big dining-room?" asked Lilian. "It seems as if it would be more like a hotel." "I don't know," said grandma; "that immense room is too large for seven people. The Faulkners seem very congenial, and I can't help thinking they would prefer to sit at the round table with us. However, they might prefer a table to themselves; so I think the best plan is to wait until they arrive, and ask them. In such matters we should be glad to meet their wishes." "I shall keep most systematic accounts," said Dorothy; "and then I can tell just how much we make by having boarders. There are lots of blank books in the office, and I shall keep exact lists of everything I buy this week, and then see how it balances up at the end of seven days." "If you expect to make any money out of this scheme," said Leicester, "you mustn't feed us all on the fat of the land, as you did when those people were visiting here." "No," said grandma; "you can't do it, Dorothy. It is very pleasant to set dainty and tempting dishes before one's guests; but when it comes to a practical business arrangement it is necessary to be careful in such matters. I don't want you to be over-economical, but on the other hand you cannot afford to be extravagant." "If you're going to be a boarding-house keeper, Dot," said Lilian, "you must set a table exactly like Mrs. Cooper's!" At this speech, Leicester started the famous Dorrance groan, and its wails reached the ears of Mr. Hickox, who was sauntering near by in his aimless, wandering fashion. "Thought I'd just come over and see what you're yowling about," he said pleasantly; "those screeches are enough to kill all the fish in the lake!" "Come in, Mr. Hickox," cried Leicester; "we have a grand plan on hand, and as usual we shall want your help." "Oh, yes," said Mr. Hickox, "as usual. Hickox'll make it all right. What's up now?" "We expect boarders to-morrow; and when they come, we want you to be on hand to look after their trunks and things. The Dorrance Domain has suddenly turned back into a hotel. Dorothy is proprietor, I'm clerk, and you're to be the porter." "What am I?" said Lilian; "I want a regular position." "Oh, you can be the elevator boy, or the carriage-door opener, whichever you like," said her brother. "As we haven't any elevator, and our carriage hasn't any door, I won't be over-worked." "We girls will all have to be upper servants," said Dorothy; "with so much extra work in the kitchen, we'll have to help a great deal as parlor-maids, and chambermaids, and dining-room maids." "I'll sweep all the verandas every day," announced Fairy; "I do just love to fly around with that funny big broom-brush." "Well, Hickox is yours to command," declared that genial gentleman; "whatever you want Hickory Hickox to do, that's as good as done! Excepting, of course, such various times as I might be otherwise employed. But I'll be porter all right, and I'll port them people's trunks right up to their rooms so fast, they'll think I'm an elevator. My! Mrs. Hickox, she'll be surprised to hear you people are going to have boarders! I must say, I'm some surprised myself. Well I must shuffle along now, and I'll be on deck when you want me to-morrow. Hickox will look after things. It'll be all right." After the ungainly figure had shuffled away, the children still continued to make plans and offer suggestions for the new arrangement. "We must be very methodical," said Dorothy, who was much in earnest in the matter, and who wanted to start out just right. "Mrs. Faulkner is so nice and sweet, I want to please her; and, too, if the Dorrances run a hotel, I want it to be run on the most approved plan." "We'll each have an account book," said Fairy; "and I'll put down in mine, how many times I sweep the verandas each day." "If you get around them all in one day, baby," said Leicester, "you'll do mighty well; and to do that, you'll have to get to work at daybreak and stick to it till sundown. There's an awful big number of square feet of veranda attached to this palatial mansion, I can tell you." "Oh, pooh!" cried Fairy. "It won't take me all day, at all. I can fly around it in a minute. I'll work like a centripepede!" "We'll keep the horse for this week, anyway," went on Dorothy; "for I shall have to go to market every morning, and it's so much quicker to go in the carriage than the boat. Sometimes you can go for me, Less, if I make out an exact list of what I want." "All right," said her brother; "I don't think this keeping boarders is going to be such hard work after all. I wonder we didn't think of it sooner." "I'm glad we didn't," said Dorothy; "I think it was nicer to have a few weeks all by ourselves, first. We've got to behave when the Faulkners get here. It will be just like it was at Mrs. Cooper's, you know." This time Fairy started the groan, and again they all chimed in with those deep growling wails that always made Mrs. Dorrance clap her hands to her ears. "For pity's sake!" exclaimed the long-suffering old lady; "don't make any reference to Mrs. Cooper while the Faulkners are here; for if they heard those fearful groans of yours, they'd leave at once." "What's Mr. Faulkner like?" asked Leicester; "will he say, 'well, my little man,' to me?" "No," said Dorothy, laughing at the remembrance; "Mr. Faulkner is an awful nice man. Not very young, and not very old." "Like Jack Sprat's pig?" asked Leicester; "not very little and not very big." "He isn't like anybody's pig!" said Fairy, indignantly. "He's a gentiliferous gentleman. I'm going to ask him to go to Mrs. Hickox's with me. He's scientiferic, and I know he'd like to read her newspaper clippings." "I wouldn't ask him to go just at first, Fairy," said grandma; "wait until you get better acquainted." "Well, anyhow? I'll take him to see the rabbits; he's sure to love them, they're such cunning, pudgy-wudgy little things." "And I'm sure he will like Dare," said Lilian, patting the head of the big dog who lay at her feet. "Such nice people as they seem to be, will surely like animals," said grandma; "but if they should not, then you must be very careful that they are not annoyed by them. Dare will learn for himself whether he is liked or not; but if Mrs. Faulkner doesn't care for kittens you must keep Mike out from under foot." "I don't believe she'll care for kittens, so I'll take this one and drown it now," said Leicester, picking up the ball of fluffy Maltese fur, and starting towards the lake. Fairy ran after him, screaming in pretended anguish, though she well knew her brother was only joking, being almost as fond of the kitten as she was herself. The other two girls followed, and Dare followed them, and a general game of romps ensued. Grandma Dorrance watched them from the veranda, feeling glad for the thousandth time that her dear ones were in their own home, where they could follow their own sweet will, without causing annoyance to any one. CHAPTER XVII REGISTERED GUESTS The next day, true to her word, Dorothy made preparations for methodical and systematic hotel management. "They may not stay more than a week; probably they won't," she said; "but I don't want them to leave because the Dorrance Domain isn't run properly as a summer hotel." The children had looked upon the whole affair as a great joke; but seeing that there was a certain underlying current of seriousness in Dorothy's attitude, they began to think that it was a business venture after all. "Shall we really ask them to register, Dot?" inquired Leicester, who didn't know quite how far the playing at hotel was to be carried. "Yes," said Dorothy; "there is no reason why not; it can certainly do no harm, and it makes everything seem more shipshape. Have nice fresh pens, ink and blotters, and put down the date and the number of their rooms when Mr. Faulkner signs. Don't laugh about it, but don't put on airs either; just be polite and businesslike." "My, Dot, but you're a wonder!" exclaimed Leicester, looking at his sister with admiration. "Where did you learn all these things? Nobody ever registered at Mrs. Cooper's." "No," said Dorothy; "but that was a city boarding-house; an altogether different affair from a country summer hotel. It may be foolish, but I want to try to treat the Faulkners just as they would be treated in any nice summer hotel." "It isn't foolish at all," spoke up Lilian; "it's just the right way to do, and we'll all help. We must send a pitcher of ice-water to their room every night." "Oh, dear, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Dorothy, in dismay; "why, we haven't any ice." "No," said Leicester, "but fresh-drawn water from that deep well is just as cold as any ice-water. I'll make that one of my duties; I'm a bell-boy, you know." "Another thing," went on Lilian, in her practical way, "is the mail-box in the office. We must tell the Faulkners to put their letters in there, and they will be collected twice a day, and taken over to Woodville and mailed." "Lilian, you're a trump!" cried Dorothy; "tell us more things like that,--that's just what I mean. But we can't go to Woodville twice a day!" "I think once a day will be enough," said Leicester; "we'll take the contents of the mail-box every morning when we go over for the marketing." "I shall write to Gladys Miller every day," said Fairy; "so you'll always have something to take; maybe the Faulkners don't have so very much corresponderence." All four of the children went to market that morning. Leicester drove them over, and so much chattering and planning did they do on the way, that the two miles distance seemed very short. Dorothy felt the responsibility of ordering just the right things for her table. She realized that she must begin on just the same scale on which she expected to continue through the week. She must not be too lavish, for since her aim now was to earn money, she must be fair and just, rather than generous. Always sensible and capable, Dorothy seemed suddenly possessed of a new sort of self-reliance; and the responsibility which she had voluntarily and gladly accepted, seemed to bring with it the executive ability which promised success. Mr. Bill Hodges was delighted to hear the news of boarders at the Dorrance Domain. He possessed that trait, not altogether unusual in storekeepers, of desiring to sell his wares. During the fortnight that the Dorrances had entertained company, he had reaped a golden harvest, and, as since then Dorothy's demand on his stock had been much more modest, he now rejoiced in the anticipation of further extravagant orders. He was greatly surprised then, when Dorothy, instead of lavishly purchasing whatever struck her fancy, regardless of its price, began to inquire the cost of things, and showed a decided leaning towards thrift and economy. "Ain't goin' to starve them folks, be you?" he asked, as Dorothy hesitated between the relative merits of lettuce and tomatoes. "I hope not," said Dorothy, politely, for she knew Mr. Bill Hodges pretty well by this time, and so did not resent what she knew was not meant as a rudeness. "When our house was last run as a hotel, did they buy their provisions from you?" "Yes, ma'am, they did;" and a shade more of respectful deference crept into the voice and manner of Mr. Bill Hodges, as he instinctively realized the touch of added dignity in Dorothy's demeanor. "Mr. Perkins, he used to do the marketin', and gracious snakes! but he calc'lated close. He give his boarders just enough to keep them alive and no more." "Well, I don't want to be quite so mean as that," said Dorothy; "but on the other hand, I can't afford to treat my boarders quite as I would like to entertain my guests." "That's right, that's right!" exclaimed Mr. Bill Hodges, whose own shrewd business mind readily recognized similar qualities in another. "That's right; treat 'em good, but not too good." This phrase fastened itself in Dorothy's mind, and she determined to take for her line of action all that was expressed in Mr. Bill Hodges' homely phrase, "Treat'em good, but not too good." Their purchases satisfactorily completed, the children jogged back home over the rough, steep hill, and even old Dobbin seemed to realize that he was now part of the establishment of a first-class summer hotel. That afternoon the Faulkners arrived. Everything was in readiness, and perhaps no hotel proprietor ever took greater pride in the general appearance of his hostelry, than did Dorothy Dorrance, as, arrayed in a fresh white muslin, she stood on the east veranda watching a lumbering stage drawing nearer and nearer to the Dorrance Domain. And surely no typical hotel clerk, even though decorated with the traditional diamond pin, could show a more faultless array of official-looking desk-furnishings. The Horton House stage rolled slowly up the driveway, and stopped at the main entrance. Mr. Hickox was on hand to open the stage door, and look after the hand luggage. With an instinctive grasping of the situation, both Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner appreciated Dorothy's frame of mind, and acted precisely as if they were entering a hotel run on regulation lines. As Dorothy led the way to the office, Mrs. Faulkner looked at her curiously. It was strange to see a girl, so young and pretty, so graceful and well-bred, yet possessed of a certain quality which could only be designated by the term, "business instinct." She marveled at Dorothy's poise, which, however, showed no trace of awkwardness or pertness. Mrs. Faulkner was fond of character study, and felt convinced at once that she would greatly enjoy a better acquaintance with Dorothy Dorrance. At the office, Leicester showed the newcomers the same quiet, polite courtesy. The boy had a frank, straightforward air that always impressed strangers pleasantly. He turned the register around towards Mr. Faulkner, and offered him an already-inked pen, with an air of being quite accustomed to registering guests. But Leicester's sense of humor was strong, and the absurdity of the whole thing struck him so forcibly, that it was with great difficulty he refrained from laughing outright. Had he glanced at Dorothy, he certainly would have done so; but the two were fully determined to play their part properly, and they succeeded. Nor was Mr. Faulkner to be outdone in the matter of correct deportment. He gravely took the pen offered to him, signed the register in the place indicated, and inquired if they might go at once to their rooms. "Certainly," said Leicester, touching the bell on the desk. The ubiquitous Hickox appeared with the hand-bags, and Leicester handed him the keys. This touch nearly finished Dorothy, for numbered keys seemed so very like a real hotel, that it struck her as quite the funniest thing yet. As the Faulkners, following Mr. Hickox, went up the great staircase and disappeared around the corner, Leicester flew out from behind his desk, grasped Dorothy's hand, and fleetly, though silently, the two ran through the long parlor to one of the smaller rooms, shut the door, and then burst into peals of laughter. For a moment they would pause, begin to speak to each other, and then go off again into choking spasms of hilarity. Had they only known it, their two guests on the floor above, were doing almost the same thing. Mrs. Faulkner had thrown herself into an easy chair, and was laughing until the tears rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Faulkner, who was by nature a grave gentleman, was walking up and down the room, broadly smiling, and saying, "Well upon my word! well upon my word!" Before Dorothy and Leicester had recovered their equilibrium, the two younger girls came rushing into the room where they were. "Did they come? Are they here? What is the matter? Do tell us all about it!" Dorothy, in her idea of the fitness of things had asked Lilian and Fairy to keep out of sight until after the arrival and registration had been safely accomplished; grandma, it had also been thought best, was not to appear until dinner-time. As Dorothy had expressed it, she knew the proper propriety for a proprietor, and she proposed to live up to it. But of course when Fairy and Lilian, on the west veranda, heard the commotion in the small parlor, they could restrain their curiosity no longer, and insisted on being told all about it. So Dorothy and Leicester calmed down a little, and assured them that the whole thing had passed off beautifully; that the arrival had been a howling success, and that Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner were now established boarders at the Dorrance Domain. Then Dorothy went out to the kitchen to superintend carefully the preparations for dinner. She had decided that since the Dorrance Domain had become a hotel, it was proper to have dinner at night, and luncheon in the middle of the day. Once over the comical farce of registering, the advent of the Faulkners took on an aspect not entirely humorous, and Dorothy's sense of serious responsibility came back to her. Kathleen, too, with her native Irish wit realized the gravity of the occasion, and went about her duties in a steady, capable way that greatly helped to reassure Dorothy. And indeed, matters seemed to be progressing most smoothly. The dinner was well under way, and the table daintily set. Fairy had brought flowers from Mrs. Hickox's garden, and she and Lilian had decorated the table and the dining-room. Dorothy had concluded that they would all sit together at the round table that night, and then if the Faulkners preferred a table to themselves, it could be arranged later. After a careful supervision, Dorothy left the dinner in charge of her really competent cook and waitress, and went back to the family. She found them all on the west veranda, where they usually congregated at sunset time. With them were the Faulkners; and in a pretty summer house-gown, Mrs. Faulkner looked so sweet and dainty, that Dorothy felt more than ever attracted to her. Mr. Faulkner was engaged in a pleasant conversation with Grandma Dorrance; and Dorothy suddenly felt that to be the proprietor of a summer hotel was just the nicest thing a girl could do. "You've no idea," Mrs. Faulkner was saying, as Dorothy came out, "what a delightful change this is from the noise and glitter of the Horton House. This lovely great veranda, and the beautiful view of the lake, with no inharmonious elements, makes me feel glad I'm alive." "I'm glad you are alive, too," said Dorothy, smiling at the lady; "and I'm glad you live here." CHAPTER XVIII AMBITIONS It was truly astonishing, even to Dorothy, how easily the machinery of a big hotel could be made to move along. The Dorrances all agreed that the Faulkners were no trouble at all, and that their presence in the Dorrance Domain added greatly to the happiness of all concerned. Doubtless the explanation of this lay in several different facts. To begin with, the Faulkners were most charming people; refined, tactful, and kind-hearted. It was their nature to make as little trouble as possible, wherever they might be. On the other side, Dorothy's determination to succeed in her enterprise, grew with what it fed upon, and she became day by day more capable through experience. Also, she was ably assisted by Leicester and the girls, who were always ready to do anything she wished them to. Then, the servants were certainly treasures, and as Dorothy said, it would be a perfect idiot of a hotel proprietor who couldn't succeed under such advantages as she had. With her success her ambitions grew. Again sitting on the east veranda, one afternoon, she found herself wishing that another buggy would drive up and deposit two more such people as the Faulkners at her hotel office. If she could succeed with two, why not with four, or even six? Indeed, in her imagination she saw a long procession of buggies bringing eager guests to the hospitality of the Dorrance Domain. Acting on an impulse, she went in search of Mrs. Faulkner, and found that lady just coming down-stairs, dressed for afternoon, and quite ready for a chat. So Dorothy carried her off to one of her favorite nooks which was a little vine-clad arbor on the east lawn. This proprietor and guest had become firm friends in the few days they had been together. Dorothy admired Mrs. Faulkner's lovely gracious disposition, and her clever cultivated mind. Mrs. Faulkner saw great possibilities in Dorothy's character and took a sincere interest in the girl. Aside from this there was that subtle, inexplicable bond of sympathetic congeniality, which makes a real friendship possible. "I want to talk to you seriously," said Dorothy. "I'm all attention," said Mrs. Faulkner; "proceed with your seriousness." "You and Mr. Faulkner have been here a week to-morrow," Dorothy went on, "and----" "And you can't stand us any longer,--and you want to break it to me gently?" "No, indeed, nothing of the sort! and you know that well. But I want to ask you frankly, and I want you to tell me honestly, how I have succeeded this week in what I have undertaken." "What have you undertaken?" said Mrs. Faulkner, who dearly loved to make Dorothy formulate her thoughts. "Why, I undertook to give you and Mr. Faulkner, in a general way, and so far as I could, just such comforts and accommodations as you would get at the average summer hotel." "Is that all you tried to do?" "I think," said Dorothy, speaking slowly, and thinking hard, "I think I tried to give you a little bit extra, in the way of home comforts and dainty service, to make up for the things that the average summer hotel provides, but which I can't give you." "Like a brass band, for instance." "Yes, a brass band, and a great array of bell-boys and porters, and Saturday night hops, and,--lots of things like that." "Well," said Mrs. Faulkner, "to tell you the truth, I don't care two straws for brass bands, or Saturday night hops; and Mr. Faulkner doesn't either. We are both charmed with this place, and we are both absolutely happy and comfortable. So, if you are willing, we are quite ready to prolong our stay indefinitely. Mr. Faulkner enjoys the quiet and freedom from interruption, while he is pursuing his scientific studies. And as for myself, I want to get well rested this summer, for during the winter, my city life is very full of gayety and excitement." "I'm so glad you are satisfied," said Dorothy, earnestly; "for this was an experiment, and I was so anxious it should succeed. Of course, on my side it is more than satisfactory. You and Mr. Faulkner are ideal boarders; you make no trouble at all, and you have helped me in lots of ways by your advice and suggestions. Now I want to ask your advice some more. You know what I can do,--you know the house, and all,--do you think, if I could get them, I could take two or three more boarders?" "Do _you_ think you could?" asked Mrs. Faulkner, smiling at Dorothy's eager face. "Yes, I think so; but sometimes, you know, I'm apt to overrate my own ability. I could do the work all right,--or have it done,--but I'm not sure whether I could manage to satisfy people who might not be so lovely and amiable as you and Mr. Faulkner are. And another thing, I wouldn't want any more boarders if it would bother or annoy you two the least mite." "Why do you think you would like to have more?" "Because, Mrs. Faulkner, I want to earn more money. Grandmother is bothered with her financial affairs, and if we children could help her any, we'd all be so glad. You see we are an awful expense to her; but soon, I hope we'll be old enough to earn money for her instead. Now of course to have two boarders is a good help towards the living expenses of our own family; and I've counted up, and I think if I could have four, it would almost entirely pay our running account. And if I had six, I think we might begin to save money. Oh, Mrs. Faulkner, do you think we could do it?" "Where would you get these boarders?" "I don't know; but I thought I would ask you first, and see if you objected to having other people here. And then, if you didn't, I thought perhaps I'd write to some of my friends in the city, and see if any of them wanted to come up for a few weeks." "You are a brave little girl, Dorothy," said Mrs. Faulkner, looking into the eager anxious eyes upturned to hers; "and I must tell you how much I appreciate your love for your grandmother, and your courage and pluck in taking up this burden of the family fortunes. I have watched you through the week, and I have noticed your many little self-denials and your unfailing patience and perseverance. _I_ know who walked over to Woodport and back yesterday in the hot sun, in order that I might have cream for my peaches last night at dinner." "Oh, how did you know?" cried Dorothy, blushing at her friend's praise; "but there was really nobody to send,--the children had been on several errands,--and so I just went myself." "Yes, I know it; and that is only one instance that shows your determination to have things right. And with that plucky perseverance of yours, and with your pleasant house, and good helpers, I see no reason why you shouldn't take a few more boarders if you can get the right kind. Of course it wouldn't annoy Mr. Faulkner nor myself to have some other people here; and even if it did, we would have no right or wish to stand in your way. When you reach the stage of brass bands, and Saturday hops, that will be time for us to leave you, and push on into the wilderness." "You needn't begin to pack your things to-day," said Dorothy, smiling, "as it isn't at all likely I can persuade anybody to come,--let alone a brass band." "Suppose I present you with two more guests," said Mrs. Faulkner. "Oh," cried Dorothy, "do you know of anybody? Who are they?" "You may not like them altogether. They are two ladies who are now over at the Horton House. They are not enjoying it there, and they asked me to let them know if I found any place which I thought they would like. I'm sure they would like it here, and I know they would be glad to come; but, to be honest about it, they are a little fussy in some ways. They are spinsters, from Boston, and though they are refined and well-bred ladies, they are sometimes a little exacting in their requirements." "I wouldn't mind what their requirements were, if I could meet them to their satisfaction." "You mustn't take that stand too strictly, Dorothy dear; it is well to try to give your guests satisfaction, but some requirements are unreasonable, and it is a mistake to grant them. If these ladies come, you must exercise your judgment in your treatment of them, for they're the kind who are quite likely to impose on your good nature." "Do you think they would come? How can I find out about them?" "Yes, I'm sure they would come; and if you wish me to, I will write to them." "Oh, thank you; I wish you would, please; that is, after I have spoken to grandma, and to the other children about it. What are their names?" "Van Arsdale. Miss Marcia and Miss Amanda. They are quite as imposing as their names sound; but you need not be really afraid of them. Remember the Faulkners will always protect you from their ferocity." Dorothy laughed; and kissing her good friend, ran away to find the other children. Having gathered them together, they all went up to Grandma Dorrance's room for a caucus. "It's a new plan!" exclaimed Dorothy, perching herself on grandma's bureau. As a rule, the more excited the Dorrances were, the higher seats they selected. At present the twins were sitting on the headboard of the bed, and Fairy was making unsuccessful endeavors to climb up on the mantelpiece. Grandma Dorrance, well accustomed to these gymnastics, sat in her easy chair, and placidly awaited Dorothy's further announcement. "You see," Dorothy went on, "we've made, and we are making a great success of our boarders. I've just had a talk with Mrs. Faulkner and she's quite satisfied; and goodness knows _we_ are." "Yes," said Fairy, from a heap of sofa-pillows into which she had just tumbled, "I do think they are the loveliest people. Why, Mr. Faulkner says he's going to send to New York for a book, a-purpose for me. It's a lovely book, all about bugs and slugs and ear-wigs. We went walking yesterday, and he showed me the funny little houses where beetles and things live in. Oh, he _is_ a nice man!" "Yes," said Dorothy, starting afresh; "it's a great success all around; and therefore, my beloved brethren, this is my plan. If two boarders are good, four boarders are twice as good; and so, what do you think of taking two more guests into our hotel?" "At the same rates?" asked Lilian. "Yes," said Dorothy, "at the same rates. Just think! that will give us sixty dollars a week income, and it won't cost us much more than that to live, even with four boarders." "Hooray!" cried Leicester, flinging a pillow up in the air, and catching it on his head, "hooray for the great financier! proprietor of the Dorrance Domain!" This was followed by a series of ear-splitting cheers; a performance in which the Dorrances had indulged but seldom during the past week; but just now the occasion really seemed to demand it. "Who are your millionaire friends?" asked Leicester, "and when do they arrive?" "Oh, they don't know yet themselves, that they're coming," said Dorothy, airily; "and they're two ladies, and their name is Van Arsdale, and they're very aristocratic, and they want to be waited on every minute, and I'm sure they won't want any of us to make a speck of noise while they're here." A long low growl from Lilian, started the Dorrance groan, and the other three joined in with such force and energy, that the next day Mr. Faulkner inquired privately of grandma the meaning of the fearful sounds he had heard the day before. When they were quiet again, Dorothy explained the whole thing rationally, and they were all much pleased with her plan. Grandma feared that the added responsibility would be too much for her oldest granddaughter; but the rest all promised to help, and the girls agreed that they could do even more of the parlor and dining-room work, and so give Tessie more time to help Kathleen in the kitchen. "I suppose the Van Arsdale ladies will register," said Leicester, with a sudden remembrance of his last experience as a clerk. "Yes, of course," said Dorothy; "and we mustn't giggle this time, either. I'm not at all sure they'll come, but I hope they will; and of course, if they do they must be received properly." CHAPTER XIX THE VAN ARSDALE LADIES The Van Arsdale ladies did decide to come. On the receipt of Mrs. Faulkner's note they concluded that the Dorrance Domain was just the place for them, and they immediately began to make preparations for leaving the Horton House. "Though it's a very queer thing, Amanda," the elder Miss Van Arsdale said to her sister, "it's a very queer thing for a young girl to be proprietor of a hotel. I must confess I don't understand it. And I'm not sure I want to be mixed up with any such ridiculous doings." "But Mrs. Faulkner says that it's all right; and that we four will be the only boarders. That seems to me very exclusive. You know the Faulkners are all right,--her mother was a Frelinghuysen. I'm not afraid to risk it, as long as they recommend it." "Well, we'll try it for a week, as Mrs. Faulkner advised; and if we don't like the girl proprietor, we won't have to stay any longer." "I don't know what she can be, I'm sure. She can't be of our kind." Judging from the effect presented to the eye, the Van Arsdale ladies and Dorothy Dorrance were not of the same kind. They were both elderly spinsters of the type that looks older than it really is, yet tries to seem younger. They were tall and spare with high cheek bones, and aquiline, aristocratic noses. These noses seemed to turn up at everything; and though literally they didn't turn up at all, yet the effect of turning up was always there. Their large, light blue eyes were capable of a powerful and penetrating gaze, that was apt to be extremely disconcerting to the object of their stare. Both ladies had really beautiful hair of a soft, gray color, which they wore rolled over high pompadours. They were wealthy, and though economical and even penurious in some respects, each possessed an inordinate love of dress, and was willing to spend large sums for gorgeous fabrics made up in the latest styles. The incongruity of these middle aged and far from beautiful spinsters, trailing around soft exquisite robes of dainty coloring, and exquisitely made, afforded much scope for wonderment and curiosity wherever they went. But the sisters cared little or nothing for the comments passed upon them. They bought their clothes, and wore them, purely for their own selfish enjoyment; and met with stares of cold contempt, the half-sarcastic praises offered by some daring ladies at the hotel. The day that the Van Arsdales were expected at the Dorrance Domain, Dorothy and Leicester were prepared to receive them as they had the others. Lilian and Fairy were allowed to witness the performance this time, on the strict conditions that they were not to laugh, and none of the four were to look at each other. And so when the Horton House stage came over for the second time, Grandma Dorrance, the three Dorrance girls, and the two Faulkners were on the veranda, while Leicester stood nobly at his post in the office. Mr. Hickox appeared duly, and made everything all right as usual. But when he assisted the Van Arsdale ladies out of the stage, he remarked to himself that his wife would certainly be surprised if she could see them dresses. The elder Miss Van Arsdale wore a silk of the exquisite shade known as pastel blue; it was made with a jaunty little jacket, opening over an elaborate white lace waist. A long gold chain hung around her neck, from which depended innumerable lockets, charms, pencils, purses and vinaigrettes, in a bewildering array. Her blue hat was decked with white ostrich plumes, and though Dorothy had been prepared by Mrs. Faulkner for this display, yet she had not expected quite such a gorgeous spectacle. Miss Amanda Van Arsdale followed her sister; she wore a liberty silk gown of an old rose color, and a hat with long black ostrich feathers. She wore no necklace, but from her belt was suspended a large square bag made entirely of overlapping plates of gold, in which doubtless she carried the various impedimenta that her sister exhibited. Though over-elaborate, these costumes were made in the latest fashion, and they looked like beautiful and costly gowns, which by some absurd mistake had been put on the wrong wearers. The two advanced with a haughty and somewhat supercilious air, and Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner rose to greet them. Introductions to the Dorrances followed, and then Miss Van Arsdale raised her _lorgnon_, and treated Dorothy to a prolonged inspection. "And you are the proprietor of this hotel?" she said. "Yes," said Dorothy, smiling; "I am." "Well," said Miss Van Arsdale, "you can't fool me. You look to me quite capable of being the proprietor of anything." And somehow, in spite of her peculiar appearance and her brusque ways, Dorothy felt at once a decided liking for Miss Marcia Van Arsdale. Mrs. Faulkner gave a little nod of satisfaction as she saw the good understanding between these two, and Mr. Faulkner said, genially: "Yes, we think our proprietor a very capable young woman." Then Dorothy ushered the ladies in to the office and paused at the desk. Leicester confessed afterwards that he almost fell off his stool when he saw Dorothy bringing in two Birds of Paradise, with their feathers freshly painted. But at the time he preserved a straight face, and politely offered the register and the pen. Miss Marcia, in a bold, dashing hand, signed for them both, and then Dorothy went herself to their rooms with them,--the faithful Hickox bringing up the rear. On reaching the rooms, Dorothy offered to assist the ladies in removing their hats and veils, but Miss Marcia only stared at her. "Send me a maid," she said; "a lady's maid." Then Dorothy, who was acting under Mrs. Faulkner's direction, said quietly: "Miss Van Arsdale, this is not a fully equipped hotel, and we do not have ladies' maids. The chambermaid, Tessie, will attend to your rooms, and such outside service as you may require. Also, my sisters and I will be glad to help you occasionally, as we often help one another. But a regular ladies' maid to assist at your toilet, we cannot provide. May I help you unpin your veil?" Miss Marcia Van Arsdale looked at Dorothy again through her glasses. "You're the right sort," she said, "and I like your plain speaking. I'm plain-spoken myself. We'll get along all right, and I shall send for my parrot." "Oh," exclaimed Dorothy, "have you a parrot?" "Yes, a very beautiful and valuable bird. But I never take her anywhere, until I know just what sort of a place it's going to be. I shall send for her to-morrow." Not knowing the high esteem in which Miss Van Arsdale held her parrot, Dorothy did not fully appreciate the magnitude of this compliment. So she merely said, "We shall be very glad to welcome Polly." "I do not allow her to be called Polly," said Miss Van Arsdale, with a sudden return to her supercilious manner. "My bird's name is Mary,--and I strongly disapprove of nicknames of any sort." A parrot named Mary struck Dorothy as very funny, but she was learning to control her sense of humor when necessary, and she replied: "Very well, Miss Van Arsdale, we shall be glad to welcome Mary." "Thank you," said Miss Van Arsdale, formally; "and I will ask you to have her cage moved about at my direction, during the day, in accordance with the sun and the weather." Dorothy considered a minute, and concluded that this was one of the times to humor Miss Van Arsdale. So she said, "I will see to it that the cage is placed wherever you desire." The repetition of this conversation to the others caused great hilarity. "Mary!" cried Leicester; "a parrot called Mary! but _I_ should not dare be so familiar with the bird as to call her Mary. I shall say Miss Mary, and shall always address her with my best dancing-school bow." The parrot arrived duly, and proved to be such a superior bird, and so interesting and attractive, that the children all fell in love with her. The name of Polly was entirely unsuited to such a dignified creature, and Mary seemed far more appropriate. The bird's plumage was of brilliant coloring, and Lilian declared that the Van Arsdale ladies copied their own clothes from Miss Mary's. The parrot was an exceedingly fine talker, and readily picked up new phrases. Whenever the Van Arsdale ladies entered the room, Mary would remark, "Hurrah for Miss Marcia!" or, "Hurrah for Miss Amanda!" as the case might be. This hurrahing was quite in line with the Dorrances' own mode of expression, and they soon taught Mary to hurrah for each of them by name. Although on the whole, the Misses Van Arsdale were satisfactory boarders, they were far more difficult than the easy-going Faulkners. Miss Marcia had a most irritating way of popping out of her room, and calling over the banister, "Clerk, clerk!" Since the moment of registration, she had looked upon Leicester as the official clerk of the hotel, and applied to him a dozen times a day for things that she wanted or thought she wanted. Usually these applications were made by screaming from the head of the staircase. Sometimes the request was for stationery,--again for hot water, warm water, cold water, or ice water. Miss Amanda, too, made similar demands, and was given to calling for a glass of milk at five o'clock in the morning, or a few sandwiches after everybody had retired for the night. But Dorothy was learning that the way to success is not always a primrose path, and she cheerfully did her best to accede to such of these demands as she considered just and reasonable. And she tried, too, to look at the justice and reasonableness from the standpoint of her guests' rather than her own opinions. The children had agreed that whenever Miss Marcia desired Mary's cage moved, any one of the four was to do it. And it was fortunate that the task was thus divided, for Miss Marcia was fussy, and twenty times a day, or more, one of the Dorrances might be seen carrying the large cage from the hall to the veranda, from the veranda to the parlor, from the parlor to the upper balcony, and so on. But as careful attention to Mary's welfare was one of the principal conditions of the Van Arsdales' continued stay at the Dorrance Domain, and too, as the children were one and all devoted to the bird, this work was not objected to. Dorothy was most anxious to keep her four boarders through the rest of the summer. For the plan was working successfully, and though providing a well-spread and even bounteous table, Dorothy found she could save a little money. She was not avaricious nor mercenary, but she longed to be able, at the close of the season, to present Grandma Dorrance with at least a small sum of money, to help pay their winter expenses. And so, when Miss Marcia one day made a proposition to her, Dorothy hailed it with delight. The suggestion was that Miss Van Arsdale should ask her niece to come up to the Dorrance Domain to board, and to bring her whole family. The family consisted of Mrs. Black, three small children and two nurses; Mr. Black might possibly come up occasionally, but would remain only a few days at a time. Children! Dorothy remembered only too well, how children were objected to in boarding-houses, and she wondered if she dare undertake to have them in her hotel. She realized, too, that six or seven more people would necessitate some radical changes in her methods, and in her household appointments. Indeed, it meant a change from an experiment to the real thing. It meant assuming obligations much more formal than she was under towards her present guests. On the other hand, Mrs. Black was wealthy, Miss Van Arsdale said, and quite willing to pay generously for all she received. "I want to do it, Miss Marcia," said Dorothy,--"I want to do it very much; but it is a big question to decide. So I'll take twenty-four hours to think it over, and to discuss it with the others, and to-morrow I will let you know." CHAPTER XX A REAL HOTEL At the family conference on the subject, Grandma Dorrance said No. The gentle old lady was more than usually decided, and she said, that while the Faulkners and Van Arsdales were charming people, and more like visitors than boarders, a family of children, with nurses, was an altogether different matter, and meant far more trouble and complications than Dorothy could realize. "Oh, grannymother dear," said Dorothy, "I don't think so. Miss Marcia says that Mrs. Black is a lovely lady, not a bit fussy; and children and nurses can't be as much responsibility as grown people. Why, they wouldn't be critical at all." "Not critical, perhaps, but far more troublesome in their own way." "Oh, I don't know," said Leicester; "the reason people didn't want us children in boarding-houses was because we made so much noise. Now we don't care how much noise these kids make, and there's room enough for the people who do care, to get away from the racket." "We would have to have more servants," said Lilian; "and wouldn't that cut down the profits a good deal?" "I've been thinking about that," said Dorothy, "and I've come to this conclusion. If we should take all these people, we would have to get another chambermaid, and another helper in the kitchen. A young girl to pare the vegetables, and help with the dish washing. Of course with so many extra people, more waitresses will be necessary; but as you say, Lilian, if we hire a lot of servants it will make our profits pretty slim. And so I propose that we three girls wait on the table." "Oh, no, children," cried Grandma Dorrance; "I won't allow anything of that sort!" "Now wait a minute, grandma," said Dorothy; "don't say things that you'll just have to take back afterwards. There is no disgrace at all in waiting on a table. Lots of college girls and boys do it right along, in the colleges,--and they go to summer hotels, too, and wait on the tables there. Now we children want to earn some money to help you; after you've taken care of us all these years, I'm sure it's no more than right. And if this way of earning money isn't easier and pleasanter than going into a store, I'll give up. What do the rest of you say?" "I say, let's go ahead," declared Leicester; "if the four of us agree, we can persuade grandma. She never really refused us anything in our lives. And as to waiting on the table, I'd just as leave do it myself, as not. As you say, Dot, lots of college fellows do it, and it's no more disgrace than being president. And then we can all eat by ourselves afterwards, and have a jolly old time." "I'd love to wait on the table," said Fairy; "I think it would be gorgeous fun. Shall we all wear caps, and aprons with big white wings sticking out of the shoulders?" "No," said Dorothy, "not caps. We'll wear white aprons, but not with shoulder-ruffles." "I shall have shoulder-ruffles on mine," said Leicester, decidedly; "and I shall wear a cap, too." Even grandma laughed at this; but Dorothy said, "No, Less, I don't want you to wait on the table, at least not until we really need you. We girls can do it, with Tessie's help." "Well, what _can_ I do?" said Leicester; "it won't take all my time to register the people who come." "There'll be enough for you to do, old fellow," said Dorothy; "you can go to market every day, and answer Miss Marcia's calls, and move Mary around. Then if you have any time left, you can amuse the three Black babies." "Pickaninnies, are they?" said Leicester; "then I'll fill them up on watermelon." Although Grandma Dorrance weakened somewhat in her disapproval of the plan, yet it was not until Mrs. Faulkner was called in, and her opinion asked, that grandma gave an entire consent. Mrs. Faulkner was so sweet and sensible about the whole matter, and so judicious in her advice and suggestions, that grandma was much influenced by her view of the case. Mrs. Faulkner quite agreed with Dorothy about the girls acting as waitresses, and strongly approved of the children's desire to add to their finances. She also advised Dorothy to charge good prices for the accommodation of the children and nurses, because, she said, they were quite as great a responsibility in their way, as Mrs. Black herself. As Dorothy had hoped, Mr. Bill Hodges was able to recommend a young girl whom he knew, to help Kathleen in the kitchen; and Tessie knew of a competent chambermaid who would be glad to come up from the city for a while. So Dorothy wrote to Mrs. Black, and stated frankly what she had to offer, and what her rates were, and Mrs. Black telegraphed back that she might expect the whole family as soon as they could get there. And so it came to pass, that again Leicester stood behind his open register, and the proprietor of the Dorrance Domain awaited her new relay of guests. Though Dorothy was not as much embarrassed this time, as when she expected her first guests, and had far less sense of humor in the situation, she had a better poise and a greater self-confidence, which came necessarily from her so far successful experiences. But when she saw the cavalcade approaching, her heart began to beat a little faster, and worse than that, she found it impossible to keep from laughing. The Blacks had come up by rail, and had apparently annexed all the available vehicles at the station to transport them. There was a rockaway first, then two buggies, then two large spring wagons, and then a buckboard. In the wagons were several trunks, three baby-carriages and a number of queer-shaped forms carefully wrapped, which afterwards proved to be portable bath-tubs, a cradle and a folding crib. Dorothy began to think that for once, Mr. Hickox would not prove equal to the occasion; but he reassured her with his usual statements that it would be all right, and that he would look after things. The rockaway came first, and Mr. and Mrs. Black were helped out by Mr. Hickox in his most official manner. Mrs. Black was a delicate, helpless-looking little lady; very pretty, in a pale blonde way, and seemingly very dependent on her big, good-looking husband. Mr. Benjamin Black was one of those hearty, cordial-mannered men, who make friends at once. He brought Mrs. Black up the steps, and advancing to Dorothy with outstretched hand, said pleasantly: "I'm sure this is our proprietor, Miss Dorrance." "Yes," said Dorothy, put at her ease at once, and shaking hands with them both; "I'm very glad to see you." "We are glad to be here," said Mr. Black. "The trip was very warm and tiresome. But this place is most charming." "And so cool and quiet," said Mrs. Black, sinking into a chair, and looking, Dorothy thought, as if she never meant to rise again. By this time the other vehicles were depositing their cargoes, both human and freight, and for a moment Dorothy wondered if the Dorrance Domain were large enough to hold the entire collection. One of the nurses was French, and was talking volubly in her own language to the two children who held her by the hands. One of these children, a girl of five years, was answering her nurse, also in French; while the other, a younger boy, was crying loudly, but whether in French or English, nobody could quite make out. The other nurse was a large and stout German woman, who was crooning a German folk-song to the baby she carried in her arm. Apparently the baby cared little for German music, for the small infant was pounding its nurse's face with both tiny fists, and making strange gurgling sounds which might be caused either by joy or grief. All these people came up on the veranda; and after persuading one of the drivers to stay and help him, Mr. Hickox began to carry the luggage into the house. With a successful effort at composure, Dorothy paid no attention to the children and nurses, and conducted Mr. Black to the office. "Ah," said he to Leicester; "how do you do, sir, how do you do? Fine place you have up here. Very fine place. Glad I brought my family. Hope they won't make you any trouble." As the commotion on the veranda seemed to increase each moment, Leicester did not echo this hope, but spoke pleasantly to Mr. Black, and turned the register towards him. The gentleman registered Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Black, Miss Sylvia Black, Master Montmorency Black, Miss Gwendolen Genevieve Black, Mlle. Celestine, and Fraülein Lisa Himmelpfennig. Leicester looked proudly at this array of names which reached half-way down the page, and ringing for Mr. Hickox, he gave him the keys of the rooms set aside for the party, and the caravan started up-stairs. Dorothy went with them, both because she thought it proper to do so, and because she felt an interest in seeing the family properly distributed. Leicester left his official desk, and found plenty to do in disposing of the baby-carriages, and the other paraphernalia. It was strange, Dorothy thought to herself as she came down-stairs, how much more easily, and as a matter of course she took the Blacks' arrival than she had the previous ones. "I must have been born for a hotel proprietor," she said to herself; "for I don't feel any worry or anxiety about the dinner or anything. I just _know_ everything will be all right." As she reached the foot of the staircase, she met Fairy, who was just carrying Mary's cage into the north parlor. "Hurrah for Dorothy!" croaked the parrot, catching sight of her. "Ah, Miss Mary, you'll have a lot of new names to hurrah for now, and jaw-breakers at that. I shouldn't wonder if they'd break even a parrot's jaw, and they may bend that big yellow beak of yours." "She can learn them," said Fairy, confidently. "Miss Mary can learn anything. She's the cleverest, smartest, educatedest bird in the whole world. There's _nothing_ she can't learn." "Pretty Mary," said the bird in its queer, croaking voice; "move Mary's cage. Hurrah for Fairy!" "There, just hear that!" exclaimed Fairy, proudly; "now I rather guess a bird like that could learn to hurrah for anybody." "Well," said Dorothy, "but you don't know yet that these children's names are Gwendolen Genevieve, and Montmorency." "What!" cried Fairy, nearly dropping the cage, "of course no parrot could learn such names as those." "And Miss Marcia objects to nicknames," said Dorothy. "These new people aren't a bit like their aunts, though." "When are they coming down?" asked Lilian, who had joined her sisters; "I wish they'd get that procession of baby-carriages started. I want to see the show." At that moment, the French nurse, Celestine, came down-stairs with the two older children. The little ones had been freshly dressed, and looked extremely pretty. Sylvia was in crisp white muslin, with fluttering bows of pink ribbon, and Montmorency wore a boyish garb of white piqué. "Won't you speak to me?" asked Lilian, putting out her hand to the little girl. "No," said the child, hiding her face in her nurse's apron; "do away. I's af'aid." "Mees Sylvie,--she is afraid of everything," said Celestine; "she is a naughty--naughty,--a bad ma'amselle." "No, no," cried Sylvia; "me not bad. Me dood ma'selle." "Me dood!" announced three year old Montmorency; "me no ky. On'y babies ky. Me bid man!" "You are good," said Fairy, "and you're a nice big man. Come with me, and I'll show you where I'm going to put this pretty green bird." "Ess," said the little boy, and grasping hold of Fairy's frock he willingly trotted along by her side. Whereupon Sylvia, overcoming her bashfulness, concluded she, too, wanted to go with the green bird. So Celestine and her charges accompanied the Dorrance girls to the north parlor, and there they found the Van Arsdale ladies, who sat waiting in state to receive their newly arrived relatives. CHAPTER XXI UPS AND DOWNS The days that followed were crammed full of both business and pleasure. Dorothy rose each morning, buoyant with eager hope that all would go well, and went to bed each night, rejoicing in the fact that in the main it had done so. There was plenty of work to do; but it was cheerfully done, and many hands made it light, and comparatively easy. There were many small worries and anxieties, but they were overcome by perseverance and determination. The Dorrance pride was inherent in all four children, and having set their hand to the plough, not only were they unwilling to turn back, but they were determined to make the best possible furrow. Although Dorothy was at the helm, and all important matters were referred to her, yet the others had their appointed tasks and did them each day, promptly and well. Now that the Domain had assumed more of the character of a hotel, the Dorrances saw less of their boarders, socially. Also the large dining-room was used, and the guests seated in families at various tables. This gave a far more hotel-like air to the house, and though perhaps not quite as pleasant, it seemed to Dorothy the right thing to do. The Faulkners were ideal boarders; the Van Arsdales, though more exacting, were just and considerate; but the Blacks, as Leicester expressed it, were a caution. Mrs. Black was a continual and never-pausing fusser. Mr. Black remained two days to get them settled, and then returned to the city. Immediately after his departure, Mrs. Black insisted on changing her room. "I didn't want to bother my husband about it," she said to Dorothy, "for he thinks I'm so fickle-minded; but truly, it isn't that. You see, the sun gets around to this room at just half-past three, and that's the time I'm always taking my nap, and so of course it wakes me up. Now you see, I can't stand that,--when I came up here for rest and recuperation. And so, my dear Miss Dorrance, if you don't mind, I'll just take some other room. I'm sure you have plenty of them, and if that big, strong Mr. Hickox will help move my things, I'm sure it will be no trouble at all. Perhaps your sister Fairy will look after the children a little bit, while Celestine and Lisa assist me. The baby is asleep, and perhaps she won't waken, but if she does, would Miss Lilian mind holding her for just a little while? or she might take her out in her baby-carriage for a bit of a ride. I'm sorry to be troublesome, but you see for yourself, I really can't help it." If Mrs. Black really _was_ sorry to be troublesome, she must have been sorry most of the time. For she was everlastingly making changes of some sort, or desiring attention from somebody, and she quite imposed on the good nature of the younger Dorrances, by begging them to take care of her children upon all too frequent occasions. Once, even Leicester was surprised to find himself wheeling Montmorency up and down the veranda, while Mrs. Black finished a letter to go in the mail. The Van Arsdale ladies also were under the calm, but imperious sway of their fragile-looking niece. It was nothing unusual to see Miss Marcia and Miss Amanda each holding one of the fretful children, and making frantic endeavors to amuse their young relatives. The nurses were competent, but Mrs. Black so often had errands for them that their young charges were frequently in the care of other people. Dorothy talked this matter over with Mrs. Faulkner, and as usual was wisely counseled by that lady. She advised, that in so far as Lilian and Fairy wished to play with the Black children, they should do so; but in no way were they under obligation to assist Mrs. Black in the care of her little ones. And, if she requested this at times when the girls had duties to perform, or indeed at a time when they wished to take their recreation, Mrs. Faulkner said they were perfectly justified in asking Mrs. Black to excuse them. Dorothy told this to her sisters, who were thereby much relieved; for though fond of the children, they did not, as Lilian said, wish to be pushing around those Black babies in perambulators from morning till night. But somehow the babies caused a great deal of commotion, and Dorothy began to understand why boarding-house keepers preferred grown people. One day as the Dorrance girls sat on the veranda, Celestine came running to them, wringing her hands, after her French method of showing great dismay, and exclaiming: "Mees Sylvie,--she have fallen into ze lake!" "What!" exclaimed the three girls at once, jumping up, and running towards the lake; "where did she fall in? How did it happen?" "Non, non,--not zat way! zis a-way," and Celestine started down a path that did not lead towards the lake. "I have pull her out; she is not drown,--but she is,--oh, so ver' soil,--so, vat you say,--muddy, oh, so much muddy!" "Never mind the mud if the child isn't drowned," cried Lilian; "but this is not the way to the lake. You said she fell in the lake." "Not ze gran' lake, mees, but ze small lake,--ze ver' small, p'tit lake." "Oh, she means nothing but a mud-puddle!" cried Fairy, who had run ahead of the rest, and found Sylvia lying on the grass, chuckling with laughter, while her pretty clothes were a mass of mud and wet. "I falled in!" she cried, gleefully; "I failed in all myself, when C'lestine wasn't looking. Ain't I a funny dirl?" "No, I don't think it's funny," began Dorothy, and then she paused, realizing that it was not her duty to reprimand Mrs. Black's children, and, too, Sylvia certainly did look funny. Not only her white dress, but her face and hands, and her dainty white slippers and stockings were bespattered with brown mud, and Lilian said that she looked like a chocolate éclair. Another day, Celestine approached Dorothy with the pleasing news that, "Master Montmorency, he must have upsetted the blanc-mange." Dorothy flew to verify this statement, and found that the son of the house of Black had indeed overturned a large dish of Bavarian cream, which Kathleen had made for that evening's dessert. It had been set out on the back porch to cool, and though protected by a wire screen cover, the enterprising youth had succeeded in wrecking the whole affair. Dorothy's record for good-nature was seriously menaced by this mischievous prank, and she would probably have told Mrs. Black her honest opinion of the transgressing infant; but Kathleen's view of the case disarmed her. "Whisht, now, darlint," said the big peace-maker, "niver you mind. I'll whishk up another bowl full in a minute, shure. The shpalpeen didn't mane anny harrum. Troth, he's nothin' but a baby. Wasn't ye wan yersilf wanst? Go 'long wid ye, now, and lave me to me wurruk." This Dorothy was glad enough to do, and she walked away, feeling that Kathleen had taught her a lesson in making allowance for the unconsciousness of a child's wrongdoing. When she reached the west veranda she found the whole family and all the guests gathered there in a great state of excitement. Following Lilian's pointing finger with her eyes, she saw Mary, the parrot, perched calmly on a high limb of an evergreen-tree. "How did she get out?" cried Dorothy, aghast. "Sylvia opened the cage door," answered Lilian, "when no one was looking,--and Mary just walked out. You should have seen her climbing that tree. She went up branch by branch." The parrot looked triumphantly down at the crowd, and remarked, "Mary is high up; Mary is very high up." "Come down, Mary," said Dorothy, beseechingly; "come down, Mary,--pretty Mary,--come down to Dorothy." "Hurrah for Dorothy!" cried the parrot,--"hurrah for Sylvia! hurrah for the Dorrance Domain!" This last cheer had been taught to Mary by Leicester, after many long and patient lessons, and never before had Mary spoken it so plainly and distinctly. By this time the Van Arsdale ladies were in tears; Fairy, too, was weeping, for she felt sure Mary would fly away and never come back. The Black children required very little encouragement to start their lachrymal glands, and seeing the others' tears, immediately began to howl in various keys. "Don't cry, don't cry!" said Mary, from her high perch. "Come down, Mary," said Dorothy, coaxingly, and showing an apple and a cracker which she had procured; "come down and get your dinner." But no urgings would induce the bird to come down. She cocked her eye wickedly, and hurrahed for everybody in turn, but utterly refused to descend. "Ach, donnerblitzen!" exclaimed German Lisa. "Denn du bist ein dumkopf! Kommst du jetz hinein!" "Ciel! what a bird it is!" wailed Celestine, wringing her hands; "ah, Marie, belle Marie, come down, cherie!" But the French coaxing, and the German scolding had no more effect on Mary than the weeping of the Van Arsdale ladies and the screaming of the children. She fluttered her wings, and seemed about to depart. Then she would look at them again, and with her exasperating winks, would hurrah enthusiastically. "If she'll only stay there long enough, perhaps I can lasso her," said Leicester, running in the house for a string. "No," said Mr. Faulkner, who followed him in, "I'm afraid that would frighten her; but if you had a butterfly net, with a very long handle, we might catch her with that." "Just the thing," said Leicester; "and there is one in the storeroom; I remember seeing it there." He brought it, but the handle was not long enough; so Mr. Faulkner proposed that they try placing a ladder against another tree near by, and then from the top of that, endeavor to reach the bird with a net. Mary watched the proceedings with great interest. "Catch Mary!" she cried; "catch pretty Mary!" "You bet we will!" cried Leicester, and when the ladder was adjusted he climbed to the top of it, carrying the long-handled net with him. They all thought the bird would be frightened at the net and fly away, or at least attempt to do so. But she seemed to think it a game in which she played an important part, and she sat quietly on the branch, occasionally remarking, "Catch Mary, pretty Mary!" With a sure aim, Leicester pushed the net towards the bird and brought it down over her head, then with a dextrous twist, he turned it upside down, with the bird in it, and lowered it carefully to Mr. Faulkner, who was standing below. At this unexpected indignity, Mary set up a ferocious squawking, the Black children redoubled their yells, and the Dorrance children cheered with delight. Mary was taken from the net, unharmed, and restored to her happy mistress, who determined to send to town at once for a padlock for the cage door. But though commotions such as these were of frequent, almost daily occurrence; yet when they were not such as to interfere with the routine of her household management, Dorothy did not allow them to worry her. Although usually busy all the morning, she found many spare hours for rest and recreation in the afternoon; and the evenings were always delightful. The Black children were then safely in bed, and could make no trouble. The Dorrances were at liberty to be by themselves, or with their boarders, as they wished. As Mr. Faulkner played the guitar, and Leicester could pick a little on the mandolin, and as they all could sing,--or fancied they could,--there were often very jolly concerts on the veranda, or, on moonlight evenings, out in the boat. Mr. Black came up every week, and when he discovered the array of musical talent already there, he brought his banjo, and added greatly to the fun. Sometimes on rainy evenings, they would all congregate in the great empty ballroom, and play merry games. On such occasions, the Blacks and Faulkners seemed almost as young, and nearly as noisy as the Dorrances. One day Leicester came to Dorothy, with a letter. "Jack Harris has just written me," he said, "and he wants to come up here and board for a month; what do you think?" "Let him come, by all means," said Dorothy, heartily; "he won't be a bit of extra trouble, and if he will pay our regular rates I shall be glad to have him. The Dorrance Domain is now a fully established summer hotel; and we are prepared to receive all who apply." CHAPTER XXII TWO BOYS AND A BOAT It was nearly a week after Leicester had written to Jack Harris, telling him that he might come up and board at the hotel, when, one afternoon, the Dorrance children heard queer sounds coming up from the direction of the dock. All four ran to look over the rail of the upper landing, and saw a strange-looking craft anchored at the dock. On the dock were two boys and Mr. Hickox; the latter gentleman apparently much excited and interested. "It's Jack Harris!" cried Leicester, "and another fellow with him; and, oh, I say, girls, they've got a motor-boat!" "What's a motor-boat?" cried Fairy; but as all four were then flying down the steps at a rapid speed, nobody answered her. Wondering who the second boy could be, and filled with delightful curiosity as to the wonderful motor-boat, the Dorrances reached the dock with astonishing rapidity. "Hi, Jack," cried Leicester, "thought you were coming up by train. What a dandy boat! Yours?" "No," said Jack, whipping off his cap, and shaking hands with Dorothy; "it belongs to my chum here, Bob Irwin. I've brought him along, Dorothy, and I hope you can take us both in. Less said you had plenty of room. I would have written, but Bob only decided to come at the last minute, and we were so busy and excited getting the boat off, that I forgot to telegraph, though I meant to do so." Bob Irwin was a big, jolly-looking boy, of about seventeen or eighteen, and his smile was so broad and comprehensive that the Dorrances felt acquainted at once. "Indeed we have plenty of room," said Dorothy, answering young Irwin's greeting; "and we're very glad to have you both,--and your boat too," she added, still looking with a sort of fascination at the trim little affair. "She is a jolly little craft," said Bob Irwin, frankly; "I've only had her a few weeks. I named her _Shooting Star_, because she goes like one. We came all the way up from Jersey City by the canal." "All the way!" exclaimed Lilian; "what fun you must have had coming through the locks!" "Well yes,--but there were so many of them. The planes were worse, though; _Shooting Star_ didn't take to those kindly at all. However, we're here; and if you'll keep us, we'll all have a good deal of fun on this lake." "I didn't know you could come all the way by canal," said Leicester. "Are they willing to open the locks for you?" "Oh, Bob's uncle is a Grand High Mogul or something in the canal company, and he gave us a permit. I tell you it was great fun; the boat goes like a greased arrow." "Would you like to go for a little spin around the lake, now, all of you?" asked Bob. "No,--not now," said Dorothy, looking at her watch. "We'd love to, but it is too near dinner-time for us to go now. You know, as hotel proprietors, we have duties to attend to at scheduled hours; and we must be found at our posts." Though said with apparent carelessness, this was really a brave bit of self-denial on Dorothy's part. For she was eager to try the pretty boat, and, too, there was nearly a half hour before her presence at the hotel was actually necessary. But she had learned by experience that to go out on the lake was a proceeding which could not be accurately timed, and she knew that her duty pointed towards keeping on the safe side. Beside this, she must have another room put in readiness, for she had expected only Jack. "But I _do_ want to go out in the motor-boater," cried Fairy, dancing around the dock, and waving her arms. "Will you take us some other time, Mr. Bob?" "Indeed I will," said Bob, heartily; "and anyway, it's just as well to take our traps up now, and get settled." "Hickox is your man," said that long individual, suddenly interrupting his own investigation of the marvelous boat. "Hickox'll cart your truck up the hill. Where might it be?" "Here you are," and Bob sprang into the _Shooting Star_ and tossed out three suit cases and a lot of odds and ends of luggage. "But we fellows can carry them up." "No, sir, no, sir; Hickox'll look after things. It'll be all right." Jack laughed at the familiar phrases, and Bob Irwin looked on with amusement while Mr. Hickox stowed the things in his queer-looking cart. "And this is for you and your sisters, Miss Dorothy," said Bob, as he emerged with a final parcel. There was no mistaking the contents of the neatly tied up box of candy; but it was of such a size that it nearly took the girls' breath away. "Oh, thank you," cried Dorothy, dimpling with smiles. "I haven't had a speck of New York candy since I've been here. And the Woodville gum-drops are so highly colored and so stiff inside, that they're not a bit of fun." "They were made summer before last, too," said Leicester; "they ought to be sold as antiques." "A whole big box of candy for our very own!" cried Fairy; "oh, that's better than the promoter-boat, or whatever you call it. And part of the candy is _my_ very own, isn't it, Mr. Bob?" "Yes, indeed; to do whatever you like with." "Then I shall give half of my share to Mrs. Hickox. She'll be _so_ surprised. I don't believe she ever saw any real choklits or butter-cuppers." Leicester carried the precious box, and the six children climbed the steps to the Dorrance Domain. Naturally, Fairy reached the top first, and ran up the veranda steps, shouting, "Oh, grannymother! we've got two new boarders, and they came in an automobile-ship, and they brought a bushel of candy, real splendiferous New York candy,--and his name is Bob!" Grandma Dorrance had always liked Leicester's friend Jack, and she willingly extended her welcome to the pleasant-faced Bob. The two boys were a decided addition to the gayety of the Dorrance Domain. And the _Shooting Star_ proved to be an equally desirable adjunct. Instead of rowing over to Dolan's Point each morning for the marketing, or harnessing old Dobbin and driving there, the swift little motor-boat did the errand in less than half the time, and was moreover a pleasure and delight. Besides this there were merry excursions on the lake in the afternoons and evenings. One day, when they had started out immediately after luncheon, and, owing to Mr. Black's expected arrival, were to have a late dinner, the six children made an exploring tour of the whole lake. "I want to find out," said Bob, as they started off, "what feeds this lake. There must be several inlets and some of them large ones. A lake nine miles long has got to be fed by something." "This lake is so tame it would eat out of your hand," said Leicester. "Even so, _I_ wouldn't want to feed it," said Dorothy; "my present array of table boarders is quite enough for me, thank you." "There _is_ an inlet," said Lilian, "just this side of Dolan's Point. The one that has the floating bridge across it, you know." "But that isn't enough to make any impression on this big lake," insisted Bob; "there must be two or three arms somewhere, and if there are, we'll find them to-day; for I'm going all around the shores of the lake." So the _Shooting Star_ shot ahead, and skirted the margin of the lake for miles and miles. But except the one at Dolan's Point, no inlet of any sort was discovered, and the round trip was completed by a crowd of mystified explorers. "It's the queerest thing!" said Bob, whose scientific inquiries were prompted by a tenacious mind. "The water in Lake Ponetcong certainly must come from somewhere." "I think it rains in," said Fairy, with a sage expression. "It hasn't rained much this summer, but it rained a lot when we were in New York, and I s'pose the water just stayed in." "I think it just was here from the beginning," said Lilian, "and somehow it never got away." "That would do for some lakes," said Dorothy; "but here, they're always letting it out through the locks; and it does seem as if it would have to be filled up again, some way." That evening the children put the puzzling question to Mr. Faulkner. He was a great favorite with the crowd of young people, and though a scientific man, he was capable of making explanations that were entirely comprehensible to their youthful minds. They were all interested, though perhaps Bob Irwin was more especially so, in learning that Lake Ponetcong was fed entirely by springs in its bed. This phrase pleased the Dorrance children very much, as their sense of humor was touched by what they chose to call the spring-bed of the lake. But Bob was more seriously interested, and listened attentively to Mr. Faulkner's description of what was an unusual, though not unprecedented phenomenon. Sometimes Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner accompanied them on their motor-boat trips; sometimes, too, Mr. and Mrs. Black went; but the Van Arsdale ladies refused to be persuaded to risk their lives in any such mysterious contrivance. The Black children and their nurses were taken out once, but upon their return Bob Irwin declared himself unwilling ever again to carry such an emotional and cosmopolitan crowd. The baby shrieked and yelled in English, the French nurse and German nurse shrieked in their respective languages, and the way they all jumped about was really a serious menace to safety. There seemed to be no end to the energies or the resources of the three boys in providing pleasure and entertainment. Jack and Bob shared Leicester's duties as a matter of course; and though Leicester protested, the others insisted on helping him in whatever he had to do. They froze ice cream, they mowed the grass, they split kindling-wood,--and they looked on these things as pastimes rather than tasks. They were big, strong, good-natured fellows, and firm friends and admirers of all the Dorrances. Bob declared that although he drew the line at pushing the Black babies' perambulators, yet he was perfectly willing to act as Miss Mary's escort whenever desired. One notable achievement of the boys', was a roof-garden. Jack had discovered the possibilities of the hotel roof during his earlier visit; and at his proposition it was arranged most attractively. Small evergreen trees were brought from the woods and taken up to the roof where they were made to stand about in hedges or clusters. Rustic chairs, settees and tables were found in the storerooms, and rugs were placed about. Hammocks were swung, and over the top of all was rigged an awning, which could be rolled away if desired. Chinese lanterns made the place gay by night, and flags and bunting formed part of the decoration. Summer night concerts were often held here, and when Tessie would appear with iced lemonade and cakes and fruit, everybody declared that never had there been a hotel so admirably managed as the Dorrance Domain. CHAPTER XXIII AN UNWELCOME PROPOSITION Though Dorothy enjoyed the fun of the motor-boat and the roof-garden, and was always happy whether working or playing, yet perhaps she liked best of all, to lie in her hammock of a summer afternoon, and read or day-dream as she looked across the lake and watched the shadows on the distant hills. On these occasions she felt sure she could be a poet, if she only knew how to express properly the fancies that danced through her brain. Sometimes she would provide herself with a pencil and paper, but though she might write a line or a phrase, she never could get any further. The attempt to put her thoughts into words always produced a crude and stilted result which she knew instinctively was not poetry. "If I only could learn the wordy part of it," she said to herself, "I am sure I have the right thoughts to put into a poem." As she lay thinking about all this, one warm afternoon, she suddenly heard a voice say: "_Is_ this a hotel, or isn't it?" Dorothy jumped, and sitting up in her hammock, saw a strange lady, who had apparently just walked into the Domain. The newcomer was of the aggressive type. She was short and stout, with a determined-looking face and a rather unattractive personal appearance. She wore a short, thick brown walking-skirt, and a brown linen shirt-waist, and heavy common-sense shoes. A plain brown felt hat was tied securely to her head by means of a brown veil knotted under her chin. She carried in one hand a small suit-case, and in the other a stout walking-stick. Pretty Dorothy, in her fluffy summer muslin, looked at the stranger curiously a moment, and then, quickly recovering her poise, said politely: "Yes, this is a hotel. Are you looking for board?" "No," said the stranger, "I am on a tramp. In fact I _am_ a tramp, a lady-tramp. I am spending the whole summer walking about the country, enjoying myself." "You are fond of walking, then?" said Dorothy, by way of making conversation. "No, I am not," replied the lady-tramp; "I am doing it to reduce my flesh, and I am enjoying myself because I have succeeded. Success is always enjoyable." "Yes, it is;" and Dorothy herself, felt a satisfaction in the thought that she too was succeeding in her summer's work. "My name," went on her visitor, "is Lucille Dillingham. I tramp all day, and at night I stay at any hotel or farmhouse near which I happen to find myself. And so I want to stay at this hotel to-night, and if you will tell me where to find the proprietor, I won't trouble you further." "I am the proprietor," said Dorothy, smiling, for she felt quite sure this statement would surprise Miss Lucille Dillingham. "If that's a joke," was the response, "I can't see any particular fun in it. But no matter, I will inquire at the hotel myself." "But truly, Miss Dillingham, I am the proprietor," and Dorothy stood up and put on the most dignified air of which she was capable. "I am Dorothy Dorrance, and this hotel is the property of my grandmother; but I am the acknowledged proprietor, and I shall be very glad to talk to you as such." "You don't mean it, child! well if that is not the greatest I ever heard of! I am a great believer myself in the capability of women; but for a girl like you to run a hotel, is one ahead of _my_ experience! Tell me all about it." "There isn't much to tell," said Dorothy, who was not at all pleasantly impressed by the air and manner of the lady-tramp, and she couldn't help thinking to herself that the tramp was more in evidence than the lady. "However," she went on, courteously, "I live here with my grandmother, and my brother and two sisters. We have entire charge of this hotel, and we try to manage it in a way to satisfy our guests and ourselves. If you wish to stay for the night, Miss Dillingham, I am sure we can make you comfortable." Miss Dillingham's eyes sparkled. "I will do better than that," she cried; "I will stay all the time, and I will run the hotel for you. I am a splendid manager, and much better fitted for that sort of thing than a frivolous young girl like you. Oh, we'll get along famously!" Dorothy began to wonder whether Miss Dillingham might not have escaped from some lunatic asylum, but she only said, "Thank you very much for your kind offer, but the hotel is running smoothly, and I really can't see the necessity for any change in the administration." Just at this moment Fairy came flying across the lawn, and flinging herself into the hammock, drew the sides of it together around her athletic little body, and with a peculiar kicking motion twisted herself and the hammock over and over in a sort of revolving somersault. Then still holding the sides she poked up her golden head, crowned with its big white bow, and gazed at the stranger. "You must 'scuse me," she said, "for 'pearing so unsuspectedly. But I always come that way when I am in a hurry, and I'm always in a hurry." "This is my sister Fairy, Miss Dillingham," said Dorothy, and Fairy bounced out of the hammock, and gracefully offered her hand to the stranger. "How do you do?" she said. "I am very glad to see you, and I hope you have come to stay, 'cause it's time we had some new boarders. I am 'fraid we are running behind with our 'spenses." Dorothy bit her lip to keep from laughing at Fairy's attitude of proprietorship, and Miss Dillingham stared at the child in blank amazement. "Ah," she said, "is this another proprietor of this very remarkable hotel?" "I'm not purporietor," said Fairy, "my sister is that; and my brother is clerk. I am just a general helper, and sometimes I help with the babies and the parrot." Miss Dillingham seemed more and more bewildered, but she said, "I think you're all lunatics, and need somebody to look after you, and straighten you out. I shall stay here for the night, and look into this thing. It interests me extremely. Pray have you many boarders, and are they all as crazy as yourselves?" Dorothy resented this question, but she kept her temper under control, and replied, "We have a number of boarders and we consider them quite sane, and they seem to think us so. If you wish to stay for the night, I will take you to the house at once and give you a room." Miss Dillingham gave a sort of exasperated sniff, which Dorothy took to mean acquiescence, and they all started for the house. Fairy walked backwards in front of the others, whirling all the way round, now and then, to make sure her path was clear. "Did you really think we were crazy?" she asked, much interested in the idea. "I did," replied Miss Dillingham, "and I am not yet convinced to the contrary." Suddenly Fairy realized that this was another occasion for registration, and with one of her loudest shrieks at the thought, she darted towards the house and disappeared through the front door. "Leicester!" she cried, and then with a prolonged yell, "Les--ter!" Leicester appeared by a jump through a window. "What's up?" he said. "Oh, Less, there's a new boarder, and she's crazy, and she thinks we are, and she will want to register. Do get in the coop, quick!" Grasping the situation, Leicester flung himself through the wicket door and behind the office desk. In a jiffy, he had assumed his clerkly air, and had opened the great register at the proper date. When Dorothy appeared, a moment later, with Miss Dillingham, Leicester offered the pen to the newcomer with such a businesslike air that there seemed really no further room to doubt the responsibility of the hotel management. Then he rang a bell, and in a moment Mr. Hickox appeared, and with the deferential demeanor of a porter picked up Miss Dillingham's suit-case and stick. Then Dorothy escorted the lady-tramp to her room, and returned a few moments later, to find the other children waiting for an explanation. "Where did you catch it?" asked Leicester. "What is it?" inquired Lilian. "It's only for one night," explained Dorothy, laughing; "but, Less, she wants to run the hotel! She thinks we aren't responsible!" It really seemed inevitable, so Lilian started the Dorrance groan. The others took it up, with their usual enthusiasm, and though it was of late a forbidden indulgence, they let themselves go for once, and the result was an unearthly din that brought grandma to the scene at once. "Children!" she exclaimed. "You know you promised not to do that!" "I know, grandma," explained Fairy, "but truly, this is a specialty occasion. You don't know what's happened, and what she wants to do." But before Mrs. Dorrance could learn what had happened, the newly-registered guest herself, came flying down the staircase. "What _is_ the matter?" she cried; "is the house on fire? Has anybody been killed?" "We must 'pollergize, Miss Dillingham," spoke up Fairy; "that's our Dorrance groan, it belongs to the family; we don't use it much up here, 'cause it wakes up the baby and otherwise irritations the boarders." "I should think it would," put in Miss Dillingham, with conviction. "Yes, it does," went on Fairy, agreeably; "and so you see, we don't 'low ourselves to 'spress our feelings that way very often. But to-day we had a purtickular reason for it, and so somehow we found ourselves a-groaning before we knew it." Ignoring Fairy and her voluble explanation, Miss Dillingham turned to Mrs. Dorrance, and inquired with dignity: "Are you the lady of the house?" "I am the owner of the house," said Grandma Dorrance, with her own gentle dignity, "and my granddaughter Dorothy is in charge of it. I must ask you to forgive the disturbance the children just made, and I think I can safely assure you it will not happen again." Grandma Dorrance looked at her grandchildren, with an air of confidence that was responded to by a look of loving loyalty from each pair of laughing young eyes. "I don't understand it at all," said Miss Dillingham; "but I will now return to my room, and take a short nap, if the house can be kept quiet. Then later, I have a proposition which I wish to lay before you, and which will doubtless prove advantageous to all concerned." Miss Dillingham stalked majestically up the stairs again, and the Dorrances consulted as to what she could mean by her extraordinary proposition. "I know," said Dorothy, "she wants to run the hotel. She informed me that she was much better qualified for such a business than I am." "Oh, ho!" cried Leicester, "she is, is she! Well I like her nerve!" "I wish she hadn't come," said Fairy, beginning to cry. "I don't want her to run this hotel, and Dorothy and all of us only be just boarders." "Don't cry, Fairy, whatever you do," exclaimed Leicester. "If you put up one of your best crying-spells, it will make more noise than the groan did, and our new friend will come racing down-stairs again." This suggestion silenced Fairy, and Leicester went on: "Do you really mean, Dot, that she proposed seriously to take charge of the Domain?" "Yes, she did; and I think she expects to make a business proposition to that effect." "All right, then; let's give her as good as she sends. Let's pretend that we entertain her proposition, and see what she has to say for herself." "You'd better be careful," said Lilian, the practical, "sometimes people get caught in their own trap; and if you pretend you're going to let her have charge of affairs here, first thing you know she'll be at the head of things, and we will all be nowhere." "Huh!" exclaimed Dorothy. "I'm not afraid of being dethroned by any lady-tramp that happens along. Just let her try it!" "However she might frighten us singly," said Leicester, "I rather guess that the Dorrance family as a whole, can stand up for their rights." "Don't be foolish, children," said grandma; "Dorothy must have misunderstood the lady. She couldn't have meant to make such a strange proposition at a moment's notice." * * * * * But apparently that is just what Miss Lucille Dillingham did mean. For that evening, after dinner, she gathered the Dorrance children round her in one of the small drawing-rooms, and talked to them in a straightforward if unacceptable way. "Now don't say a word," she said, "until I have thoroughly explained my intention." "We won't say a word, Miss Dillingham," said Fairy, "until you say your speech. But please say it plain, 'cause I'm the littlest one and sometimes I can't understand big words. 'Course I say big words myself, sometimes, but I understand my own, only other people's aren't always tellergibble to me. And so, you see I just have to----" "That will do, Fairy," interrupted Leicester; "we've agreed not to do our talking until Miss Dillingham is through." "In a few words, then," began Miss Dillingham, with the air of one who is satisfied of a foregone conclusion, "I want to say that in the few hours I have been here I have thoroughly acquainted myself with the conditions and possibilities of this hotel. And I have discovered that it is improperly managed by incompetent hands, and that it is, therefore, a lucky stroke of fortune for you that I happened along just now. I propose to assume entire charge of the hotel, give it a new name, establish new methods of management, and control absolutely the receipts and expenditures." If the four Dorrances hadn't been possessed of a strong sense of humor, they would have been appalled by this extraordinary proposition. As it was, it struck them all as being very funny, and though with difficulty restraining a smile, Leicester inquired, with every appearance of serious interest, "And where do we come in?" "You will be merely boarders," announced Miss Dillingham, "and can run and play as befits children of your ages. It may seem strange to you at first, that I should make you this generous proposition on so short an acquaintance, but it is my habit to make quick decisions, and I rarely regret them." "Would you mind telling us your reasons for wanting to do this thing?" asked Lilian. "My reasons are perhaps too subtle for young minds to understand. They are partly ethical, for I cannot make it seem right that a girl of sixteen should be so weighted with responsibility; and, too, I am actuated in part by motives of personal advantage. I may say the project seems to possess a pecuniary interest for me----" "Miss Dillingham," said Fairy fixing her wide-open eyes on the lady's face, "'scuse me for interrupting, but truly I can't understand all those words. What does etherkle mean? and what is tercumerary? They are nice words and I would like to save them to use myself, if I knew a little bit what they meant." "Never mind what they mean, Fairy," said Leicester; "and Miss Dillingham, it is not necessary for us to consider this matter any further. You have made your proposition, and I am sure that I speak for the four of us, when I say that we decline it absolutely and without further discussion." When Leicester chose, he could adopt a tone and manner that seemed far more like a man, than like a boy of his years; and Miss Dillingham suddenly realized that she was not dealing with quite such childish minds as she had supposed. "My brother is quite right," said Dorothy, and she, too, put on her most grown-up manner, which, by the way, was very grown-up indeed. "Although surprised at what you have said, we understand clearly your offer, and we respectfully but very positively decline it _in toto_." As Dorothy confessed afterwards, she didn't know exactly what _in toto_ meant, but she felt quite certain it came in appropriately just there. Miss Dillingham seemed to think so too, or at any rate she was impressed by the attitude of the Dorrance young people, and without a further word, she rose and stalked away and they saw her no more that night. The next morning she was up early and after a somewhat curt leave-taking, she tramped away. "I think I could have liked her," said Dorothy, thoughtfully, "if she hadn't tried to steal away from us our Dorrance Domain." CHAPTER XXIV DOROTHY'S REWARD Fairy continued her weekly visits to Mrs. Hickox, but she was positively forbidden by her hostess ever to bring any one with her. Mrs. Hickox was possessed of a peculiar kind of shyness, and she shrank from meeting people more sophisticated than herself. She had become devotedly attached to Fairy, and really looked forward eagerly to the afternoons the child spent with her. She continued to be surprised at the doings of the Dorrances, but had never been to the Domain since her first call upon the family. "Mr. Hickox tells me you've got a roof-garden," she said to Fairy one day, as they sat sociably in the milk-room. "Now for the land's sake do tell me what that is. Is it the thing that runs by electrics?" "No," said Fairy, who never laughed at Mrs. Hickox's ignorance; "it's the _Shooting Star_ that runs by electricity; the roof-garden doesn't run at all,--it just stays still." "Well what is it, anyhow?" "Why, the roof-garden is just a garden on the roof." "A garden on a roof! well I _am_ surprised! What do you raise in the garden? peas and beans? It must be an awful trouble to get the dirt up there, and to get the water up there to water things with. As for getting the potatoes and pumpkins down, I suppose you can just throw them down,--though I must say I should think it would spoil the pumpkins." "Oh, we don't raise vegetables in the roof-garden, Mrs. Hickox," said Fairy, laughing in spite of herself. "Well, what _do_ you raise?" "Why we don't raise anything; we just stay there." "Humph! I can't see any garden about that. But I did want to know what the thing was like. 'Cause I cut out a clipping yesterday,--Hickory, he got his shoes home from the cobbler's, and they was wrapped in a piece of a New York newspaper; my, but I had a good time! I cut so many clippings out of that newspaper, that what's left would do for a picture frame. The worst of it was, so many clippings backed up against others, and they wasn't the same length. People ought to be more careful how they print their newspapers. Well, as I was saying, I cut out a piece about a roof-garden, but I guess you're right about their not raisin' things in it. My land! I couldn't get head or tail to the whole yarn. So that's why I wanted to ask you just what a roof-garden is. But I ain't found out much." Fairy endeavored to explain further, but Mrs. Hickox's mind seemed incapable of grasping the real intent of a roof-garden, after all; and so after intimating her continued surprise, she changed the subject. Mrs. Hickox was the only one who could sustain the greater part in a conversation with Fairy. For some reason the child liked the queer old lady, and was contented to listen while she talked; though usually Fairy's own loquacity was not so easily curbed. "I told Hickory, long ago, that that biggest sister of yours would set Lake Ponetcong on fire yet; or he told me, I don't know which, and it don't make no difference now; but, anyway, I'm free to confess she's done it. To think of a girl of sixteen takin' a pack of boarders into that big hotel, and makin' a success of it! It is surprisin'! and she does everything up so slick, too. Why, Hickory says the meals is always on time, and the whole place is always as neat and cleared-up lookin' as my best room." "My sister Dorothy _is_ a smart girl," agreed Fairy, who was always ready to stand up for her family; "Mr. Faulkner says she has great 'zecutive billerty,--and I guess she has." "You all have," said Mrs. Hickox, heartily. "You're as queer as Dick's hatband,--every one of you,--but you're smarter 'n steel-traps. And the rest of you work just as good as Dorothy does. You ain't none of you shirks. Of course you have lots of help, but I s'pose you need it. Hickory, he does a lot of work for you, but, land! he gets paid enough, so it's all right." "Wouldn't you like to come over and see the roof-garden?" asked Fairy, though without much hope that her invitation would be accepted. "No, child, no; I ain't got no use for new-fangled doin's. My old-fashioned garden is good enough for me. I like to read about things in newspapers, but I don't hanker none about being mixed up in 'em. Run along now, here comes Mr. Hickox and he'll be wantin' his supper. Run along, quick now,--good-bye. Well I _am_ surprised!" The last remark was addressed to the approaching Mr. Hickox, but having been so peremptorily dismissed, Fairy did not turn to see what the new occasion for Mrs. Hickox's surprise might be. The month of August went pleasantly along at the Dorrance Domain. No new boarders were registered, but all who were there, stayed through the month, and all except the Blacks stayed into the early September. The Dorrances had given up all idea of Mr. Lloyd's coming to visit them, as he had written earlier in the season that he would do. But one day a letter came, saying that he would run up for a couple of days. Aside from their appreciation of Mr. Lloyd's kindness in a business way, the Dorrances all liked that genial gentleman as a friend, and the news of his visit was gladly received. The Dorrance Domain was put into gala dress for the occasion, and a special program was arranged for the evening's entertainment. He was taken for a sail in the _Shooting Star_, given a drive behind old Dobbin, and initiated into the picturesque pleasures of the roof-garden. Mr. Lloyd was most appreciative and enthusiastic; and it was fun for the Dorrances to see his astonishment at the success of their hotel management. Although Grandma Dorrance had written to him what the children were doing, in a general way, he had formed no idea of the magnitude of their enterprise. The second day of his stay they held a family conference in one of the small parlors. He had told Grandma Dorrance that he wished for a business talk with her alone, but she had said that the children were quite as capable of understanding their financial situation as she herself, if not more so; and that, after their interest and assistance through the summer, they were entitled to a hearing of whatever Mr. Lloyd might have to say. So the family conclave was called, and Mr. Lloyd took the occasion to express his hearty appreciation of what they had done. "You seem to have the Dorrance grit," he said; "your Grandfather Dorrance would have been proud of his grandchildren, could he have known what they would accomplish. He little thought when he bought this hotel property that his family would ever live here,--let alone running it as a hotel." "It seems so strange," said Dorothy, "to think that this old Domain that we've made fun of for so many years, and never thought was good for anything, should have helped us through this summer." "I hope, my dear," said Mr. Lloyd, "that you have been careful and prudent about your expenditures. For sometimes, these exciting enterprises look very fine and desirable, but are exceedingly costly in the end." Mr. Lloyd was a kind friend, and felt great interest in the Dorrance fortunes; but his cautious, legal mind, could not avoid a careful consideration of the exact state of their finances. "We have kept our accounts very strictly, sir," said Dorothy, "and we find that the Dorrance Domain has entirely supported our family for the summer,--I mean that we are in debt to nobody as a consequence of having spent our summer here." "That is fine, my dear child, that is fine," said Mr. Lloyd, rubbing his hands together, as he always did when pleased; "I must congratulate you on that result." "And we've had such fun, too," exclaimed Fairy, whose big white bow and smiling face suddenly appeared over the back of the sofa which she was clambering up. "I do some of the work, but I don't mind it a bit, and we all of us get plenty of time to play, and go sailing, and fishing and everything." As Fairy continued talking she kept rapidly scrambling over the sofa, down to the floor, under the sofa, and up its back, and over it again, repeatedly. This in no way interfered with her flow of conversation, and she went on: "We can make all the racket we like, too,--nobody minds a speck,--not even Miss Marcia Van Arsdale. She says it's nothing but animal spiritualism." "It has been one of the greatest comforts," said Grandma Dorrance, "to think that the children _could_ make all the noise they wanted to; for I suffered tortures at Mrs. Cooper's, trying to keep them quiet. Here, they are free to do as they choose, and there is room enough to do as they choose, without annoying other people. I think myself, that they deserve great commendation for their work this summer. It has not been easy; but fortunately, they are blessed with temperaments that take troubles lightly, and make play out of hard work. But I want you to tell us, Mr. Lloyd, just how we stand financially. The children are anxious to know, and so am I. They insist that hereafter they shall share my anxieties and responsibilities, and I am more than glad to have them do so." "I am gratified, Mrs. Dorrance, and my dear young people, to be able to tell you,"--here Mr. Lloyd paused impressively,--"to be able to tell you that the outlook is highly satisfactory. Since you have not called upon me for any of your money during the summer months, I have been able to apply it towards the repairs that were so necessary on the Fifty-eighth Street house. Except for a few small bills, that indebtedness is thus provided for. Your next quarter's allowance is, therefore, unencumbered." "I think," said Dorothy, her eyes shining in the excitement of the moment, "that this is a good time to present our statement of accounts. We've been keeping it as a little surprise for grandma, and we want Mr. Lloyd to know about it too. I wanted Leicester to tell you, and he said for me to tell you; but we all had just as much to do with it as each other, so we're all going to tell you together. Come on, all of you." The other three Dorrances sprang towards Dorothy in their usual hop-skip-and-jump fashion, and in a moment they stood in a straight line, toeing a mark. They took hold of hands, and swinging their arms back and forth, recited a speech which had evidently been rehearsed before-hand. "We've paid all expenses," they said, speaking in concert, but not as loudly as usual, "and besides that, we've cleared three hundred dollars!" "What!" exclaimed Mr. Lloyd, holding up his hands in astonishment. "Oh, my dear children!" cried Grandma Dorrance, uncertain whether she should laugh or weep. "Yes, isn't it perfectly wonderful?" cried Dorothy, and the concerted speech being over, the four children precipitated themselves headlong in every direction. "We wanted to holler it all out," explained Fairy; "but we were afraid the boarder-people would hear us, and they mightn't think it polite." "It's all right," said Lilian, stoutly; "we didn't overcharge anybody, and we didn't scrimp them. The reason we made money was because we did so much of the work ourselves, and because Dorothy is such a good manager." "Hurrah for Dorothy," shrieked Leicester, in a perfect imitation of Miss Marcia's parrot. The cheer that went up for Dorothy was deafening, but nobody minded, for everybody was so happy. "I couldn't have done anything without the others' help," protested Dorothy; "and of course we couldn't any of us have carried out this plan at all, without grandma. So you see it took the whole five of us to make a success of the Dorrance Domain." "Hurrah for the Dorrance Domain," shouted Fairy, and then every one in the room, not excepting Grandma Dorrance and Mr. Lloyd, cheered from their very hearts, "Hurrah for the Dorrance Domain!" * * * * * The Carolyn Wells Books for Girls THE FAMOUS "PATTY" BOOKS Patty Fairfield Patty at Home Patty in the City Patty's Summer Days Patty in Paris Patty's Friend Patty's Pleasure Trip Patty's Success Patty's Motor Car Patty's Butterfly Days Patty's Social Season Patty's Suitors Patty's Romance Patty's Fortune Patty Blossom Patty--Bride Patty and Azalea THE MARJORIE BOOKS Marjorie's Vacation Marjorie's Busy Days Marjorie's New Friend Marjorie in Command Marjorie's Maytime Marjorie at Seacote TWO LITTLE WOMEN SERIES Two Little Women Two Little Women and Treasure House Two Little Women on a Holiday * * * * * THE TOM SWIFT SERIES By VICTOR APPLETON Author of "The Don Sturdy Series." Tom Swift, known to millions of boys of this generation, is a bright ingenious youth whose inventions, discoveries and thrilling adventures are described in these spirited tales that tell of the wonderful advances in modern science. TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR CYCLE TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR BOAT TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRSHIP TOM SWIFT AND HIS SUBMARINE BOAT TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RUNABOUT TOM SWIFT AMONG THE DIAMOND MAKERS TOM SWIFT IN THE CAVES OF ICE TOM SWIFT AND HIS SKY RACER TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RIFLE TOM SWIFT IN THE CITY OF GOLD TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIR GLIDER TOM SWIFT IN CAPTIVITY TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIZARD CAMERA TOM SWIFT AND HIS GREAT SEARCHLIGHT TOM SWIFT AND HIS GIANT CANNON TOM SWIFT AND HIS PHOTO TELEPHONE TOM SWIFT AND HIS AERIAL WARSHIP TOM SWIFT AND HIS BIG TUNNEL TOM SWIFT IN THE LAND OF WONDERS TOM SWIFT AND HIS WAR TANK TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIR SCOUT TOM SWIFT AND HIS UNDERSEA SEARCH TOM SWIFT AMONG THE FIRE FIGHTERS TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC LOCOMOTIVE TOM SWIFT AND HIS FLYING BOAT TOM SWIFT AND HIS GREAT OIL GUSHER TOM SWIFT AND HIS CHEST OF SECRETS TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRLINE EXPRESS TOM SWIFT CIRCLING THE GLOBE TOM SWIFT AND HIS TALKING PICTURES TOM SWIFT AND HIS HOUSE ON WHEELS TOM SWIFT AND HIS BIG DIRIGIBLE TOM SWIFT AND HIS SKY TRAIN TOM SWIFT AND HIS GIANT MAGNET TOM SWIFT AND HIS TELEVISION DETECTOR 
5271	----	MARJORIE'S VACATION BY CAROLYN WELLS AUTHOR OF "PATTY FAIRFIELD," "PATTY AT HOME," ETC. TO MY LITTLE FRIEND MURIEL DUNHAM PRATT THIS BOOK IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED CONTENTS CHAPTER I. MARJORIE'S HOME II. THE TRIP TO HASLEMERE III. ON THE ROOF IV. A PAPER-DOLL HOUSE V. SOME INTERESTING LETTERS VI. BOO! VII. A BOAT-RIDE VIII. A MEMORY BOOK IX. THE FRONT STAIRS X. A LONG DAY XI. THE DUNNS XII. THE BAZAAR XIII. A BIRTHDAY XIV. "BREEZY INN" XV. THE BROKEN LADDER XVI. FIRECRACKERS XVII. PENNYROYAL XVIII. WELCOME GIFTS XIX. THE OLD WELL XX. AN EVENTFUL DAY XXI. A FAREWELL TEA-PARTY MARJORIE'S VACATION CHAPTER I MARJORIE'S HOME In the Maynards' side yard at Rockwell, a swingful of children was slowly swaying back and forth. The swing was one of those big double wooden affairs that hold four people, so the Maynards just filled it comfortably. It was a lovely soft summer day in the very beginning of June; the kind of day that makes anybody feel happy but a little bit subdued. The kind of day when the sky is so blue, and the air so clear, that everything seems dreamy and quiet. But the Maynard children were little, if any, affected by the atmosphere, and though they did seem a trifle subdued, it was a most unusual state of things, and was brought about by reasons far more definite than sky or atmosphere. Kingdon Maynard, the oldest of the four, and the only boy, was fourteen. These facts had long ago fixed his position as autocrat, dictator, and final court of appeal. Whatever King said, was law to the three girls, but as the boy was really a mild-mannered tyrant, no trouble ensued. Of late, though, he had begun to show a slight inclination to go off on expeditions with other boys, in which girls were not included. But this was accepted by his sisters as a natural course of events, for of course, if King did it, it must be all right. Next to Kingdon in the swing sat the baby, Rosamond, who was five years old, and who was always called Rosy Posy. She held in her arms a good-sized white Teddy Bear, who was adorned with a large blue bow and whose name was Boffin. He was the child's inseparable companion, and, as he was greatly beloved by the other children, he was generally regarded as a member of the family. On the opposite seat of the swing sat Kitty, who was nine years old, and who closely embraced her favorite doll, Arabella. And by Kitty's side sat Marjorie, who was almost twelve, and who also held a pet, which, in her case, was a gray Persian kitten. This kitten was of a most amiable disposition, and was named Puff, because of its fluffy silver fur and fat little body. Wherever Marjorie went, Puff was usually with her, and oftenest hung over her arm, looking more like a fur boa than a cat. At the moment, however, Puff was curled up in Marjorie's lap, and was merely a nondescript ball of fur. These, then, were the Maynards, and though their parents would have said they had four children, yet the children themselves always said, "We are seven," and insisted on considering the kitten, the doll, and the bear as members of the Maynard family. Kingdon scorned pets, which the girls considered quite the right thing for a boy to do; and, anyway, Kingdon had enough to attend to, to keep the swing going. "I 'most wish it wasn't my turn," said Marjorie, with a little sigh. "Of course I want to go for lots of reasons, but I'd love to be in Rockwell this summer, too." "As you're not twins you can't very well be in two places at once," said her brother; "but you'll have a gay old time, Mops; there's the new boathouse, you know, since you were there." "I haven't been there for three years," said Marjorie, "and I suppose there'll be lots of changes." "I was there two years ago," said Kitty, "but Arabella has never been." "I'se never been, eever," said Rosy Posy, wistfully, "and so Boffin hasn't, too. But we don't want to go, us wants to stay home wiv Muvver." "And I say, Mops, look out for the Baltimore oriole," went on Kingdon. "He had a nest in the big white birch last year, and like as not he'll be there again." "There was a red-headed woodpecker two years ago," said Kitty; "perhaps he'll be there this summer." "I hope so," said Marjorie; "I'm going to take my big Bird book, and then I can tell them all." It was the custom in the Maynard household for one of the children to go each summer to Grandma Sherwood's farm near Morristown. They took turns, but as Rosy Posy was so little she had not begun yet. The children always enjoyed the vacation at Grandma's, but they were a chummy little crowd and dreaded the separation. This was the reason of their subdued and depressed air to-day. It was Marjorie's turn, and she was to leave home the next morning. Mrs. Maynard was to accompany her on the journey, and then return, leaving Marjorie in the country for three months. "I wonder how Puffy will like it," she said, as she picked up the kitten, and looked into its blue eyes. "She'll be all right," said Kingdon, "if she doesn't fight with Grandma's cats. There were about a dozen there last year, and they may object to Puff's style of hair-dressing. Perhaps we'd better cut her hair before she starts." "No, indeed!" cried Marjorie, "not a hair shall be touched, unless you'd like a lock to keep to remember her while she's gone." "No, thank you," said King, loftily; "I don't carry bits of cat around in my pockets." "I'd like a lock," said Kitty; "I'd tie it with a little blue ribbon, and keep it for a forget-me-not. And I'll give you a little curl of Arabella's, and you can keep that to remember her by." "All right," said Marjorie; "and I'll take a lock of Boffin Bear's hair too. Then I'll have a memento of all the family, because I have pictures of all of you, you know." With the Maynards to suggest was to act. So the four scrambled out of the swing, and ran to the house. The Maynard house was a large square affair, with verandas all around. Not pretentious, but homelike and comfortable, and largely given over to the children's use. Though not often in the drawing-room, the four young Maynards frequently monopolized the large living-room, and were allowed free access to the library as well. Also they had a general playroom and a nursery; and Kingdon had a small den or workroom for his own use, which was oftener than not invaded by the girls. To the playroom they went, and Kingdon carefully cut small locks from the kitten, the doll, and the bear, and Marjorie neatly tied them with narrow blue ribbons. These mementoes the girls put away, and carefully treasured all through the summer. Another Maynard custom was a farewell feast at dinner, the night before vacation began. Ordinarily, only the two older children dined with their parents, the other two having their tea in the nursery. But on this occasion, all were allowed at dinner, and the feast was made a special honor for the one who was going away. Gifts were made, as on a birthday, and festival dress was in order. A little later, then, the four children presented themselves in the library, where their parents awaited them. Mr. Maynard was a man of merry disposition and rollicking nature, and sometimes joined so heartily in the children's play that he seemed scarcely older than they. Mrs. Maynard was more sedate, and was a loving mother, though not at all a fussy one. She was glad in many ways to have one of her children spend the summer each year with her mother, but it always saddened her when the time of departure came. She put her arm around Marjorie, without a word, as the girl came into the room, for it had been three years since the two had been parted, and Mrs. Maynard felt a little sad at the thought of separation. "Don't look like that, Mother," said Marjorie, "for if you do, I'll begin to feel weepy, and I won't go at all." "Oh, yes, you will, Miss Midge," cried her father; "you'll go, and you'll stay all summer, and you'll have a perfectly beautiful time. And, then, the first of September I'll come flying up there to get you, and bring you home, and it'll be all over. Now, such a short vacation as that isn't worth worrying about, is it?" "No," put in Kingdon, "and last year when I went there wasn't any sad good-by." "That's because you're a boy," said his mother, smiling at him proudly; "tearful good-bys are only for girls and women." "Yes," said Mr. Maynard, "they enjoy them, you know. Now, _I_ think it is an occasion of rejoicing that Marjorie is to go to Grandma's and have a happy, jolly vacation. We can all write letters to her, and she will write a big budget of a family letter that we can all enjoy together." "And Mopsy must wite me a little letter, all for my own sef," remarked Rosy Posy, "'cause I like to get letters all to me." Baby Rosamond was dressed up for the occasion in a very frilly white frock, and being much impressed by the grandeur of staying up to dinner, she had solemnly seated herself in state on a big sofa, holding Boffin Bear in her arms. Her words, therefore, seemed to have more weight than when she was her everyday roly-poly self, tumbling about on the floor, and Marjorie at once promised that she should have some letters all to herself. When dinner was announced, Mr. Maynard, with Marjorie, led the procession to the diningroom. They were followed by Mrs. Maynard and Rosamond, and after them came Kingdon and Kitty. Kitty was a golden-haired little girl, quite in contrast to Marjorie, who had tangled masses of dark, curly hair and large, dark eyes. Her cheeks were round and rosy, and her little white teeth could almost always be seen, for merry Marjorie was laughing most of the time. To-night she wore one of her prettiest white dresses, and her dark curls were clustered at the top of her head into a big scarlet bow. The excitement of the occasion made her cheeks red and her eyes bright, and Mrs. Maynard looked at her pretty eldest daughter with a pardonable pride. "Midge," she said, "there are just about a hundred things I ought to tell you before you go to Grandma's, but if I were to tell you now, you wouldn't remember one of them; so I have written them all down, and you must take the list with you, and read it every morning so that you may remember and obey the instructions." Midge was one of the numerous nicknames by which Marjorie was called. Her tumbling, curly hair, which was everlastingly escaping from its ribbon, had gained for her the title of Mops or Mopsy. Midge and Midget had clung to her from babyhood, because she was an active and energetic child, and so quick of motion that she seemed to dart like a midge from place to place. She never did anything slowly. Whether it was an errand for her mother or a game of play, Midge always moved rapidly. Her tasks were always done in half the time it took the other children to do theirs; but in consequence of this haste, they were not always done as well or as thoroughly as could be desired. This, her mother often told her, was her besetting sin, and Marjorie truly tried to correct it when she thought of it; but often she was too busy with the occupation in hand to remember the good instructions she had received. "I'm glad you did that, Mother," she replied to her mother's remark, "for I really haven't time to study the list now. But I'll promise to read it over every morning at Grandma's, and honest and true, I'll try to be good." "Of course you will," said her father, heartily; "you'll be the best little girl in the world, except the two you leave here behind you." "Me's the bestest," calmly remarked Rosamond, who seemed especially satisfied with herself that evening. "You are," agreed King; "you look good enough to eat, to-night." Rosamond beamed happily, for she was not unused to flattering observations from the family. And, indeed, she was a delicious-looking morsel of humanity, as she sat in her high chair, and tried her best to "behave like a lady." The table was decorated with June roses and daisies. The dinner included Marjorie's favorite dishes, and the dessert was strawberries and ice cream, which, Kitty declared, always made a party, anyway. So with the general air of celebration, and Mr. Maynard's gay chatter and jokes, the little trace of sadness that threatened to appear was kept out of sight, and all through the summer Marjorie had only pleasant memories of her last evening at home. After the dessert the waitress appeared again with a trayful of parcels, done up in the most fascinating way, in tissue paper and dainty ribbons. This, too, was always a part of the farewell feast, and Marjorie gave a little sigh of satisfaction, as the well-filled tray was placed before her. "That's mine! Open mine first!" cried Rosamond, as Marjorie picked up a good-sized bundle. "Yes, that's Rosy Posy's," said her mother, laughing, "and she picked it out herself, because she thought it would please you. Open it first, Midge." So Marjorie opened the package, and discovered a little clock, on the top of which was perched a brilliant red bird. Rosamond clapped her hands in glee. "I knew you'd love it," she cried, "'cause it's a birdie, a yed birdie. And I finded it all mysef in the man's shop. Do you yike it, Mopsy?" "Indeed I do," cried Marjorie; "it's just what I wanted. I shall keep it on my dressing-table at Grandma's, and then I'll know just when to get up every morning." "Open mine next," said Kitty; "it's the square flat one, with the blue ribbon." So Marjorie opened Kitty's present and it was a picture, beautifully framed to hang on the wall at Grandma's. The picture was of birds, two beautiful orioles on a branch. The colors were so bright, and so true to nature, that Marjorie exclaimed in delight: "Now I shall have orioles there, anyway, whether there are real ones in the trees or not. It is lovely, Kitsie, and I don't see how you ever found such a beautiful bird picture." Marjorie had always been fond of birds, and lately had begun studying them in earnest. Orioles were among her favorites, and so Kitty's picture was a truly welcome gift. King's present came next, and was a beautiful gold pen with a pearl holder. "That," he explained, "is so you'll write to us often. For I know, Mops, your old penholder is broken, and it's silver, anyway. This is nicer, because it's no trouble to keep it clean and bright." "That's so, King, and I'm delighted with this one. I shall write you a letter with it, first of all, and I'll tell you all about the farm." Mrs. Maynard's gift was in a very small parcel, and when Marjorie opened it she found a dear little pearl ring. "Oh, goody!" she cried. "I do love rings, and I never had one before! May I wear it always, Mother?" "Yes," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling. "I don't approve of much jewelry for a little girl not yet twelve years old, but you may wear that." Marjorie put it on her finger with great satisfaction, and Kitty looked at it lovingly. "May I have one when I am twelve, Mother?" she asked. "May I, may I?" chimed in Rosy Posy. "Yes," said Mr. Maynard; "you girls may each have one just like Marjorie's when you are as old as she is now. That last parcel, Mops, is my present for you. I'm not sure that you can learn to use it, but perhaps you can, and if not I'll take it back and exchange it for something else." Marjorie eagerly untied the wrappings of her father's gift, and found a little snapshot camera. "Indeed I can learn to use it," she cried; "I took some pictures once with a camera that belonged to one of the girls at school, and they were all right. Thank you heaps and heaps, father dear; I'll send you pictures of everything on the place; from Grandma herself down to the littlest, weeniest, yellow chicken." "Next year it will be my turn to go," said Kitty; "I hope I'll get as lovely presents as Mopsy has." "You will," said Kingdon; "because last year mine were just as good, and so, of course, yours will be." "I'm sure they will," said Kitty. CHAPTER II THE TRIP TO HASLEMERE The next morning all was bustle and excitement. Mr. Maynard stayed at home from business to escort the travellers to the train. The trunks were packed, and everything was in readiness for their departure. Marjorie herself, in a spick-and-span pink gingham dress, a tan-colored travelling cloak, and a broad-brimmed white straw hat, stood in the hall saying good-bye to the other children. She carried Puff in her arm, and the sleepy, indifferent kitten cared little whither she was going. "Be sure," Kingdon was saying, "to plant the seeds I gave you in a sunny place, for if you don't they won't grow right." "What are the seeds?" asked Marjorie. "Never mind that," said her brother; "you just plant them in a warm, sunny bed, in good, rich soil, and then you wait and see what comes up. It's a surprise." "All right, I'll do that, and I suppose Grandma will give me a lot of seeds besides; we always have gardens, you know." "Be sure to write to me," said Kitty, "about Molly Moss. She's the one that lives in the next house but one to Grandma's. You've never seen her, but I saw her two years ago, and she's an awfully nice girl. You'll like her, I know." "And what shall I remember to do for you, Rosy Posy?" asked Marjorie, as she kissed the baby good-bye. "Don't know," responded the little one; "I've never been to Gamma's. Is they piggy-wigs there?" "No," said Marjorie, laughing; "no piggy-wigs, but some nice ducks." "All wite; b'ing me a duck." "I will, if Grandma will give me one"; and then Marjorie was hurried down the steps by her father, and into the carriage, and away she went, with many a backward look at the three children who stood on the veranda waving good-byes to her. The railroad trip to Morristown lasted about four hours, and Marjorie greatly enjoyed it. Mr. Maynard had put the two travellers into their chairs in the parlor car, and arranged their belongings for them. Marjorie had brought a book to read and a game to play, but with the novel attractions of the trip and the care of her kitten, she was not likely to have time hang heavily on her hands. Mrs. Maynard read a magazine for a time, and then they were summoned to luncheon in the diningcar. Marjorie thought this great fun, for what is nicer than to be a hungry little girl of twelve, and to eat all sorts of good things, while flying swiftly along in a railroad train, and gazing out of the window at towns and cities rushing by? Marjorie sat opposite her mother, and observed with great interest the other passengers about. Across the car was a little girl who seemed to be about her own age, and Marjorie greatly wished that they might become acquainted. Mrs. Maynard said that after luncheon she might go and speak to the little stranger if she chose, and Marjorie gladly did so. "I wonder if you belong in my car," said Marjorie, by way of opening the conversation. "I don't know," said the other child; "our seats are in the car just back of this." "We are two cars back," said Marjorie, "but perhaps your mother will let you come into my car a while. I have my kitten with me." "Where is it?" asked the other little girl. "I had to leave it with the porter while we came to luncheon. Oh, she's the loveliest kitten you ever saw, and her name is Puff. What's your name?" "My name is Stella Martin. What's yours?" "My real name is Marjorie Maynard. But I'm almost always called Midge or Mops or some name like that. We all have nicknames at home; don't you?" "No, because you see I haven't any brothers or sisters. Mother always calls me Stella." "Well, let's go and ask her if you can't come into my car for a while. My mother will look after you, and then you can see the kitten." After some courteous words of explanation between the two mothers, Stella was allowed to play with Marjorie for the rest of the journey. Seated together in one of the big Pullman easy chairs, with the kitten cuddled between them, they rapidly made each other's acquaintance, and soon became good friends. They were not at all alike, for Stella Martin was a thin, pale child with a long braid of straight, light hair, and light blue eyes. She was timid, too, and absolutely devoid of Marjorie's impetuosity and daring. But they were both pleased at the discovery that they were to be near neighbors throughout the summer. Stella's home was next-door to Grandma Sherwood's, although, as both country places were so large, the houses were some distance apart. Next beyond Stella's house, Marjorie remembered, was where Molly Moss lived, and so the outlook seemed to promise plenty of pleasant company. About three o'clock in the afternoon the train reached Morristown, and springing out on the platform, Marjorie soon spied Grandma Sherwood's carriage there to meet them. Old Moses was still in charge of the horses, as he had been ever since Marjorie could remember, and in a moment she heard a hearty voice cry, "Oh, there you are!" and there was Uncle Steve waiting for them on the platform. Uncle Steve was a great friend of Marjorie's, and she flew to greet him almost before he had time to welcome her mother. Then in a few moments the luggage was looked after, and they were all in the carriage, rolling away toward Haslemere. Marjorie chatted away like a magpie, for she had many questions to ask Uncle Steve, and as she was looking out to renew acquaintance with old landmarks along the road, the drive to the house seemed very short, and soon they were turning in at the gate. Haslemere was not a large, old-fashioned farm, but a fair-sized and well-kept country place. Grandma Sherwood, who had been a widow for many years, lived there with her son Stephen. It was like a farm, because there were chickens and ducks, and cows and horses, and also a large garden where fresh vegetables of all sorts were raised. But there were no grain fields or large pasture lands, or pigs or turkeys, such as belong to larger farms. The drive from the gate up to the house was a long avenue, shaded on both sides by beautiful old trees, and the wide expanse of lawn was kept as carefully mowed as if at a town house. There were flower beds in abundance, and among the trees and shrubbery were rustic seats and arbors, hammocks and swings, and a delightful tent where the children loved to play. Back of the house the land sloped down to the river, which was quite large enough for delightful boating and fishing. The house was of that old-fashioned type which has two front doors and two halls, with large parlors between them, and wings on either side. A broad veranda ran across the front, and, turning both corners, ran along either side. As they drove up to the house, Grandma Sherwood was on the piazza waiting for them. She was not a very old lady, that is, she was not of the white-haired, white-capped, and silver-spectacled variety. She was perhaps sixty years old, and seemed quite as energetic and enthusiastic as her daughter, if perhaps not quite so much so as her granddaughter. Marjorie sprang out of the carriage, and flew like a young whirlwind to her grandmother's arms, which were open to receive her. "My dear child, how you have grown!" "I knew you'd say that, Grandma," said Marjorie, laughing merrily, "and, indeed, I have grown since I was here last. Just think, that was three years ago! I'm almost twelve years old now." "Well, you are a great girl; run in the house, and lay off your things, while I speak to your mother." Marjorie danced into the house, flung her coat and gloves on the hall rack, and still holding her kitten, went on through to the kitchen, in search of Eliza the cook. "The saints presarve us!" cried Eliza. "An' is it yersilf, Miss Midget! Why, ye're as big as a tellygraft pole, so ye are!" "I know I am, Eliza, but you're just the same as ever; and just look at the kitten I have brought! Have you any here now?" "Cats, is it? Indade we have, then! I'm thinkin' there do be a hundred dozen of thim; they're undher me feet continual! But what kind of a baste is thot ye have there? I niver saw such a woolly one!" "This is a Persian kitten, Eliza, and her name is Puff. Isn't she pretty?" "I'll not be sayin' she's purty, till I see how she doos be behavin'. Is she a good little cat, Miss Midget dear?" "Good! Indeed she is a good kitty. And I wish you'd give her some milk, Eliza, while I run out to see the chickens. Is Carter out there?" But without waiting for an answer, Marjorie was already flying down through the garden, and soon found Carter, the gardener, at his work. "Hello, Carter!" she cried. "How are you this summer?" "Welcome, Miss Midge! I'm glad to see you back," exclaimed the old gardener, who was very fond of the Maynard children. "And I'm glad to be here, Carter; and I have some seeds to plant; will you help me plant them?" "That I will. What are they?" "I don't know; King gave them to me, but he wouldn't tell me what they were." "Ah, the mischievous boy! Now, how can we tell where to plant them when we don't know if they'll come up lilies of the valley or elephant's ears?" Marjorie laughed gayly. "It doesn't matter, Carter," she said; "let's stick them in some sunny place, and then, if they seem to be growing too high, we can transplant them." "It's a wise little head you have, Miss; we'll do just that." Humoring Marjorie's impatience, the good-natured gardener helped her plant the seeds in a sunny flowerbed, and raked the dirt neatly over them with an experienced touch. "That looks lovely," said Marjorie, with a satisfied nod of approval; "now let's go and see the chickens." This proved even more interesting than she had anticipated, for since her last visit an incubator had been purchased, and there were hundreds of little chickens of various sizes, in different compartments, to be looked at and admired. "Aren't they darlings!" exclaimed Marjorie, as she watched the little yellow balls trying to balance themselves on slender little brown stems that hardly seemed as if they could be meant for legs. "Oh, Carter, I shall spend hours out here every day!" "Do, Miss Midge; I'll be glad to have you, and the chickens won't mind it a bit." "Now the horses," Marjorie went on, and off they went to the stables, where Moses had already unharnessed the carriage team, and put them in their stalls. Uncle Steve had a new saddle horse, which came in for a large share of admiration, and the old horse, Betsy, which Grandma Sherwood liked to drive herself, was also to be greeted. Marjorie loved all animals, but after cats, horses were her favorites. "Are there any ducks this year, Carter?" she inquired. "Yes, Miss Midge, there is a duck-pond full of them; and you haven't seen the new boathouse that was built last year for Master Kingdon." "No, but I want to see it; and oh, Carter, don't you think you could teach me to row?" "I'm sure of it, Miss Midge; but I hear your grandmother calling you, and I think you'd better leave the boathouse to see to-morrow." "All right; I think so too, Carter." And Marjorie ran back to the house, her broad-brimmed hat in one hand and her hair ribbon in the other, while her curls were, indeed, in a tangled mop. CHAPTER III ON THE ROOF "Why, Mopsy Maynard," exclaimed her mother, as Marjorie danced into the house, smiling and dishevelled, "what a looking head! Please go straight to your room, and make yourself tidy before supper time." "Yes, indeed, Mother, but just listen a minute! Uncle Steve has a new horse, a black one, and there are a hundred million little chickens, in the queerest kind of a thing, but I can't remember its name,--it's something like elevator." "Incubator, perhaps," suggested her mother. "Yes, that's it; and oh, Mother, it's so funny! Do come out and see it, won't you?" "Not to-night, child; and now run up to your room and tie up your hair." Marjorie danced upstairs, singing as she went, but when she reached the door of the room she was accustomed to use, she stopped her singing and stood in the doorway, stock-still with sheer bewilderment. For somehow the room had been entirely transformed, and looked like a totally different apartment. The room was in one of the wings of the house, and was large and square, with windows on two sides. But these had been ordinary windows, and now they were replaced by large, roomy bay windows, with glass doors that reached from floor to ceiling, and opened out on little balconies. In one of these bay windows was a dear little rocking-chair painted white, and a standard work-basket of dainty white and green wicker, completely furnished with sewing materials. In the other bay window was a dear little writing-desk of bird's-eye maple, and a wicker chair in front of it. The desk was open, and Marjorie could see all sorts of pens and pencils and paper in fascinating array. But these were only a few of the surprises. The whole room had been redecorated, and the walls were papered with a design of yellow daffodils in little bunches tied with pale green ribbon. The woodwork was all painted white, and entirely around the room, at just about the height of Marjorie's chin, ran a broad white shelf. Of course this shelf stopped for the windows and doors, but the room was large, and there was a great deal of space left for the shelf. But it was the things on the shelf that attracted Marjorie's attention. One side of the room was devoted to books, and Marjorie quickly recognized many of her old favorites, and many new ones. On another side of the room the shelf was filled with flowers, some blooming gayly in pots, and some cut blossoms in vases of water. On a third side of the room the shelf held birds, and this sight nearly took Marjorie's breath away. Some were in gilt cages, a canary, a goldfinch, and another bird whose name Marjorie did not know. And some were stuffed birds of brilliant plumage, and mounted in most natural positions on twigs or branches, or perched upon an ivy vine which was trained along the wall. The fourth side was almost empty, and Marjorie knew at once that it was left so in order that she might have a place for such treasured belongings as she had brought with her. "Well!" she exclaimed, although there was no one there to hear her. "Well, if this isn't the best ever!" She stood in the middle of the room, and turned slowly round and round, taking in by degrees the furnishings and adornment. All of the furniture was new, and the brass bed and dainty dressing-table seemed to Marjorie quite fit for any princess. "Well!" she exclaimed again, and as she turned around this time she saw the older people watching her from the hall. "Oh, Grandma Sherwood!" she cried, and running to the old lady, proceeded to hug her in a way that was more affectionate than comfortable. "Do you like it?" asked Grandma, when she could catch her breath. "Like it! It's the most beautiful, loveliest, sweetest room in the whole world! I love it! Did you do it all for me, Grandma?" "Yes, Midget; that is, I fixed up the room, but for the shelf you must thank Uncle Steve. That is his idea entirely, and he superintended its putting up. You're to use it this year, and next year Kitty can have her dolls and toys on it, and then the year after, King can use it for his fishing-tackle and boyish traps. Though I suppose by that time Rosamond will be old enough to take her turn." "Then I can't come again for four years," exclaimed Marjorie, with an expression of consternation on her face. "Not unless you come two at a time," said Grandma; "and I doubt if your mother would consent to that." "No, indeed," said Mrs. Maynard; "it's hard enough to lose one of the flock, without losing two." "Well, I'll have a good time with it this summer, anyway," said Marjorie; "can't we unpack my trunk now, Mother, so I can put my pearl pen in my desk; and my clock, that Rosy Posy gave me, on the shelf; and hang up my bird picture on the wall?" "Not just now," said her mother, "for it is nearly supper time, and you must transform yourself from a wild maid of the woods into a decorous little lady." The transformation was accomplished, and it was not very long before a very neat and tidy Marjorie walked sedately downstairs to the dining-room. Her white dress was immaculate; a big white bow held the dark curls in place, and only the dancing eyes betrayed the fact that it was an effort to behave so demurely. "Well, Midget," said Uncle Steve, as they were seated at the supper table, "does the old place look the same?" "No, indeed, Uncle; there are lots of changes, but best of all is my beauty room. I never saw anything so lovely; I just want to stay up there all the time." "I thought you'd like that shelf. Now you have room for all the thousand and one bits of rubbish that you accumulate through the summer." "'Tisn't rubbish!" exclaimed Marjorie, indignantly; "it's dear little birds' nests, and queer kinds of rocks, and branches of strange trees and grasses and things." "Well, I only meant it sounds to me like rubbish," said Uncle Steve, who loved to tease her about her enthusiasms. But she only smiled good-naturedly, for she well knew that Uncle Steve was the very one who would take her for long walks in the woods, on purpose to gather this very "rubbish." The next day Marjorie was up bright and early, quite ready for any pleasure that might offer itself. Her mother went back home that day, and though Marjorie felt a little sad at parting, yet, after all, Grandma Sherwood's house was like a second home, and there was too much novelty and entertainment all about to allow time for feeling sad. Moreover, Marjorie was of a merry, happy disposition. It was natural to her to make the best of everything, and even had she had reasons for being truly miserable, she would have tried to be happy in spite of them. So she bade her mother good-by, and sent loving messages to all at home, and promised to write often. "Remember," said her mother, as a parting injunction, "to read every morning the list I gave you, which includes all my commands for the summer. When I see you again I shall expect you to tell me that you obeyed them all." "I will try," said Marjorie; "but if it is a long list I may forget some of them sometimes. You know, Mother, I AM forgetful." "You are, indeed," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling; "but if you'll try I think you'll succeed, at least fairly well. Good-by now, dear; I must be off; and do you go at once to your room and read over the list so as to start the day right." "I will," said Marjorie, and as soon as she had waved a last good-by, and the carriage had disappeared from view, she ran to her room, and sitting down at her pretty desk, unfolded the list her mother had given her. To her great surprise, instead of the long list she had expected to find, there were only two items. The first was, "Keep your hands clean, and your hair tidy"; and the other read, "Obey Grandma implicitly." "Well," thought Marjorie to herself, "I can easily manage those two! And yet," she thought further, with a little sigh, "they're awfully hard ones. My hands just WON'T keep clean, and my hair ribbon is forever coming off! And of course I MEAN to obey Grandma always; but sometimes she's awful strict, and sometimes I forget what she told me." But with a firm resolve in her heart to do her best, Marjorie went downstairs, and went out to play in the garden. Some time later she saw a girl of about her own age coming down the path toward her. She was a strange-looking child, with a very white face, snapping black eyes, and straight wiry black hair, braided in two little braids, which stood out straight from her head. "Are you Marjorie?" she said, in a thin, piping voice. "I'm Molly Moss, and I've come to play with you. I used to know Kitty." "Yes," said Marjorie, pleasantly, "I'm Marjorie, and I'm Kitty's sister. I'm glad you came. Is that your kitten?" "Yes," said Molly, as she held up a very small black kitten, which was indeed an insignificant specimen compared to the Persian beauty hanging over Marjorie's arm. "It's a dear kitten," Molly went on. "Her name is Blackberry. Don't you like her?" "Yes," said Marjorie, a little doubtfully; "perhaps she can be company for Puff. This is my Puff." Marjorie held up her cat, but the two animals showed very little interest in one another. "Let's put them to sleep somewhere," said Molly, "and then go and play in the loft." The kittens were soon deposited in the warm kitchen, and the two girls ran back to the barn for a good play. Marjorie had already begun to like Molly, though she seemed rather queer at first, but after they had climbed the ladder to the warm sweet-smelling hay-loft, they grew better acquainted, and were soon chattering away like old friends. Molly was not at all like Stella Martin. Far from being timid, she was recklessly daring, and very ingenious in the devising of mischief. "I'll tell you what, Mopsy," she said, having already adopted Marjorie's nickname, "let's climb out of the window, that skylight window, I mean, onto the roof of the barn, and slide down. It's a lovely long slide." "We'll slide off!" exclaimed Marjorie, aghast at this proposition. "Oh, no, we won't; there's a ledge at the edge of the roof, and your heels catch that, and that stops you. You CAN'T go any further." "How do you get back?" "Why, scramble back up the roof, you know. Come on, it's lots of fun." "I don't believe Grandma would like it," said Marjorie, a little doubtfully. "Oh, pshaw, you're afraid; there's no danger. Come on and try it, anyhow." Now Marjorie did not like to be called afraid, for she really had very little fear in her disposition. So she said: "Well, I'll go up the ladder and look out, and if it looks dangerous I won't do it." "Not a bit of danger," declared Molly. "I'll go up first." Agile as a sprite, Molly quickly skipped up the ladder, and opened the trap-door in the barn roof. Sticking her head up through, she soon drew her thin little body up after it and called to Marjorie to follow. Marjorie was a much heavier child, but she sturdily climbed the ladder, and then with some difficulty clambered out on the roof. "Isn't it gay?" cried Molly, and exhilarated by the lofty height, the novel position, and the excitement of the moment, Marjorie thought it was. "Now," went on Molly, by way of instruction, "sit down beside me right here at the top. Hang on with your hands until I count three and then let go, and we'll slide straight down the roof." Marjorie obeyed directions, and sat waiting with a delightful feeling of expectancy. "One, two, three!" counted Molly, and at the last word the two girls let go their grasp and slid. Swiftly and lightly the slender little Molly slid to the gutter of the eaves of the roof, caught by her heels, and stopped suddenly, leaning against the slanted roof, comfortably at her ease. Not so Marjorie. She came swiftly down, and, all unaccustomed to motion of this sort, her feet struck the gutter, her solid little body bounced up into the air, and instead of falling backward again, she gave a frightened convulsive movement, and fell headlong to the ground. Quick as a flash, Molly, when she saw what had happened, scrambled back up the roof with a wonderful agility, and let herself down through the skylight, and down the ladder like lightning. She rushed out of the barn, to where Marjorie lay, and reached her before Carter did, though he came running at the first sounds of Marjorie's screams. "I'm not hurt much," said Marjorie, trying to be brave; "if you'll help me, Carter, I think I can walk to the house." "Walk nothin'," growled Carter; "it's Miss Mischief you are for sure! I thought you had outgrown your wild ways, but you're just as bad as ever! What'll your grandma say?" Molly stood by, decidedly scared. She didn't know how badly Marjorie was hurt, and she longed to comfort her, and tell her how sorry she was that she had urged her to this mischief, but Carter gave her no opportunity to speak. Indeed, it was all she could do to keep up with the gardener's long strides, as he carried Marjorie to the house. But Molly was no coward, and she bravely determined to go to the house with them, and confess to Mrs. Sherwood that she was to blame for the accident. But when they reached the door, and Grandma Sherwood came out to meet them, she was so anxious and worried about Marjorie that she paid little attention to Molly's efforts at explanation. "What are you trying to say, child?" she asked hastily of Molly, who was stammering out an incoherent speech. "Well, never mind; whatever you have to say, I don't want to hear it now. You run right straight home; and if you want to come over to-morrow to see how Marjorie is, you may, but I can't have you bothering around here now. So run home." And Molly ran home. CHAPTER IV A PAPER-DOLL HOUSE The result of Marjorie's fall from the roof was a sprained ankle. It wasn't a bad sprain, but the doctor said she must stay in bed for several days. "But I don't mind very much," said Marjorie, who persisted in looking on the bright side of everything, "for it will give me a chance to enjoy this beautiful room better. But, Grandma, I can't quite make out whether I was disobedient or not. You never told me not to slide down the roof, did you?" "No, Marjorie; but your common-sense ought to have told you that. I should have forbidden it if I had thought there was the slightest danger of your doing such a thing. You really ought to have known better." Grandma's tone was severe, for though she was sorry for the child she felt that Marjorie had done wrong, and ought to be reproved. Marjorie's brow wrinkled in her efforts to think out the matter. "Grandma," she said, "then must I obey every rule that you would make if you thought of it, and how shall I know what they are?" Grandma smiled. "As I tell you Midget, you must use your common-sense and reason in such matters. If you make mistakes the experience will help you to learn; but I am sure a child twelve years old ought to know better than to slide down a steep barn roof. But I suppose Molly put you up to it, and so it wasn't your fault exactly." "Molly did suggest it, Grandma, but that doesn't make her the one to blame, for I didn't have to do as she said, did I?" "No, Midge; and Molly has behaved very nicely about it. She came over here, and confessed that she had been the ringleader in the mischief, and said she was sorry for it. So you were both to blame, but I think it has taught you a lesson, and I don't believe you'll ever cut up that particular trick again. But you certainly needn't be punished for it, for I think the consequences of having to stay in bed for nearly a week will be punishment enough. So now we're through with that part of the subject, and I'm going to do all I can to make your imprisonment as easy for you as possible." It was in the early morning that this conversation had taken place, and Grandma had brought a basin of fresh, cool water and bathed the little girl's face and hands, and had brushed out her curls and tied them up with a pretty pink bow. Then Jane came with a dainty tray, containing just the things Marjorie liked best for breakfast, and adorned with a spray of fresh roses. Grandma drew a table to the bedside and piled pillows behind Marjorie's back until she was quite comfortable. "I feel like a queen, Grandma," she said; "if this is what you call punishment I don't mind it a bit." "That's all very well for one day, but wait until you have been here four or five days. You'll get tired of playing queen by that time." "Well, it's fun now, anyway," said Marjorie, as she ate strawberries and cream with great relish. After breakfast Jane tidied up the room, and Marjorie, arrayed in a little pink kimono, prepared to spend the day in bed. Grandma brought her books to read and writing materials to write letters home, and Marjorie assured her that she could occupy herself pleasantly. So Grandma went away and left her alone. The first thing Marjorie did was to write a letter to her mother, telling her all about the accident. She had thought she would write a letter to each of the children at home, but she discovered to her surprise that it wasn't very easy to write sitting up in bed. Her arms became cramped, and as she could not move her injured ankle her whole body grew stiff and uncomfortable. So she decided to read. After she had read what seemed a long time, she found that that, too, was difficult under the circumstances. With a little sigh she turned herself as well as she could and looked at the clock. To her amazement, only an hour had elapsed since Grandma left her, and for the first time the little girl realized what it meant to be deprived of the free use of her limbs. "Only ten o'clock," she thought to herself; "and dinner isn't until one!" Not that Marjorie was hungry, but like all the invalids she looked forward to meal-times as a pleasant diversion. But about this time Grandma reappeared to say that Molly had come over to see her. Marjorie was delighted, and welcomed Molly gladly. "I'm awful sorry," the little visitor began, "that I made you slide down the roof." "You didn't make me do it," said Marjorie, "it was my fault quite as much as yours; and, anyway, it isn't a very bad sprain. I'll be out again in a few days, and then we can play some more. But we'll keep down on the ground,--we can't fall off of that." "I thought you might like to play some games this morning," Molly suggested, "so I brought over my jackstraws and my Parcheesi board." "Splendid!" cried Marjorie, delighted to have new entertainment. In a few moments Molly had whisked things about, and arranged the jackstraws on a small table near the bed. But Marjorie could not reach them very well, so Molly changed her plan. "I'll fix it," she said, and laying the Parcheesi board on the bed, she climbed up herself, and sitting cross-legged like a little Turk, she tossed the jackstraws out on the flat board, and the game began in earnest. They had a jolly time and followed the jackstraws with a game of Parcheesi. Then Jane came up with some freshly baked cookies and two glasses of milk. "Why, how the time has flown!" cried Marjorie, "it's half-past eleven, and it doesn't seem as if you'd been here more than five minutes, Molly." "I didn't think it was so late, either," and then the two girls did full justice to the little luncheon, while the all-useful Parcheesi board served as a table. "Now," said Marjorie, when the last crumbs had disappeared, "let's mix up the two games. The jackstraws will be people, and your family can live in that corner of the Parcheesi board, and mine will live in this. The other two corners will be strangers' houses, and the red counters can live in one and the blue counters in the other. This place in the middle will be a park, and these dice can be deer in the park." "Oh, what fun!" cried Molly, who was not as ingenious as Marjorie at making up games, but who was appreciative enough to enter into the spirit of it at once. They became so absorbed in this new sort of play that again the time flew and it was dinner-time before they knew it. Grandma did not invite Molly to stay to dinner, for she thought Marjorie ought to rest, but she asked the little neighbor to come again the next morning and continue their game. After dinner Grandma darkened the room and left Marjorie to rest by herself, and the result of this was a long and refreshing nap. When she awoke, Grandma appeared again with fresh water and towels, and her afternoon toilet was made. Marjorie laughed to think that dressing for afternoon meant only putting on a different kimono, for dresses were not to be thought of with a sprained ankle. And then Uncle Steve came in. Uncle Steve was always like a ray of sunshine, but he seemed especially bright and cheery just now. "Well, Midget Mops," he said, "you have cut up a pretty trick, haven't you? Here, just as I wanted to take you driving, and walking in the woods, and boating, and fishing, and perhaps ballooning, and airshipping, and maybe skating, here you go and get yourself laid up so you can't do anything but eat and sleep! You're a nice Midget, you are! What's the use of having an Uncle Steve if you can't play with him?" "Just you wait," cried Marjorie; "I'm not going to be in bed more than a few days, and I'm going to stay here all summer. There'll be plenty of time for your fishing and skating yet." "But unless I get you pretty soon, I'll pine away with grief. And everybody out on the farm is lonesome for you. The horses, Ned and Dick, had made up their minds to take you on long drives along the mountain roads where the wild flowers bloom. They can't understand why you don't come out, and they stand in their stalls weeping, with great tears rolling down their cheeks." Marjorie laughed gayly at Uncle Steve's foolery, and said: "If they're weeping so you'd better take them some of my pocket handkerchiefs." "Too small," said Uncle Steve, scornfully; "one of your little handkerchiefs would get lost in Dick's eye or Ned's ear. And old Betsy is weeping for you too. Really, you'll have to get around soon, or those three horses will run away, I fear." "What about the cow; does she miss me?" asked Marjorie, gravely, though her eyes were twinkling. "The cow!" exclaimed Uncle Steve. "She stands by the fence with her head on the top rail, and moos so loud that I should think you could hear her yourself. She calls 'Mopsy, Mopsy, Moo,' from morning till night. And the chickens! Well, the incubator is full of desolate chickens. They won't eat their meal, and they just peep mournfully, and stretch their little wings trying to fly to you." "And the dogs?" prompted Marjorie. "Oh, the dogs--they howl and yowl and growl all the time. I think I'll have to bring the whole crowd of animals up here. They're so anxious to see you." "Do, Uncle Steve. I'd be glad to see them, and I'm sure they'd behave nicely." "I think so. The cow could sit in that little rocking-chair, and the three horses could sit on the couch, side by side. And then we could all have afternoon tea." Marjorie shook with laughter at the thought of the cow sitting up and drinking afternoon tea, until Uncle Steve declared that if she laughed so hard she'd sprain her other ankle. So he said he would read to her, and selecting a book of fairy tales, he read aloud all the rest of the afternoon. It was delightful to hear Uncle Steve read, for he would stop now and then to discuss the story, or he would put in some funny little jokes of his own, and he made it all so amusing and entertaining that the afternoon flew by as if on wings. Then Jane came again with the pretty tray of supper, and after that Grandma and Marjorie had a nice little twilight talk, and then the little girl was tucked up for the night, and soon fell asleep. When she woke the next morning and lay quietly in bed thinking over of the events of the day before, she came to the conclusion that everybody had been very kind to her, but that she couldn't expect so much attention every day. So she made up her mind that when she had to spend hours alone, she would try to be good and patient and not trouble Grandma more than she could help. Then she thought of the written list her mother had given her. She smiled to think how easy it was now to keep those commands. "Of course," she thought, "I can keep my hands clean and my hair tidy here, for Grandma looks after that herself; and, of course, I can't help obeying her while I'm here, for she doesn't command me to do anything, and I couldn't do it if she did." Molly came again that morning, and as Grandma had asked her to stay to dinner with Marjorie, the girls prepared for a good morning's play. It was astonishing how many lovely things there were to play, even when one of the players couldn't move about. Molly had brought over her paper-doll's house, and as it was quite different from anything Marjorie had ever seen before, she wondered if she couldn't make one for herself, and so double the fun of the game. Grandma was consulted, but it was Uncle Steve who brought them the necessary materials to carry out their plan. A paper-doll's house is quite different from the other kind of a doll's house, and Molly's was made of a large blankbook. So Uncle Steve brought a blankbook almost exactly like it for Marjorie, and then he brought her scissors, and paste, and several catalogues which had come from the great shops in the city. He brought, too, a pile of magazines and papers, which were crammed full of illustrated advertisements. The two little girls set busily to work, and soon they had cut out a quantity of chairs, tables, beds, and furniture of all sorts from the pictured pages. These they pasted in the book. Each page was a room, and in the room were arranged appropriate furniture and ornaments. The parlor had beautiful and elaborate furniture, rugs, pictures, bric-a-brac, and even lace curtains at the windows. The library had beautiful bookcases, writing-desk, reading-table and a lamp, easy-chairs, and everything that belongs in a well-ordered library. The dining-room was fully furnished, and the kitchen contained everything necessary to the satisfaction of the most exacting cook. The bedrooms were beautiful with dainty brass beds, chintz-covered furniture, and dressing-tables fitted out with all sorts of toilet equipments. All of these things were found in the catalogues and the magazine advertisements; and in addition to the rooms mentioned, there were halls, a nursery, playroom, and pleasant verandas fitted up with hammocks and porch furniture. Of course it required some imagination to think that these rooms were in the shape of a house, and not just leaves of a book, but both Midge and Molly had plenty of imagination, and besides it was very practical fun to cut out the things, and arrange them in their places. Sometimes it was necessary to use a pencil to draw in any necessary article that might be missing; but usually everything desired could be found, from potted palms to a baby carriage. Marjorie grew absorbed in the work, for she dearly loved to make things, and her ingenuity suggested many improvements on Molly's original house. CHAPTER V SOME INTERESTING LETTERS The family for the paper-doll house was selected from the catalogues that illustrate ready-made clothing. Beautiful gentlemen were cut out, dressed in the most approved fashions for men. Charming ladies with trailing skirts and elaborate hats were found in plenty. And children of all ages were so numerous in the prints that it was almost difficult to make a selection. Then, too, extra hats and wraps and parasols were cut out, which could be neatly put away in the cupboards and wardrobes which were in the house. For Marjorie had discovered that by pasting only the edges of the wardrobe and carefully cutting the doors apart, they could be made to open and shut beautifully. Uncle Steve became very much interested in these wonderful houses, and ransacked his own library for pictures to be cut up. Indeed, so elaborate did the houses grow to be, Molly's being greatly enlarged and improved, that they could not be finished in one morning. But Grandma was not willing to let Marjorie work steadily at this occupation all day, and after dinner Molly was sent home, and the paper dolls put away until the next day. "But I'm not ill, Grandma," said Marjorie; "just having a sprained ankle doesn't make me a really, truly invalid." "No, but you must rest, or you will get ill. Fever may set in, and if you get over-excited with your play, and have no exercise, you may be in bed longer than you think for. Besides, I think I remember having heard something about implicit obedience, and so I expect it now as well as when you're up on your two feet." "I don't think I can help obeying," said Marjorie, roguishly, "for I can't very well do anything else. But I suppose you mean obey without fretting; so I will, for you are a dear, good Grandma and awfully kind to me." With a parting pat on her shoulder, Grandma left the little girl for her afternoon nap, and Marjorie would have been surprised at herself had she known how quickly she fell asleep. Uncle Steve made it a habit to entertain her during the later hours of each afternoon, and, although they were already great chums, his gayety and kindness made Marjorie more than ever devoted to her uncle. This afternoon he came in with a handful of letters. "These are all for you," he said; "it is astonishing what a large correspondence you have." Marjorie was amazed. She took the budget of letters her uncle handed her and counted five. They were all duly stamped, and all were postmarked, but the postmarks all read Haslemere. "How funny!" exclaimed Marjorie; "I didn't know there was a post office at Haslemere." "You didn't!" exclaimed Uncle Steve; "why, there certainly is. Do you mean to say that you don't know that there's a little post office in the lowest branch of that old maple-tree down by the brook?" "You mean just where the path turns to go to the garden?" "That's the very spot. Only this morning I was walking by there, and I saw a small post office in the tree. There was a key in the door of it, and being curious, I opened it, and looked in. There I saw five letters for you, and as you're not walking much this summer, I thought I'd bring them to you. I brought the key, too." As he finished speaking, Uncle Steve drew from his pocket a little bright key hung on a blue ribbon, which he gravely presented to Marjorie. Her eyes danced as she took it, for she now believed there was really a post office there, though it was sometimes difficult to distinguish Uncle Steve's nonsense from the truth. "Now I'm more than ever anxious to get well," she cried, "and go out to see that post office." "Oh, no," said Uncle Steve, shaking his head; "you don't care about post offices and walks in the woods, and drives through the country. You'd rather slide down an old barn roof, and then lie in bed for a week." "Catch me doing it again," said Marjorie, shaking her head decidedly; "and now, Uncle, suppose we open these letters." "Why, that wouldn't be a bad idea. Here's a paper-cutter. Let's open one at a time, they'll last longer. Suppose you read this one first." Marjorie opened the first letter, and quickly turned the page to see the signature. "Why, Uncle Steve," she cried, "this is signed Ned and Dick! I didn't know horses could write letters." "There are a great many things, my child, that you don't know yet. And so Ned and Dick have written to you! Now that's very kind of them. Read me what they say." In great glee, Marjorie read aloud: "DEAR MARJORIE: It is too bad For you to act this way; Just think what fun we might have had Out driving every day. "We could have gone to Blossom Banks, Or Maple Grove instead; But no, you had to cut up pranks That landed you in bed! "We hope you'll soon be well again, And get downstairs right quick; And we will all go driving then. Your true friends, NED AND DICK." "Well, I do declare," said Uncle Steve, "I always said they were intelligent horses, but this is the first time I've ever heard of their writing a letter. They must be very fond of you, Marjorie." Marjorie's eyes twinkled. She well knew Uncle Steve had written the letter himself, but she was always ready to carry out her part of a joke, so she replied: "Yes, I think they must be fond of me, and I think I know somebody else who is, too. But it was nice of Ned and Dick to write and let me know that they hadn't forgotten me. And as soon as I can get downstairs, I shall be delighted to go driving with them. Where is Blossom Banks, Uncle?" "Oh, it's a lovely place, a sort of picnic ground; there are several grassy banks, and blossoms grow all over them. They slope right down to the river; but, of course, you wouldn't think them nearly so nice as a sloping barn roof." Marjorie knew she must stand teasing from Uncle Steve, but his smile was so good-natured, and he was such a dear old uncle anyway, that she didn't mind it very much. "Suppose I read another letter," she said, quite ready to turn the subject. "Do; open that one with the typewritten address. I wonder who could have written that! Perhaps the cow; she's very agile on the typewriter." The mental picture of the cow using the typewriter produced such hilarity that it was a few moments before the letter was opened. "It IS from the cow!" exclaimed Marjorie, "and she does write beautifully on the machine. I don't see a single error." "Read it out, Midge; I always love to hear letters from cows." So Marjorie read the cow's note: "Mopsy Midge, come out to play; I've waited for you all the day. In the Garden and by the brook, All day for you I vainly look. With anxious brow and gaze intense I lean against the old rail fence, And moo and moo, and moo, and moo, In hopes I may be heard by you. And if I were not so forlorn, I think I'd try to blow my horn. Oh, come back, Midget, come back now, And cheer your lonely, waiting Cow." "Now, that's a first-class letter," declared Uncle Steve. "I always thought that cow was a poet. She looks so romantic when she gazes out over the bars. You ought to be pleased, Marjorie, that you have such loving friends at Haslemere." "Pleased! I'm tickled to death! I never had letters that I liked so well. And just think, I have three left yet that I haven't opened. I wonder who they can be from." "When you wonder a thing like that, it always seems to me a good idea to open them and find out." "I just do believe I will! Why, this one," and Marjorie hastily tore open another letter, "this one, Uncle, is from old Bet!" "Betsy! That old horse! Well, she must have put on her spectacles to see to write it. But I suppose when she saw Ned and Dick writing, she didn't want them to get ahead of her, so she went to work too. Well, do read it, I'm surely interested to hear old Betsy's letter." "Listen then," said Marjorie: "DEAR LITTLE MIDGE: I'm lonesome here, Without your merry smiles to cheer. I mope around the livelong day, And scarcely care to munch my hay. I am so doleful and so sad, I really do feel awful bad! Oh hurry, Midge, and come back soon; Perhaps to-morrow afternoon. And then my woe I will forget, And smile again. Your lonesome BET" "Well, she is an affectionate old thing," said Uncle Steve; "and truly, Midget, I thought she was feeling lonesome this morning. She didn't seem to care to eat anything, and she never smiled at me at all." "She's a good old horse, Uncle, but I don't like her as much as I do Ned and Dick. But don't ever tell Betsy this, for I wouldn't hurt her feelings for anything." "Oh, yes, just because Ned and Dick are spirited, fast horses you like them better than poor, old Betsy, who used to haul you around when you were a baby." "Oh, I like her well enough; and, anyway, I think a heap more of her now, since she wrote me such an affectionate letter. Now, Uncle, if you'll believe it, this next one is from the chickens! Would you have believed that little bits of yellow chickens, in an incubator, could write a nice, clear letter like this? I do think it's wonderful! Just listen to it: "DEAR MOPSY: Why Are you away? We weep and cry All through the day. "Oh, come back quick, Dear Mopsy Mop! Then each small chick Will gayly hop. "We'll chirp with glee, No more we'll weep; Each chickadee Will loudly peep." "Well, that's certainly fine, Midget, for such little chickens. If it were the old hen, now, I wouldn't be so surprised, for I see her scratching on the ground every day. I suppose she's practising her writing lesson, but I never yet have been able to read the queer marks she makes. But these little yellow chickadees write plainly enough, and I do think they are wonderfully clever." "Yes, and isn't it funny that they can rhyme so well, too?" "It is, indeed. I always said those Plymouth Rocks were the smartest chickens of all, but I never suspected they could write poetry." "And now, Uncle, I've only one left." Marjorie looked regretfully at the last letter, wishing there were a dozen more. "But I can keep them and read them over and over again, I like them so much. I'd answer them, but I don't believe those animals read as well as they write." "No," said Uncle Steve, wagging his head sagely, "I don't believe they do. Well, read your last one, Mops, and let's see who wrote it." "Why, Uncle, it's from the dogs! It's signed 'Nero and Tray and Rover'! Weren't they just darling to write to me! I believe I miss the dogs more than anything else, because I can have Puffy up here with me." Marjorie paused long enough to cuddle the little heap of grey fur that lay on the counterpane beside her, and then proceeded to read the letter: "Dear Mopsy Midget, We're in a fidget, Because we cannot find you; We want to know How you could go And leave your dogs behind you! "We bark and howl, And snarl and yowl, And growl the whole day long; You are not here, And, Mopsy dear, We fear there's something wrong! "We haven't heard; Oh, send us word Whatever is the matter! Oh, hurry up And cheer each pup With laughter and gay chatter." "That's a very nice letter," said Marjorie, as she folded it up and returned it to its envelope. "And I do think the animals at Haslemere are the most intelligent I have ever known. Uncle, I'm going to send these letters all down home for King and Kitty to read, and then they can send them back to me, for I'm going to keep them all my life." "I'll tell you a better plan than that, Midget. If you want the children to read them, I'll make copies of them for you to send home. And then I'll tell you what you might do, if you like. When I go downtown I'll buy you a great big scrapbook, and then you can paste these letters in, and as the summer goes on, you can paste in all sorts of things; pressed leaves or flowers, pictures and letters, and souvenirs of all sorts. Won't that be nice?" "Uncle Steve, it will be perfectly lovely! You do have the splendidest ideas! Will you get the book to-morrow?" "Yes, Miss Impatience, I will." And that night, Marjorie fell asleep while thinking of all the lovely things she could collect to put in the book, which Uncle Steve had told her she must call her Memory Book. CHAPTER VI BOO! The days of Marjorie's imprisonment went by pleasantly enough. Every morning Molly would come over, and they played with their paper-doll houses. These houses continually grew in size and beauty. Each girl added a second book, which represented grounds and gardens. There were fountains, and flowerbeds and trees and shrubs, which they cut from florists' catalogues; other pages were barns and stables, and chicken-coops, all filled with most beautiful specimens of the animals that belonged in them. There were vegetable gardens and grape arbors and greenhouses, for Uncle Steve had become so interested in this game that he brought the children wonderful additions to their collections. It was quite as much fun to arrange the houses and grounds as it was to play with them, and each new idea was hailed with shrieks of delight. Molly often grew so excited that she upset the paste-pot, and her scraps and cuttings flew far and wide, but good-natured Jane was always ready to clear up after the children. Jane had been with Mrs. Sherwood for many years, and Marjorie was her favorite of all the grandchildren, and she was never too tired to wait upon her. She, too, hunted up old books and papers that might contain some contributions to the paper-doll houses. But afternoons were always devoted to rest, until four or five o'clock, when Uncle Steve came to pay his daily visit. One afternoon he came in with a fresh budget of letters. "Letters!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Goody! I haven't had any letters for two days. Please give them to me, Uncle, and please give me a paper-cutter." "Midge," said Uncle Steve, "if you think these are letters, you're very much mistaken. They're not." "What are they, then?" asked Marjorie, greatly mystified, for they certainly looked like letters, and were sealed and stamped. "As I've often told you, it's a good plan to open them and see." Laughing in anticipation at what she knew must be some new joke of Uncle Steve's, Marjorie cut the envelopes open. The first contained, instead of a sheet of paper, a small slip, on which was written: "If you think this a letter, you're much mistook; It's only a promise of a New Book!" "Well," said Marjorie, "that's just as good as a letter, for if you promise me a book, I know I'll get it. Oh, Uncle, you are such a duck! Now I'll read the next one." The next one was a similar slip, and said: "This isn't a letter, though like one it seems; It's only a promise of Chocolate Creams!" "Oh!" cried Marjorie, ecstatically, "this is just too much fun for anything! Do you mean real chocolate creams, Uncle?" "Oh, these are only promises. Very likely they don't mean anything." "YOUR promises do; you've never broken one yet. Now I'll read another: "This isn't a letter, dear Marjorie Mops, It's only a promise of Peppermint Drops!" "Every one is nicer than the last! And now for the very last one of all!" Marjorie cut open the fourth envelope, and read: "Dear Mopsy Midget, this isn't a letter; It's only a promise of something much better!" "Why, it doesn't say what!" exclaimed Midge, but even as she spoke, Jane came into the room bringing a tray. She set it on the table at Marjorie's bedside, and Marjorie gave a scream of delight when she saw a cut-glass bowl heaped high with pink ice cream. "Oh, Uncle Steve!" she cried, "the ice cream is the 'something better,' I know it is, and those other parcels are the other three promises! Can I open them now?" Almost without waiting for her question to be answered, Marjorie tore off papers and strings, and found, as she fully expected, a box of chocolate creams, a box of peppermint drops, and a lovely new story book. Then Grandma came in to their tea party and they all ate the ice cream, and Marjorie declared it was the loveliest afternoon tea she had ever attended. Even Puff was allowed to have a small saucer of the ice cream, for she was a very dainty kitten, and her table manners were quite those of polite society. But the next afternoon Uncle Steve was obliged to go to town, and Marjorie felt quite disconsolate at the loss of the jolly afternoon hour. But kind-hearted Grandma planned a pleasure for her, and told her she would invite both Stella Martin and Molly to come to tea with Marjorie from four till five. Marjorie had not seen Stella since the day they came up together on the train, and the little girls were glad to meet again. Stella and Molly were about as different as two children could be, for while Molly was headstrong, energetic, and mischievous, Stella was timid, quiet, and demure. Both Marjorie and Molly were very quick in their actions, but Stella was naturally slow and deliberate. When they played games, Stella took as long to make her move as Molly and Midge together. This made them a little impatient, but Stella only opened her big blue eyes in wonder and said, "I can't do things any faster." So they soon tired of playing games, and showed Stella their paper-dolls' houses. Here they were the surprised ones, for Stella was an adept at paper dolls and knew how to draw and cut out lovely dolls, and told Marjorie that if she had a paintbox she could paint them. "I wish you would come over some other day, Stella, and do it," said Midge; "for I know Uncle Steve will get me a paint-box if I ask him to, and a lot of brushes, and then we can all paint. Oh, we'll have lots of fun, won't we?" "Yes, thank you," said Stella, sedately. Marjorie giggled outright. "It seems so funny," she said, by way of explanation, "to have you say 'yes, thank you' to us children; I only say it to grown people; don't you, Molly?" "I don't say it at all," confessed Molly; "I mean to, but I 'most always forget. It's awful hard for me to remember manners. But it seems to come natural to Stella." Stella looked at her, but said nothing. She was a very quiet child, and somehow she exasperated Marjorie. Perhaps she would not have done so had they all been out of doors, playing together, but she sat on a chair by Marjorie's bedside with her hands folded in her lap, and her whole attitude so prim that Marjorie couldn't help thinking to herself that she'd like to stick a pin in her. Of course she wouldn't have done it, really, but Marjorie had a riotous vein of mischief in her, and had little use for excessive quietness of demeanor, except when the company of grown-ups demanded it. But Stella seemed not at all conscious that her conduct was different from the others, and she smiled mildly at their rollicking fun, and agreed quietly to their eager enthusiasms. At last Jane came in with the tea-tray, and the sight of the crackers and milk, the strawberries and little cakes, created a pleasant diversion. Stella sat still in her chair, while Marjorie braced herself up on her pillows, and Molly, who was sitting on the bed, bounced up and down with glee. Marjorie was getting much better now, so that she could sit upright and preside over the feast. She served the strawberries for her guests, and poured milk for them from the glass pitcher. Molly and Marjorie enjoyed the good things, as they always enjoyed everything, but Stella seemed indifferent even to the delights of strawberries and cream. She sat holding a plate in one hand, and a glass of milk in the other, and showed about as much animation as a marble statue. Even her glance was roving out of the window, and somehow the whole effect of the child was too much for Marjorie's spirit of mischief. Suddenly, and in a loud voice, she said to Stella, "BOO!" This, in itself, was not frightful, but coming so unexpectedly it startled Stella, and she involuntarily jumped, and her glass and plate fell to the floor with a crash; and strawberries, cakes, and milk fell in a scattered and somewhat unpleasant disarray. Marjorie was horrified at what she had done, but Stella's face, as she viewed the catastrophe, was so comical that Marjorie went off into peals of laughter. Molly joined in this, and the two girls laughed until the bed shook. Frightened and nervous at the whole affair, Stella began to cry. And curiously enough, Stella's method of weeping was as noisy as her usual manner was quiet. She cried with such loud, heart-rending sobs that the other girls were frightened into quietness again, until they caught sight of Stella's open mouth and tightly-closed but streaming eyes, when hilarity overtook them again. Into this distracting scene, came Grandma. She stood looking in amazement at the three children and the debris on the floor. At first Mrs. Sherwood naturally thought it an accident due to Stella's carelessness, but Marjorie instantly confessed. "It's my fault, Grandma," she said; "I scared Stella, and she couldn't help dropping her things." "You are a naughty girl, Mischief," said Grandma, as she tried to comfort the weeping Stella. "I thought you would at least be polite to your little guests, or I shouldn't have given you this tea party." "I'm awfully sorry," said Marjorie, contritely; "please forgive me, Stella, but honestly I didn't think it would scare you so. What would YOU do, Molly, if I said 'boo' to you?" "I'd say 'boo yourself'!" returned Molly, promptly. "I know you would," said Marjorie, "but you see Stella's different, and I ought to have remembered the difference. Don't cry, Stella; truly I'm sorry! Don't cry, and I'll give you my--my paper-doll's house." This was generous on Marjorie's part, for just then her paper-doll's house was her dearest treasure. But Stella rose to the occasion. "I w-wont t-take it," she said, still sobbing, though trying hard to control herself; "it wasn't your fault, Marjorie; I oughtn't to have been so silly as to be scared b-because you said b-boo!" By this time Jane had removed all evidences of the accident, and except for a few stains on Stella's frock, everything was in order. But Stella, though she had quite forgiven Marjorie, was upset by the whole affair, and wanted to go home. So Grandma declared she would take the child home herself and apologize to Mrs. Martin for Marjorie's rudeness. "It was rude, Marjorie," she said, as she went away; "and I think Molly must go home now, and leave you to do a little thinking about your conduct to your other guest." So Marjorie was left alone to think, and half an hour later Grandma returned. "That was a naughty trick, Marjorie, and I think you ought to be punished for it." "But, Grandma," argued Miss Mischief, "I wasn't disobedient; you never told me not to say boo to anybody." "But I told you, dear, that you must use your common-sense; and you must have known that to startle Stella by a sudden scream at her was enough to make her drop whatever she was holding." "Grandma, I 'spect I was mischievous; but truly, she did look so stiff and pudgy, I just HAD to make her jump." "I know what you mean, Midge; and you have a natural love of mischief, but you must try to overcome it. I want you to grow up polite and kind, and remember those two words mean almost exactly the same thing. You knew it wasn't kind to make Stella jump, even if it hadn't caused her to upset things." "No, I know it wasn't, Grandma, and I'm sorry now. But I'll tell you what: whenever Stella comes over here again, I'll try to be SPECIALLY kind to her, to make up for saying boo!" CHAPTER VII A BOAT-RIDE Great was the rejoicing of the whole household when at last Marjorie was able to come downstairs once more. Uncle Steve assisted her down. He didn't carry her, for he said she was far too much of a heavyweight for any such performance as that, but he supported her on one side, and with a banister rail on the other she managed beautifully. And, anyway, her ankle was just about as well as ever. The doctor had not allowed the active child to come downstairs until there was little if any danger that an imprudence on her part might injure her again. It was Saturday afternoon, and though she could not be allowed to walk about the place until the following week, yet Uncle Steve took her for a long, lovely drive behind Ned and Dick, and then brought her back to another jolly little surprise. This was found in a certain sheltered corner of one of the long verandas. It was so built that it was almost like a cosy, little square room; and climbing vines formed a pleasant screen from the bright sunlight. To it Uncle Steve had brought a set of wicker furniture: dear little chairs and a table and a settee, all painted green. Then there was a green-and-white hammock swung at just the right height, and containing two or three fat, jolly-looking, green pillows, in the midst of which Puff had chosen to curl herself up for a nap. There was a little bamboo bookcase, with a few books and papers, and a large box covered with Japanese matting, which had a hinged lid, and was lovely to keep things in. There was a rug on the floor, and Japanese lanterns hung from the ceiling, all in tones of green and white and silver. Marjorie unceremoniously dislodged Puff from her comfortable position, and flung herself into the hammock instead. "Uncle Steve!" she exclaimed, grabbing that gentleman tightly round the neck as he leaned over her to adjust her pillows, "you are the best man in the whole world, and I think you ought to be President! If you do any more of these lovely things for me I shall just--just SUFFOCATE with joy. What makes you so good to me, anyhow?" "Oh, because you're such a little saint, and never do anything naughty or mischievous!" "That's a splendid reason," cried Marjorie, quite appreciating the joke, "and, truly, Uncle Steve,--don't you tell,--it's a great secret: but I AM going to try to be more dignified and solemn." This seemed to strike Uncle Steve as being very funny, for he sat down on the little wicker settee and laughed heartily. "Well, you may as well begin now, then; and put on your most dignified and pompous manner, as you lie there in that hammock, for I'm going to read to you until tea-time." "Goody, goody!" cried Marjorie, bobbing up her curly head, and moving about excitedly. "Please, Uncle, read from that new book you brought me last night. I'll get it!" "That's a nice, dignified manner, that is! Your Serene Highness will please calm yourself, and stay just where you are. _I_ shall select the book to read from, and _I_ shall do the reading. All you have to do is to lie still and listen." So Marjorie obeyed, and, of course, Uncle Steve picked out the very book she wanted, and read to her delightfully for an hour or more. Marjorie's porch, as it came to be called, proved to be a favorite resort all summer long for the family and for any guests who came to the house. Marjorie herself almost lived in it for the first few days after she came downstairs, but at last the doctor pronounced her ankle entirely well, and said she might "start out to find some fresh mischief." So the next morning, directly after breakfast, she announced her intention of going down to see the boathouse. "Just think," she exclaimed, "I have never seen it yet, and King told me to go down there the very first thing." "I suppose you'll come back half-drowned," said Grandma, "but as you seem unable to learn anything, except by mistakes, go ahead. But, Marjorie, do try not to do some absurd thing, and then say that I haven't forbidden it! I don't forbid you to go in the boat, if Carter goes with you, but I do forbid you to go alone. Will you remember that?" "Yes, Grandma, truly I will," said Marjorie, with such a seraphic smile that her grandmother kissed her at once. "Then run along and have a good time; and don't jump off the dock or anything foolish." "I won't," cried Marjorie, gayly; and then she went dancing down the path to the garden. Carter was in the greenhouse potting some plants. "Carter," said Marjorie, putting her head in at the door, "are you very busy?" "Busy, indeed! I have enough work here with these pesky plants to keep me steady at it till summer after next. Busy, is it? I'm so busy that the bees and the ants is idle beside me. Busy? Well, I AM busy!" But as the good-natured old man watched Marjorie's face, and saw the look of disappointment settling upon it, he said: "But what matters that? If so be, Miss Midget, I can do anything for you, you've only to command." "Well, Carter, I thought this morning I'd like to go down to see the boathouse; and I thought, perhaps,--maybe, if you weren't busy, you might take me for a little row in the boat. Just a little row, you know--not very far." It would have taken a harder heart than Carter's to withstand the pleading tones and the expectant little face; and the gardener set down his flower-pots, and laid down his trowel at once. "Did your grandmother say you could go, Miss Midget?" "She said I could go if you went with me." "Then it's with ye I go, and we'll start at once." Marjorie danced along by the side of the old man as he walked more slowly down the garden path, when suddenly a new idea came into her head. "Oh, Carter," she cried, "have my seeds come up yet? And what are the flowers? Let's go and look at them." "Come up yet, is it? No, indeed, they've scarcely settled themselves down in the earth yet." "I wish they would come up, I want to see what they'll be. Let's go and look at the place where we planted them, Carter." So they turned aside to the flowerbed where the precious seeds had been planted, but not even Marjorie's sharp eyes could detect the tiniest green sprout. With an impatient little sigh she turned away, and as they continued down toward the boathouse, Marjorie heard somebody calling, and Molly Moss came flying up to her, all out of breath. "We were so afraid we wouldn't catch you," she exclaimed, "for your Grandma said you had gone out in the boat." "We haven't yet," answered Marjorie, "but we're just going. Oh, Carter, can we take Molly, too?" "And Stella," added Molly. "She's coming along behind." Sure enough, Stella was just appearing round the corner of the house, and walking as sedately as if on her way to church. "Hurry up, Stella," called Marjorie. "Can we all go, Carter?" "Yes, if yees'll set still in the boat and if the other little lady gets here before afternoon. She's the nice, quiet child, but you two are a pair of rascally babies, and I don't know whether it's safe to go on the water with ye. I'm thinkin' I'll take little Miss Stella, and leave ye two behind." "_I_ don't think you will, Carter," said Marjorie, not at all alarmed by the old man's threat. "_I_ think you'll take all three of us, and we'll sit as still as mice, won't we, Molly?" "Yes," said Molly; "can we take off our shoes and stockings and hang our feet over the sides of the boat?" "Oh, yes," cried Marjorie, "that will be lots of fun!" "Indeed you'll do nothing of the sort," and Carter's honest old face showed that he felt great anxiety concerning his madcap charges. "Ye must promise to sit still, and not move hand or foot, or I'll go back to my work and leave yees on shore." This awful suggestion brought about promises of strictly good behavior, and as Stella had arrived, the party proceeded to the boathouse. Stella was mildly pleased at the prospect of a row, and walked demurely by Carter's side, while the other two ran on ahead and reached the boathouse first. As the door was locked, and they could not open it, Marjorie, who was all impatience to see the boat, proposed that they climb in the window. Molly needed no second invitation, and easily slipped through the little square window, and Marjorie, with a trifle more difficulty, wriggled her own plump little body through after. As the window was not on the side of the boathouse toward which Carter was approaching, he did not see the performance, and so when he and Stella reach the boathouse a few moments later, they could see nothing at all of the other two girls. "Merciful powers!" he exclaimed. "Whatever has become of them two witches?" "Where can they be?" cried Stella, clasping her hands, and opening her eyes wide in alarm. Old Carter was genuinely frightened. "Miss Marjorie!" he called, loudly. "Miss Molly! Where be ye?" Meanwhile, the two girls inside the boathouse had carefully scrambled down into the boat and sat quietly on the stern seat. There was a strong breeze blowing, and as the boat swayed up and down on the rippling water, its keel grating against the post to which it was tied, and the doors and windows being tightly shut, they did not hear Carter's voice. They really had no intention of frightening the old man, and supposed he would open the door in a moment. But Carter's mind was so filled with the thought that the children had fallen into the water that it didn't occur to him to open the boathouse. He went to the edge of the pier, which was a narrow affair, consisting only of two wooden planks and a single hand rail, and gazed anxiously down into the water. This gave Stella a firm conviction that the girls were drowned, and without another word she began to cry in her own noisy and tumultuous fashion. Poor Carter, already at his wits' end, had small patience with any additional worry. "Keep still, Miss Stella," he commanded; "it's enough to have two children on me hands drowned without another one raising a hullabaloo. And it's a queer thing, too, if them wicked little rats is drownded, why they don't come up to the surface! My stars! Whatever will the Missus say? But, havin' disappeared so mortal quick, there's no place they can be but under the water. I'll get a boat-hook, and perhaps I can save 'em yet." Trembling with excitement and bewildered with anxiety, so that he scarcely knew what he did, the old man fitted the key in the lock. He flung open the boathouse door and faced the two children, who sat quietly and with smiling faces in the boat. "Well, if ye don't beat all! Good land, Miss Marjorie, whatever did ye give me such a scare for? Sure I thought ye was drownded, and I was jest goin' to fish ye up with a boat-hook! My, but you two are terrors! And how did ye get in now? Through the keyhole, I suppose." "Why, no, Carter," exclaimed Marjorie, who was really surprised at the old man's evident excitement; "we were in a hurry, and the door was locked, so we just stepped in through the window." "Stepped in through the window, is it? And if the window had been locked ye'd have jest stepped in through the chimley! And if the chimley had been locked, ye'd have stepped into the water, and ducked under, and come up through the floor! When ye're in a hurry, ye stop for nothin', Miss Midget." The old man's relief at finding the children safe was so great that he was really talking a string of nonsense to hide his feelings. But Stella, though she realized the girls were all right, could not control her own emotions so easily, and was still crying vociferously. "For goodness' sake!" exclaimed Molly, "what IS the matter with Stella? Doesn't she want to go boating?" "Why--yes," sobbed Stella, "b-but I thought you two were drowned." "Well, we're not!" cried Marjorie, gayly. "So cheer up, Stella, and come along." Leaving the two girls, as they were already seated, in the stern of the boat, Carter carefully tucked Stella into the bow seat, and then took his own place on the middle thwart. This arrangement enabled him to keep his eye on the two mischievous madcaps, and he had no fear that Stella would cut up any tricks behind his back. He could not reprove the mischief-makers, for they had done nothing really wrong, but he looked at them grimly as he rowed out into the stream. "Oh," exclaimed Marjorie, "isn't this just too lovely for anything! Please, Carter, mayn't we just put our hands in the water if we keep our feet in the boat?" "No," growled Carter; "you'll be wantin' to put your heads in next. Now do set still, like the nice young lady behind me." Anxious to be good, Marjorie gave a little sigh and folded her hands in her lap, while Molly did likewise. Carter's eyes twinkled as he looked at the two little martyrs, and his heart relented. "Ye may just dangle your fingers in the water, if ye want to," he said, "but ye must be careful not to wobble the boat." The children promised, and then gave themselves up to the delight of holding their hands in the water and feeling the soft ripples run through their fingers. The row down the river was perfect. The balmy June day, with its clear air and blue sky, the swift, steady motion of the boat impelled by Carter's long, strong strokes, and the soothing sensation of the rushing water subdued even the high spirits of Midge and Molly into a sort of gentle, tranquil happiness. CHAPTER VIII A MEMORY BOOK With a few deft strokes Carter brought the boat to land on a long, smooth, shelving beach. A crunch of the keel on the pebbles, and then the boat was half its length on shore. Stella, in the bow, grasped the sides of the boat tightly with both hands, as if the shore were more dangerous than the water. Carter stepped out, and drew the boat well up on land, and assisted the girls out. Stella stepped out gingerly, as if afraid of soiling her dainty boots; but Midge and Molly, with a hop, skip, and jump, bounded out on the beach and danced round in glee. "I do believe," cried Marjorie, "that this is Blossom Banks! For there are three banks, one after another, just covered with wild flowers. And as true as I live there's a scarlet tanager on that bush! Don't startle him, Stella." Molly laughed at the idea of Stella startling anything, and softly the girls crept nearer to the beautiful red bird, but in a moment he spread his black-tipped wings and flew away. "It is Blossom Banks, Miss Midge," said Carter, who now came up to the girls, and who was carrying a mysterious-looking basket. He had secured the boat, and seemed about to climb the banks. "What's in the basket, Carter?" cried Midge. "Is it a picnic? Is it a truly picnic?" "Well, just a wee bit of a picnic, Miss Midget. Your Grandma said that maybe some cookies and apples wouldn't go begging among yees. But ye must climb the banks first, so up ye go!" Gayly the girls scrambled up the bank, and though Stella was not as impetuous as the others, she was not far behind. At every step new beauties dawned, and Marjorie, who was a nature-lover, drew a long breath of delight as she reached the top of the Blossom Banks. They trotted on, sometimes following Carter's long strides and sometimes dancing ahead; now falling back to chatter with Stella and now racing each other to the next hillock. At last they reached the dearest little picnic place, with soft green grass for a carpet, and gnarled roots of great trees for rustic seats. "For a little picnic," said Midge, as she sat with an apple in one hand and a cookie in the other, contentedly munching them both alternately, "this is the bestest ever. And isn't this a splendiferous place for a big picnic!" "Perhaps your grandma will let you have one this summer," said Stella. "She had one for Kingdon last year and we all came to it. It was lovely fun." "Indeed it was," cried Molly; "there were swings on the trees, and we played tag, and we had bushels of sandwiches." "I'm going to ask Grandma as soon as ever I get home," declared Midge, "and I 'most know she'll let me have one. But I don't know many children around here to ask." "I'll make up a list for you," volunteered Molly. "Come on, girls, let's play tag." The cookies and apples being all gone and Carter having consented in response to their coaxing to stay half an hour longer, they had a glorious game of tag. Stella, though so sedate when walking, could run like a deer, and easily caught the others; for Marjorie was too plump to run fast, and Molly, though light on her feet, was forever tumbling down. At last, tired and warm from their racing, they sat down again in the little mossy dell and played jackstones until Carter declared they must go home. "All right," said Midge; "but, Carter, row us a little farther down stream, won't you, before you turn around?" "I will, Miss Midge, if ye'll sit still and not be everlastin' makin' me heart jump into me throat thinkin' ye'll turn the boat upside down." "All right," cried Midge, and she jumped into the boat with a spring and a bounce that made the other end tip up and splash the water all over her. "There ye go now," grumbled Carter; "my, but it's the rambunctious little piece ye are! Now, Miss Molly, for the land's sake, do step in with your feet and not with your head! You two'll be the death of me yet!" Carter's bark was worse than his bite, for, although he scolded, he helped the children in carefully and gently seated Stella in her place. Then he stepped in, and with a mighty shove of the oar pushed the boat off the beach, and they were afloat again. The exhilaration of the occasion had roused Midge and Molly to a high state of frolicsomeness, and it did seem impossible for them to keep still. They dabbled their hands in the water and surreptitiously splashed each other, causing much and tumultuous giggling. This was innocent fun in itself, but Carter well knew that a sudden unintentional bounce on the part of either might send the other one into the water. Regardless of their entreaties he turned around and headed the boat for home. "Ye're too many for me, Miss Midge," he exclaimed; "if I land you safe this trip ye can get somebody else to row ye the next time. I'm having nervous prostration with your tricks and your didoes. NOW, will ye be good?" This last exasperated question was caused by the fact that a sudden bounce of Molly's caused the boat to lurch and Carter's swift-moving oar sent a drenching wave all over Midge. "Pooh, water doesn't hurt!" cried the victim. "I like it. Do it again, Molly!" "Don't you do it, Miss Molly!" roared Carter, bending to his oars and pulling fast in an effort to get home before these unmanageable children had passed all bounds. "Girls," piped Stella, plaintively from her end of the boat, "if you don't stop carrying on, I shall cry." This threat had more effect than Carter's reprimands, and, though the two madcaps giggled softly, they did sit pretty still for the remainder of the trip. Once more on the dock, Marjorie shook herself like a big dog, and declared she wasn't very wet, after all. "And I'm very much obliged to you, Carter," she said, smiling at the old man; "you were awful good to take us for such a lovely boat-ride, and I'm sorry we carried on so, but truly, Carter, it was such a lovely boat that I just couldn't help it! And you do row splendid!" The compliment was sincere, and by no means made with the intention of softening Carter's heart, but it had that effect, and he beamed on Midget as he replied: "Ah, that's all right, me little lady. Ye just naturally can't help bouncin' about like a rubber ball. Ye have to work off yer animal spirits somehow, I s'pose. But if so be that ye could sit a bit quieter, I might be injuced to take ye agin some other day. But I'd rather yer grandma'd be along." "Oho!" laughed Marjorie. "It would be funny to have Grandma in a boat! She'd sit stiller than Stella, and I don't believe she'd like it, either." With Stella in the middle, the three girls intertwined their arms and skipped back to the house. Marjorie and Molly had found that the only way to make Stella keep up with them was to urge her along in that fashion. "Good-by," said Marjorie, as the three parted at the gate; "be sure to come over to-morrow morning; and, Stella, if you'll bring your paintbox, it will be lovely for you to paint those paper dolls." The three girls had become almost inseparable companions, and though Midge and Molly were more congenial spirits, Stella acted as a balance wheel to keep them from going too far. She really had a good influence over them, though exerted quite unconsciously; and Midge and Molly inspired Stella with a little more self-confidence and helped her to conquer her timidity. "Good-by," returned Stella, "and be sure to have a letter in the post office by four o'clock, when James goes for the milk." The post office in the old maple tree had become quite an institution, and the girls put letters there for each other nearly every day, and sent for them by any one who might happen to be going that way. Quiet little Stella was especially fond of getting letters and would have liked to receive them three times a day. The elder members of the three families often sent letters or gifts to the children, and it was not at all unusual to find picture postcards or little boxes of candy, which unmistakably came from the generous hand of Uncle Steve. One delightful afternoon Marjorie sat in her cosy little porch with a table full of delightful paraphernalia and a heart full of expectation. She was waiting for Uncle Steve, who was going to devote that afternoon to helping her arrange her Memory Book. Marjorie had collected a quantity of souvenirs for the purpose, and Uncle Steve had bought for her an enormous scrapbook. When she had exclaimed at its great size, he had advised her to wait until it had begun to fill up before she criticised it; and when she looked at her pile of treasures already accumulated, she wondered herself how they would all get in the book. At last Uncle Steve came, and sitting down opposite Marjorie at her little table, announced himself as ready to begin operations. "We'll plan it out a little first, Mopsy, and then fasten the things in afterward." Marjorie was quite content to sit and look on, at least until she found out how such things were done. "You see," said her uncle, "we'll take a page for each occasion--more or less. For instance, as this book is to represent just this summer it ought to begin with your trip up here. Have you anything that reminds you of that day?" "Yes," said Marjorie, looking over her heap of treasures, "here's a little kind of a badge that father bought for me at the station as we were going to the train." "Just the thing; now, you see, as this is on a pin itself we'll just stick it in this first page. Anything else?" "Well, here's a pretty picture I cut out of a magazine on the train coming up; oh, and here are two postcards that I bought of a boy who brought them through the train." "Fine! Now, you see, we'll paste all these on this page and anything more if you have it, and then every time you look at this page you can just seem to see that whole trip, can't you?" "Yes," said Marjorie, who was becoming absorbedly interested in this new game; "and here's the time-table, Uncle: but that isn't very pretty and it's so big. Oh, and here's the card, the bill of fare, you know, that we had in the dining-car. See, it has a picture on it." "Why, Midget, it isn't considered exactly good form to carry the MENU away with you; but it's really no crime, and since you have it, we'll put it in. As to the time-table, we'll just cut out this part that includes the stations at the beginning and end of your trip. See?" "Oh, yes, indeed I do! And what a beautiful page!" Marjorie breathlessly watched as Uncle Steve arranged the souvenirs harmoniously on the big page and pasted them neatly in their places. Then, taking from his pocket a box of colored pencils, he printed at the top of the page, in ornate letters, the date and the occasion. Uncle Steve was an adept at lettering, and the caption was an additional ornament to the already attractive page. Thus they went on through the book. Sometimes a page was devoted to a special occasion, and again many scattered mementoes were grouped together. It seemed as if every pleasure Marjorie had had since she came, had produced something attractive for her book. A fancy lace paper represented the big box of bonbons that her father had sent her when she had her sprained ankle. Many photographs there were, for Marjorie had learned to use her camera pretty well, and Uncle Steve sometimes took snap-shots of the children with his own larger camera. There were several little pictures that Stella had painted for her, an old tintype that Grandma had given her, a feather from the tail of Marjorie's pet rooster, and many such trifles, each of which brought up a host of memories of pleasant or comical situations. The sprained-ankle episode filled up several pages. For there were the letters that Marjorie had received from the animals, and other notes and pictures that had been sent to her, and many mementoes of those long days she had spent in bed. The beautiful book Uncle Steve had brought her at that time was suggested by its title, cut from the paper wrapper which had been on the book when it came. Indeed, it seemed that there was no end to the ingenious ways of remembering things that Marjorie wanted to remember. A tiny, bright bird feather would recall the walk she took with Grandma one afternoon; a pressed wild flower was an eloquent reminder of Blossom Banks; and a large strawberry hull, neatly pasted into place, Marjorie insisted upon to remind her of the day when she said "Boo" to Stella. Several pages were devoted to souvenirs from home, and Rosy Posy's illegible scrawls were side by side with neatly-written postcards from her parents. All of these things Uncle Steve arranged with the utmost care and taste, and Marjorie soon learned how to do it for herself. Some things, such as letters or thin cards, must be pasted in; heavier cards or postcards were best arranged by cutting slits for the corners and tucking them in; while more bulky objects, such as pebbles, a tiny china doll or a wee little Teddy Bear, must be very carefully tied to the page by narrow ribbons put through slits from the back. Marjorie was so impetuous and hasty in her work that it was difficult for her to learn to do it patiently and carefully. Her first efforts tore the pages and were far from being well done. But, as she saw the contrast between her own untidy work and Uncle Steve's neat and careful effects, she tried very hard to improve, and as the book went on her pages grew every day better and more careful. At the top of each page Uncle Steve would write the date or the place in dainty, graceful letters; and often he would write a name or a little joke under the separate souvenirs, until, as time went on, the book became one of Marjorie's most valued and valuable possessions. CHAPTER IX THE FRONT STAIRS Marjorie had been at Grandma Sherwood's about weeks, and as a general thing she had been a pretty good little girl. She had tried to obey her mother's orders, and though it was not easy to keep her troublesome curls always just as they ought to be and her ribbon always in place, yet she had accomplished this fairly well, and Grandma said that she really deserved credit for it. But to obey Grandma implicitly was harder still. Not that Marjorie ever meant to disobey or ever did it wilfully, but she was very apt to forget and, too, it seemed to be natural for her to get into mischief. And as it was always some new sort of mischief, which no one could have thought of forbidding, and as she was always so sorry for it afterward, there was more or less repentance and forgiveness going on all the time. But, on the whole, she was improving, and Uncle Steve sometimes said that he believed she would live to grow up without tumbling off of something and breaking her neck, after all. Grandma Sherwood found it far easier to forgive Marjorie's unintentional mischief than her forgetting of explicit commands. One command in particular had caused trouble all summer. There were two front doors to Grandma's house and two halls. One of these halls opened into the great drawing-room on one side and a smaller reception room on the other, where callers were received. The stairs in this hall were of polished wood and were kept in a state of immaculate, mirror-like shininess by Jane, who took great pride in this especial piece of work. The other front door opened into a hall less pretentious. This hall was between the drawingroom and the family library, and the stairs here were covered with thick, soft carpet. It was Grandma's wish that the members of the family should usually use the carpeted stairs, for she too took great pride in the glossy, shining surface of the others. Uncle Steve preferred the carpeted stairs, anyway, as they led to the upper hall which opened into his own room, and Grandma invariably used them. As a means of distinction, the wooden stairs were habitually called the Front Stairs; and, though they were equally front, the carpeted flight was always spoken of as the Other Stairs. From the first, Marjorie had been explicitly forbidden to go up and down the Front Stairs; and from the first Marjorie had found this rule most difficult to remember. Rushing from her play into the house, often with muddy or dusty shoes, she would fly into the hall, clatter up the Front Stairs, and, perhaps, down again and out, without a thought of her wrongdoing. This would leave footprints, and often scratches and heel-marks on the beautiful steps, which meant extra work for Jane; and even then the scratches were not always effaceable. Many a serious talk had Grandma and Marjorie had on the subject; many times had Marjorie faithfully promised to obey this particular command; and, alas! many times had the child thoughtlessly broken her promise. At last, Grandma said: "I know, my dear, you do not MEAN to forget, but you DO forget. Now this forgetting must stop. If you run up those Front Stairs again, Marjorie, I'm going to punish you." "Do, Grandma," said Marjorie, cheerfully; "perhaps that will make me stop it. For honest and true I just resolve I won't do it, and then before I know it I'm just like Jack and the Beanstalk, 'a-hitchet, a-hatchet, a-up I go!' and, though I don't mean to, there I am!" Grandma felt like smiling at Marjorie's naive confession, but she said very seriously: "That's the trouble, dearie, you DO forget and you must be made to remember. I hope it won't be necessary, but if it is, you'll have to be punished." "What will the punishment be, Grandma?" asked Marjorie, with great interest. She was hanging around Mrs. Sherwood's neck and patting her face as she talked. There was great affection between these two, and though Marjorie was surprised at the new firmness her grandmother was showing, she felt no resentment, but considerable curiosity. "Never mind; perhaps you'll never deserve punishment and then you will never know what it would have been. Indeed, I'm not sure myself, but if you don't keep off those Front Stairs we'll both of us find out in short order." Grandma was smiling, but Marjorie knew from her determined tone that she was very much in earnest. For several days after that Marjorie kept carefully away from the Front Stairs, except when she was wearing her dainty house slippers. It was an understood exception that, when dressed for dinner or on company occasions and her feet shod with light, thin-soled shoes, Marjorie might walk properly up or down the Front Stairs. The restriction only applied to her heavy-soled play shoes or muddied boots. So all went well, and the question of punishment being unnecessary, it was almost forgotten. One morning, Marjorie was getting ready to go rowing with Carter. Molly was to go too, and as the girls had learned to sit moderately still in the boat, the good-natured gardener frequently took them on short excursions. It was a perfect summer day, and Marjorie sang a gay little tune as she made herself ready for her outing. She tied up her dark curls with a pink ribbon, and as a hat was deemed unnecessary by her elders, she was glad not to be bothered with one. She wore a fresh, pink gingham dress and thick, heavy-soled shoes, lest the boat should be damp. She took with her a small trowel, for she was going to dig some ferns to bring home; and into her pocket she stuffed a little muslin bag, which she always carried, in case she found anything in the way of pebbles or shells to bring home for her Memory Book. She danced down the Other Stairs, kissed Grandma good-by, and picking up her basket for the ferns, ran merrily off. Molly was waiting for her, and together they trotted down the sandy path to the boathouse. It had rained the day before and the path was a bit muddy, but with heavy shoes the children did not need rubbers. "Isn't it warm?" said Molly. "I 'most wish I'd worn a hat, it's so sunny." "I hate a hat," said Marjorie, "but I'll tell you what, Molly, if we had my red parasol we could hold it over our heads." "Just the thing, Mopsy; do skip back and get it. I'll hold your basket, and Carter isn't here yet." Marjorie ran back as fast as she could, pattering along the muddy path and thinking only of the red parasol, bounded in at the front door and up the Front Stairs! Grandma was in the upper hall, and her heart sank as she saw the child, thoughtlessly unconscious of wrongdoing, clatter up the stairs, her heavy boots splashing mud and wet on every polished step. Her heart sank, not so much because of the mud on the steps as because of this new proof of Marjorie's thoughtlessness. "My dear little girl!" she said, as Marjorie reached the top step, and in a flash Marjorie realized what she had done. Crestfallen and horrified, she threw herself into her grandmother's arms. "I'm sorry, Midget dear, but I cannot break my word. You know what I told you." "Yes, Grandma, and _I_ am so sorry, but please, oh, Grandma dear,--can't you just postpone the punishment till to-morrow? 'Cause Molly and I are going to Blossom Banks to dig ferns, and it's such a BEAUTIFUL day for ferns." Grandma Sherwood hesitated. It almost broke her heart to deprive the child of her holiday, and yet it was for Marjorie's own good that an attempt must be made to cure her of her carelessness. "No, Marjorie; I cannot postpone the punishment until to-morrow. If you wanted to go rowing to-day, you should have waited to run up these stairs until to-morrow. You didn't postpone your naughtiness, so I cannot postpone its punishment." Marjorie looked dumfounded. She had not intended to be naughty, but also she had never supposed her gentle grandma could be so severe. She looked utterly disconsolate, and said in despairing tones: "But, Grandma, won't you let me go rowing this morning and give me the punishment this afternoon? I must go; Molly and Carter are down by the boathouse waiting for me! Please, Grandma!" So difficult was it for Mrs. Sherwood to resist the child's pleading tones that her own voice was more stern than she intended to make it, lest she reveal her true feeling. "No, Marjorie; you have been very naughty now, and so you must be punished now. Listen to me. I shall send Jane to tell Carter to go back to his work and to tell Molly to go home. I'm sorry to spoil your pleasure, but remember you have really spoiled it yourself." Marjorie did not cry, she was not that sort of a child. But she had a broken-down, wilted air, the very despondency of which almost made her grandmother relent. Had it been a more important occasion she might have done so, but the children could go on the river any day, and though it was a very real disappointment to Marjorie to stay at home, yet discipline required it. "Now, Marjorie," went on Mrs. Sherwood, after Jane had been despatched on her errand, "take off those muddy shoes and set them on the top step of the stairs." Rather wondering at this command, Marjorie sat down on the top step, unlaced her shoes, and did with them as she had been bidden. "Now, this is your punishment, my child; you came up these stairs when you had been told not to do so: now you may spend the rest of the day on the stairs. You are not to leave them until six o'clock to-night. With the muddy steps and your muddy shoes in front of your eyes all day long, you may, perhaps, learn to remember better in future." Marjorie could scarcely believe her ears. To stay on the stairs all day long seemed a funny punishment; and except for missing the row on the river, it did not seem a very hard one. "May I have a book, Grandma," she asked, still a little bewildered by the outlook. Grandma considered. "Yes," she said at last; "you may go to your room, put on your worsted bedroom slippers, and then you may bring back with you any books or toys you care for." "How many?" asked Marjorie, whose spirits were rising, for her punishment seemed to promise a novel experience. "As many as you can carry at once," replied Grandma, turning aside to hide a smile. In a few minutes Marjorie returned. She had turned up the short, full skirt of her pink gingham frock to form a sort of bag, and into it she had tumbled, helter-skelter, several books, some paper and pens, her paper-doll's house, her paintbox, her kitten, a few odd toys, her Memory Book, and her clock. Staggering under the bulging load, but in a more cheerful frame of mind, she reached the stairs again. "I brought my clock," she observed, "because I shall want to know as the hours so by; but I'll be careful not to scratch the stairs with it, Grandma." "Your carefulness comes too late, Marjorie. I shall have to send for a man from town to repolish the stairs, anyway, for the nails in the heels of your heavy boots have entirely ruined them." "Oh, Grandma, I am so sorry; and if you think a day won't be punishment enough, I'll stay for a week. Do I get anything to eat?" she added, as a sudden thought of their picnic luncheon occurred to her. "You might just send me the picnic basket." "Jane will bring you your dinner," said her grandmother, shortly, for she began to think the punishment she had devised was more like a new game. "Goody!" cried Marjorie. "I do love dinner on a tray. Send plenty of strawberries, please; and, Grandma, don't think that I'm not truly being punished, for I am. I shall think over my naughtiness a good deal, and when I look at those awful shoes, I don't see how I COULD have done such a wicked thing. But you know yourself, Grandma, that we ought to make the best of everything, and so I'll just get what fun I can out of my books and my strawberries." Mrs. Sherwood went away, uncertain whether she had succeeded in what she had intended to do or not. She knew Marjorie would not leave the stairs without permission, for the little girl was exceedingly conscientious. Left to herself, Marjorie began to take in the situation. She carefully unpacked her dressful of things, and arranged them on the steps. In this she became greatly interested. It was a novel way of living, to go always up and down and never sideways. She planned her home for the day with care and thought. She decided to reserve a narrow space next the banister to go up and down; and to arrange her belongings on the other side of the staircase. She put her clock on the top step that she might see it from any point of view; and on the other steps she laid neatly her books, her paint-box, her writing things, and her toys. She became absorbed in this occupation, and delightedly scrambled up and down, arranging and rearranging her shelved properties. "It's a good deal like my shelf in my own room," she thought, "except it's all in little pieces instead of straight ahead. But that doesn't really matter, and I'm not sure but I like it better this way. Now, I think I'll write a letter to Mother, first, and confess this awful thing I've done. I always feel better after I get my confessions off of my mind, and when Jane brings my dinner I expect she'll take it to be mailed." Marjorie scrambled up to a step near the top where her little writing tablet was. She arranged her paper and took up her pen, only to discover that in her haste she had forgotten to bring any ink. "But it doesn't matter," she thought, cheerfully, "for it would have upset in my dress probably, and, anyway, I can just as well use a pencil." But the pencil's point was broken, and, of course, it had not occurred to her to bring a knife. She had promised Grandma not to leave the stairs without permission, so there was nothing to do but to give up the idea of letter-writing, and occupy herself with something else. "And, anyway," she thought, "it must be nearly dinner time, for I've been here now for hours and hours." She glanced at the clock, and found to her amazement that it was just twenty minutes since her grandmother had left her alone. "The clock must have stopped!" she said, bending her ear to listen. But it hadn't, and Marjorie suddenly realized that a whole day, solitary and alone, is an interminable length of time. "Oh, dear," she sighed, putting her head down on her arms on the step above, "I do wish I had gone up the Other Stairs! This day is going to last forever! I just know it is! But if it ever DOES get over, I never want to see the Front Stairs again!" CHAPTER X A LONG DAY Marjorie had expected to derive much satisfaction, during her sojourn on the stairs, from playing with her kitten. But Puff ran away almost immediately, and no amount of calling or coaxing could bring her back. Sighing deeply, Marjorie tried to amuse herself reading the books she had brought. But the light was not very good on the stairs, and somehow, too, the books seemed to have lost their interest. Thinking over what she could do to make the time pass, she remembered her paint-box. She was fond of painting, and concluded she would try to paint a little sketch of the stairs to put in her Memory Book to represent this dreadful day. "Not that I need anything to make me remember it," she thought, "for I'm sure I can never, never, never forget it." But when she had her other materials all prepared she realized she had no glass of water, so, of course, her paints were useless. Even her paper-doll's house seemed to have lost its flavor. She had no new things to paste in, nor had she any paste. She began to learn what a lot of little things make up the comforts of life, and, utterly discouraged, she tried to think of something to while away the time. At last she concluded she would start at the top and go down, sitting on each step five minutes. "This," she calculated to herself, "will fill up a long time. There are seventeen steps, and seventeen times five is,--well, I don't know how much it is, exactly, but it must be several hours. Perhaps, when I get down to the bottom it will be afternoon!" With a reviving sense of interest in something, she sat on the top step and waited for five minutes to pass. Never had a period of time seemed so long. It was twice as long as a church service, and a dozen times as long as the ride in the cars when she came up to Grandma's. But at last the five minutes was up, and with a little jounce Marjorie slid down to the next step, and prepared to spend another five. This was longer yet, and at the third-step Marjorie gave up this plan, as being the most dreadful thing she had ever tried. She began to feel like crying, but was determined not to do anything so foolish. Slowly and wearily the morning dragged away, and at last, when Marjorie had begun to feel that lassitude which comes from utter weariness, Jane appeared with a tray of luncheon. Marjorie brightened up at once. "Oh, Jane," she cried, "I'm SO glad to see you! I AM so lonesome!" "Pore lamb!" said Jane, sympathetically; "I'm thinkin' ye're purty nigh dead, be now. But here's the foine lunch for ye. See, darlint, here's chicken and strawberries and jelly and all the things ye like best! Cheer up, now, and ate yer food." "Indeed, I will! Oh, Jane, what lovely things! Fresh little cakes, with pink icing; and gooseberry jam! But don't go away, Jane." "I must, Miss Midget. Yer grandma towld me not to shtay wid yez." "But I'm so lonesome," said Marjorie, who had just seemed to realize what the main trouble was. But Jane dared not disobey orders, and setting the tray on the stairs, she went away, with fond backward glances at the forlorn little figure sitting there. However, the lonesomest human heart is bound to cheer up a little under the influence of a specially fine feast, and as Marjorie ate her luncheon and drank a big glass of milk, the detested stairs began to assume a rather more attractive air. And so, when Jane came to take the tray away she found on it only empty dishes, while Marjorie, who was cuddled up in a corner, reading, looked at her with a smile. "The day is half gone!" she announced, triumphantly. "And, Jane, won't you ask Grandma if you may bring me a glass of water so I can paint. But tell her I don't want it unless she's perfectly willing." Grandma smiled a little at the stipulation, but sent Marjorie the glass of water, and the child filled up half an hour or more painting pictures. But the cramped position was very uncomfortable, and Marjorie grew restless and longed for exercise. Suddenly an inspiration seized her, and she concluded it would be great fun to slide down the banister. For a few times this was amusing, but it stung her hands, and finally she fell off and bumped her head rather soundly. "It's lucky I fell on the stair side," she said to herself, rubbing the lump on her forehead, "for I promised Grandma not to leave the stairs, and if I had fallen off on the other side I should have broken my promise!" The afternoon hours seemed to move rather more slowly than the morning. Occasionally, Marjorie's naturally cheerful disposition would assert itself and she would bravely endeavor to occupy herself pleasantly in some way. But there was so little light, and stairs are uncomfortable at best to sit on, and the silence and loneliness were so oppressive, that her efforts successively failed. And, though Marjorie did not realize it, her spirits were depressed because of the mere fact that she was undergoing punishment. Had she been there of her own free choice she could have played happily on the stairs all day long; or had the opportunity been bestowed upon her, as a great and special treat, the hours would have flown by. At last, exhausted, Nature conquered all else, and, seated on one step, Marjorie folded her arms on the step above, laid her head down upon them, and went to sleep. And it was thus that Uncle Steve found her when he came home at four o'clock. "Hello, Queen of Mischief!" he cried, gayly. "Wake up here and tell me all about it!" "Oh, Uncle Steve!" cried Marjorie, waking, flushed from her nap, and delighted at having some one to speak to; "do you know why I'm here? Did Grandma tell you?" "Yes, she told me; and she told me something else, too. She says that if you are properly sorry for what you did,--really, AWFULLY sorry, you know,--that you may be excused for the rest of the day and may go out driving with me." "Well, I just rather guess I AM sorry! I'm two sorries. One, because I disobeyed Grandma and tracked up her Front Stairs; and another, because I've had this terrible, dreadful punishment." Uncle Steve looked at his niece a little gravely. "Which are you more sorry for, Marjorie," he asked: "because you did wrong or because you were punished?" Marjorie considered. "About equal, I think. No, I'm more sorry I did wrong, because if I hadn't, I wouldn't have had the punishment; and, besides, it hurt Grandma's feelings." "Which did?" "Why, my running up the stairs! Of course, the punishment didn't hurt her," and Marjorie laughed merrily at the idea. "I think it hurt her more than it did you," said Uncle Steve, but Marjorie only stared, open-eyed, at this nonsense. "Well, anyway, it's all over now; so bundle your belongings back where they belong and get yourself ready for a drive." Marjorie flew to obey, but meeting Grandma in the hall, she dropped her dressful of books and toys, and flung herself into Mrs. Sherwood's waiting arms. "Oh, Grandma!" she cried. "I AM so sorry I slam-banged upstairs, and I'll never do it again, and I had a perfectly awful, DREADFUL time, but of course you had to punish me for your own good,--I mean for my own good,--but now it's all over, and you love me just the same, don't you?" The ardent embrace in progress left no doubt of the affection still existing between the pair, and if Marjorie's hugs were of the lovingly boisterous variety, Grandma Sherwood appeared quite willing to submit to them. "I don't know," she thought to herself, after Marjorie had gone for her drive, "whether that child is impervious to discipline or whether she is unusually capable of receiving and assimilating it." But at any rate, Marjorie never went up or down the front stairs again, except on the occasions when it was distinctly permissible. The drive with Uncle Steve was a succession of delights. This was partly because it was such a sudden and pleasant change from the abominable staircase and partly because Uncle Steve was such an amiable and entertaining companion. The two were alone in an old-fashioned, low basket-phaeton; and Uncle Steve was willing to stop whenever Marjorie wished, to note an especially beautiful bird on a neighboring branch or an extra-fine blossom of some wild flower. Also, Uncle Steve seemed to know the names of all the trees and flowers and birds they chanced to see. Greatly interested in these things, Marjorie learned much nature-lore, and the lessons were but play. Tying the horse to a fence, the two cronies wandered into the wood and found, after much careful search, some Indian Pipes of an exquisite perfection. These fragile, curious things were Marjorie's great delight, and she carried them carefully home for her Memory Book. "They won't be very satisfactory as mementoes," warned Uncle Steve, "for they will turn brown and lose their fair, white beauty." Marjorie looked regretful, but an inspiration came to her. "I'll tell you what, Uncle Steve, I'll get Stella to draw them in my book and paint them. She's so clever at copying flowers, and I'm sure she can do it." "Let her try it, then, and if she doesn't succeed I'll photograph them for you, so you'll have at least a hint of the lovely things." Hand in hand they walked through the wood, spying new beauties here and there. Sometimes they sat on a fallen log to rest a bit or to discuss some new marvel in Nature's kingdom. At last, as the sun was sinking low in the west, they left the wood, untied old Betsy, who was patiently waiting for them, and jogged along homeward. "Punishment is a strange thing," said Marjorie to Grandma, as they were having their little "twilight talk" that evening, before the child went to bed. "Why?" asked Grandma. "Because it makes you remember," said Marjorie, slowly; "I don't see why I couldn't remember to keep off the Front Stairs, just because you told me to, but somehow I couldn't. Now, after to-day, I'm sure I shall never forget again." "That's the difference, my child, between youth and age. You are young and careless of other people's wishes. I want you to learn to consider others before yourself, and to remember to do so without a dreadful punishment to fix it in your memory." "It's lucky, isn't it, that I don't get punished for all the naughty things I do? It would keep me busy being punished most of the time." "You ARE a mischievous child, Marjorie; but your mischief is always the result of carelessness or forgetfulness. I have never known you purposely to disobey me or deliberately to cut up some naughty trick." "No, I don't, Grandma; often I'm being just as good as an angel and as quiet as a mouse, when suddenly something pops into my head that would be fun to do; and I fly and do it, before I think, and just about every time it's something wrong!" "Then suppose you try to act more slowly. When you think of some piece of fun, pause a moment, to make sure that it isn't mischief. There's quite enough innocent fun in the world to keep you busy all day, and every day." "I 'spect there is; and truly, Grandma, after this, when I want to cut up jinks, I'll wait until I can think it out, whether they're good jinks or bad jinks! Will that do?" "That will do admirably," said Grandma, smiling as she kissed the little girl; "if you go through life on that principle and if you have judgment enough--and I think you have--to tell 'good jinks' from 'bad jinks,' you will probably have plenty of good times without any necessity for punishment." "Then that's all right," said Marjorie, and feeling that her life problems were all settled, she dropped off to sleep. CHAPTER XI THE DUNNS "Marjorie," said Mrs. Sherwood, one morning, "do you know where Mrs. Dunn lives?" "Yes, Grandma; down the river-road, toward the blacksmith's." "Yes, that's right; and I wish you would go down there for me and carry a small basket. There isn't any one else I can send this morning and I have just heard that she is quite ill." "They're awfully poor people, aren't they? Are you sending them something nice?" "Yes; some food. Mrs. Dunn scalded her hands severely last night, and I fear she will not be able to work for several days. So if you will carry them these things for their dinner, I will try to get down there myself this afternoon." "Of course I will, Grandma; I'm glad to help the poor people. May I ask Molly to go with me?" "Why, yes; I don't care. If there are two of you, you can carry more things. Run over after her, and I'll have the baskets ready by the time you get back." With a hop and a skip, Marjorie took the shortcut across the fields to Molly's house. It was a beautiful summer morning, and Marjorie didn't stop more than half a dozen times, to watch the crows or the bees or the clouds or a hop-toad. She captured Molly, and after waiting for that dishevelled young person to scramble into a clean frock, the two girls hopped and skipped back again. Marjorie was somewhat inexperienced in the practical matters of charity, and looked with surprise at the large quantity of substantial viands. "There is a large family of the Dunns," observed Grandma, "and they're all blessed with healthy appetites. These things won't go to waste." "Are there children?" asked Marjorie. "Yes, indeed, four of them. You must see how Mrs. Dunn is and find out if she's badly hurt. Ask her what she wants especially, and tell her I am coming this afternoon, and I'll carry it to her." The girls trotted away with the well-filled baskets, and Grandma Sherwood looked after them a little uncertainly, as she saw how preoccupied they were in their own conversation, and remembered how careless Marjorie was, and how prone to mischief. "Thim scalawags'll be afther havin' a picnic wid thim baskets," prophesied Eliza, as she too watched the children's departure. Grandma Sherwood laughed. "I hardly think they'll do that," she said; "but they're liable to set down the baskets, and go hunting for wild flowers or something, and never think of their errand again." But, on the contrary, the children were quite interested in their mission. "Your grandma is an awful good woman," observed Molly. "Yes, she is," agreed Marjorie; "it's lovely of her to send all these good things to poor people. It must be awful to be so poor that you don't have enough to eat!" "Yes, but it must be lovely when the baskets come in." "But they don't always come in," said Marjorie. "They must," declared Molly, with an air of conviction; "if they didn't, the poor people would have nothing to eat, and then they would die; and you know yourself, we never hear of anybody dying of starvation around here." "No; not around here, maybe. But in China they drop off by millions, just from starvation." "Well, they wouldn't if your grandmother was there. She'd send baskets to every one of them." "I believe she would," said Marjorie, laughing; "she'd manage it somehow." By this time they had reached the Dunns' domain. At least they had come to a broken-down gate in a tumble-down fence, which Marjorie knew was the portal of their destination. In their endeavors to open the rickety gate the girls pushed it over, and nearly fell over, themselves. But carefully holding their baskets they climbed over the pile of fallen pickets and followed the grass-grown path to the house. And a forlorn enough house it was. Everything about it betokened not only poverty but shiftlessness. Marjorie was not experienced enough to know how often the former is the result of the latter, and her heart was full of pity for people who must live in such comfortless surroundings. The little old cottage was unpainted, and the front porch was in such a dilapidated condition that one step was entirely missing and several floor-boards were gone. "It's like walking a tight-rope," said Marjorie, as she picked her way carefully along what she hoped was a sound plank. "But it's rather exciting. I wonder if we can get in." There was no bell, and she tapped loudly on the door. Almost instantly it was opened by a child whose appearance almost made Marjorie scream out with laughter. A little girl of about ten, dressed in a bright pink skirt and a bright blue waist, stood before them. This startling color combination was enhanced by a red sash, which, though faded in streaks, was wide and tied at the back in a voluminous bow. The girl's naturally straight hair had apparently been urged by artificial means to curl in ringlets, but only a part of it had succumbed to the hot iron. The rest fairly bristled in its stiff straightness, and the whole mop was tied up with a large bow of red ribbon. This rainbow-hued specimen of humanity opened the door with a flourish and bowed to the visitors with an air of extreme elegance. Marjorie looked at her in astonishment. The gorgeous trappings and the formal demeanor of the child made her think she must have mistaken the house. "Is this Mrs. Dunn's house?" she inquired, with some hesitation. "Yes; I'm Miss Dunn," said the child, with such a ridiculous air of affectation that Molly giggled outright. "Yes," Miss Dunn went on, "I am the eldest daughter. My name is Ella. They call me the Elegant Ella, but I don't mind." "I am Marjorie Maynard and Mrs. Sherwood is my grandmother. She heard your mother was ill and she sent her these baskets." "How kind of her!" exclaimed the Elegant Ella, clasping her hands and rolling up her eyes. "Won't you come in?" As Marjorie and Molly had been with difficulty balancing themselves on the broken boards of the porch, they were glad to accept the invitation. Their first glance at the interior of the cottage showed that the rest of the family and the ways of the house did not at all harmonize with the manner and appearance of the eldest daughter. Everything was of the poorest, and there was no attempt at order or thrift. Mrs. Dunn sat in a rockerless rocking-chair, her left hand wrapped in bandages and her right hand holding a book which she was reading. As the girls entered she threw the book on the floor and smiled at them pleasantly. "Walk right in," she said, "and take seats if you can find any. Hoopsy Topsy, get off that chair this minute and give it to the ladies! Dibbs, you lift Plumpy out of the other one, quick! There! Now you girls set down and rest yourselves! Did you bring them baskets for us? Lawsee! What a good woman Mis' Sherwood is, to be sure! Now ain't that just like her! She's so kind and gen'rous-hearted that she makes it a pleasure fer folks to get all scalted with hot water! Ella, you fly round and empty them baskets so's the young ladies can take them home again. But you set a while, girls, and visit." "Are you much hurt, Mrs. Dunn?" asked Marjorie. "And how did it happen?" "Hurt! Land sakes, I guess I am! Why, the hull kittle of boilin' water just doused itself on my hand and foot!" "That's why Ma didn't rise to greet you," explained the Elegant Ella, and again Molly had hard work to keep her face straight as she noted the girl's comical efforts at etiquette. "Aw, you keep still, Ella," said her mother; "you ain't got no call to talk to the young ladies." But although Mrs. Dunn apparently tried to subdue her elegant daughter, yet it was plain to be seen that she greatly admired the flower of the family, and spoke thus merely from a pretended modesty. "Ella's so fond of dress," said Mrs. Dunn, "that she jest don't hev time to bother with housekeepin'. So Hoopsy Topsy does it, and that's why we ain't so slick as we might be. But fer a child of eight, I must say Hoopsy Topsy does wonderful well." Mrs. Dunn's pride in her offspring was unmistakable, and Hoopsy Topsy, who quite understood she was being complimented, smiled and looked happily self-conscious. The novelty of the scene quite fascinated Marjorie. She had expected that abject poverty would leave its victims a despondent, down-hearted set of people; and instead of that she found them not only pleasant and amiable, but seemingly happy and care-free. "My grandmother said, Mrs. Dunn," said Marjorie, "that if you would tell me of anything you specially want she would come this afternoon and bring it to you." "My! ain't she good!" said Mrs. Dunn. "Well, if she don't mind, I'd like some old linen to wrap around the burns. You see, I am scalted pretty bad and it'll be a while 'fore I kin get to work again. But, of course, the children are right handy, an' ef we jest have a stove an' a bed we can scratch along somehow. Ella, she's more hifalutin. She'd like red plush sofys and lace curtings. But I say, 'Land, child! What's the use of worrying? If you can't have them things, you can't!' So, Ella, she makes the best of what she has, and I must say she doos have wonderful fine taste." Marjorie looked at the Elegant Ella, and, though she didn't agree with Mrs. Dunn as to Ella's taste, she felt sorry for the poor child, who wanted the refinements of life, yet was doomed to live without them. "It is of no consequence," said Ella, tossing her head; "we are very comfortable; and though I should like a piano, I am in no haste to procure one." "Lucky you ain't," observed her mother, "as I don't see none runnin' this way. What's the matter, Dibbsy dear?" Dibbs, who was a baby of four years, was sitting on the floor digging both his fists into his eyes. And though not audibly crying, he evidently was not entirely happy. "Wants to know what's in de bastick!" he announced without hesitation. "So you shall," declared his fond mother. "Hoopsy Topsy, lift Dibbs up so he can see what the young ladies brought." Nothing loath, Hoopsy Topsy lifted up her brother, who at once forgot his grief, and, smiling broadly, began to investigate the baskets. "Land sake, Ella," said Mrs. Dunn, "I told you to empty them baskets long ago. Whatever have you been a-doin' all this time?" "I was retying my sash, Ma," exclaimed Ella, reappearing from the next room; "I think it has more of an air tied on the side." "Ain't she the airy piece!" exclaimed the proud mother, looking at her daughter with undisguised admiration. But it seemed to Molly and Marjorie that, if anything could be funnier than the Ella who first met them, it was the Ella of the retied sash! Having arranged her finery to her satisfaction, Ella proceeded with her work of taking the things from the baskets, and, as she lifted out a large piece of cold beef, a delicious pie, some tea and sugar, and various parcels of bread and butter, and a jar of apple-sauce, the little Dunns all gathered round, quite unable to refrain from noisy expressions of glee and delight. "Jiminy Christmas!" cried Hoopsy Topsy, quite upsetting Dibbs as she made a rush for the pie. And then Plumpy, the baby, wiggled his fat little self across the floor and joined the crowd about the pie, and aided by the Elegant Ella, in a few moments there wasn't any pie at all. "Just look at them," said Mrs. Dunn, placidly; "you'd think they didn't have no manners! But they're that fond of pie, you wouldn't believe! They don't never get none, you know, and so it's a novelty." "We'd like it if we had it every day," announced Hoopsy Topsy, with her mouth full. "Pie ev'y day!" agreed Dibbs, as he contentedly munched his piece. The whole scene made a great impression on the two visitors, but they were affected quite differently. Marjorie felt a strong inclination to get away as soon as she could, for, though she felt very sorry for the poor people and was glad to give them things, yet the situation was not at all attractive, and having done her errand, she was quite ready to go. Not so Molly. That active and energetic young person was dismayed at the untidiness and discomfort all about, and felt a strong desire at least to alleviate it. "Mrs. Dunn," she said, "of course with your injured hand and foot you can't sweep. Mayn't I just take a broom and brush up a little? You'd be so much more comfortable." "Land sakes, child, 'taint fer you to be sweepin' our house! Ella here, she can sweep; and Hoopsy Topsy's a good fist at it." "I shall tidy up the room to-morrow," said Ella, with an air of haughty apology, "but to-day I have a hat to trim and I can't be bothered with household matters." "Ella's just great on trimmin' hats," observed her mother, "and Mis' Green, she giv' her her last year's straw; and Ella, she'll trim it up so Mis' Green herself couldn't recognize it!" Marjorie didn't doubt this in the least, and as Molly's suggestion had put an idea into her own head, she began to look upon an acquaintance with the Dunns as a new sort of entertainment. CHAPTER XII THE BAZAAR "Mrs. Dunn," Marjorie said, "please let Molly and me fix up this room a little bit. Now, I'll tell you what: you and the children take these baskets of things out into the kitchen and put them away, or eat them, or do what you please. And then you all stay out there until we tell you you may come back. Ella can trim her hat if she chooses, and Hoopsy Topsy can take care of the children, and you can go on with your reading which we interrupted." "Now, ain't you kind," said Mrs. Dunn; "I do declare that would be jest lovely! I ain't had a good rest like that in I don't know when! Hoopsy Topsy, you and Ella'll have to shove me out in this here chair. I can hobble some, but I can't walk." With the children's assistance, Mrs. Dunn was transferred to the other room, her children followed, and Midge and Molly were left to their own devices. "It's hopeless," said Marjorie, as she looked around at the untidy room. "Not a bit of it!" declared Molly; "if I only had a decent broom instead of this old stub! Now, I'll sweep, Mopsy, and you find something that'll do for a duster, and we'll straighten up the place in less than no time." Molly was a brave little housekeeper, and though Marjorie knew less about it, she was an apt pupil, and the whole performance seemed great fun. In less than an hour the two girls had quite transformed the room. Everything was clean and tidy, and Marjorie had scampered out and picked a bunch of daisies and clover to decorate the mantel. "They haven't any pretty things," she said, as she scowled at the effect of her bouquet in an old cracked jar. "I'll tell you what, Molly, let's come back to-morrow and bring some little traps to decorate with. I can spare a number of things out of my own room; and Grandma will give me some, I know; and Uncle Steve will give me some, too." "Yes, I can bring a lot," said Molly, with enthusiasm; "let's make this family all over. Let's make them be neat and tidy and thrifty." "Do you suppose we can?" said Marjorie, doubtfully. "Well, we can try," said Molly. "Now let's call them in, and then let's go home. It must be dinner-time, and I'm nearly starved." They opened the door and found the Dunn family apparently happy and contented; and in no wise disturbed by the unusual occupation of their visitors. "Come in," cried Marjorie, "come in all of you, and see how nice your room looks!" "I can't come just now," said Elegant Ella, whose speech was rather indistinct by reason of several pins held in her mouth. "I'm trimming my hat, and if I leave it now I'll forget how I was going to arrange the feather." "I think I won't move just at present," said Mrs. Dunn. "The gettin' out here hurt me more'n I thought it was goin' to, and now I'm landed, I guess I'll set a spell. I'm ever so much obliged to you fer all your kindness, and now you'd better run along home or your grandma'll be worried. You're mighty good children, and I'm glad to have that room swep' up; it must be a weight off en Ella's mind." It did not seem probable that Ella ever had a weight on her mind in the way of housekeeping cares, but at the moment she was so absorbed in her hat-trimming that she paid no attention to her mother's remark. It seemed hard that Molly and Midge had no one to appreciate the results of their labors, but Hoopsy Topsy was washing the dishes after the family meal, Plumpy was asleep on the floor, and Dibbs was playing out in the door-yard, with some battered old toys. So, taking their baskets, Molly and Midge started homeward. "I thought it would be fun to take things to poor people," said Marjorie, with an air of disappointment; "but those people are too aggravating for anything. They just accept what you bring and hardly thank you for it, and then they seem to want you to go home as fast as you can." "That's so," agreed Molly; "but I don't care whether they like it or not. I think we ought to try to do them good. I don't mean only to take them things to eat, but try to make them more--more--" "Respectable," suggested Marjorie. "But I suppose that Ella thinks she's more respectable than we are this minute." "I s'pose she does; but we oughtn't to be discouraged by such things. I think mother'll give me some of my last year's dresses to give her, and then she won't have to wear that funny-looking rig she had on." "She likes that," said Marjorie. "I don't believe she'd wear your dresses if you took them to her." By this time the girls had reached the Sherwood house, and Grandma invited Molly to stay to dinner, which invitation the little girl gladly accepted. At the dinner-table they told Grandma the whole story of the morning. Mrs. Sherwood was greatly amused at their description of the Dunn family, and greatly surprised to learn of their efforts in the house-cleaning line. "I want you to be charitable," she said, "and generously inclined toward the poor and needy. But I don't want you to adopt such unusual methods of dispensing your charity. After this, when you feel inclined to such energetic measures, come home first and ask permission. Then, if the plan seems to me feasible, you can carry it out." "But, Grandma," said Marjorie, "the Dunns really need help. They can't seem to do anything and they haven't anything to do with." "But you're too young, my child, to know what they do need. You must be content to help them under the direction of some one older than yourself. Mrs. Dunn, I fear, is not a thrifty or hard-working woman. She has not been here long, and I know little about her; but I've been told that she quite spoils that oldest child and makes the second one do all the work." "The second one is named Hoopsy Topsy," said Marjorie, laughing; "and she's like her name. She's always tumbling down and racing about, with her dress torn and her hair in her eyes, like a perfect witch. The Elegant Ella is quite different. Truly, Grandma, they're a funny lot, and if you go there this afternoon, mayn't we go with you?" "No," said Mrs. Sherwood, "I shall go by myself, to-day, and investigate the case. Perhaps some other time I may take you children." The girls were disappointed, but when they found they couldn't go, they went out to Marjorie's porch to talk it all over. "I think," said Marjorie, "it's our duty to do something for those children. Just think, Molly, we have everything we want, and they have nothing." "I'll tell you what, Mopsy: let's sew and make things for them; dresses, you know, and aprons." "I can't sew fit to be seen, Molly; and 'twould take me all summer to get one apron made. I'd rather give them things that we have. Why, I'd rather give Ella my best parasol than to try to sew anything for her!" "Oh, don't give her that lovely parasol! We'll think of something else. Suppose we invite them all to dinner; you one day, and I another." "I don't believe Grandma would like that. And, anyway, that would only give them dinner for two days; we couldn't keep it up, you know. But, Molly, I'll tell you what! Let's have a fair, or a bazaar or something,--and make some money for them that way." "Just the thing! That would be lovely. Where shall we have it?" "Right here in this porch. Uncle Steve'll help, I know. And I'm sure Grandma won't mind our doing that." When Marjorie laid the plan before Mrs. Sherwood that lady quite approved of it. "Now, that's something sensible," she said; "it will be very nice for you girls to make things, and have a pretty little fair, but don't go down there again and sweep rooms for those people. I'm very sorry for poor Mrs. Dunn, but in this neighborhood there are not many poor people, and as the farmers are all kind-hearted I do not think she will suffer for lack of food while her injuries keep her from her work." "Isn't there any Mr. Dunn?" asked Marjorie. "No; he died a few months ago. That is why she had to come here and live in that forlorn little cottage. She hopes to support herself and her children by going out to work each day, but until her burns get well of course she can't do that." "I'm sorry for her," said Marjorie, decidedly, "and I hope we'll make a lot at our fair to help her along." When they told Stella about the plan for the fair, she thought it all great fun. She did not seem to care much about the Dunns or their needs, and positively refused to visit the little old cottage, but she was ready to work for the fair with all her might. There seemed to be no end to the pretty things Stella knew how to make. She was a clever little artist, and she painted cards, pictures, and trinkets of all sorts, which Molly and Midge helped to make up into various salable fancy articles. Midge was ingenious, too, and every afternoon the three worked busily, making all sorts of things. Dolls were a specialty; and they made funny Chinese-looking affairs by stringing peanuts together, and making queer little costumes out of Japanese paper-napkins. They made paper dolls, too, which Stella painted prettily, and they dressed some little china dolls and wooden Dutch dolls. Uncle Steve brought them materials to make up; and a letter which Marjorie wrote to her mother resulted in the arrival of a big box filled with all sorts of pretty and curious things, which would doubtless find a ready sale. Marjorie crocheted mats and strung bead chains, while Molly, whose tastes were practical, made sweeping-caps and ironing-holders by the dozen. So enthusiastic did the girls grow over their plan that their elders became interested, and soon donations for the fair began to arrive from many of the neighbors. As the day drew near, preparations went on more rapidly, and the affair took on larger proportions. It was arranged that all the toys, dolls, and fancy things for sale should be displayed in Marjorie's porch. Carter had put up some long tables, which Grandma Sherwood had draped prettily with white and light green cheese-cloth. The other parts of the big veranda were arranged with tables, where ices and cakes were to be served; and a pretty booth was devoted to the sale of home-made candies. The verandas and grounds were made gay with flags and Chinese lanterns. Uncle Steve superintended these decorations, which insured their being beautiful and appropriate. A tent on the lawn sheltered some musicians; and in an arbor, lemonade was dispensed. The day of the bazaar was clear and pleasant, and not too warm. Early in the afternoon, Stella and Molly arrived, and the two, with Midge, all in their fresh white dresses, flitted about from one booth to another, to make sure that everything was in readiness. Several other girls and boys, and some ladies and gentlemen too, had been invited to assist in selling the things and to wait on the guests, so that when the bazaar opened at four o'clock in the afternoon a merry lot of young people were scattered about the grounds. Marjorie was in her element. "Oh, Uncle Steve," she cried; "isn't it all perfectly lovely! And I think we'll make quite a lot of money, don't you?" "I do, indeed, Mopsy. I'm only afraid, by the way the customers are flocking in, that we haven't provided enough refreshment for them." And sure enough, though the hour was yet early, crowds of people were coming in at the gate. The fame of the little fair had spread among the country people, and they all seemed determined to help along the good cause. Molly and Marjorie found their stock of wares rapidly fading away, while Stella, who was selling lemonade, could scarcely keep enough on hand to supply her customers. "You must put up your prices, Mopsy," said her uncle; "that's the way to do when your stock is getting low." So Marjorie doubled the price of everything she had left for sale, but even then the dolls and trinkets were willingly bought. "What shall we do?" said Grandma, in despair. "It isn't seven o'clock, we haven't lighted the lanterns yet for the evening, and the ice cream is all gone! I never dreamed we'd have such a crowd." "We'll light the lanterns, anyway," declared Uncle Steve, "for if the ice cream is gone they'll want to buy the lanterns next!" And sure enough they did. When the people came in the evening and learned that everything was sold out but the lanterns, they declared they would buy them for souvenirs. So the merry guests walked about the grounds, carrying the lighted lanterns they had bought (at astonishing prices), and it lent a fantastic effect to the scene to see the lanterns bobbing about among the trees and shrubs on the lawn. Marjorie was so sorry not to have wares to offer her would-be customers that she ran up to her room several times, gathering up books, pictures, or toys that she thought she could by any possibility spare. She would fly with them down to the porch, mark them at exorbitant prices, and in a few moments they would be sold to the amiable and generous buyers. It was an unusual experience for a fancy fair, as often there are many unsold wares left to be auctioned off or sold at reduced rates. When it was all over and the last guests had departed, swinging their lanterns, Marjorie, very tired but very happy, displayed a well-filled cash-box. "How much do you suppose?" she cried gayly to Uncle Steve. "Fifty dollars," guessed that jovial gentleman. "Nonsense," cried Marjorie, "you know there's more than that! But I rather think you'll be surprised when I tell you that there's a little over two hundred dollars!" "Fine!" exclaimed Uncle Steve. "That will keep the Elegant Ella in fans and sashes for some time!" "Indeed, it won't be used for that," declared Marjorie. "We're going to give it to Grandma and let her use it for the Dunns just as she thinks best. Little girls can have a fair and earn the money, but it takes older people to manage the rest of it." "That's true enough, Midge," said Grandma, "but you certainly shall have a share in the pleasure of bestowing it upon our poor neighbors." CHAPTER XIII A BIRTHDAY "Mopsy," said Uncle Steve one morning, "I understand that next week Thursday has the honor of being your birthday." "Yes, Uncle Steve, and I'll be twelve years old." "My gracious goodness! What an old lady you are getting to be! Well, now for such an occasion as that we must celebrate in some way. So I'm going to give you a choice of pleasures. Would you rather have a party, a picnic, or a present?" Marjorie considered. She well knew that a present which would balance against a party or a picnic would be a fine present, indeed. And so, after a moment's thought, she replied: "I'll take the present, thank you, Uncle Steve; for somehow I feel sure we'll have picnics this summer, as we always do; and I don't care much about a party, because I know so few children around here." "All right, then, Midget; a present it shall be, but with this stipulation: you must promise not to go down into the south orchard from now until next Thursday." "Why not?" asked Mopsy, her eyes wide open with astonishment. "Principally, because I tell you not to, and I want you to obey me; but I don't mind explaining that it is because I shall be there, at least part of the time, making your present; and as I want it to be a surprise, you mustn't come peeping around." "All right, Uncle Steve, I won't; but why do you make it down there? Why not make it up here at the house?" "Midget, your curiosity will some day get you into trouble. I prefer to do the work in the meadow. Perhaps it is sewing, and I shall take my work-basket and sit under the big maple-trees to sew." Marjorie laughed to think of Uncle Steve sewing, but was really burning with curiosity to know what he was going to do. However, she had given her word, and she conscientiously kept it. Not once during those intervening days did she so much as look toward the south meadow, though if she had done so she would not have been able to discover what her birthday surprise was to be. Every day she discussed the subject with Molly and Stella, and each formed an opinion. Stella thought it was a new flower garden that Uncle Steve was making for Midge; Molly thought he was having a swing put up, because she had seen Carter carrying some long timbers over that way. But the girls considered themselves bound by Mopsy's promise to her uncle, and conscientiously refrained from going down to the meadow to investigate. Grandma, of course, was in the secret, and as a result she often shut herself into her own room, telling Marjorie she must not come in. She would stay there for hours at a time, and Mopsy felt sure she was sewing on something connected with the birthday surprise, as indeed she was. As the day came nearer, all the members of the household seemed to be in a state of great excitement. Carter was running about, bringing mysterious-looking parcels from the express office, and taking them to the barn to unpack them. Eliza was concocting delicious-looking creams and jellies, but they, Marjorie knew, were for the birthday feast, which would, of course, be a hilarious festival, although not a party. At last Thursday morning came, and Marjorie awoke bright and early; and very soon, arrayed in a fresh, pink gingham frock, went dancing downstairs. So early was she that the others had not yet come down, and she went out into the kitchen to talk to Eliza. "Oh, me!" she sighed. "I wish Uncle Steve would hurry. It just seems as if I couldn't wait any longer to know what my birthday surprise is going to be. Do you know, Eliza?" "Faix, an' I do, Miss Midge, an' it's a foine gift yer uncle has for ye!" "Don't tell me, Eliza, because Uncle Steve said I mustn't ask questions about it; but do you think I'll like it?" "'Like it,' is it? 'Deed an' you will thin! Ye'll go crazy as a loonytic wid joy and delight! An' I'm thinkin' you and Miss Molly will be after breaking your necks in it, but the little lady Stella,--I'm feared she won't get in it at all, at all; she'll be too sheared." "Then it IS a swing," exclaimed Midget, and she felt a little disappointment, for though a swing was lovely to have, yet she had one at home, so it was no especial novelty; and, too, she hadn't thought Uncle Steve would make such a fuss about having a swing built. "I'm not sayin' it isn't a swing," said Eliza, "and I'm not sayin' it is. And I'm not sayin' it isn't a merry-go-around-about, or whativer ye call thim noisy things that they do be havin' down by the circus tent, and I'm not sayin' it is." "Don't say any more about what it is or isn't, or I'll guess." "Indeed you wouldn't, Miss Mopsy, if ye guessed from now until ye're gray-headed." This made Midget think that the gift was not a swing, as she had already guessed that,--and then she heard Uncle Steve's voice calling her, and she ran gayly back to the dining-room. The birthday breakfast was a festival indeed. Marjorie's place was decorated with flowers, and even the back of her chair was garlanded with wreaths. At her plate lay such a huge pile of parcels, tied up in bewitching white papers and gay ribbons, that it seemed as if it would take all day to examine them. "Goodness me!" exclaimed Midget. "Did anybody ever have so many birthday gifts? Are they all for me?" "Any that you don't want," said Uncle Steve, "you may hand over to me. I haven't had a birthday for several years now, and I'd be thankful for one small gift." "You shall have the nicest one here," declared Marjorie, "and I don't care what it is, or who sent it." "The nicest one isn't here," observed Grandma, with a merry twinkle in her eye, and Marjorie knew that she was thinking of the surprise in the orchard. "Of course, I mean except the swing," said Marjorie, looking roguishly at Uncle Steve to see if she had guessed right. "You've been peeping!" he exclaimed, in mock reproach, and then Marjorie knew that whatever it was, it wasn't a swing. "You know I haven't--you know I wouldn't," she declared, and then she began to open the lovely-looking bundles. It did seem as if everybody that Marjorie knew had remembered her birthday. There were gifts from everybody at home, to begin with. Mrs. Maynard had sent the sweetest blue-silk sash, and Mr. Maynard a beautiful book. The children all sent toys or games or trinkets, and every one seemed to Marjorie to be just what she had wanted. There was a cup and saucer from Eliza, and small tokens from Carter and Jane. For Marjorie was a great pet with the servants, and they all adored her. But among all the bundles there was no gift from Grandma or Uncle Steve, and Marjorie wondered what had become of the mysterious work which Grandma had been doing all shut up in her own room. But even as she was thinking about it, Grandma explained: "Our gifts will come later," she said. "When Uncle Steve gives you his birthday surprise, I will add my contribution." Just after the last parcel had been untied, Molly and Stella came flying in. That is, Molly came flying, while serious little Stella walked at her usual sedate pace. "Many happy returns of the day!" cried Molly, "and here's my gift." She had in her arms a large and rather ungainly bundle, loosely wrapped in white tissue paper. Together she and Marjorie hastily pulled off the papers, and there was a beautiful cat-basket trimmed with blue ribbons and lined with soft cushions for Puff to sleep in. "Oh!" cried Marjorie, flinging her arms around Molly's neck, "that's just what I've been wanting ever since I've had that kitten." And grabbing up Puff, who was never very far away, she laid her in the basket. Puff seemed delighted with her new bed, and, after curiously sniffing and poking into all the nooks and corners of it, she curled up and began to purr herself to sleep. Stella's gift was a dainty, little white-silk parasol, with a frill around it, which seemed to Marjorie the loveliest thing she had ever seen. "It's beautiful, Stella!" she exclaimed. "And I shall always carry it whenever I'm dressed up enough. I hope you girls will have your birthdays soon, so I can give you some lovely things, too." "Have you had your surprise yet?" asked impatient Molly, who, according to her usual fashion, was prancing about the room on one foot; while Stella sat demurely in a chair, her hands quietly folded in her lap, though her eyes seemed to make the same inquiry. "No, not yet," answered Uncle Steve for his niece, "but I think it's about time for us to see if we can find it." "All right," cried Marjorie, "let's all go to the orchard!" "I don't see, Midget," said her uncle, "why you think the surprise is down at the orchard, just because I told you I was making it down there. In fact I have my birthday gift for you right here in my pocket." Marjorie looked rather blank. She knew Uncle Steve loved to tease her, but she had certainly expected some out-of-door gift, and to receive a little trinket that could be carried in a pocket was a surprise indeed. In proof of his words Uncle Steve drew a neatly-tied parcel from a pocket of his morning coat and handed it to Marjorie. It was about the size of a one-pound box of candy, and sure enough, when Marjorie eagerly pulled off the paper, the gilt letters on the cover proclaimed it a candy-box. Marjorie felt positive that her uncle would not offer her candy as a birthday gift, for he often brought her that on any ordinary day of the year. But she was mystified, and she took off the cover, not knowing herself what she expected to see. To her surprise, inside the box was another parcel, a trifle smaller, and on the paper which wrapped it was written: "I am not candy as you thought, I bring you joys that can't be bought." Marjorie began to understand that it was one of Uncle Steve's elaborate jokes, and she didn't know whether further search would reveal a valuable, though tiny gift, or some absurd hoax. She took out the second box and tore off the wrappings. Molly eagerly helped her pull off the ribbon and paper, and though Stella sat quietly by, she, too, almost held her breath to see what would happen next. Marjorie opened the second box, and this time was not so much surprised to see that it contained another wrapped and tied box. On this one was written: "Oho, Miss Mopsy, fooled again! Suppose you keep on trying, then." "Indeed, I will," cried Mopsy; "I expect there are a thousand boxes, each smaller than the other, and when I get to the end I'll find a bright penny, or something like that!" "If you think that," said Uncle Steve, "I'll offer you two cents for the bundle as it is now; and then, you see, you'll double your money!" "No siree!" cried Marjorie, "for, you see, I don't know. It MAY be a diamond ring, but that wouldn't do me much good, as I couldn't wear it until I'm grown up." "Hurry up," cried Molly, who was dancing about, both helping and hindering Marjorie, "let's see what the next box says." On the next box was written: "Just a hint I'll give to you; I'm of metal, tied with blue." "Metal, tied with blue!" screamed Molly, "What can that be? A hoe, perhaps, tied up with a blue ribbon." "What kind of a hoe could you get in such a little box?" said Stella. "_I_ think it's a locket," said Marjorie, "on a blue ribbon to hang round your neck." The next box said: "Very seldom you will use me, But you'd cry if you should lose me." "Ho!" said Marjorie, "if I'm going to use this thing so seldom I don't think I'd cry if I should lose it." "Perhaps it's a something for Sunday," suggested Molly, "then you'd use it only once a week, you know." "Oh, what a funny verse this is," said Marjorie, as she read: "I'm nothing to eat, I'm nothing to wear; You can only use me high up in the air." "I know what it is," said Stella, with her funny little air of decision; "it's a kite! You could only use that high in the air, you know; and it's that Japanese sort that squeezes all up to nothing and then spreads out when you open it." "I believe it is," said Midge, "only you know it said it was made of metal. But just listen to this next verse! "I am not pretty, I am not gay, But you'll enjoy me every day." The boxes were getting very small now, and Marjorie felt sure that the one she held in her hand must be the last one, unless, indeed, the gift was a cherry stone. The verse read: "At last, Dear Mopsy, you've come to me! Behold your birthday gift! only a--" As Marjorie read the last words she opened the box, and when she saw the contents she finished the rhyme herself by exclaiming, "key!" CHAPTER XIV "BREEZY INN" Sure enough, the tiny box contained a small key tied with a bit of blue ribbon. Marjorie looked at it in bewilderment. "It must unlock something!" cried Molly. "Molly Moss," exclaimed Uncle Steve, "you have a wonderfully clever head for your years! How did you ever guess that a key would unlock something? You must have seen keys before!" "But she never saw this one," cried Midge. "Oh, Uncle Steve, what is it for?" "You've been in suspense quite long enough, and now we'll try to find a lock for that key to fit. Grandma and I will go first, and if you three young ladies will follow us, we will go and hunt for a keyhole." Full of delightful anticipation, the three girls followed their older leaders. Marjorie was in the middle, her arms twined about Molly and Stella on either side, and their arms around her. Molly and Midge wanted to skip, but Stella never skipped, so the result was a somewhat joggly gait as they went down the path to the orchard. The south meadow was a wide expanse of humpy grass-land, with only a few trees here and there. Especially fine trees were two that were usually called the twin maples. These two very old trees grew side by side, their great trunks not more than four feet apart and their branches so intermingled that they were practically one tree in two parts. The delightful shade of this double tree afforded a favorite playground for the children, and they had missed it during the past week when they were forbidden to go into the meadow. As they neared the meadow, Marjorie grew more and more amazed. There was nothing unusual in sight: no swing, no merry-go-round, and certainly nothing that a key could unlock. They reached the twin maples, and then Uncle Steve said: "If you'll all step around to the other side of this tree I think we may discover that missing keyhole." The girls scampered around, and, looking up into the tree, they saw such an astonishing sight that the three simply sat down on the ground and stared at it. It was nothing more nor less than a house, a real little house high above the ground and nestled into the branches of the trees, just as a bird's nest might be. The house, which was big enough for the girls to have gone into if they could have reached it, had a front door and a window on either side. There was a veranda on which stood three small rustic benches, quite strong enough to have held the three girls had they had wings to fly up there. The veranda had a railing around it, above which hung two hanging-baskets filled with bright flowers. The door was shut and a keyhole could be distinctly seen. "There's the keyhole, Mopsy, which I have reason to think will fit your key," said Uncle Steve. "But I can't reach up to it," said Marjorie, looking very puzzled. "What's the house for? Is it for birds?" "Yes, for three birds that I know of, who wear gingham dresses and hair ribbons." "But we don't wear wings," interrupted Marjorie. "Oh, Uncle Steve, do tell me what that house is for!" "It's for you, chickabiddy, and if you'd like to go up there I'll show you a way." Uncle Steve stepped over to the double trunk, and reaching up pulled down something, which proved to be a weight hung on the end of a long cord. The cord reached up to the veranda of the little house. "Here," said Uncle Steve, as he put the weight into Marjorie's hand, "this is perhaps as useful a birthday gift as the key I gave you. Pull hard, and see what happens." Marjorie pulled hard, and as she pulled, a rope ladder came tumbling down from the edge of the little porch. It was a queer-looking ladder, the sides being of rope and the rounds of wood, while the top seemed to be securely fastened to the veranda floor. "There you are," said Uncle Steve; "there's your birthday gift, and all you have to do is to skip up there, unlock the door, and take possession." But instead of doing this, Marjorie, with a squeal of delight, threw her arms around Uncle Steve's neck. "You dear, old, blessed uncle!" she cried. "I understand it all now; but truly I couldn't think how we were ever going to get up there. It's a lovely surprise, the best I ever had! You are SO good to me, and Grandma, too!" Having nearly squeezed the breath out of Uncle Steve, Marjorie left him, and flying over to Grandma, treated her to a similar demonstration. And then, with her precious key tightly clasped in her hand, she started to climb the rather wabbly ladder. Impetuous Molly was crazy to follow, but Uncle Steve declared that it was the law of the house that there must never be more than one on the ladder at a time. Though Marjorie became accustomed to it afterward, it was not an easy matter to climb the rope ladder for the first time; but under Uncle Steve's direction she began to learn the trick of it, and safely reached the top. Agile Molly scrambled up as if she had been used to rope ladders all her life; but to timid Stella the climbing seemed an impossible feat. But Uncle Steve held the ladder firmly at the bottom, and Marjorie encouraged her from the top, while Molly threw herself flat on the porch and reached down a helping hand. At last the three girls were safely on the little veranda, and the sensation was as delightful as it was strange. To sit on the little benches, high above the ground, and look out straight across the meadow; and then, turning to either side, to see the great limbs and branches of the old maple-trees, was indeed a fairy-tale experience. Over the door swung a quaint little old-fashioned signboard, on which in gilt letters were the words "Breezy Inn." With bewildering anticipations of further delight, Marjorie took her little key and unlocked the door. Grandma and Uncle Steve, watching from below, heard shouts of joy as the girls disappeared through the doorway. But in a moment they reappeared at the windows, and their beaming faces told the tale of their happiness. "Good-by," called Uncle Steve, "the presentation is over and 'Breezy Inn' is yours. I've fastened the ladder firmly, so you can go up and down as you choose. The furnishings are your birthday present from Grandma, but we're going back now to a house that we can get into; and you children had better show up there about dinner-time. Meanwhile, have all the fun you can." Grandma and Uncle Steve went away, leaving the children to explore and make acquaintance of "Breezy Inn." It was a fairy house, indeed; and yet, though tiny, everything seemed to be just large enough. The interior of the house was one large room; and a smaller room, like an ell, at the back. The large room contained the front door and two front windows, also a window at each end. The smaller room had no outer exit, but three windows gave ample light and air. The front room, or living-room, as Marjorie termed it, was pleasantly furnished. On the floor was a rug of grass-matting and the furniture was of light wicker. The sofa, chairs, and tables were not of a size for grown people, but were just right for twelve-year-old little girls. At one end were a few built-in bookshelves; at the other a wardrobe or cupboard, most convenient to keep things in. Grandma's handiwork was shown in some dear little sofa-pillows and chair-cushions, in dainty, draped curtains and table covers. The room at the back, Marjorie declared was a workroom. In the middle was a large table, just splendid to work at when making paper-dolls' houses or anything like that; and round the room were shelves and cupboards to hold materials. "It just takes my breath away!" said Marjorie, as she sank down on the settee in the living-room; "I never saw anything like it! Can't we have just the best fun here all summer!" "I should say we could!" declared Molly. "It seems almost as if it must be our birthdays too. We'll have just as much fun here as you will, Midge." "Why, I couldn't have any fun at all without you two; at least, it would be very lonesome fun." "I don't see how they ever built it," said Molly, who, by way of finding out, was hanging out of a window as far as she could and investigating the building. "I know," said the wise Stella; "I read about one once; they nail the beams and things to the trunks of the trees and then they nail boards across, and then they build the house. But the one I read about wasn't as nice as this." "I don't think there could be one as nice as this," declared Marjorie; "and we can fix it up a lot yet, you know. I shall bring some things down from my room, some of my favorite books for the book-shelves, and things like that." "Do you suppose it will rain in, ever?" asked the practical Stella. "No, of course not," said Molly, who was still examining the carpenter work. "See, these windows slide shut sideways, and then if you shut the door tight the rain couldn't get in, unless the roof leaks." "Of course it doesn't!" declared Midget; "Uncle Steve wouldn't build me a house with a leaky roof. Did you ever see such cunning window curtains! Of course we don't need blinds, for the tree keeps the sun out. It does seem so queer to look out of the window and see only a tree." "Look out of the front door," said Molly, "and you won't see a tree then. You'll just see grass and sky and cows. But what's this thing at the back, Mopsy? It looks like a pair of well-buckets." "I don't know. What can it be?" said Mopsy, running to look. There was a queer contraption that seemed to be something like a windlass and something like a dumbwaiter. It was at the very end of the veranda around the corner of the house. "I know," said Stella quietly; "it's a kind of an elevator thing to pull up things when you want to." "Why, so it is!" cried Marjorie. "This is the way it works." And releasing a big wooden button, she let the whole affair slide to the ground, and, then, grasping the handle of a crank, she began to draw it up again. "Well, if that isn't great!" cried Molly. "We can boost up all sorts of things!" "Here's something to boost up now," said Marjorie, who had spied Jane coming across the fields, with what was undoubtedly a tray of refreshment. And sure enough, Grandma had sent some ginger-snaps and lemonade to furnish the first feast at "Breezy Inn." "Your grandma wouldn't send much," explained Jane, "for she says you must all come back to the house at one o'clock for the birthday dinner, and it's well after eleven now. She sent your clock, Miss Midget, so you'll know when to come." Apparently Jane knew more about the ways and means of "Breezy Inn" than the children did; for she directed them explicitly how to let down the dumbwaiter, and, then, after having carefully placed on it the tray of good things and the clock, she advised them about drawing it up. It worked almost like a well-bucket and was quite easy to manage. The tray reached the top in safety, and, in great glee, the girls arranged the little feast on the table in the living-room, and sat down to play tea-party. "Isn't this lovely!" exclaimed Molly, as she took her seventh ginger-snap from the plate. "I don't see how your grandma knew that we were beginning to get hungry." "Grandma always seems to know everything that's nice," said Marjorie. "Some day, girls, let's come out here and spend the whole day. We'll bring a lot of lunch, you know, and it will be just as if we lived here." "Goody!" said Molly. "That will be heaps of fun. We'll all bring things; I know Mother will give me a pie." "I'll like it," said Stella, with an expression of great satisfaction; "because up here you girls can't romp around so and run as you do down on the ground. When we come for a whole day let's bring a book of fairy stories and take turns reading aloud." "All right," said Midge; "let's have it for a sort of a club, and meet here one day every week." "Clubs ought to do something," observed Molly. "Charity, you know, or something like that." "All right," said Midge; "let's make things and then sell them and get some money for the Dunns." "What could we do?" asked Molly. "We couldn't have another bazaar, and, besides, I think the Dunns have enough money for the present." "Don't let's work," said Stella, who was not very enterprising; "at least, not when we're up here. Let's just read or play paper dolls. If you want to work and make things, do them at home." "I feel that way, too," said Midget; "let's just keep this for a playhouse. But maybe it isn't right; maybe we ought to do things for charity." "Ask your grandma," said Molly; "she'll know what's right. But I expect they gave you this house to have fun in." "I think they did, too," said Marjorie; "and, anyway, Molly, we could do both. We had lots of fun getting ready for the bazaar, and we did the charity besides." "Well, let's read part of the time, anyway," said Stella; "I do love to read or to be read to." "We will," agreed Marjorie, amiably, and Molly agreed, too. CHAPTER XV THE BROKEN LADDER As the days went on, "Breezy Inn" became more and more a delight to the children. They never grew tired of it, but, on the contrary, new attractions connected with it were forever developing. Many additions had been made to the furnishings, each of the three girls having brought over treasures from her own store. They had reading days, and paper-doll days, and game-playing days, and feast days, and days when they did nothing but sit on the little veranda and make plans. Often their plans were not carried out, and often they were, but nobody cared much which way it happened. Sometimes Stella sat alone on the little porch, reading. This would usually be when Molly and Midge were climbing high up into the branches of the old maple-trees. It was very delightful to be able to step off of one's own veranda onto the branch of a tree and then climb on up and up toward the blue sky. And especially, there being two girls to climb, it was very useful to have two trees. But not every day did the girls spend in "Breezy Inn." Sometimes they roamed in the woods, or went rowing on the river, and sometimes they visited at each other's houses. One pleasant afternoon in late July, Marjorie asked Grandma if she mightn't go to spend the afternoon at Stella's. Mrs. Sherwood liked to have her go to Stella's, as the influence of the quiet little girl helped to subdue Marjorie's more excitable disposition, and about three o'clock Marjorie started off. Grandma Sherwood looked after the child, as she walked away, with admiring eyes. Marjorie wore a dainty frock of white dimity, scattered with tiny pink flowers. A pink sash and hair-ribbons were fresh and crisply tied, and she carried the pretty parasol Stella had given her on her birthday. With Marjorie, to be freshly dressed always made her walk decorously, and Grandma smiled as she saw the little girl pick her way daintily down the walk to the front gate, and along the road to Stella's, which, though only next door, was several hundred yards away. As Marjorie passed out of sight, Grandma sighed a little to think how quickly the summer was flying by, for she dearly loved to have her grandchildren with her, and though, perhaps, not to be called favorite, yet Marjorie was the oldest and possessed a very big share of her grandmother's affection. Soon after she reached Stella's, Molly came flying over. Molly, too, had on a clean afternoon dress, but that never endowed her with a sense of decorum, as it did Marjorie. "Hello, girls," she cried, as she climbed over the veranda-railing and plumped herself down in the hammock. "What are we going to do this afternoon?" "Let's read," said Stella, promptly. "Read, read, read!" said Molly. "I'm tired of your everlasting reading. Let's play tennis." "It's too hot for tennis," said Stella, "and, besides, you girls haven't tennis shoes on and you'd spoil your shoes and the court, too." "Oh, what do you think," said Mopsy, suddenly; "I have the loveliest idea! Only we can't do it this afternoon, because we're all too much dressed up. But I'll tell you about it, and we can begin to-morrow morning." "What's your idea?" said Molly, rousing herself in the hammock and sitting with her chin in both hands as she listened. "Why, I read it in the paper," said Marjorie, "and it's this. And it's a lovely way to make money; we could make quite a lot for the Dunns. It will be some trouble, but it would be a lot of fun, too." "Yes, but what is it," said Stella, in her quietly patient way. "You go out into the field," began Marjorie, "and you gather heaps and heaps of pennyroyal,--you take baskets, you know, and gather just pecks of it. Then you take it home and you put it in pails or tubs or anything with a lot of water. And then you leave it about two days, and then you drain it off, and then it's pennyroyal extract." Marjorie announced the last words with a triumphant air, but her hearers did not seem very much impressed. "What then?" asked Molly, evidently awaiting something more startling. "Why, then, you put it in bottles, and paste labels on, and take it all around and sell it to people. They love to have it, you know, for mosquitoes or burns or something, and they pay you quite a lot, and then you have the money for charity." The artistic possibilities began to dawn upon Stella. "Yes," she said, "and I could make lovely labels, with fancy letters; and you and Molly could paste them on, and we could tie the corks in with little blue ribbons, like perfumery bottles." "And we'll each bring bottles," cried Molly, becoming interested; "we have lots at our house. Let's start out now to gather the pennyroyal. We're not so awfully dressed up. This frock will wash, anyway." "So will mine," said Marjorie, but she spoke with hesitation. She knew that Grandma would not like to have her wear that dainty fresh frock out into the fields. But, for some reason, Stella, too, was inclined to go, and with the trio, two against one always carried the day; and linking arms, in half a minute the three were skipping away toward the field. They had not asked permission, because the fields were part of Mr. Martin's property, and Stella was practically on her own home ground, though at a good distance from the house. Enthusiastic over their new plan, the girls worked with a will, and, having carelessly gone off without any basket, they found themselves obliged to hold up the skirts of their dresses to carry their harvest. "I should think we had enough to sell to everybody in Morristown," declared Molly, as, tired and flushed, she surveyed the great heap she had piled into her dress skirt. "So should I," agreed Midget, gathering up more and more of her pretty dimity, now, alas! rumpled and stained almost beyond recognition. Stella had a good share, though not so much as the others, and she stood calmly inquiring what they were going to do with it. "There's no use taking it to my house," she declared, "for mother would only tell me to throw it away,--I know she would." "Wouldn't she let us make the extract?" asked Marjorie. "She wouldn't care how much we made it, but she wouldn't let me make it at home, I know, because she hates a mess." "I don't believe Grandma would like it either," said Marjorie, with a sudden conviction; "it is awful messy, and it smells pretty strong. But I'll tell you what, girls: let's take it all right to 'Breezy Inn.' Then we can put it to soak right away. We can get water from the brook, and there are plenty of pails and things there to make the extract in." "We can call it The Breezy Extract," said Stella; "that'll look pretty painted on the labels." "Breezy Extract is silly," said Molly; "Breezy-Inn Extract is prettier." "All right," said Stella, good-naturedly. "Come on, I'm in a hurry to begin. I'll paint the labels, while you girls make the stuff." So they trudged across the field to Breezy Inn, dumped their heaps of pennyroyal into the dumb-waiter, and themselves scrambled gayly up the rope ladder. Almost before Molly and Midge had pulled up their somewhat odorous burden, Stella had seated herself at the table to work at the labels. The child was devoted to work of this sort, and was soon absorbed in designing artistic letters to adorn the bottles. Midge and Molly worked away with a will. Unheeding their pretty summer frocks, and, indeed, there was little use now for care in that direction, they brought water from the brook, hauled it up the dumbwaiter, and filled several good-sized receptacles with steeping pennyroyal flowers. Their work finished, they were anxious to start for home at once and begin a search for the bottles, but Stella begged them to stay a little longer until she should have finished the design she was making. So Midge and Molly wandered out on the veranda, and amused themselves by jerking the rope ladder up and down. By a clever mechanical contrivance the ladder went up and down something on the principle of an automatic shade roller. It was great fun to roll it up and feel a certain security in the thought that nobody could get into "Breezy Inn" unless they saw fit to let down the ladder. Not that anybody ever wanted to, but it was fun to think so, and, moreover, the rolling ladder was most useful in the playing of certain games, where an unlucky princess was imprisoned in a castle tower. But somehow, as they were idly jerking the ladder up and down, an accident happened. Something snapped at the top, and with a little cracking sound, the whole ladder broke loose from its fastenings and fell to the ground. "Oh, Midget!" cried Molly, aghast, "whatever shall we do now? We can't get down, and we'll have to stay here until somebody happens to come by this way." "That may not be for several days," said Midget, cheerfully. "Carter never hardly comes down into this meadow. Pooh, Molly, we can get down some way." "Yes; but how?" insisted Molly, who realized the situation more truly than Marjorie. "Oh, I don't know," responded Midge, carelessly. "We might go down in the dumb-waiter." "No; your uncle said, positively, we must never go down on that. It isn't strong enough to hold even one of us at a time." "I guess I could jump." "I guess you couldn't! You'd sprain your ankles and break your collar bones." "Oh, pshaw, Molly, there must be some way down. Let's ask Stella. She can always think of something." "No; don't tell Stella. She can't think of any way, and it would scare her to pieces. I tell you, Mops, there ISN'T any way down. It's too high to jump and we can't climb. We could climb UP the tree, but not DOWN." At last Marjorie began to realize that they were in a difficulty. She looked all around the house, and there really was no way by which the girls could get down. They went into the living-room, where Stella sat at the table, drawing. "I'm ready to go home," she said, looking up as they entered. "This is finished, and, anyway, it's getting so dark I can't see any more." "Dark!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Why, it isn't five o'clock yet." "I don't care what time it is," said Stella; "it's getting awfully dark, just the same." And sure enough it was, and a few glances at the sky showed the reason. What was undoubtedly a severe thunderstorm was rapidly approaching, and dark masses of cloud began to roll over each other and pile up higher and higher toward the zenith. "It's a thunder shower, that's what it is," declared Stella; "let's scramble down the ladder quick, and run for home. Let's all run to your house, Marjorie, it's nearer." Midge and Molly looked at each other. There was no help for it, so Marjorie said: "We can't go down the ladder, Stella, because it's broken down." "What! Who broke it?" "We did," said Molly; "that is, we were playing with it and somehow it broke itself. Of course, we didn't do it on purpose." Stella's face turned white. "How shall we get down?" she said. "We CAN'T get down," said Midge, cheerfully; "we'll have to stay up. But the roof doesn't leak; I asked Uncle, and he said it was perfectly watertight." "But I don't want to stay up here in a storm," said Stella, and her lips began to quiver. "Now, don't you cry, Stella!" said Molly, who, if truth be told, was on the verge of tears herself. Meantime, the darkness was rapidly increasing. It was one of those sudden showers where a black pall of cloud seems to envelop the whole universe, and the very air takes on a chill that strikes a terror of its own, even to a stout heart. The three little girls sat looking at each other in despair. Each was very much frightened, but each was trying to be brave. It had all happened so suddenly that they had even yet scarcely realized that they were in real danger, when suddenly a terrible clap of thunder burst directly above their heads, accompanied by a blinding flash of lightning. Stella screamed and then burst into wild crying; Molly turned white and gritted her teeth in a determination not to cry; while Marjorie, with big tears rolling down her cheeks, put her arms around Stella in a vain endeavor to comfort her. Molly crept up to the other two, and intertwining their arms, the three huddled together, shivering with fear and dismay. One after another, the terrible thunderbolts crashed and rolled, and the fearful lightning glared at intervals. Then, with a swish and a splash, the rain began. It came down in gusty torrents, and dashed in at the open windows like a spray. Molly and Marjorie jumped up and flew to shut the windows, but Stella remained crouched in a pathetic little heap. "Somebody will come to get us," whispered Molly, trying to be hopeful and to cheer the others. "No, they won't," said Marjorie, despairingly; "for Grandma thinks I'm over at Stella's, and your mother thinks you're there, too." "Yes, but Stella's mother will hunt us up; somebody is SURE to come," persisted Molly. "No, she won't," said a weak little voice; "for I told Mother that we might stay home this afternoon, and we might go over to Molly's. And she'll think we're over there." "It wouldn't matter if the ladder WAS up," said Molly, "for we couldn't go out in this pouring rain, and we might get struck by lightning, too." "Under a tree is the very worst place to be in a thunderstorm," said Stella, lifting her white, little face, and staring at the girls with big, scared eyes. Just then another terrible crash and flash made them all grasp each other again, and then, without further restraint, they all cried together. The storm increased. The winds simply raged, and though the old maple-trees were too sturdy to shake much, yet the little house swayed some, and all about could be heard the cracking and snapping of branches. "I think--" began Molly, but even as she spoke there came the loudest crash of all. It was the splitting of the heavens, and with it came a fierce, sudden flash of flame that blinded them all. The girls fell apart from one another through the mere shock, and when Molly and Midge dazedly opened their eyes, they saw Stella crumpled in a little heap on the floor. CHAPTER XVI FIRECRACKERS "Is she dead?" screamed Molly. "Oh, Marjorie, is she dead?" "I don't know," said Marjorie, whose face was almost as white as Stella's, as she leaned over the unconscious little girl. Although they tried, they couldn't quite manage to lift Stella up on the couch, so Marjorie sat down on the floor and took the poor child's head on her knee, while Molly ran for water. "I'm sure it's right to douse people with water when they faint," said Molly, as she sprinkled Stella's face liberally; "and she is only in a faint, isn't she, Marjorie? Because if people are really struck by lightning they burn up, don't they, Marjorie?" While she talked, Molly was excitedly pouring water promiscuously over Stella, until the child looked as if she had been out in the storm. Marjorie was patting Stella's cheek and rubbing her hands, but it all seemed of no avail; and, though Stella was breathing softly, they could not restore her to consciousness. "It's dreadful," said Marjorie, turning to Molly with a look of utter despair, "and we MUST do something! It isn't RIGHT for us two little girls to try to take care of Stella. We MUST get Grandma here, somehow." "But how CAN we?" said Molly. "The ladder is down, you know, and we can't possibly get down from the house. I'd try to jump, but it's fifteen feet, and I'd be sure to break some bones, and we'd be worse off than ever." The two girls were too frightened to cry; they were simply appalled by the awful situation and at their wits' end to know what to do. "It was bad enough," wailed Marjorie, "when we were all wide awake and could be frightened together; but with Stella asleep, or whatever she is, it's perfectly horrible." "She isn't asleep," said Molly, scrutinizing the pale little face, "but she's stunned with the shock, and I'm sure I don't know what to do. We ought to have smelling-salts, or something, to bring her to." "We ought to have somebody that knows something to look after her. Molly, we MUST get Grandma here. I believe I'll try to jump myself, but I suppose I'd just sprain my ankle and lie there in the storm till I was all washed away. What CAN we do?" "We could holler, but nobody could hear us, it's raining so hard. The thunder and lightning aren't so bad now, but the rain and wind are fearful." Molly was flying about the room, peeping out at one window after another, and then flying back to look at Stella, who still lay unconscious. "If we only had a megaphone," said Marjorie, "though I don't believe we could scream loud enough through that even, to make Carter hear. What do people do when they're shipwrecked?" "They send up rockets," said Molly, wisely. "We haven't any rockets; but, oh, Molly! we have some firecrackers. They've been here ever since Fourth of July; those big cannon crackers, you know! Do you suppose we could fire off some of those, and Carter would hear them?" "The very thing! But how can we fire them in this awful rain? It would put them right out." "We MUST do it! It's our only chance!" Carefully putting a pillow under Stella's head, they left her lying on the floor, while they ran for the firecrackers. Sure enough they were big ones, and there were plenty of them. It would be difficult to fire them in the rain, but, as Marjorie said, it MUST be done. Keeping them carefully in a covered box, the girls went out on the little veranda, closing the door behind them. A wooden box, turned up on its side, formed sufficient protection from the rain to get a cracker lighted, and Marjorie bravely held it until it was almost ready to explode, and then flung it out into the storm. It went off, but to the anxious girls the noise seemed muffled by the rain. They tried another and another, but with little hope that Carter would hear them. "Let's put them all in a tin pan," said Marjorie, "and put the box on top of them to keep them dry, and then set them all off at once." "All right," said Molly, "but I'm afraid Carter will think it's thunder." However, it seemed the best plan, and after lighting the end of the twisted string, the girls ran into the house and shut the door. Such a racket as followed! The crackers went off all at once. The box flew off, and the tin pan tumbled down, and the little veranda was a sight to behold! It sounded like Fourth of July, but to the two girls, watching from the window, there was no effect of celebration. But their desperate plan succeeded. Carter heard the racket, and did not mistake it for thunder; but, strangely enough, realized at once what it was. "It's them crazy children in their tree-house," he exclaimed; "but what the mischief do they be settin' off firecrackers for, in the pouring rain? Howsomever I'll just go and see what's up, for like as not they've burned their fingers, if so be that they haven't put their eyes out." As Carter started from the greenhouse, where he had been working, the torrents of rain that beat in his face almost made him change his mind, but he felt a sense of uneasiness about Marjorie, and something prompted him to go on. In a stout raincoat, and under a big umbrella, he made his way across the field through the storm toward "Breezy Inn." "My land!" he exclaimed, "if that ladder ain't disappeared. What will them youngsters be up to next?" But even as he noticed the broken ladder, the door flew open, and Marjorie and Molly popped their heads out. "Oh, Carter!" Marjorie screamed; "do get a ladder, and hurry up! Ours is broken down, and Stella is struck by lightning, and, oh, Carter, do help us!" Carter took in the situation at a glance. He said nothing, for it was no time for words. He saw the broken ladder could not be repaired in a minute; and, turning, he ran swiftly back to the barn for another ladder. A long one was necessary, and with Moses to help him they hurried the ladder across the field and raised it. Another fortunate effect of the firecracker explosion had been to rouse Stella. Partly owing to the noise of the explosion, and partly because the effect of the shock was wearing away, Stella had opened her eyes and, realizing what had happened, promptly made up for lost time by beginning to cry violently. Also, the reaction at finding Stella herself again, and the relief caused by the appearance of Carter, made Molly and Marjorie also break down, and when Carter came bounding up the ladder he found three girls, soaking wet as to raiment, and diligently adding to the general dampness by fast-flowing tears. "What is it, now?" he inquired, and if his tone sounded impatient, it was scarcely to be wondered at. For the battle-scarred veranda and the drenched condition of the room, together with a broken ladder, surely betokened mischief of some sort. "Oh, Carter," cried Marjorie, "never mind us, but can't you take Stella to the house somehow? She was struck by lightning, and she's been dead for hours! She only just waked up when she heard the firecrackers! Did you hear them, Carter?" "Did I hear them! I did that--not being deef. Faith, I thought it was the last trump! You're a caution, Miss Midget!" But even as Carter spoke he began to realize that the situation was more serious than a mere childish scrape. He had picked up little Stella, who was very limp and white, and who was still sobbing hysterically. "Struck by lightning, is it? There, there, little girl, never mind now, I'll take care of ye." Holding Stella gently in his arms, Carter looked out of the window and considered. "I could take her down the ladder, Miss Midget, but it's raining so hard she'd be drenched before we could reach the house. Not that she could be much wetter than she is. Was she out in the rain?" "No, that's where we threw water on her to make her unfaint herself. Can't we all go home, Carter? Truly we can't get any wetter, and we'll all catch cold if we don't." "That's true," agreed Carter, as he deliberated what was best to do. Though not a large man, Carter seemed to fill the little room with his grown-up presence, and the children were glad to shift their responsibility on to him. "The thunder is melting away," he said at last, "and the lightning is nothin' to speak of; and a drop more of wet won't hurt you, so I think I'd better take ye all to your grandma's as soon as possible. I'll carry little Miss Stella, and do ye other two climb down the ladder mighty careful and don't add no broken necks to your distresses." So down the ladder, which Moses on the ground was holding firmly, Carter carried Stella, who, though fully conscious, was nervous and shaken, and clung tightly around Carter's neck. Midge and Molly followed, and then the procession struck out across the field for home. "I s'pose," whispered Midget to Molly, "it's perfectly awful; but now that Stella's all right, I can't help thinking this is sort of fun, to be walking out in the storm, without any umbrella, and soaking wet from head to foot!" Molly squeezed her friend's hand. "I think so, too," she whispered. "The thunder and lightning were terrible, and I was almost scared to death; but now that everything's all right, I can't help feeling gay and glad!" And so these two reprehensible young madcaps smiled at each other, and trudged merrily along across soaking fields, in a drenching rain, and rescued from what had been a very real danger indeed. During all this, Grandma Sherwood had been sitting placidly in her room, assuming that Marjorie was safely under shelter next door. Molly's mother had, of course, thought the same, and Stella's mother, finding the girls nowhere about, had concluded they were either at Molly's or Marjorie's. Owing to the condition of the party he was bringing, Carter deemed it best to make an entrance by the kitchen door. "There!" he said, as he landed the dripping Stella on a wooden chair, "for mercy's sake, Eliza, get the little lady into dry clothes as quick as you can!" "The saints presarve us!" exclaimed Eliza, for before she had time to realize Stella's presence, Midge and Molly bounded in, scattering spray all over the kitchen and dripping little pools of water from their wet dresses. Stella had ceased crying, but looked weak and ill. The other two, on the contrary, were capering about, unable to repress their enjoyment of this novel game. Hearing the commotion, Grandma Sherwood came to the kitchen, and not unnaturally supposed it all the result of some new prank. "What HAVE you been doing?" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you stay at Stella's and not try to come home through this rain?" Marjorie, drenched as she was, threw herself into her grandmother's arms. "Oh, if you only knew!" she cried; "you came near not having your bad little Mopsy any more! And Stella's mother came nearer yet! Why, Grandma, we were in the tree-house, and it was struck by lightning, and Stella was killed, at least for a little while, and the ladder broke down, and we couldn't get down ourselves, and so we sent off rockets of distress, I mean firecrackers, and then Carter came and rescued us all!" As Marjorie went on with her narrative, Grandma Sherwood began to understand that the children had been in real danger, and she clasped her little grandchild closer until her own dress was nearly as wet as the rest of them. "And so you see, Grandma," she proceeded, somewhat triumphantly, "it wasn't mischief a bit! It was a--an accident that might have happened to anybody; and, oh, Grandma dear, wasn't it a narrow squeak for Stella!" "Howly saints!" ejaculated Eliza; "to think of them dear childer bein' shtruck be thunder, an' mighty near killed! Och, but ye're the chrazy wans! Whyever did ye go to yer tree-top shanty in such a shtorm? Bad luck to the botherin' little house!" "Of course it didn't rain when we went there," said Marjorie, who was now dancing around Eliza, and flirting her wet ruffles at her, in an endeavor to tease the good-natured cook. But even as they talked, Mrs. Sherwood and Eliza were taking precautions against ill effects of the storm. Mrs. Sherwood devoted her attention to Stella, as the one needing it most, while Eliza looked after the other two. The three children were treated to a hot bath and vigorous rubbings, and dry clothes, and in a short time, attired in various kimonos and dressing-gowns from Marjorie's wardrobe, the three victims sat in front of the kitchen range, drinking hot lemonade and eating ginger cookies. As Marjorie had said, there had been no wrongdoing; not even a mischievous prank, except, perhaps, the breaking down of the ladder, and yet it seemed a pity that Stella should have suffered the most, when she never would have dreamed of staying at the tree-house after it began to look like rain, had it not been for the others. However, there was certainly no scolding or punishment merited by any one; and Grandma Sherwood was truly thankful that the three were safe under her roof. After the storm had entirely cleared away, Carter carried Stella home, and Mrs. Sherwood went with them to explain matters. Molly went skipping home, rather pleased than otherwise, to have such an exciting adventure to relate to her mother. When Uncle Steve came home he was greatly interested in Midget's tale of the tragedy, and greatly pleased that small heroine of the occasion by complimenting her on her ingenuity in using the firecrackers. The breaking of the ladder, he declared, was an accident, and said a new and stronger one should be put up. Furthermore, he decreed that a telephone connection should be established between "Breezy Inn" and Grandma's house, so that victims of any disaster could more easily summon aid. "That will be lovely," said Marjorie, "but they say telephones are dangerous in thunderstorms; so, perhaps, it's just as well that we didn't have one there to-day." CHAPTER XVII PENNYROYAL It was several days before the children went to "Breezy Inn" again, but one pleasant sunshiny morning found them climbing the new ladder as gayly as if no unpleasant experience were connected with its memory. Carter had cleaned up the veranda, though powder marks still showed in some places. "Why, girls," exclaimed Marjorie, "here's our pennyroyal extract! I had forgotten every single thing about it. The high old time we had that day swept it all out of my head." "I remembered it," said Molly, "but I thought it had to extract itself for a week." "No, four days is enough. It must be done now; it smells so, anyway." The girls all sniffed at the pails of spicy-smelling water, and, after wisely dipping their fingers in it and sniffing at them, they concluded it was done. "It's beautiful," said Marjorie; "I think it's a specially fine extract, and we'll have no trouble in selling heaps of it. Don't let's tell anybody until we've made a whole lot of money; and then we'll tell Grandma it's for the Dunns, and she'll be so surprised to think we could do it." "Where are the bottles?" asked Stella. "I can finish up the labels, while you girls are filling the bottles and tying the corks in." "Let's tie kid over the top," suggested Molly, "like perfume bottles, you know. You just take the wrists of old kid gloves and tie them on with a little ribbon, and then snip the edges all around like they snip the edges of a pie." "Lovely!" cried Midget, "and now I'll tell you what: let's all go home and get a lot of bottles and corks and old kid gloves and ribbons and everything, and then come back here and fix the bottles up right now." "You two go," said Stella, who was already absorbed in the work of making labels; "that will give me time to do these things. They're going to be awfully pretty." So Midge and Molly scampered off to their homes, and rummaged about for the materials they wanted. They had no trouble in finding them, for the elder people in both houses were accustomed to odd demands from the children, and in less than half an hour the girls were back again, each with a basket full of bottles, old gloves, and bits of ribbon. "Did your mother ask you what you wanted them for?" said Mops to Molly. "No; she just told me where they were, in a cupboard in the attic; and told me to get what I wanted and not bother her, because she was making jelly." "I got mine from Eliza, so Grandma doesn't know anything about it; and now we can keep it secret, and have a lovely surprise." What might have seemed work, had they been doing it for some one else, was play to the children then; and Midge and Molly carefully strained their precious extract from the leaves and bottled it and corked it with care. They tied neatly the bits of old gloves over the corks, though it was not an easy task, and when finished did not present quite the appearance of daintily-topped perfume bottles. And Stella's labels, though really good work for a little girl of eleven, were rather amateurish. But the three business partners considered the labels admirable works of art, and pasted them on the bottles with undisguised pride. Though pennyroyal was spelled with one n, they didn't notice it, and the finished wares seemed to them a perfect result of skilled labor. "Now," said Marjorie, as she sat with her chin in her hands, gazing proudly at the tableful of bottles, "it's dinner-time. Let's all go home, and then this afternoon, after we're dressed, let's come here and get the bottles, and each take a basketful, and go and sell them." "We'll all go together, won't we?" asked Stella, whose shyness stood sadly in the way of her being a successful saleswoman. "Yes, if you like," said Marjorie; "we'd get along faster by going separately; but it will be more fun to go together, so that's what we'll do." About two o'clock, the three met again at "Breezy Inn." Each was freshly attired in a spick-and-span clean gingham, and they wore large shade hats. "I thought Grandma would suspect something when I put my hat on," said Marjorie, "because I always race out here without any, but, by good luck, she didn't see me." "Mother asked me where I was going," said Molly, "and I told her to 'Breezy Inn.' It almost seemed deceitful, but I think, as we're working for charity, it's all right. You know you mustn't let your left hand know what your right hand is up to." "That isn't what that means," said Stella, who was a conscientious little girl; and, indeed, they all were, for though inclined to mischief, Midge and Molly never told stories, even by implication. "But I think it's all right," went on Stella, earnestly, "because it's a surprise. You know Christmas or Valentine's day, it's all right to surprise people, even if you have to 'most nearly deceive them." And so with no qualms of their honest little hearts, the three started off gayly to peddle their dainty wares for the cause of charity. "Let's go straight down to the village," suggested Molly, "and let's stop at every house on the way,--there aren't very many,--and then when we get where the houses are thicker we can go separately if we want to." "I don't want to," insisted Stella; "I'll stay with one of you, anyway." "All right," said Midget, "and we'll take turns in doing the talking. This is Mrs. Clarke's house; shall I talk here?" "Yes," said Molly, "and I'll help you; and if Stella doesn't want to say anything, she needn't." The three girls with their baskets skipped along the flower-bordered walk to Mrs. Clarke's front door and rang the bell. The white-capped maid, who answered the door, listened to their inquiries for Mrs. Clarke, looked curiously at the bottles, and then said: "Mrs. Clarke is not at home." "Are you sure?" said Marjorie, in a despairing voice. It seemed dreadful to lose a sale because the lady chanced to be out. "Yes," said the maid shortly, and closed the door in the very faces of the disappointed children. Troubled, but not disheartened, the girls walked back along the path, a little less gayly, and trudged on to the next house. Here the lady herself opened the door. "Do you want to buy some pennyroyal extract?" began Marjorie, a little timidly, for the expression on the lady's face was not at all cordial. "It's fine," broke in Molly, who saw that Midge needed her support; "it's lovely for mosquito bites, you just rub it on and they're all gone!" The lady seemed to look a little interested, and Stella being honestly anxious to do her share, so far conquered her timidity as to say in a faint little voice, "We made it ourselves." "Made it yourselves?" exclaimed the lady. "No, indeed, I don't want any!" And again the cruel door was closed upon the little saleswomen. "It was my fault," wailed Stella, as they went away with a crestfallen air; "if I hadn't said we made it ourselves, she would have bought it. Oh, girls, let me go home and make labels. I don't like this selling, much." Midge and Molly both felt sure that it was Stella's speech that had stopped the sale, but they were too polite to say so, and Midge answered: "Never mind, Stella dear, I don't think she was very anxious for it, anyway, but, perhaps, at the next house you needn't say anything. You don't mind, do you?" "Mind! No, indeed! I only said that to help along, and it didn't help." So, at the next house, Stella was glad to stand demurely in the background, and this time Molly took her turn at introducing the subject. A young lady was in a hammock on the veranda, and as they went up the steps she rose to greet them. "What in the world have you there?" she said, gayly, flinging down the book she was reading and looking at the children with interest. "Pennyroyal extract," said Molly, "perfectly fine for mosquito bites, bruises, cuts, scarlet fever, colds, coughs, or measles." The young lady seemed to think it very amusing, and sitting down on the top step, began to laugh. "It must be, indeed, handy to have in the house," she said; "where did you get it?" The girls were dismayed. If they said they made it themselves, probably she wouldn't buy any. They looked at each other uncertainly, and said nothing. "I hope you came by it honestly," went on the young lady, looking at them in surprise; "you couldn't have--of course, you didn't--" "Of course we didn't steal it!" cried Molly, indignantly, "if that's what you mean. It's ours, our very own, every drop of it! But--we don't want to tell you where we got it." "It sounds delightfully mysterious," said the young lady, still smiling very much, "and I don't really care where you did get it. Of course I want some, as it seems to be a very useful article, and I'm quite liable to attacks of--measles." Marjorie looked up quickly to see if this very pretty young lady was not making fun of them, but she seemed to be very much in earnest, and, indeed, was already selecting a bottle from each of the three baskets. "I'll take these three," she said; "how much are they?" The girls looked at each other. Not once had it occurred to them to consider what price they were to ask, and what to say they did not know. "Why," began Marjorie, "I should think--" "Twenty-five cents apiece," said Molly, decidedly. She knew it was a large price, considering that the extract cost nothing, but she wanted to swell the charity funds. "Well, that's very reasonable," said the young lady, who still seemed very much amused; "I will give you the money at once," and she took some change from a little gold purse which hung at her belt. "But if I may advise you," she went on, "you'd better raise your price. That's really too cheap for this most useful article." The children were so astonished at this speech that they made no reply, except to thank the kind young lady, and bid her good-by. "Now, THAT'S something like!" exclaimed Marjorie, as they reached the road again. "Wasn't she lovely? And to think, she said we ought to ask more money for the extract! This is a splendid business." "Fine!" agreed Molly; "we'll sell off all this to-day, and to-morrow we'll make another lot and sell that. We'll get lots of money for the Dunns." "We'll make more next time," said Midge, "and I'll get Carter to drive us round so we won't have to carry it; for we may sell two or three hundred bottles every day." "But I can't make so many labels," said Stella, aghast at the outlook. "Of course you can't," said Molly; "but I'll tell you what! We'll ask them to give the bottles back as soon as they've emptied them, and then we can use them over again, you know." Midge was a little dubious about asking for the bottles back, but just then they turned into the next house. It was Marjorie's turn to speak, and greatly encouraged by their late success, she began: "Would you like to buy some pennyroyal extract? For mosquitoes, burns, and bruises. It's only fifty cents a bottle, and we'll take the bottles back." The lady, who had opened the door, looked at the children as if they were escaped lunatics. "Don't come around here playing your tricks on me," she exclaimed; "I won't stand it. Take your bottles and be off!" She did not shut the door upon them, but so irate was her expression that the girls were glad to go away. "Wasn't she awful!" exclaimed Stella, with a troubled face. "Truly, girls, I don't like this. I'm going home." "No, you're not, either!" said Marjorie. "Of course, it isn't all pleasant, but when you're working for charity, you mustn't mind that. And, besides, like as not the people at the next house will be lovely." But they weren't; and one after another the people, to whom they offered their wares, refused even to look at them. At last, when they were well-nigh discouraged, a kind lady, to whom they offered the extract, seemed a little more interested than the others. "Why," she said, looking at Stella, "aren't you Guy Martin's little girl?" "Yes'm," said Stella, meekly, wondering if this fact would interfere with the sale of the goods. "Well, then, I must surely buy some," said the lady, smiling; "how much is it?" "Fifty cents a bottle, if you give the bottle back," said Stella, who felt that the lady's friendliness toward her demanded that she should answer? "Fifty cents a bottle!" exclaimed the lady. "Surely you can't mean that! Why, pennyroyal extract isn't worth a cent a quart!" The girls looked genuinely disturbed. This was a different opinion, indeed, from that advanced by the pretty lady who had bought three bottles! Marjorie suddenly began to feel as if she were doing something very foolish, and something which she ought not to have undertaken without Grandma's advice. "Is that all it's worth, truly?" she asked, looking straightforwardly into the lady's eyes. "Why, yes, my dear,--I'm sure it could not have a higher market value." "Then we don't want to sell you any," said Marjorie, whose sense of honesty was aroused; and picking up her basket from the porch, she turned toward the street, walking fast, and holding her head high in the air, while her cheeks grew very red. Molly followed her, uncertain as to what to do next, and Stella trailed along behind, a dejected little figure, indeed, with her heavy basket on her arm. CHAPTER XVIII WELCOME GIFTS "It's all wrong!" declared Marjorie. "I didn't see it before, but I do now. That lady was right, and we oughtn't to try to sell anything that's worth less than a cent for fifty cents, or twenty-five either." "Shall we go home?" asked Molly, who always submitted to Marjorie's decisions. "_I_ don't think it's wrong," began Stella. "Of course the pennyroyal isn't worth much, but we worked to get it, and to make it, and to fix it up and all; and, besides, people always pay more than things are worth when they're for charity." Marjorie's opinion veered around again. The three were sitting on a large stepping-stone under some shady trees, and Marjorie was thinking out the matter to her own satisfaction before they should proceed. "Stella, I believe you're right, after all," she said. "Now I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll go to one more place, and if it's a nice lady, we'll ask her what she thinks about it, for I'd like the advice of a grown-up." This seemed a fair proposition, and the three wandered in at the very place where they had been sitting on the stone. With renewed courage, they rang the door bell. It was Marjorie's turn to speak, and the words were on the tip of her tongue. Being somewhat excited, she began her speech as the door began to open. "Don't you want to buy some pennyroyal extract?" she said rapidly; "it's perfectly fine for mosquitoes, measles, and burns, and scarlet fever! It isn't worth a cent a quart, but we sell it for fifty cents a bottle, if you give the bottles back. But if you don't think it's right for us to sell it, we won't." Marjorie would not have been quite so mixed up in her speech but for the fact that after she was fairly started upon it, she raised her eyes to the person she was addressing, and instead of a kind and sweet-faced lady she beheld a very large, burly, and red-faced gentleman. Not wishing to appear embarrassed, she floundered on with her speech, though in reality she hardly knew what she was saying. "Well, upon my soul!" exclaimed the red-faced gentleman, in a loud, deep voice, "here's a pretty kettle of fish. Young ladies peddling extract at decent people's houses!" He glared at the girls with a ferocious expression, and then went on, in even louder tones: "What do you MEAN by such doings? Have you a license? Don't you know that people who sell goods without a license must be arrested? I've a notion to clap every one of you in jail!" As might have been expected, Stella began to cry, while Midge and Molly gazed at the red-faced old man as if fascinated. They wanted to run away, but something in his look held them there; and, anyway, they couldn't go and leave Stella, who had dropped in a little heap on the floor of the piazza and hidden her face in her arms, while convulsive sobs shook her slender little frame. At sight of Stella's tears, a sudden and wonderful change seemed to come over the old gentleman. His ferocious expression gave way to an anxious smile, and, stooping, he picked Stella up in his arms, saying: "There, there, baby! don't be frightened; that was only my joking. Why, bless your heart, I wasn't a mite in earnest. There, there, now, don't cry; I'll buy all your extract,--every single drop,--and pay any price you want; and I'll give you back all the bottles, and all the baskets, and all the extract, too, if you want it, and some lovely peaches into the bargain! There, brace up now, and forgive your old Uncle Bill for teasing you so! Jail, indeed! I'll take you into the house instead, and find some plum-cake for you!" Carrying Stella in his big, strong arms, the strange old gentleman ushered Midge and Molly into the house and made straight for the dining-room. "Folks all gone away," he went on, still in his gruff, deep tones, but somehow they now sounded very kind; "gone away for an all-day picnic, and left me alone to shift for myself. Jolly glad to have company--jolly glad to entertain you. Here's peaches, here's cake. Have a glass of milk?" The old man bustled around and seemed so anxious to dispel the unpleasant impression he had made at first that Molly and Midge met him halfway, and beamed happily as they accepted the pleasant refreshments he set out. "Fall to, fall to," he said, rubbing his big hands together, as he watched the children do justice to the feast. The girls suddenly discovered that they were both tired and hungry, and the old gentleman's hospitality put them in a much pleasanter frame of mind. "Now, what's all this about pineapple extract?" he inquired. "I didn't half get the hang of it, and I was only joking you when you all seemed to get scared to death." So Marjorie told him the whole story from the beginning and asked his opinion as to the wisdom of the plan. The old man's eyes twinkled. "I've nothing to say about that," he replied, "but I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll buy your whole stock of pennyroyal tea,--or whatever it is,--and I'll pay you ten dollars for the lot. It isn't a question of what the stuff is worth in itself, but a question of its value to me; and I'll rate that at ten dollars, and here's your money. You can spend it yourselves, or give it to your poor people, whichever you like." "Of course we'll give it to the Dunns," declared Marjorie, "that is, if we take it, but I'm not sure that we ought to take it." "Go 'long," cried the old man; "take it? Of course you'll take it! and give those children a feast or something. I know you, little Miss Curly Head, you're Steve Sherwood's niece, aren't you?" "Yes," said Marjorie; "do you know Uncle Steve?" "Know him? I should say I did! You just tell your Uncle Steve that old Bill Wallingford wanted to make a contribution to charity and he took this way! Now, little ladies, if you think you've enough for one day, nothing will give me greater pleasure than to hitch up and take you home." The girls were glad to accept this invitation, for they had walked nearly three miles in all, with their heavy baskets; and much of the time with heavy hearts, which are a great hindrance to pedestrians. So old Uncle Bill, as he instructed the children to call him, harnessed a pair of horses and drove the three young business women back to their respective homes. "Well, Marjorie Maynard, where HAVE you been?" exclaimed Grandma, as Midge made her appearance. And, then, without further delay, Marjorie told the whole story. Uncle Steve lay back in his chair and roared with laughter, but Grandma Sherwood was not entirely amused. "What WILL you do next, Marjorie?" she cried. "Didn't you know, child, that it is not becoming for a Maynard to go around the streets peddling things?" "Why not, Grandma?" asked Marjorie, to whom it had never occurred there could be any objection to the occupation. Her only doubt had been as to the price they ought to ask for their goods. "I'm not sure that I can make you understand," said Grandma, "and it isn't really necessary that you should, at present. But never again must you go out selling things to strangers." "But we sold things for the Dunns at the bazaar," argued Marjorie. "You can't understand the difference, my dear, so don't try. Just obey Grandma and don't ever undertake such a big enterprise as that without asking me beforehand. Why, I'm ASHAMED that you should have gone to the Clarkes' and the Fosters' and the Eliots' on such an errand! Really, Marjorie, you ought to have known better." "But, Grandma, I thought you would be pleased, and it would make you a happy surprise." "I am surprised, but not at all pleased. However, Mopsy, it wasn't wilful wrong on your part; it was only one of those absurd mistakes that you seem to be continually making." "You showed a pretty good business instinct, Midget," said her uncle; "if you were a boy I'd expect you to grow up to be one of the Kings of Finance. But, after this, when you're inclined to start a large business enterprise, invite me to go in with you as partner." "I will, Uncle Steve; but, anyway, we have ten dollars and seventy-five cents from our extract, and I don't think that's so bad." "Indeed, it isn't," said Uncle Steve, his eyes twinkling; "whoever can get money for charity out of old Bill Wallingford is, indeed, pretty clever! I think, Grandma, that since Midge has earned this herself, she and the other girls ought to have the pleasure of spending it for the Dunns, in any way they choose." Grandma agreed with Uncle Steve in this matter, and the result was that the next day he took the three girls to town to spend their hard-earned money. It was always fun to go anywhere with Uncle Steve, and this occasion was a particularly joyful one, for it combined the elements of a charitable excursion and a holiday beside. They drove first to a large shop, where they bought some clothes for the Dunns. The girls thought that a few pretty garments, as well as useful ones, would be the nicest way to use their money. So they bought pretty straw hats and cambric dresses for the children, and a blue worsted shawl for Mrs. Dunn, and a little white cap for the baby. "I don't suppose these things are so awful necessary," Midget confided to Uncle Steve, "but it will be such fun to see how glad they'll be to get them." Molly, who was more practical, advised some aprons and shoes and stockings, while Stella's preference was for toys. "They don't need so many clothes in summer time," she said, "and something to amuse them will make them forget how hot it is." It was wonderful how long that ten dollars lasted, and how many things it bought! Marjorie lost count of their expenditures, but every time she asked Uncle Steve if there was any money left, he answered, "Oh, yes, quite a bit more," and so they bought and bought, until the carriage was overflowing with bundles. At last, Marjorie said: "Now, I'm sure the money is all gone, and I do believe. Uncle Steve, you've been adding some to it; but there are two more things I do want to buy most awfully--and they're both pink." "I'd hate to have two pink things left out," declared Uncle Steve, "and I'm sure there's just money enough left for the two. What are they, Mopsy?" "Well, one is a pink parasol for that Elegant Ella. Not a silk one, you know, Uncle, but a sateen one, with a little ruffle around it, and a white handle. She'd be so delighted, she'd just go crazy!" "Let's send her crazy, then, by all means. Where do you purchase these sateen affairs?" "Oh, at any dry-goods shop. We'll pick one out." Into a large department store the girls went, and soon found a parasol, which, though inexpensive, was as dainty and pretty as the higher-priced silk ones. They already had a gayly-dressed doll for Hoopy Topsy, and toys for the little children. "Now, what's the other pink thing, Midget?" asked Uncle Steve, as they all piled into the carriage again. "Don't laugh, Uncle, but you see, it's such an awfully hot day and I really think it would comfort them to have--" "A pink fan apiece, all 'round?" "No, Uncle, not that at all; something much cooler than that. A can of pink ice cream!" "Just the thing, Mops! How did you ever come to think of it? We'll take it right along with us, and after we've bestowed all this load of luggage on the unsuspecting Dunns, we'll come back here and get another can of ice cream for ourselves; and we'll take it home to a nice, little green porch I know of, and there we'll all rest after our labors, and regale ourselves." This plan met with great favor in the eyes of the three young people most concerned, and Uncle Steve drove to the caterer's, where he bought a good-sized can of the cold comfort to add to their charitable load. And maybe the Dunns weren't pleased with their gifts! The tears stood in Mrs. Dunn's eyes as she thanked Marjorie and the other girls over and over for their thoughtful kindness. The Dunns were often accounted shiftless, but the poor woman found it difficult to take care of her growing family and by her industry provide for their support. Nor had she much help from the oldest daughter. The Elegant Ella was, by nature, self-centred and vain; and though a good-natured little girl, she was not very dependable in the household. But she was enormously pleased with her pink parasol, and after enthusiastic thanks to the donors, she raised it, and holding it over her head at a coquettish angle, she walked away to a broken-down rustic seat under a tree, and, posing herself in what she felt sure was a graceful attitude, proceeded to sit there and enjoy her welcome gift. But when, last of all, the can of ice cream was presented, the joy of the Dunn children found vociferous expression. Hoopsy Topsy turned somersaults to show her delight, while Dibbs yelled for very glee. Carefully putting down her parasol, and laying it aside, the Elegant Ella sauntered over to where the family were gathered round the wonderful can. "Don't be in such haste," she said, reprovingly, to the boisterous children, "sit down quietly, and I will arrange that the ice cream shall be served properly." This was too much for the amused observers in the carriage, and, picking up the reins, Uncle Steve, with a hasty good-by, drove away. The girls leaned out of the carriage to get a last glimpse of the Elegant Ella, and saw her still trying to quell the noisy impatience of the smaller children, but apparently with little success. "Now our duty's done, and well done," said Uncle Steve, gayly; "and now we'll go for our justly-earned reward. You chickadees may each select your favorite flavor of ice cream and then we'll get a goodly portion of each, with a fair share thrown in for Grandma and myself." The result was a very large-sized wooden tub, which they managed to stow away in the carriage somehow, and then they drove rapidly homeward that they might enjoy their little feast in Marjorie's porch. CHAPTER XIX THE OLD WELL During August the weather became excessively hot. Grandma Sherwood managed to keep the house cool by careful adjustment of awnings, blinds, and screens, but out-of-doors it was stifling. Midge and Molly did not mind the heat much, and played out of doors all day, but Stella wilted under the sun's direct rays, and usually her mother kept her indoors until the late afternoon. But one day the intense heat became almost too much even for the other two little girls. They had been romping in the barn, and finally sat down in the hay, very red-faced and warm. "What can we do," said Molly, "to get cooler?" "Let's go down by the river," said Marjorie; "it must be cooler by the water." "Not a bit of it. The sun's too bright down there. Let's walk in the woods." "The woods are so hot; there isn't a bit of breeze in there." In sheer idleness of spirit the girls got up and wandered aimlessly about. Going down through the garden and across the chicken-yard, they paused a moment by the old well to get a drink. As they turned the windlass and drew up a full bucket of water, while the empty one went down, Molly was seized with an inspiration. "Mopsy Midget!" she exclaimed. "I'll tell you the very thing! Let's go down the well, and get cooled off!" "How can we?" said Marjorie, who was quite ready to go, but couldn't see her way clear as to the means of transportation. "Why, as easy as anything! You go down in one bucket, and I'll go down in the other." "We can't get in these buckets." "Of course not, goosey; but we can get our feet in, and then stand up, and hold on by the chain." "We can't get our feet in flat, the buckets aren't wide enough." As she spoke, Marjorie stood on one foot and examined the sole of her other shoe, which was certainly longer than the diameter of the bucket. "Oh, don't fuss so! We can stand on our toes a little bit. Come on--I'll go first." "All right," and Marjorie began to enter into the spirit of the thing; "there can't be any danger, because Carter said the water was low in the well." "Yes, all the wells are low just now--it's such dry weather. But, anyway, we won't go down as far as the water. Now listen: I'll get in this bucket and start down. You pull the other one up, and when you get it up here, pour out the water and get in yourself, and then come on down. But don't let my bucket go all the way down, because I don't want to go into the water. Put a stick through the chain when I holler up for you to do so." "All right; hop in, it will be lots of fun, and we'll surely get cooled off." So, while the bucket stood on the flat stones of the well-curb, Molly stepped in and wound her thin little arms around the chain. "Push me off," she said to Marjorie, "and hang on to the other side of the chain so I won't go too fast." "Yes, but who's going to push me off when I go down?" "Oh, you can wriggle yourself off. Here, don't push me, I'll push off myself and show you how." Grasping the other chain and partly supporting herself by that means, Molly, with her feet in the bucket, wriggled and pushed until the bucket went off the edge of the curb and began to slide down the well. The other bucket came up from under the water with a splash, and as both girls held the upcoming chain, Molly did not go down too fast. "It's great!" she exclaimed, as she went slowly down. "It's perfectly lovely! It's as cold as an ice-box and the stones are all green and mossy. Look out now, Mops, I'm coming to the other bucket." The two buckets bumped together, and Molly grabbed at the other one as it passed. "Now, look out, Mopsy," she said, "I'm going to let go of this other bucket and then I'll only have my own chain to hang on to, so you manage it right and stick the stick through the chain when I tell you to." The plan worked pretty well, except that it was not easy for Marjorie to keep the water-filled bucket back to balance Molly's weight. It required all her strength to pull on the upcoming chain, and she was glad, indeed, when Molly told her to push the stick in. A stout stick pushed through a link of chain held the windlass firmly, and as Marjorie lifted the bucket full of water up on to the curb, rash little Molly swung daringly deep in the well below. "It's awfully queer," she called up, "and I don't like it very much so low down. Gracious, Marjorie, you spilled that water all over me!" For Marjorie had thoughtlessly emptied the water from the bucket back into the well instead of pouring it out on the ground, and though Molly's bucket swung to one side of the well, yet the child was pretty well splashed with the falling water. But undaunted by trifles of that sort, Molly proceeded gayly to give her orders. "Now, Midget," she went on, "if your bucket's empty, set it near the edge, and get in and come on down." Though not as absolutely reckless as Molly, Midget was daring enough, and, placing the empty bucket on the very edge of the curb, she put her feet in, and, standing on her toes with her heels against the side of the bucket, she wound her arms about the chain as Molly had done, and twisted about until the bucket fell off the edge. Had the girls been more nearly of equal weight, their plan would have worked better; but as Marjorie was so much heavier than Molly, the laws of gravitation claimed her, and she went swiftly down. The instant that she started, Molly realized this, and her quick wits told her that, unless stopped, Marjorie's bucket would dive deep into the water. It was a critical situation, and had it not been for Molly's presence of mind a tragedy might have resulted. As it was, she bravely grasped at Marjorie as she passed her; and with a sudden bump, as the two buckets hit together and then fell apart, Molly clutched at Marjorie, and the buckets paused side by side, while the girls shivered and shook, partly with fear and partly with fun. "What are we going to do?" said Molly. "If I let go of you, you'll go smash into the water, and I'll fly up to the top!" "Keep hold of me, then," replied Midget, who had a wonderful power of adapting herself to a situation. And so the two girls, each with one hand grasping a bucket chain and their other hands tightly clasped, stood face to face half-way down the old well. "I don't think this is such an awfully nice place," said Marjorie, looking round at the slimy green walls which shone wet in the semi-darkness. "Well, it's cool," retorted Molly, who was shivering in her wet clothing. "Of course it's cool, but my feet ache, standing on my toes so long. I wonder if I couldn't sit down on the side of the bucket." "Don't try!" exclaimed Molly, in alarm. "You'll keel over and upset us both into the water!" "You said the water wasn't deep; perhaps it's only up to our knees; that wouldn't hurt us." "Yes, and perhaps it's over our heads! I don't know how deep it is, I'm sure; but I must say it looks deep." The girls peered downward and saw only a black, shining surface, with a shadowy reflection of themselves. "Well, I've had enough of it," said Marjorie; "now, how are we going to get back again?" "I don't know," said Molly, slowly, as if the idea had just occurred to her; "honest, Marjorie, I DON'T know." Marjorie looked dismayed, and, indeed, so did Molly herself. "You see," Molly went on, feeling as if she were responsible for the situation, "I forgot you're so much heavier than I am. You know the two buckets balance each other." "Not when one is full and one is empty." "No; but THEN there is somebody at the top to pull them up. If Carter or anybody was up there, he could pull one of us up." "Yes, and let the other one go down in the water!" "No; when one of us was nearly up, he could put the stick in the chain, like you did." "Well, Carter isn't up there; I wish he was. We might scream for him, but, of course, he couldn't hear us from way down here." "Let's try, anyway." Both the girls screamed with all their might, separately and together, but they soon realized that their muffled voices scarcely reached the top of the well, let alone sounding across the fields to Carter. "This is mischief, for sure," said Marjorie; "and Grandma won't like it a bit. I promised her faithfully I would try to keep out of mischief." The little girl's face was very troubled, for she had truly meant to be good and not indulge in naughty pranks. "You didn't mean it for mischief," said Molly, consolingly; "I'm sure _I_ didn't." "Of course I didn't; but somehow I never seem to know what IS mischief until I get into it. But, oh, Molly, I can't stand on my toes any longer. If my feet were a little shorter, or the bucket a little wider, I could stand down flat." "I don't seem to mind tiptoeing," said Molly; "can't you take off your shoes? Then, perhaps, you could stand flat." "Perhaps I could," said Marjorie, doubtfully, "but I know I'll upset doing it." But with Molly's help, and both holding carefully by the chains, Marjorie managed to get her shoes off, and tied them to the handle of the bucket by their strings. "Well, that's a comfort," she exclaimed, as she stood firmly on the soles of her stockinged feet. But as the minutes passed away, the girls rapidly became aware of the discomforts of their position. Their hands became bruised with the chains, their bodies grew stiff and cramped, and the damp, cold atmosphere seemed almost to stop the blood in their veins. The two little white faces looked at each other in the glimmering twilight of the well, and all the fun faded out of the escapade, and despair gradually crept over them. Two big tears rolled down Marjorie's cheeks as she said: "I'm not going to cry, Molly, because there's no use of it; but, oh, Molly, what ARE we going to do?" "I don't know, Mops. There isn't a thing to do but to stay here until Carter or somebody happens to come to draw water. You won't faint or anything, will you?" "I don't know," said Marjorie, almost smiling at Molly's alarmed expression; "I don't believe I will, because I don't know how to faint. If I knew how I s'pose I would, for I don't think I can stay like this much longer." Marjorie's head began to sway back and forth, and Molly, thoroughly frightened, seized her by the shoulder and shook her vigorously. "Marjorie Maynard!" she exclaimed. "If you faint and tumble out of this bucket, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live!" Her excited tones roused Marjorie from the faintness that was beginning to steal over her. "I don't want to fall into the water," she said, shuddering. "Well, then, brace up and behave yourself! Stand up straight in your bucket and hang on to the chains. Don't look down; that was what made you feel faint. We're here and we must make the best of it. We can't get out until somebody comes, so let's be plucky and do the best we can." "Pooh! Molly Moss! I guess I can be as brave as you can! I'm not going to faint, or tumble into the water, or do anything silly! Now that I don't have to stand on tiptoe, I could stand here all day,--and Carter's bound to come for water for the cows." Then what did those two ridiculous girls do but bravely try to outdo each other in their exhibition of pluck! Neither complained again of weariness or cramped muscles, and finally Marjorie proposed that they tell each other stories to make the time pass, pleasantly. The stories were not very interesting affairs, for both speaker and listener were really suffering from pain and chill. At last Molly said: "Suppose we scream some more. If Carter should be passing by, you know, he might hear us." Marjorie was quite willing to adopt this plan, and after that they screamed at intervals on the chance of being heard. Two mortal hours the girls hung in the well before help came, and then Carter, passing near the well, heard what seemed to him like a faint and muffled cry. Scarcely thinking it could be the children, he paused and listened. Again he heard a vague sound, which seemed as if it might be his own name called in despairing tones. Guided more by instinct than reason, he went and looked over the well-curb, and was greeted with two jubilant voices, which called up to him: "Oh, Carter, Carter, pull us up! We're down the well, and we're nearly dead!" "Oh, my! oh, my!" groaned Carter. "Are ye drowned?" CHAPTER XX AN EVENTFUL DAY "Not a bit," chirped Midget, who was determined to be plucky to the last; "we just came down here to get cooled off, and somehow we can't get up." "Well, if ye aren't a team of Terrors!" exclaimed the exasperated Carter. "I've a good mind to let ye stay down there and GET cooled off!" Carter was really frightened, but Marjorie's voice was so reassuring that his mood turned to anger at the children's foolishness. As he looked into the situation, however, and saw the girls clasping each other as they hung half-way down the well, his alarm returned. "How CAN I get ye up, ye bad babies! Whichever one I pull up, the other one must go down and drown!" The reaction was beginning to tell upon Molly, and her bravery was oozing out at her fingerends. "Let me down," she wailed, brokenly; "it was all my fault. Save Marjorie and let me go!" "No, indeed," cried Marjorie, gripping Molly closer; "I'm the heaviest. Let me go down and pull Molly up, Carter." "Quit your nonsense, Miss Midget, and let me think a minute. For the life of me I don't know how to get ye out of this scrape, but I must manage it somehow." "It's easy enough, Carter," cried Marjorie, whose gayety had returned now that a rescue seemed probable. "You pull me up first and let Molly go down, but not as far as the water,--and when I get nearly up, there's a stick through the chain that will stop me. Then I'll get out, and you can pull Molly up after." But Molly's nerve was almost gone. "Don't leave me," she cried, clutching frantically at Midge. "Don't send me down alone, I'm so frightened!" "But, Molly dear, it's the only way! I'd just as leave let you go up first, but I'm so heavy I'd drop ker-splash! and you'd go flying up!" But Molly wouldn't agree to go down, and she began to cry hysterically. So Carter settled the question. "It's no use, Miss Midget," he called down, in a stern voice, "to try to send Miss Molly down. She's in no state to take care of herself, and you are. Now be a brave little lady and obey my word and I'll save you both; but if you don't mind me exactly, ye'll be drowned for sure!" Marjorie was pretty well scared at Molly's collapse, and she agreed to do whatever Carter commanded. "All right, then," said Carter. "Do you two let go of each other and each hang tightly to her own chain, and push your buckets apart as far as you can, but don't hit the sides of the well." Somewhat inspirited at the thought of rescue, Molly took a firm hold of her chain and pushed herself loose from Marjorie. Marjorie had faith in Carter's promises, but she felt a sinking at her heart as she began to descend the dark well and came nearer and nearer to the black water. With great care, Carter drew up the bucketful of Molly, and when Midge's bucket was still at a safe distance above the water, he stayed the chain with a stick, and pulled Molly the rest of the way up merely by his own strong muscles. He safely landed the bucket on the curb, and picking the exhausted child out, laid her on the grass, without a word. He then went back to the well and spoke very decidedly to Marjorie. "Miss Midget," he said, "now I'll pull ye up, but ye must do your share of helpin'. When ye reach the other bucket, shove it aside, that it doesn't hit ye. Stand straight and hold tight, now!" Marjorie did as she was told, and, slowly but steadily, Carter pulled her up. At last she, too, was once again out in the sunlight, and she and Molly sat on the grass and looked at each other, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. "It was a narrow escape," said Carter, shaking his head at them, "and what puts such wicked mischief into your heads, I don't know. But it's not for me to be reprovin' ye. March into the house now, and tell your Grandma about it, and see what she says." "I'll go in," said Marjorie, "but if you'd rather, Molly, you can go home. I'll tell Grandma about it, myself." "No," said Molly, "it was my fault. I coaxed you into it, and I'm going to tell your grandma about it." "I was just as much to blame as you, for I didn't have to go down the well just because you coaxed me. But I'll be glad if you will come with me, for, of course, we can explain it better together." Hand in hand the two culprits walked into the room where Mrs. Sherwood sat sewing. They were a sorry-looking pair, indeed! Their pretty gingham frocks were limp and stringy with dampness, and soiled and stained from contact with the buckets and the moss-grown sides of the well. Marjorie had been unable to get her shoes on over her damp, torn stockings, and as Molly's head had been drenched with water, she presented a forlorn appearance. Grandma Sherwood looked at them with an expression, not so much of surprise, as amused exasperation. "I'm glad you weren't killed," she said, "but you look as if you had come very near it. What have you been up to now?" "We haven't been up at all, Grandma," said Marjorie, cheerfully, "we've been down--in the well." "In the well!" exclaimed Mrs. Sherwood, her face blank with surprise. "Marjorie, what can I do with you? I shall have to send you home before your vacation is over, unless you stop getting into mischief! Did you fall down?" "It was my fault, Mrs. Sherwood," said Molly; "truly, I didn't mean mischief, but it was such a hot day and I thought it would be cool down the well--" "And it was," interrupted Marjorie; "and we had a pretty good time,--only I was too heavy and I went down whizz--zip! And Molly came flying up, and if we hadn't caught each other, I s'pect we'd both have been drowned!" Grandma Sherwood began to realize that there had been not only mischief but real danger in this latest escapade. "Molly," she said, "you may go home, and tell your mother about it, and I will talk it over with Marjorie. I think you were equally to blame, for, though Molly proposed the plan, Marjorie ought not to have consented." So Molly went home and Mrs. Sherwood had a long and serious talk with her little granddaughter. She did not scold,--Grandma Sherwood never scolded,--but she explained to Marjorie that, unless she curbed her impulsive inclinations to do reckless things, she would certainly make serious trouble for herself and her friends. "It doesn't matter at all," she said, "who proposes the mischief. You do just as wrong in consenting to take part, as if you invented the plan yourself." "But, Grandma, truly I didn't see any harm in going down the well to get cooled off. The buckets are big and the chains are very strong, and I thought we would just go down slowly and swing around awhile and pull ourselves up again." "Oh, Midget, will you never learn commonsense? I know you're only twelve, but it seems as if you ought to know better than to do such absurd things." "It does seem so, Grandma, and I'll try to learn. Perhaps if you punish me for this I'll grow better. Punishment most always does me good." Grandma Sherwood suppressed a smile. "I always punish you, Midget, when you do wrong through forgetfulness, because I think punishment helps your memory. But I don't think you'll ever FORGET that you're not to go down the well again. But next time it will be some other dreadful thing; something totally different, and something that it would never occur to me to warn you against. However, I do want you to remember not to do things that endanger your life, so I think I shall punish you for this morning's performance. You may remain in your own room all the afternoon,--at least, until Uncle Steve comes home." Grandma's command was not so much for the sake of punishing Marjorie as the thought that the child really needed a quiet afternoon of rest after her experience of the morning. Marjorie sighed a little, but accepted her fate, and after dinner went to her room to spend the afternoon. It was not a great hardship, for there was plenty of entertainment there, and had it been a rainy day, she could have occupied herself happily. But the knowledge that she was there as a punishment weighed on her mind, and depressed her spirits; and she wandered idly about the room, unable to take an interest in her books or toys. Grandma looked in from time to time and gave her an encouraging smile and a few words of comfort; for, though intending to be strict with Midget, like all other grandmas, Mrs. Sherwood greatly preferred to be indulgent. After a while Molly came over, and, as she seemed so penitent and full of remorse, Mrs. Sherwood told her that, if she chose, she might go up to Marjorie's room and share her imprisonment. Nothing loath, Molly trotted upstairs, and the lonesome Marjorie was glad, indeed, to see her. After a short discussion of the affair of the morning, Marjorie said, with her usual inclination to keep away from disagreeable subjects: "Don't let's talk about it any more. Let's have some good fun up here. I'm so glad Grandma let you come up." "All right," said Molly, "what shall we do?" "Let's make paper dresses. Here's a stack of newspapers Grandma was going to throw away, and I saved them." "Goody! What fun! Shall we pin or sew?" "We'll pin till the pins give out, and then we'll sew." "Paper dresses" was a favorite pastime with the children. Usually Stella was with them, and they depended a good deal on her taste and skill. But to-day they had to manage without her, and so the dresses, though fairly well made, were not the fashionable garments Stella turned out. A whole double sheet of newspaper was long enough for a skirt, which, in a paper dress, was always down to the floor, like grown-up gowns, and usually had a long train. Sometimes they pasted the papers together, and sometimes pinned or sewed them, as the mood served. The waists were often quite elaborate with surplice folds, and puffy sleeves, and wide, crushed belts. So absorbed did they grow in their costumes that the time passed rapidly. At last they stood, admiring each other, in their finished paper gowns, with paper accessories of fans, hats, and even parasols, which were considered great works of art. "Let's play we're going riding in an automobile," said Molly. "All right; what shall be the automobile--the bed?" "No, that isn't high enough. I don't mean a private automobile, I mean one of those big touring things where you sit 'way up high." "Let's get up on top of the wardrobe." "No, that's too high, and the bureau isn't high enough. Let's get out on the roof and hang our feet over." "No," said Marjorie, decidedly; "that would be getting into mischief; and besides, I promised Grandma I wouldn't leave the room. Come on, Molly, let's climb up on the wardrobe. There can't be any harm in that, and 'twill be lots of fun." "How can we get up?" Marjorie looked at the wardrobe and meditated. "Easy enough," she said after a moment: "we'll just put a chair on the table and climb up as nice as pie!" The girls worked energetically, yet careful not to tear their paper costumes; and removing the things from a strong square table, they pushed it up to the wardrobe. On this they set a chair, and Marjorie volunteered to go up first, saying that, if it didn't break down with her, it surely wouldn't with Molly. So Molly held the table firmly, while Marjorie climbed up and, though it required some scrambling, she finally reached the top of the heavy wardrobe, without more than a dozen tears in her paper dress. "Bring up my parasol, Molly," she said, "I forgot it; and bring some papers and the scissors, and we'll make some automobile goggles." Laden with these things, Molly briskly started to climb up. The light, wiry child sprang easily on to the table, and then on to the chair. Marjorie lent a helping hand, but just as Molly crawled up to the top of the wardrobe, her flying foot kicked the chair over, which in turn upset the table. "Now, you HAVE done it!" said Marjorie. "How are we going to get down?" "It seems to me," said Molly, grimly, "that we're always getting into places where we can't get down, or can't get up, or something." "Never mind; Jane or somebody will come along soon and set the table up again for us." It really was great fun to play they were on a high motor car seeing New York. But after a while the game palled, and their paper dresses became torn, and the girls wanted to get down and play something else. But neither Jane nor any one else happened to come along, and though Marjorie called a few times, nobody seemed to be within hearing. "I should think we could find some way to get down," said Molly. "Can't you think of any way, Mops?" Marjorie considered. To jump was out of the question, as it would probably mean a sprained ankle. "I wish we had a rope ladder," she said, "and, Molly, I do believe we can make one. Not a ladder, exactly, but don't you know how people sometimes escape from prisons by tying sheets together and letting themselves down?" "Yes, but we haven't any sheets." "I know it, but we can take our dress skirts. Not the paper ones, but our own gingham ones. They're strong, thick stuff, and we can tie them together somehow and let ourselves down that way." Although obliged to work in somewhat cramped quarters, the girls managed to take off their dress skirts, and, as they were very full, one of them was really sufficient to reach far enough down the side of the wardrobe to make a jump possible. "I'll tell you what," said Marjorie: "let's tie the two together at the corners like this, and then put it right across the top of the wardrobe, and each of us slide down on opposite sides." When the full skirts were stretched out to their greatest width and tied together by their hems, at what Marjorie called a corner, the girls flung the whole affair across the top of the wardrobe, and sure enough, the skirts hung down on either side to within four or five feet of the floor, which was quite near enough to jump. So thick and strong was the material, there was really no danger of tearing it, and in great glee the girls grasped their life-line and half slid, half clambered down. They came down on the floor with a sudden thump, but in safety. All would have been well had they had sense enough to let go of their gingham skirts, but, doubled up with laughter, they clung to them, with the result that a sudden and unintentional jerk forward brought the whole wardrobe over on its face, and it fell crashing to the floor. Such a racket as it made! It fell upon a small table, whose load of vases and bric-a-brac was totally wrecked. It also smashed a chair and very nearly hit the bird-cage. And just at this moment, of all times, Uncle Steve appeared at the door! Although dismayed at the catastrophe, Uncle Steve couldn't help laughing at the astonished faces of the two girls. For, jubilant at the success of their descent, the accompanying disaster had been thrust on them so suddenly that they scarcely knew what it all meant. And costumed as they were, in their little ruffled white petticoats, with hats and bodices made of newspaper, the sight was a comical one indeed. "Marjorie Maynard!" exclaimed Uncle Steve, "you certainly DO beat the Dutch, and Molly lends you valuable aid. Would you mind telling me WHY you prefer the wardrobe flat on its face instead of in an upright position?" "Oh, Uncle Steve it upset itself, and I'm so sorry!" "Oh, well, if it upset itself I suppose it did so because it prefers to lie that way. Probably it was tired and wanted to rest. Wardrobes are a lazy lot, anyway. But do you know, I was stupid enough to think that you girls had something to do with its downfall." "Oh, we did, Uncle Steve," declared Marjorie, and as by this time her uncle's arm was around her, and she realized his sympathetic attitude in the matter, she rapidly began to tell him all about it. "We were playing automobile, you see--" "Oh, well, if it was an automobile accident, it's not at all surprising. Was it reckless driving, or did you collide with something?" "We collided with the table," said Marjorie, laughing; but just then Grandma Sherwood appeared, and somehow the look of consternation on her face seemed to take all the fun out of the whole affair. But Uncle Steve stood between Marjorie and a reprimand, and in consequence of his comical explanation of the disaster, Mrs. Sherwood fell to laughing, and the tragedy became a comedy. And then, at Uncle Steve's orders, the girls were made tidy, and he took them out for a drive, while the long-suffering Carter was called in to remove all evidences of the dreadful automobile accident. CHAPTER XXI A FAREWELL TEA-PARTY The summer, as all summers will do, came to an end, and at last it was the very day before Marjorie was to leave Haslemere and go back to her own home. The three friends were having a farewell tea-party at "Breezy Inn," and very sad were the three little faces at the thought of parting. "And the worst of it is," said Midget, "I can't come again for four years, and then I'll be sixteen years old, just think of that!" "So will I," said Molly; "we'll be almost young ladies. Isn't it horrid?" "At least we won't get into such mischief," said Marjorie, laughing as she remembered the scrapes they had been in all summer. "And next year it's Kitty's turn to come, and you'll have fun with her here in "Breezy Inn," and I won't be here." At this pathetic announcement, Stella began to cry in earnest, and merry Molly tried to cheer the others up. "Well, we can't help it," she said, "and I suppose, Marjorie, you'll be having a good time somewhere else." "I s'pose so. They were all at the seashore this summer, and Kitty wrote to me that she had had a lovely time." "Maybe she'll trade off with you," said Stella, "and let you come up here next summer, while she goes to the seashore again." "Maybe she will," said Midget, brightening up; "I'd like that, but I don't believe Mother will let us. You see, we take regular turns spending the summer with Grandma. Baby Rosamond never has been yet, but when it's her turn again, she'll be old enough, and so that puts me off for four years." "Don't let's talk about it," said Molly, as she took her eleventh ginger-snap from the plate; "we can't help it, and we may as well look on the bright side. Let's write letters to each other this winter; shall we?" "Yes, indeed," said Stella; "I'll write you every week, Marjorie, and you must write to me, and we'll all send each other Christmas presents, and, of course 'Breezy Inn' will be shut up for the winter anyway, I suppose." "I suppose it will," said Marjorie, "and I s'pose it's time for us to go now; it's six o'clock." There was a little choke in her voice as she said this, and a little mist in her eyes as she looked for the last time at the familiar treasures of "Breezy Inn." Stella was weeping undisguisedly, and with her wet little mop of a handkerchief pressed into her eyes, she could scarcely see her way down the ladder. But Uncle Steve, who came across the fields to meet them, promptly put a stop to this state of things. "That's enough," he said, "of weeps and wails! Away with your handkerchiefs and out with your smiles, every one of you! Suppose Marjorie IS going away to-morrow, she's going off in a blaze of glory and amid shouts of laughter, and she's not going to leave behind any such doleful-looking creatures as you two tearful maidens." Uncle Steve's manner was infectiously cheery, and the girls obeyed him in spite of themselves. And so, when the next morning Uncle Steve drove Marjorie to the station, the girls were not allowed to go with her, but were commanded to wave gay and laughing good-bys after her until she was out of sight. And so, all through the winter Marjorie's last recollection of Haslemere was of Molly and Stella standing on her own little porch waving two handkerchiefs apiece and smiling gayly as they called out: "Good-by, Marjorie! Good-by, Mopsy Midget! Good-by!" 
41603	----	TOTO'S MERRY WINTER. TOTO'S MERRY WINTER. BY LAURA E. RICHARDS, AUTHOR OF "THE JOYOUS STORY OF TOTO," "FIVE MICE IN A MOUSETRAP," "SKETCHES AND SCRAPS," ETC., ETC. [Illustration] BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1887. _Copyright, 1887_, BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. TO The Blind Children of the Perkins Institution, WHO HAVE LISTENED TO THE FIRST "STORY OF TOTO," _THIS SECOND AND LAST PART OF HIS ADVENTURES_ IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. TOTO'S MERRY WINTER. CHAPTER I. IT was evening,--a good, old-fashioned winter evening, cold without, warm and merry within. The snow was falling lightly, softly, with no gusts of wind to trouble it and send it whirling and drifting hither and thither. It covered the roof with a smooth white counterpane, tucking it in neatly and carefully round the edges; it put a tall conical cap on top of the pump, and laid an ermine fold over his long and impressive nose. Myriads of curious little flakes pattered softly--oh! very softly--against the windows of the cottage, pressing against the glass to see what was going on inside, and saying, "Let us in! let us in! please do!" But nobody seemed inclined to let them in, so they were forced to content themselves with looking. Indeed, the aspect of the kitchen was very inviting, and it is no wonder that the little cold flakes wanted to get in. A great fire was crackling and leaping on the hearth. The whole room seemed to glow and glitter: brass saucepans, tin platters, glass window-panes, all cast their very brightest glances toward the fire, to show him that they appreciated his efforts. Over this famous fire, in the very midst of the dancing, flickering tongues of yellow flame, hung a great black soup-kettle, which was almost boiling over with a sense of its own importance, and a kindly consciousness of the good things cooking inside it. "Bubble! b-r-r-r-r! bubble! hubble!" said the black kettle, with a fat and spluttering enunciation. "Bubble, hubble! b-r-r-r-r-r-r! bubble! Lots of fun, and very little trouble!" On the hob beside the fire sat the tea-kettle, a brilliant contrast to its sooty neighbor. It was of copper, so brightly burnished that it shone like the good red gold. The tea-kettle did not bubble,--it considered bubbling rather vulgar; but it was singing very merrily, in a clear pleasant voice, and pouring out volumes of steam from its slender copper nose. "I am doing all I can to make myself agreeable!" the tea-kettle said to itself. "I am boiling just right,--hard enough to make a good cheerful noise, and not so hard as to boil all the water away. And _why_ that beast should sit and glower at me there as he is doing, is more than I can understand." "That beast" was a raccoon. I think some of you children may have seen him before. He was sitting in front of the fire, with his beautiful tail curled comfortably about his toes; and he certainly _was_ staring very hard at the tea-kettle. Presently the kettle, in pure playfulness and good-will, lifted its cover a little and let out an extra puff of snowy steam; and at that the raccoon gave a jump, and moved farther away from the fire, without ever taking his eyes off the kettle. The fact is, that for the first time in his life the raccoon knew what _fear_ was. He was afraid--mortally afraid--of that tea-kettle. "Don't tell me!" he had said to Toto, only the day before, "don't tell _me_ it isn't alive! It breathes, and it talks, and it moves, and if that isn't being alive I don't know what is." "Coon, how utterly absurd you are!" cried Toto, laughing. "It _doesn't_ move, except when some one takes it up, of course, or tilts it on the hob." "Toto," said the raccoon, speaking slowly and impressively, "as sure as you are a living boy, I saw that kettle take off the top of its head and look out of its own inside, only last night. And before that," he added, looking rather shamefaced, "I--I just put my paw in to see what there was inside, and the creature caught it and took all the skin off." But here Toto burst into a fit of laughter, and said, "Served you right!" which was so rude that the raccoon went off and sat under the table, in a huff. So this time, when the kettle took off the top of its head, Coon did not run out into the shed, as he had done before, because he was ashamed when he remembered Toto's laughter. He only moved away a little, and looked and felt thoroughly uncomfortable. But now steps were heard outside. The latch clicked, the door opened, and Toto and Bruin entered, each carrying a foaming pail of milk. They brushed the snow from their coats, and Toto took off his, which the good bear could not well do; then, when they had carried their milk-pails into the dairy, they came and sat down by the fire, with an air of being ready to enjoy themselves. The raccoon winked at them by way of greeting, but did not speak. "Well, Coon," said Bruin, in his deep bass voice, "what have you been doing all the afternoon? Putting your tail in curl-papers, eh?" "Not at all," replied the raccoon with dignity, "I have been sweeping the hearth; sweeping it," he added, with a majestic curl of his tail, "in a manner which _some_ people [here he glanced superciliously at the bear] could hardly manage." "I am sure," said the boy Toto, holding out his hands toward the ruddy fire-blaze, "it is a blessing that Bruin has no tail. Just fancy how he would go knocking things about! Why, it would be two yards long, if it were in the same proportion as yours, Coon!" "Hah!" said the raccoon, yawning, "very likely. And what have you two been doing, pray, since dinner?" "I have been splitting kindling-wood," said Toto, "and building a snow fort, and snowballing Bruin. And he has--" "I have been talking to the pig," said Bruin, very gravely. "The pig. Yes. He is a very singular animal, that pig. Is it true," he added, turning to Toto, "that he has never left that place, that sty, since he was born?" "Never, except to go into the yard by the cow-shed," said Toto. "His sty opens into the yard, you know. But I don't think he cares to go out often." "That is what he said," rejoined the bear. "That is what struck me as so very strange. He said he never went out, from one winter to another. And when I asked why, he snorted, and said, 'For fear the wind should blow my bristles off.' Said it in a very rude way, you know. I don't think his manners are good. I shall not go to see him again, except in the way of taking his food to him. But here we sit, talking," continued the bear, rising, "when we ought to be getting supper. Come! come! you lazy fellows, and help me set the table." With this, the good bear proceeded to tie a huge white apron round his great black, shaggy body, and began to poke the fire, and to stir the contents of the soup-kettle with a long wooden spoon,--all with a very knowing air, as if he had done nothing but cook all his life. Meanwhile, the raccoon and Toto spread a clean cloth on the table, and set out cups and plates, a huge brown bowl for the bear, a smaller one for the raccoon, etc. Bread and milk, and honey and baked apples came next; the soup-kettle yielded up a most savory stew, made of everything good, and onions besides; and finally, when all was ready, Toto ran and knocked at the door of his grandmother's room, crying, "Granny, dear! supper is ready, and we are only waiting for you." The door opened, and the blind grandmother came out, with the little squirrel perched on her shoulder. "Good evening to you all!" she said, with her sweet smile and her pretty little old-fashioned courtesy. "We have been taking a nap, Cracker and I, and we feel quite refreshed and ready for the evening." The grandmother looked ten years younger, Toto was constantly telling her, than she did the year before; and, indeed, it was many years since she had had such a pleasant, easy life. Helpful as Toto had always been to her, still, he was only a little boy, though a very good one; and by far the larger share of work had fallen to the old lady herself. But now there were willing hands--paws, I should say--to help her at every turn. The bear washed and cooked, churned and scrubbed, with never-tiring energy and good-will. The raccoon worked very hard indeed: he said so, and nobody took the trouble to contradict him. He swept the kitchen occasionally, and did a good deal of graceful and genteel dusting with his long bushy tail, and tasted all the food that Bruin cooked, to see if it had the proper flavor. Besides these heavy duties, he caught rats, teased the cow, pulled the parrot's tail whenever he got a chance, and, as he expressed it, "tried to make things pleasant generally." The little squirrel had constituted himself a special attendant on "Madam," as the forest-friends all called the grandmother. He picked up her ball of yarn when it rolled off her lap, as it was constantly doing. He cracked nuts for her, brought her the spices and things when she made her famous gingerbread, and went to sleep in her ample pocket when he had nothing else to do. As for the wood-pigeon and the parrot, they were happy and contented, each in her own way, each on her own comfortable perch, at her own window. Thus had all Toto's summer playmates become winter friends, fast and true; and it would be difficult to find a happier party than that which gathered round the bright fire, on this and every other evening, when the tea-things were put away, the hearth newly swept, and a great tin-pan full of nuts and apples placed on the clean hearth-stone. Only one of the animals whom you remember in Toto's summer story was missing from the circle; that was the woodchuck. But he was not very far off. If you had looked into a certain little cupboard near the fireplace,--a quaint little cupboard, in which lived three blue ginger-jars and a great pewter tankard,--you would have seen, lying in the warmest corner, next the fireplace, something which looked at first sight like a large knitted ball of red yarn. On looking closer, you would have seen that it was a ball of brown fur, enclosed in a knitted covering. If you had taken off the covering and unrolled the ball, you would have found that it was a woodchuck, sound asleep. Poor Chucky had found it quite impossible to accept the new arrangement. He had always been in the habit of sleeping all through the winter; and while the other animals had succeeded, after a long time, in conquering their sleepiness (though it was still a very common thing to find Bruin asleep over the churn, and Coon had a way of creeping into Toto's bed at odd times during the day), the woodchuck had succumbed entirely after the first week, and had now been asleep for a couple of months. At first, after he had dropped into his long slumber, the bear and the raccoon had played ball with him a good deal, tossing him about with great agility. But one day the living ball had fallen into the soup-kettle, where the water was so hot as to elicit a miserable sleepy squeak from the victim, and the grandmother had promptly forbidden the game. It was then that she knit the red-worsted cover for poor Chucky, for she said she could not bear to think of his sleeping all winter with nothing over him; and she put him away in the cupboard by the fireplace, and wished him pleasant dreams as she closed the door. So there the woodchuck lay, warm and comfortable, but too sound asleep to know anything about it. And the three blue ginger-jars and the pewter tankard kept watch over him, though they had their own ideas about this stranger having been popped in among them without so much as saying, "By your leave!" As I was saying, it was a happy party that sit around the blazing fire. The grandmother in her high-backed armchair, knitting in hand; Toto sitting Turk-fashion on the hearth-rug, his curly head resting on the shaggy coat of the bear, who sat solemnly on his haunches, blinking with sober pleasure at the fire; the raccoon on a low hassock, which was his favorite seat in the evening, as it showed off his tail to great advantage; the parrot and the wood-pigeon perched on the high chair-back, and standing on one leg or two, as they felt inclined. "Ah!" exclaimed the little squirrel, who had stationed himself on the top of Bruin's head, as a convenient and suitable place, "Ah! now this is what _I_ call comfort. Snowing fast outside, is isn't it, Bruin?" "Yes!" replied the bear. "That makes it all the more jolly inside!" said the squirrel. "What are we to do this evening? Is it a story evening, or dancing-school and games?" "We had dancing-school last night," said the bear. "I haven't got over it yet. I backed into the fire twice in 'forward and back, and cross over.' Let us have a story to-night." "Yes!" said the grandmother. "It is just the night for a story; and if you wish it, I will tell you one myself." "Oh! please, Madam!" "Thank you, Madam!" "Hurrah! Granny!" resounded on all sides, for the grandmother's stories were very popular; so, settling herself back in her chair, and beginning a new row in her knitting, the good woman said:-- "This story was told to me by my own grandmother. A story that has been told by two grandmothers in succession is supposed to be always true; you may therefore believe as much of this as you like." And without further preface, she began as follows:-- CHAPTER II. THE STORY OF CHOP-CHIN AND THE GOLDEN DRAGON. ONCE upon a time, long ago and long ago, there lived in Pekin, which, as you all know, is the chief city of the Chinese Empire, a boy whose name was Chop-Chin. He was the son of Ly-Chee, a sweeper of the Imperial court-yard, whose duty it was to keep the pavement of the court-yard always absolutely clean, in case His Celestial Majesty, the Emperor, should feel inclined to put his celestial and majestic nose out-of-doors. Chop-Chin hoped to become a sweeper also, when he was a little older; but at the time when my story begins he was only twelve years old, and the law required that all sweepers should have passed their fourteenth year. So Chop-Chin helped his mother about the house,--for he was a good boy,--carried his father's dinner to him, and made himself generally useful. One day Chop-Chin entered the court-yard at the usual time, carrying a jar of rice on his head, and a melon in one hand. These were for his father's dinner, and setting them down in a shaded corner, on the cool white marble pavement, he looked about for his father. But Ly-Chee was nowhere to be seen. A group of sweepers stood at the farther end of the court-yard, talking together in a state of wild excitement, with many gestures. One of them drew his hand across his throat rapidly, and they all shuddered. Some one was to be killed, then? Chop-Chin wondered what it all meant. Suddenly one of the group caught sight of him, and at once they fell silent. Two or three, who were friends of his father, began to wring their hands and tear their clothes, and the oldest sweeper of all advanced solemnly toward the boy, holding out both his hands, with the palms downward, in token of sympathy. "My son," he said, "what is man's life but a string of beads, which at one time or another must be broken? Shall the wise man disquiet himself whether more or fewer beads have passed over the hand?" "What words are these?" cried Chop-Chin, alarmed, though he knew not why. "Why do you look and speak so strangely, Yow-Lay; and where is my father?" The old sweeper led the boy to a stone bench, and bade him sit down beside him. "Thou knowest," he said, "that the first duty of us sweepers is to keep the court-yard always as clean as the sky after rain, and as white as the breath of the frost." "I know it well," replied the boy. "Does not my father wear out two pairs of scrubbing-shoes in a month--" "Scrubbing-shoes, Granny?" said Toto, softly. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but what _are_ scrubbing-shoes?" "I remember asking the same question at your age, Toto," said the old lady, "and my grandmother told me that the sweepers always wore shoes with very thick soles, in which stiff bristles were fastened as in a scrubbing-brush. It was their custom to dash the water in bucketfuls over the pavement, and then dance violently about, scrubbing with their feet as hard as they could." "Oh, what fun!" cried Toto. "Mayn't we try it some day, Granny? I'll fasten four brushes to your feet, Coon, and you can scrub the floor every day." "Thank you, kindly!" said the raccoon. "If you can get the brushes on my feet, I will pledge myself to dance in them. That is certainly fair." He winked slyly at Toto, while the grandmother continued:-- "Alas! my son," said the old man, "your father will wear out no more scrubbing-shoes. Listen! This morning, while we were all busily at work, it chanced through some evil fate that His Celestial Majesty felt a desire to taste the freshness of the morning air. Unannounced he came, with only the Princely Parasol-Holder, the Unique Umbrella-Opener, and seven boys to hold up his celestial train. You know that your father is slightly deaf? Yes. Well, he stood--my good friend Ly-Chee--he stood with his back to the palace. He heard not the noise of the opening door, and at the very moment when His Celestial Majesty stepped out into the court-yard, Ly-Chee cast a great bucketful of ice-cold water backward, with fatal force and precision." Chop-Chin shuddered, and hid his face in his hands. "Picture to yourself the dreadful scene!" continued the ancient sweeper. "The Celestial Petticoat, of yellow satin damask, was drenched. The Celestial Shoes, of chicken-skin embroidered in gold, were reduced to a pulp. A shriek burst from every mouth! Your unhappy father turned, and seeing what he had done, fell on his face, as did all the rest of us. In silence we waited for the awful voice, which presently said:-- "'Princely Parasol-Holder, our feet are wet.' "The Princely Parasol-Holder groaned, and chattered his teeth together to express his anguish. "'Unique Umbrella-Opener,' continued the Emperor, 'our petticoat is completely saturated.' "The Unique Umbrella-Opener tore his clothes, and shook his hair wildly about his face, with moans of agony. "'Let this man's head be removed at sunrise to-morrow!' concluded His Celestial Majesty. "Then we all, lying on our faces, wept and cried aloud, and besought the celestial mercy for our comrade. We told the Emperor of Ly-Chee's long and faithful service; of his upright and devout life; of his wife and children, who looked to him for their daily bread. But all was of no avail. He repeated, in dreadful tones, his former words:-- "'Our feet are wet. Our petticoat is saturated. Let this man's head be removed at sunrise to-morrow.' "Then the Unique Umbrella-Holder, who is a kindly man, made also intercession for Ly-Chee. But now the Emperor waxed wroth, and he said:-- "'Are our clothes to be changed, or do we stand here all day in wetness because of this dog? We swear that unless the Golden Dragon himself come down from his altar and beg for this man's life, he shall die! Enough!' And with these words he withdrew into the palace. "So thou seest, my son," said the old man, sadly, "that all is over with thy poor father. He is now in the prison of the condemned, and to-morrow at sunrise he must die. Go home, boy, and comfort thy poor mother, telling her this sad thing as gently as thou mayest." Chop-Chin arose, kissed the old man's hand in token of gratitude for his kindness, and left the court-yard without a word. His head was in a whirl, and strange thoughts darted through it. He went home, but did not tell his mother of the fate which awaited her husband on the morrow. He could not feel that it was true. It _could not be_ that the next day, all in a moment, his father would cease to live. There must be some way,--_some_ way to save him. And then he seemed to hear the dreadful words, "Unless the Golden Dragon himself come down from his altar and beg for this man's life, he shall die." He told his mother, in answer to her anxious questions, that his father meant to pass the night in the court-yard, as he would be wanted very early in the morning; and as it was a hot day, and promised a warm night, the good woman felt no uneasiness, but turned again to her pots and pans. But Chop-Chin sat on the bench in front of the house, with his head in his hands thinking deeply. * * * * * That evening, at sunset, a boy was seen walking slowly along the well-paved street which led to the great temple of the Golden Dragon. He was clad in a snow-white tunic falling to his knees; his arms and legs were bare; and his pig-tail, unbraided and hanging in a crinkly mass below his waist, showed that he was bent on some sacred mission. In his hands, raised high above his head, he carried a bronze bowl of curious workmanship. Many people turned to look at the boy, for his face and figure were of singular beauty. "He carries the prayers of some great prince," they said, "to offer at the shrine of the Golden Dragon." And, indeed, it was at the great bronze gate of the Temple that the boy stopped. Poising the bronze bowl gracefully on his head with one hand, with the other he knocked three times on the gate. It opened, and revealed four guards clad in black armor, who stood with glittering pikes crossed, their points towards the boy. "What seekest thou," asked the leader, "in the court of the Holy Dragon?" Chop-Chin (for I need not tell you the boy was he) lowered the bowl from his head, and offered it to the soldier with a graceful reverence. "Tong-Ki-Tcheng," he said, "sends you greeting, and a draught of cool wine. He begs your prayers to the Holy Dragon that he may recover from his grievous sickness, and prays that I may pass onward to the shrine." The guards bowed low at the name of Tong-Ki-Tcheng, a powerful Prince of the Empire, who lay sick of a fever in his palace, as all the city knew. Each one in turn took a draught from the deep bowl, and the leader said:-- "Our prayers shall go up without ceasing for Tong-Ki-Tcheng, the noble and great. Pass on, fair youth, and good success go with thee!" They lowered their pikes, and Chop-Chin passed slowly through the court-yard paved with black marble, and came to the second gate, which was of shining steel. Here he knocked again, and the gate was opened by four guards clad in steel from top to toe, and glittering in the evening light. "What seekest thou," they asked, "in the court of the Holy Dragon?" Chop-Chin answered as before:-- "Tong-Ki-Tcheng sends you greeting, and a draught of cool wine. He begs your prayers to the Holy Dragon that he may recover from his grievous sickness, and prays that I may pass onward to the shrine." The guards drank deeply from the bowl, and their leader replied: "Our prayers shall not cease to go up for Tong-Ki-Tcheng. Pass on, and good success go with thee!" Onward the boy went, holding the bronze bowl high above his head. He crossed the white marble court-yard, and his heart beat when he came to the third gate, which was of whitest ivory, for he knew that beyond the third court-yard was the Temple itself,--the House of Gold, in which dwelt the mighty Dragon, the most sacred idol in all China. He paused a moment, and then with a steady hand knocked at the gate. It opened without a sound, and there stood four guards in white armor inlaid with gold. The same questions and answers were repeated. They drank from the bowl, promised their prayers for Tong-Ki-Tcheng, and then bade the boy pass onward to the golden gate, which gleamed at the farther end of the court-yard. "But see that thou touch not the gate!" said the chief soldier. "It is the gate of the Temple itself, and no profane hand may rest upon it. Speak only, and the priests will hear and open to thee." Softly Chop-Chin paced across the last court, which was paved with blocks of ivory and silver, laid in cunning patterns. Halting before the gate of gold, he raised the bowl in his hands, and said softly:-- "Ka Ho Yai! Yai Nong Ti! Tong-Ki-Tcheng Lo Hum Ki Ni!" The gates opened, and showed four priests in robes of cloth-of-gold, with golden censers in hand. "Rash youth!" said the chief priest, "by what right or by whose order comest thou here, to the Sacred Shrine of the Holy Dragon?" Chop-Chin knelt upon the threshold of the golden gate, and, with bowed head and downcast eyes, held out the bronze bowl. "By the right of mortal sickness, most holy priest, come I hither!" he said, "and by order of the noble Tong-Ki-Tcheng. He prays thee and thy brethren to drink to his recovery from his grievous malady, and that your prayers may go up with mine at the Jewelled Shrine itself." The priest drank solemnly from the bowl, and handed it to his assistants, the last of whom drained the last drop of wine. "Our prayers shall truly go up for Tong-Ki-Tcheng," he said. "Give me thy hand, fair youth, and I will lead thee to the Jewelled Shrine. But first I will cover thine eyes, for none save ourselves, priests of the First Order of the Saki-Pan, may look upon the face of the Holy Dragon." So saying, he bound a silk handkerchief firmly over the boy's eyes, and taking his hand, led him slowly forward. Chop-Chin's heart was beating so violently that he was half suffocated. He felt the floor suddenly cold, cold, beneath his feet, and knew that he was walking on the golden floor of the Temple. A few steps farther, the hand of the priest drew him downward, and together with the four priests he lay prostrate on his face before the shrine of the Golden Dragon. A great silence followed. The warm, incense-laden air was stirred by no sound save the breathing of the five suppliants. No breeze rustled the heavy satin curtains which shrouded the windows; no hum of insect or song of bird came from the outer world, which was fast settling down into night. Silence! The boy Chop-Chin lay as still as if he were carved in marble. He held his breath from time to time, and his whole being seemed strained to one effort,--that of listening. Did he hear anything? Was the breathing of the four priests changing a little,--growing deeper, growing louder? There! and there again! was that a whisper of prayer, or was it--could it be--the faintest suspicion of a snore? He lay still; waited and listened, listened and waited. After a little while there could be no doubt about it,--the four men were breathing heavily, slowly, regularly; and one of them rolled out a sonorous, a majestic snore, which resounded through the heavy perfumed air of the Temple, yet caused no movement among the other three. There could be no doubt about it,--the priests were asleep! Slowly, softly, the boy lifted his head; then he rose to his knees, and looked fearfully at the sleepers. There they lay, flat on their faces, their hands clasped over their heads. He touched one of them,--there was no answering movement. He shook another by the shoulders; he shook them all. They snored in concert, but gave no other sign of life. The drugged wine had done its work. Then, and not till then, did Chop-Chin venture to lift his eyes and look upon the awful mystery which was hidden by these golden walls. He trembled, he turned white as the tunic which covered his dusky limbs; but standing erect, he gazed firmly at the Golden Dragon. From the floor rose a splendid altar of gold, studded thick with precious gems. Rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, set in mystic lines and figures, formed the characters which told the thirty-two names of the world-renowned dragon; and on the top of this glittering pedestal, fifteen feet in the air, stood the idol itself. It was, indeed, a marvellous thing to look upon. Ten feet long, composed entirely of thin scales of the purest gold, laid over and over each other, and each scale tipped with a diamond. Two magnificent rubies glowed in the eye-sockets, and the head was surmounted by a crown of emeralds worth any ordinary kingdom. But the tail! the tail was the wonder of wonders. Millions of delicate gold wires as fine as silk waved gracefully from the scaly tip a length of three feet, and each one was tipped with a diamond, a ruby, or an emerald of surpassing beauty and lustre. So wonderful was the shimmering light of the stones that the whole tail seemed to sway and curl to and fro, as if some living creature were moving it, and rays of rainbow-colored light darted from it on every side, dazzling the eyes of the beholder. Chop-Chin gazed and gazed, and hid his eyes and trembled, and gazed again. At last he shook himself together, and whispered, "My father! my father!" Then softly, surely, he began to climb up the golden altar. Stepping carefully from glittering point to point, holding on here by a projecting ornament of carven amethyst, there by a block of jasper or onyx, he reached the top; then steadying himself, he leaned forward and lifted the Holy Dragon from its stand. To his amazement, instead of being barely able to move it, he found he could easily carry it, for the golden plates which formed it were so delicate that the weight of the whole great creature was incredibly small. Lightly the boy lifted it in his arms, and slowly, surely, noiselessly bore it to the ground. Here he paused, and looked keenly at the sleeping priests. Did that one's eyelids quiver; did his mouth twitch, as if he were waking from his sleep? Was that a movement of yon other man's arm, as if he were stealthily preparing to rise, to spring upon the sacrilegious robber? No! it was but the play of the colored light on the faces and raiment of the sleepers. The voice of their snoring still went up, calmly, evenly, regularly. The wine had done its work well. Then Chop-Chin took off the sash which bound his tunic at the waist, and shook out its folds. It was a web of crimson silk, so fine and soft that it could be drawn through a finger-ring, and yet, when spread out, so ample that the boy found no difficulty in completely covering with it his formidable prize. Thus enwrapped, he bore the Golden Dragon swiftly from the Temple, closing the doors of gold softly behind him. He crossed the ivory and silver pavement of the inner court, and came to the ivory gate. It was closed, and beside it lay the four white-clad warriors, sunk in profound slumber. Stepping lightly over their prostrate forms, Chop-Chin opened the gate softly, and found himself in the second court. This, also, he traversed safely, finding the armed guardians of the steel gate also sleeping soundly, with their mouths wide open, and their shining spears pointing valiantly at nothing. A touch upon the glittering gate,--it opened, and Chop-Chin began to breathe more freely when he saw the bronze gates of the outer court-yard, and knew that in another minute, if all went well, he would be in the open street. But, alas! the four guards clad in black armor, who kept watch by the outer gate, had been the first to drink the drugged wine, and already the effect of the powerful narcotic which it contained had begun to wear off. As Chop-Chin, bearing in his arms the shrouded figure of the mighty idol, approached the gate, one of the four sleepers stirred, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and looked about him. It was quite dark, but his eye caught the faint glimmer of the boy's white robe, and seizing his pike, he exclaimed,-- "Who goes there?" Chop-Chin instantly stepped to his side, and said in a low whisper,-- "It is I, Nai-Ping, second priest of the Saki-Pan, bound on business of the Temple. Let me pass, and quickly, for the chief priest waits my return." The sentinel bowed low, and undid the fastenings of the huge bronze gates. They swung open silently, and the boy passed through with his awful burden. "Strange!" soliloquized the guard, as he drew the massive bolts again. "I never knew one of the priests to go out at this time of night. But I dared not say anything, lest he should find out that I was asleep at my post. And now that he is gone," he added, "I may as well just take forty winks, as he may be away some time." So saying, he curled himself up on the marble pavement, and fell this time into a natural slumber. Ten o'clock of a dark night. The outer gates of the royal palace were closed, though lights still shone in many of the windows. Outside the gate a sentinel was pacing up and down, armed with pike and broadsword. Every time he turned on his beat, he looked up and down the narrow street to see if anything or anybody were approaching. Suddenly, as he wheeled about, he saw before him a figure which seemed to have sprung all in a moment out of the blackness of the night. It was the figure of a boy, carrying a burden considerably larger than himself,--a dark and shapeless mass, which yet seemed not to be heavy in proportion to its size. "What is this?" cried the astonished sentinel. "Who art thou, and what monstrous burden is this thou carriest so lightly?" "Hist!" said the boy, speaking in an awestruck whisper, "speak not so loud, friend! This is the Celestial Footstool!" The sentinel recoiled, and stared in dismay at the dark bundle. "May the Holy Dragon preserve me!" he said. "What has happened?" "His Celestial Majesty," replied Chop-Chin, "threw it in anger at his Putter-on-of-Slippers yesterday, and broke one of its legs. All day my master, the Chief Cabinet-maker, has been at work on it, and now he has sent me with it by nightfall, that no profane eye may see clearly even the outer covering of the sacred object." "Pass in," said the sentinel, opening the gate. "But tell me, knowest thou how it will fare with the Putter-on-of-Slippers? He is cousin to my stepfather's aunt by marriage, and I would not that aught of ill should befall so near a relative." "Alas! I know not," said the boy, hastening forward. "I fear it may go hard with him." The sentinel shook his head sadly, and resumed his walk; while Chop-Chin crept softly through the court-yard, keeping close to the wall, and feeling as he went along for a certain little door he knew of, which led by a staircase cut in the thickness of the wall to a certain unused closet, near the Celestial Bed-chamber. While all this was going on, the Emperor of China, the great and mighty Wah-Song, was going to bed. He had sipped his night-draught of hot wine mingled with honey and spices, sitting on the edge of the Celestial Bed, with the Celestial Nightcap of cloth-of-silver tied comfortably under his chin, and the Celestial Dressing-gown wrapped around him. He had scolded the Chief Pillow-thumper because the pillows were not fat enough, and because there were only ten of them instead of twelve. He had boxed the ears of the Tyer-of-the-Strings-of-the-Nightcap, and had thrown his golden goblet at the Principal Pourer, who brought him the wine. And when all these things were done, his Celestial Majesty Wah-Song got into bed, and was tucked in by the Finishing Toucher, who got his nose well tweaked by way of thanks. Then the taper of perfumed wax was lighted, and the shade of alabaster put over it, and then the other lights were extinguished; and then the attendants all crawled out backwards on their hands and knees, and shut the door after them; and then His Celestial Majesty went to sleep. [Illustration: At last the Emperor began to dream. He heard an awful voice, the voice of the Golden Dragon. "Wah-Song! Wah-Song! Awake!"--PAGE 44.] Peacefully the Emperor slept,--one hour, two hours, three hours,--discoursing eloquently the while in the common language of mankind,--the language of the nose. At last he began to dream,--a dreadful dream. He was in the Golden Temple, praying before the Jewelled Shrine. He heard an awful voice,--the voice of the Golden Dragon. It called his name; it glared upon him with its ruby eyes; it lifted its crowned head, and stretched its long talons toward him. Ah! ah! The Emperor tried to scream, but he could make no sound. Once more the dreadful voice was heard:-- "Wah-Song! Wah-Song! Awake!" The Emperor sprang up in bed, and looked about him with eyes wild with terror. Ah! what was that?--that glittering form standing at the foot of his bed; that crowned head raised high as if in anger; those glaring red eyes fixed menacingly upon him! "Ah, horror! ah, destruction! the Golden Dragon is here!" With one long howl of terror and anguish, His Celestial Majesty Wah-Song rolled off the bed and under it, in one single motion, and lay there flat on his face, with his hands clasped over his head. Quaking in every limb, his teeth chattering, and a cold sweat pouring from him, he listened as the awful voice spoke again. "Wah-Song!" said the Golden Dragon, "thou hast summoned me, and I am here!" The wretched Emperor moaned. "I--I--I sum-summon thee, most Golden and Holy Dragon?" he stammered faintly. "May I be b-b-bastinadoed if I did!" "Listen!" said the Dragon, sternly, "and venture not to speak save when I ask thee a question. Yesterday morning, in consequence of thine own caprice in going out unannounced, thy silly shoes and thy pusillanimous petticoat became wet. For this nothing, thou has condemned to death my faithful servant Ly-Chee, who has brought me fresh melons every Tuesday afternoon for thirty years. When others, less inhuman than thou, interceded for his life, thou madest reply, 'We swear, that unless the Golden Dragon himself come down from his altar and beg for this man's life, he shall die!'" The Emperor groaned, and clawed the carpet in his anguish. "Therefore, Wah-Song," continued the Dragon, "I AM HERE! I come not to beg, but to command. Dost thou hear me?" "Ye-ye-yes!" murmured the wretched monarch. "I hear thee, Most Mighty. I--I--didn't know he brought thee melons. I brought thee two dozen pineapples myself, the other day," he added piteously. "Thou didst!" exclaimed the Golden Dragon, fiercely. "Thou didst, _slave!_ and they were half-rotten. HA!" and he gave a little jump on the floor, making his glittering tail wave, and his flaming eyes glared yet more fiercely at the unfortunate Wah-Song, who clung yet more closely to the carpet, and drummed on it with his heels in an extremity of fear. "Listen, now," said the Fiery Idol, "to my commands. Before day-break thou wilt send a free pardon to Ly-Chee, who now lies in the prison of the condemned, expecting to die at sunrise." "I will! I will!" cried the Emperor. "Moreover," continued the Dragon, "thou wilt send him, by a trusty messenger, twenty bags of goodly ducats, one for every hour that he has spent in prison." The Emperor moaned feebly, for he loved his goodly ducats. "Furthermore, thou wilt make Ly-Chee thy Chief Sweeper for life, with six brooms of gilded straw, with ivory handles, as his yearly perquisite, besides three dozen pairs of scrubbing-shoes; and his son, Chop-Chin, shalt thou appoint as Second Sweeper, to help his father." The Emperor moaned again, but very faintly, for he dared not make any objection. "These are my orders!" continued the Dragon. "Obey them strictly and speedily, and thine offence may be pardoned. Neglect them, even in the smallest particular, and--Ha! Hum! Wurra-_wurra_-G-R-R-R-R-R-R!" and here the Dragon opened his great red mouth, and uttered so fearful a growl that the miserable Emperor lost hold of such little wits as had remained to him, and fainted dead away. Ten minutes later, the sentinel at the gate was amazed at the sight of the Chief Cabinet-maker's apprentice, reappearing suddenly before him, with his monstrous burden still in his arms. The boy's hair was dishevelled, and his face was very pale. In truth, it had been very hard work to get in and out of the hollow golden monster, and Chop-Chin was well-nigh exhausted by his efforts, and the great excitement which had nerved him to carry out his bold venture. "How now!" cried the sentinel. "What means this, boy?" "Alas!" said Chop-Chin, "alas! unhappy that I am! Was it my fault that the mended leg was a hair-breadth shorter than the others? Good soldier, I have been most grievously belabored, even with the Sacred Footstool itself, which, although it be a great honor, is nevertheless a painful one. And now must I take it back to my master, for it broke again the last time His Celestial Majesty brought it down on my head. Wherefore let me pass, good sentinel, for I can hardly stand for weariness." "Pass on, poor lad!" said the good-natured soldier. "And yet--stay a moment! thinkest thou that aught would be amiss if I were to take just one peep at the Celestial Footstool? Often have I heard of its marvellous workmanship, and its tracery of pearl and ebony. Do but lift one corner of the mantle, good youth, and let me see at least a leg of the wonder." "At thy peril, touch it not!" cried the boy, in great alarm. "Knowest thou not that the penalty is four hundred lashes? Not a single glance have I ventured to cast at it, for they say its color changes if any profane eye rest upon its polished surface." "Pass on, then, in the name of the Dragon!" said the sentinel, opening the gate; and bidding him a hasty good-night, Chop-Chin hurried away into the darkness. * * * * * Now, while all this was going on, it chanced that the four priests of the First Order of the Saki-Pan awoke from their slumber. What their feelings were when they lifted their eyes and saw that the Golden Dragon was gone, is beyond my power to tell. Their terror was so extreme that they did not dare to move, but after the first horrified glance at the bare altar flung themselves flat on their faces again, and howled and moaned in their anguish. "We slept!" they cried, in a doleful chant of misery. "Yea, verily slept we. "Ai! ai! we know not why; Wow! wow! we know not how. "Thou removedst thyself. Thou raisedst the paw of strength and the hind-feet of swiftness. Because we slept, thou hast gone away, and we are desolate, awaiting the speedily-advancing death. "Hong! Kong! Punka-wunka-woggle! Hong! Kong! Punka-wunka-wogg!" While thus the wretched priests lay on the golden floor, bewailing their sin and its dreadful consequences, there fell suddenly on their ears a loud and heavy sound. It was at some distance,--a heavy clang, as of some one striking on metal. "Pong! pong!" what could it be? And now came other sounds,--the opening and shutting of gates, the tread of hasty feet, the sound of hurried voices, and finally a loud knocking at the door of the Temple itself. "Open, most holy Priests of the Saki-Pan!" cried a voice. "We have strange and fearful news! Open without delay!" The unhappy priests hurried to the door, and flung it open with trembling hands. Without stood all the guards of all the gates, the white and the steel-clad soldiers clustering about the four black-clad guardians of the outer gate. "Speak!" said the chief priest in great agitation, "what is your errand?" "O Priest!" said the black guards, trembling with excitement, "we heard a great knocking at the gate." "Yes, yes!" cried the priest, "I know it. What more?" "O Priest!" said the guards, "we were affrighted, so great was the noise; so we opened the gate but a little way, and peeped through; and we saw--we saw--" They paused, and gasped for breath. "Speak, sons of pigs!" shrieked the priest, "_what_ did you see?" "We saw the Golden Dragon!" said the soldiers, in a fearful whisper. "He is sitting up--on his hind-legs--with his mouth open! and he knocked--he knocked--" But the priests of the Saki-Pan waited to hear no more. Rushing through the court-yards, they flung wide open the great bronze gates. They caught up the Golden Dragon, they raised it high on their shoulders, and with shouts of rejoicing they bore it back to the Temple, while the guards prostrated themselves before it. "He went out!" sang the priests. "He walked abroad, for the glory and welfare of his subjects. He cast upon the city the eye of beneficence; he waved over it the plenipotentiary tail! "Ai! ai! we know not why! Wow! wow! we know not how! Glory to the Holy Dragon, and happiness and peace to the city and the people!" * * * * * But in the house of Ly-Chee all was sunshine and rejoicing. At daybreak a procession had come down the little street,--a troop of soldiers in the imperial uniform, with music sounding before them, and gay banners flaunting in the morning air. In the midst of the troop rode Ly-Chee, on a splendid black horse. He was dressed in a robe of crimson satin embroidered with gold, and round his neck hung strings of jewels most glorious to see. Behind him walked twenty slaves, each carrying a fat bag of golden ducats; and after the troop came more slaves, bearing gilded brooms with ivory handles and scrubbing-shoes of the finest quality. And all the soldiers and all the slaves cried aloud, continually:-- "Honor to Ly-Chee, the Chief-Sweeper of the court-yard! Honor and peace to him and all his house!" The procession stopped before the little house, and the good sweeper, stupefied still with astonishment at his wonderful good fortune, dismounted and clasped his wife and children in his arms. And they wept together for joy, and the soldiers and the slaves and all the people wept with them. But the Celestial Emperor, Wah-Song, lay in bed for two weeks, speaking to no man, and eating nothing but water-gruel. And when he arose, at the end of that time, behold! he was as meek as a six-years old child. CHAPTER III. THE grandmother's story was received with great approbation, and the different members of the family commented on it, each after his fashion. "I should like to have been Chop-Chin!" exclaimed Toto. "How exciting it must have been! Only think, Coon, of talking to the Emperor in that way, and scolding him as if he were a little boy." "Well, I never saw an Emperor," said the raccoon; "but I certainly should not wish to talk to one, if they are all such wretched creatures as Wah-Song. _I_ should like to have been the Finishing-Toucher; then if he had pulled _my_ nose--hum! ha! we should see!" "Dear Madam," said the bear, who had been staring meditatively into the fire, "there is one thing in the story that I do not understand; that is--well--you spoke of the boy's having a pig-tail." "Yes, Bruin!" said the grandmother. "A Chinese pig-tail, you know." "Yes, certainly," said Bruin. "A Chinese pig's tail it would naturally be. Now, I confess I do not see _how_ a pig's tail could be worn on the head, or how it could be unbraided; that is, if the Chinese pigs have tails like that of our friend in the sty yonder." Toto laughed aloud at this, and even the grandmother could not help smiling a very little; but she gently told Bruin what a Chinaman's pig-tail was, and how he wore it. Meantime, Miss Mary, the parrot, looked on with an air of dignified amusement. "My respected father," she said presently, "spent some years in China. It is a fine country, though too far from Africa for my taste." "Tell us about your father, Miss Mary!" exclaimed the squirrel. "Fine old bird he must have been, eh?" "He was, indeed!" replied the parrot, with some emotion. "He was a noble bird. His beak, which I am said to have inherited, was the envy of every parrot in Central Africa. He could whistle in nine languages, and his tail--but as the famous poet Gabblio has sweetly sung,-- "'All languages and tongues must fail, In speaking of Polacko's tail.' "Polacko was my father's name," she explained. "He was universally respected. Ah, me!" "But how came he to go to China?" asked Toto. "He was captured, my dear, and taken there when very young. He lived there for twenty years, with one of the chief mandarins of the empire. He led a happy life, with a perch and ring of ebony and silver, the freedom of the house, and chow-chow four times a day. At last, however, the young grandson of the mandarin insisted upon my father's learning to eat with chopsticks. The lofty spirit of Polacko could not brook this outrage, and the door being left open one day he flew away and made his way to Africa, the home of his infancy, where he passed the rest of his life. I drop a tear," added Miss Mary, raising her claw gracefully to her eyes, "to his respected memory." Nobody saw the tear, but all looked grave and sympathetic, and the good-natured bear said, "Quite right, I'm sure. Very proper, certainly!" But now the grandmother rose and folded up her knitting. "Dear friends, and Toto, boy," she said, "it is bed-time, now, for the clock has struck nine. Good-night, and pleasant dreams to you all. My good Bruin, you will cover the fire, and lock up the house?" "Trust me for that, dear Madam!" said the bear, heartily. "Come, then, Cracker," said the old lady. "Your basket is all ready for you, and it is high time you were in it." And with the squirrel perched on her shoulder she went into her own little room, closing the door behind her. After exchanging mutual "good-nights," the other members of the family sought their respective sleeping-places. The birds flew to their perches, and each, tucking her head and one leg away in some mysterious manner, became suddenly a very queer looking creature indeed. "Coon," said Toto, "come and sleep on my bed, won't you? My feet were cold, last night, and you do make such a delightful foot-warmer." "Humph!" said the raccoon, doubtfully. "I don't know, Toto. It won't be as warm for _me_ as my basket, though no doubt it would be nice for you." "I'll put the big blue dressing-gown over you," said Toto. "You know you like that, because you can put your nose in the pocket, and keep it warm." "All right," cried the raccoon. "Come along, then!" and off they went. Bruin now proceeded to rake the ashes over the fire, covering it neatly and carefully. He filled the kettle; he drew the bolts of door and windows; and finally, when all was snug and safe, the good bear laid himself down on the hearth-rug, and soon was fast asleep. Now all was quiet in the little cottage. Outside, the snow still fell, softly, steadily, silently. In the shed, Bridget, the cow, was sleeping soundly, with a cock and three hens roosting on her back, according to their invariable custom. In the warm, covered sty the pig also slept. He had no name, the pig; he would have scorned one. "I am a pig," he was wont to say, "and as such every one knows me. There is no danger of my being mistaken for anything else." Which was very true. But though slumber held fast, apparently, all the dwellers in cottage, shed, and sty, there were in reality two pairs of eyes which were particularly wide-awake at this moment. They were very black eyes, very bright eyes, and they were, if you wish to know, peeping into the kitchen through the crack under the cellar-door, to see what they could see. "Nobody there!" said little brown Squeak. "No, nobody there!" said little brown Scrabble. "Hark! what was that noise?" cried Squeak. "Only the wind!" said Scrabble. "Do you think we can get through the crack?" said Squeak. "Nothing like trying!" said Scrabble. "Scrabble!" went little brown Squeak. "Squeak!" went little brown Scrabble. And the next moment they were in the kitchen. It was nearly dark, but not quite, for the covered embers still sent out a dusky glow. It was warm; the floor was smooth and flat; there was a smell as if there might be something to eat, somewhere. Altogether, it was a very pleasant place for two little mice to play in; and as they had it all to themselves, why should they not play? Play they did, therefore, with right good-will; scampering hither and thither, rolling over and over each other, poking their little sharp noses into every crack and cranny they could find. Oh, what fun it was! How smooth the floor! how pleasant the dry, warm air, after their damp cellar-home! But about that smell, now! where did it come from? Playing and romping is hungry work, and the two little brown mouse-stomachs are empty. It seems to come from under that cupboard door. The crack is wide enough to let out the smell, but not quite wide enough to let in Messrs. Scrabble and Squeak. If they could enlarge it a bit, now, with the sharp little tools which they always carry in their mouths! So said, so done! "Nibble! nibble! nibble! Gnaw! gnaw! gnaw!" It is very fatiguing work; but, see! the crack widens. If one made oneself _very_ small, now? It is done, and the two mice find themselves in the immediate neighborhood of a large piece of squash pie. Oh, joy! oh, delight! too great for speech or squeak, but just right for attack. "Nibble! nibble! Gobble! gobble!" and soon the plate shines white and empty, with only the smell of the roses--I mean the pie--clinging round it still. There is nothing else to eat in the cupboard, is there? Yes! what is this paper package which smells so divinely, sending a warm, spicy, pungent fragrance through the air? Ah! pie was good, but this will be better! Nibble through the paper quickly, and then-- Alas! alas! the spicy fragrance means _ginger_, and it is not only warm, but _hot_. Oh, it burns! oh, it scorches! fire is in our mouths, in our noses, our throats, our little brown stomachs, now only too well filled. Water! water! or we die, and never see our cool, beloved cellar again. Hurry down from the shelf, creep through the crack, rush frantically round the kitchen. Surely there is a smell of water? Yes, yes! there it is, in that tin basin, yonder. Into it we go, splashing, dashing, drinking in the silver coolness, washing this fiery torment from our mouths and throats. Thoroughly sobered by this adventure, the two little mice sat on the floor beside the basin, dripping and shivering, the water trickling from their long tails, their short ears, their sharp-pointed noses. They blinked sadly at each other with their bright black eyes. "Shall we go home now, Scrabble?" said Squeak. "It is late, and Mother Mouse will be looking for us." "I'm so c-c-c-cold!" shivered Scrabble, who a moment before had been devoured by burning heat. "Don't you think we might dry ourselves before that fire before we go down?" "Yes!" replied Squeak, "we will. But--what is that great black thing in front of the fire?" "A hill, of course!" said the other. "A black hill, I should say. Shall we climb over it, or go round it?" "Oh, let us climb over it!" said Squeak. "The exercise will help to warm us; and it is such a queer-looking hill, I want to explore it." So they began to climb up the vast black mass, which occupied the whole space in front of the fireplace. "How soft the ground is! and it is warm, too!" "Because it is near the fire, stupid!" "And what is this tall black stuff that grows so thick all over it? It isn't a bit like grass, or trees either." "It _is_ grass, of course, stupid! what else could it be? Come on! come on! we are nearly at the top, now." "Scrabble," said little brown Squeak, stopping short, "you may call me stupid as much as you please, but _I_ don't like this place. I--I--I think it is moving." "_Moving?_" said little brown Scrabble, in a tone of horror. And then the two little mice clutched each other with their little paws, and wound their little tails round each other, and held on tight, tight, for the black mass _was_ moving! There was a long, stretching, undulating movement, slow but strong; and then came a quick, violent, awful shake, which sent the two brothers slipping, sliding, tumbling headlong to the floor. Picking themselves up as well as they could, and casting one glance back at the black hill, they rushed shrieking and squeaking to the cellar-door, and literally flung themselves through the crack. For in that glance they had seen a vast red cavern, a yawning gulf of fire, open suddenly in the black mass, which was now heaving and shuddering all over. And from this fiery cavern came smoke and flame (at least so the mice said when they got home to the maternal hole), and an awful roaring sound, which shook the whole house and made the windows rattle. "Home to our Mother Mouse! Home to our Mother Mouse! and never, never, will we leave our cellar again!" But Bruin sat up on his haunches, and scratched himself and stretched himself, and gave another mighty yawn. "Haw-wa-wow-you-_wonk_!" said the good bear. "Those must have been very lively fleas, to wake me out of a sound sleep. I wonder where they have crept to! I don't seem to feel them now. Ha! humph! Yaow! very sleepy! Not morning yet; take another nap." And stretching his huge length once more along the floor, Bruin slept again. CHAPTER IV. AT dinner the next day, it was noticed that Coon was very melancholy. He shook his head frequently, and sighed so deeply and sorrowfully that the kind heart of the wood-pigeon was moved to pity. "Are you not well, my dear Coon?" she asked. "Something has gone amiss with you, evidently. Tell us what it is." The raccoon shook his head again, and looked unutterably doleful. "I knew how it would be, Coon," said the bear. "You shouldn't have eaten that third pie for supper. Two pies are enough for anybody, after such a quantity of bread and honey and milk as you had." Coon sighed again, more deeply than before. "I _didn't_ eat it all," he said; "I only wish I had!" "Why, Coon," queried Toto, "what's the trouble?" "Well," said Coon, "there was a piece left. I couldn't eat any more, so I put it away in the cupboard, thinking I would have it for lunch to-day. It was a lovely piece. I never saw such a squash pie as that was, anyhow, and that piece--" He paused, and seemed lost in the thought of the pie. "_Well!_" exclaimed Toto. "So you _did_ eat it for your lunch, and now you are unhappy because you didn't keep it for dinner. Is that it?" "Not at all!" replied the other, "not at all! I trust I am not _greedy_, Toto, _whatever_ my faults may be. I went to get it for my luncheon, for I had been working all the morning like a--" "Dormouse!" "Tree-toad!" "Grasshopper!" murmured the squirrel, the bear, and Toto, simultaneously. "Like a RACCOON!" he continued severely. "I can say no more than that; and I was desperately hungry. I went to the cupboard to get my piece of pie, and it was--gone!" "Gone!" exclaimed the grandmother; "why, who can have taken it?" "That is the point, Madam!" said Coon. "It was some small creature, for it got in through the crack under the cupboard door, gnawing away the wood. I have examined the marks," he added, "and they are the marks of small, very sharp teeth." And he looked significantly at the squirrel. "What do you mean by looking at me in that way?" demanded little Cracker, whisking his tail fiercely, and bristling all over. "I've a good mind to bite your ears with my sharp teeth. I never touched your old pie. If you say I did, I'll throw this cheese--" "Cracker! Cracker!" said the grandmother, gently, "you forget yourself! Good manners at table, you know. I am sure," she added, as Cracker hung his head and looked much ashamed, "that none of us think seriously for a moment that you took the pie. Coon loves his joke; but he has a good heart, and he would not really give you pain, I know. Of course he did not mean anything. Am I not right, Coon?" It is only justice to the raccoon to say that he was rather abashed at this. He rubbed his nose, and gave a deprecatory wink at Bruin, who was looking very serious; then, recovering himself, he beamed expansively on the squirrel, who still looked fierce, though respect for "Madam" kept him silent. "Mean anything?" he cried. "Dear Madam, do I _ever_ mean anything,--anything unkind, at least?" he added hastily, as Toto looked up with a suppressed chuckle. "I beg your pardon, Cracker, my boy, and I hope you won't bear malice. As for those marks--" "Those marks," interrupted the bear, who had risen from his seat and was examining the cupboard door, "were made by mice. I am quite sure of it." "So am I," said Miss Mary, quietly. "I saw them do it." "What!" "You!" "When?" "How?" "Tell us!" exclaimed every one, in a breath. "Two brown mice," said Miss Mary, "came out from under the cellar-door about midnight. They gnawed at the cupboard till they had made the crack wide enough to pass through. Then I heard them say, 'Squash pie!' and heard them nibbling, or rather gobbling. After a while they came rushing out as if the cat were after them, and jumped into the water-basin. Then they tried to climb up Bruin's back, but he yawned like an alligator, and shook them off, and they ran hurry-scurry under the cellar-door again." A great laugh broke out at this recital of Messrs. Squeak and Scrabble's nocturnal adventure, and under cover of the laughter the raccoon approached the parrot. "Why didn't you give the alarm," he asked, "or drive off the mice yourself? You knew it was my pie, for you saw me put it there." Miss Mary cocked her bright yellow eye at him expressively. "I lost two feathers from my tail, yesterday," she said. "Somebody bit them off while I was asleep. They were fine feathers, and I cannot replace them." The two exchanged a long, deep look. At length-- "Miss Mary," said the raccoon aloud, "what was the color of your lamented husband? You told us once, but I am ashamed to say I'm not positive that I remember." "Green!" replied Miss Mary, in some surprise,--"a remarkably fine emerald green. But why do you ask?" "Ah, I thought so!" said the raccoon, ingenuously. "That explains his choice of a wife.--Walk, Toto, did you say? I am with you, my boy!" and in three bounds he was out of the door, and leaping and frolicking about in the new-fallen snow. Toto caught up his cap and followed him, and the two together made their way out of the yard, and walked, ran, leaped, jumped, tumbled, scrambled, toward the forest. The sky had cleared, and the sun shone brilliantly on the fresh white world. On every hand lay the snow,--here heaped and piled in fantastic drifts and strange half-human shapes; there spread smooth, like a vast counterpane. The tall trees of the forest bent under white feathery masses, which came tumbling down on Toto and his companion, as they lightly pushed the branches aside and entered the woods. A winter walk in the woods! It is always a good thing for any one who has eyes in his head, but it is especially good when you see all that Coon and Toto saw; when you know, from every tiny track or footmark, what little creatures have been running or hopping about; when many of these little creatures are your friends, and all of them at least acquaintances. How fresh and crisp the air was! how soft and powdery and generally delightful the snow! What a pleasant world it was, on the whole! "Let me see!" said the raccoon, stopping and looking about him. "It is just about here that Chucky's aunt lives. Yes, I remember, now. You see that oak-stump yonder, with the moss on it? Well, her burrow is just under that. Suppose we give her a call, and tell her how her hopeful nephew is." "Nonsense!" said Toto, "she is as fast asleep as he is, of course. We couldn't wake her if we tried, and why should we try?" "Might have a game of ball with her," suggested the raccoon. "But I don't know that it's worth while, after all." "Who lives in that hollow tree, now?" asked Toto. "The wild-cat used to live there, you know. It is a very comfortable tree, if I remember right." "You found it so once, didn't you, Toto?" said Coon. "Do you remember that day, when a thunder-shower came up, and you crept into that hollow tree for shelter? Ha! ha! ha! _do_ you remember that day, my boy?" "I should think I did remember it!" cried Toto. "I am not likely to forget it. It was raining guns and pitchforks, and the lightning was cracking and zigzagging all through the forest, it seemed, and the thunder crashing and bellowing and roaring--" "Like Bruin, when the bumble-bee stung his nose!" put in the raccoon. "Exactly!" said Toto. "There I was, curled up well in the hollow, thinking how lucky I was, when suddenly came two green eyes glowering at me, and a great spitting and spluttering and meowling. "'Get out of my house!' said the creature. 'F-s-s-s-s-yeh-yow-s-s-s-s-s-s! get out of my house, I say!' "'My dear Madam,' I said, 'it is really more than you can expect. You are already thoroughly wet, and if you come here you will only drip all over the nice dry hole and spoil it. Now, _I_ am quite dry; and to tell you the truth, I mean to remain so.' "Oh, how angry that cat was! "'My name is Klawtobitz!' she cried. 'I have lived in this tree for seven years, and I am not going to be turned out of it by a thing with two legs and no tail. Who are you, I say?' "'I am a boy!' cried I, getting angry in my turn. 'I wouldn't have a tail if I was paid for it; and I will _not_ leave this hole!' "And then the old cat humped her back, and grinned till I saw every tooth in her head, and came flying at me,--claws spread, and tail as big round as my arm. There we fought, tooth and nail, fist and claw, till we were both out of breath. Finally I got her by the throat, and she made her teeth meet in my arm, and there we both were. I had heard no noise save the cat's screeching in my ear; but now, suddenly, a great growly voice, close beside us, cried,-- "'Fair play! fair play! no choking!' "We both dropped our hold, and looking up, saw--" "Bruin and me!" interrupted the raccoon, joyously. "We were taking a quiet prowl in the rain, and hearing the scuffle, stopped to see what was going on. Such a pretty fight I had not seen in a long time, and it was really too bad of Bruin to stop it. How old Ma'am Wildcat's tail went down, though, when she saw him!" "I am very glad he did stop it," said Toto. "I was quite a little chap then, you see,--only seven years old,--and it was going hard with me. I was frightened enough, though, I can tell you, when I saw Bruin standing there. He looked as big as an elephant, and I fully expected to be eaten up the next minute. But he said, in his great hearty voice,-- "'Give us your paw, my little fighting-cock! And you, Mrs. Wildcat, be off! I gave you warning a week ago, when you killed the wood-pigeon's nestlings. Off with you, now, quick, or--'" "And she went!" cried Coon. "Oh, yes, my dear, she went! And I went after her! I chased that cat for ten miles, to the very farthest end of the forest. She had the start of me, and kept it pretty well, but I was just overhauling her when we came to the open; she gave a flying leap from the last tree, and went crash through the window of a farmhouse which stood close at hand! I thought she would probably be attended to there; so I went back, and found Bruin and you as sociable and friendly as if you had been brought up in the same den,--you sitting in the hole, with your funny red legs hanging out (you were the queerest-looking animal I had ever seen, Toto!), and he sitting up on his haunches, talking to you." "And he invited us both to supper!" cried Toto. "Don't you remember, Coon? That was the first time I had ever seen any of you people, and I was dreadfully afraid that I should be the supper myself. But we went to his den, and had a jolly supper. Bruin ate three large watermelons, I remember. He _said_ a man gave them to him." "I think it very likely that he did," said Coon, "if Bruin asked him." "And I showed you how to play leap-frog," continued Toto; "and we played it over Bruin's back till it was time for me to go home. And then you both walked with me to the edge of the forest, and there we swore eternal friendship." "Ah!" said the raccoon, "that we did, my boy; and well have we kept the vow! And so long as Coon's tail has a single hair in it, will he ever cherish-- Hello! what's that?" he cried with a sudden start, as a tiny brown creature darted swiftly across the path. "Woodmouse! I say, Woodmouse! stop a minute; you are just the fellow I want to see." The woodmouse stopped and turned round, and greeted the two friends cordially. "I haven't seen you for an age!" he said. "Coon, I supposed you had been asleep for a couple of months, at least. How does it happen that you are prowling about at this season?" Coon briefly explained the state of the case, and then added:-- "I am specially glad to meet you, Woodmouse, for I want to consult you about something. There are some mice in the cellar of the cottage,--brown mice. Very troublesome, thieving creatures they are, and we want to get rid of them. Now, I suppose they are relatives of yours, eh?" "Ahem! well--yes," the woodmouse admitted reluctantly. "Distant, you know, quite distant; but--a--yes, they _are_ relatives. A wretched, disreputable set, I have heard, though I never met any of them." "You have heard quite correctly!" said the raccoon, warmly. "They are a great annoyance to the Madam, and to all of us. They almost take the food out of our mouths; they destroy things in the cellar, and--and in fact, we want to get rid of them." The woodmouse stared at him in amazement. "Really, Mr. Coon," he said, laughing, "I should not have supposed, from my past acquaintance with you, that you would have any difficulty in getting rid of them." Raccoons cannot blush, or our Coon certainly would have done so. He rubbed his nose helplessly, somewhat after the fashion of Bruin, and cast a half-comical, half-rueful glance at Toto. Finally he replied,-- "Well, you see, Woodmouse, things are rather different from usual this winter. The fact is, our Madam has a strong objection to--a--in point of fact, to slaughter; and she made it a condition of our coming to spend the winter with her, that we should not kill other creatures unless it were necessary. So I thought if we _could_ get rid of those mice in any other way, it would please her. I suppose there is plenty of room in the forest for another family of mice?" "Oh! as far as room goes," replied the woodmouse, "they have a range of ten miles in which to choose their home. I cannot promise to call on them, you know; that could not be expected. But if they behave themselves, they may in time overcome the prejudice against them." "Very well," said Coon, "I shall send them, then. How are you all at home?" he added, "and what is going on in your set?" Now it was the woodmouse's turn to look confused. "My son is to be married on the second evening after this," he said. "That is the only thing I know of." "What?" cried Coon. "Your son Prick-ear? Why, he is one of my best friends! How strange that I should have heard nothing of it!" "We didn't know--we really thought--we supposed you were asleep!" stammered the woodmouse. "And so you chose this time for the wedding?" said the raccoon. "Now, I call that unfriendly, Woodmouse, and I shouldn't have thought it of you." The woodmouse stroked his whiskers, and looked piteously at his formidable acquaintance. "Don't be offended, Coon!" he said. "Perhaps--perhaps you will come to the wedding, after all. Eh? of course we should be delighted." "Yes, to be sure I will come!" said the raccoon, cheerily. "_I_ don't bear malice. Oh, yes! I will come, and Toto shall come, too. Where is it to take place?" "We--we have engaged the cave for the evening," said the woodmouse, with some diffidence. "We have a large family connection, you know, and it is the only place big enough to hold them all." Coon stared in amazement, and Toto gave a long whistle. "The cave, eh?" he said. "I should say this was to be something very grand indeed. I should like very much to come, Woodmouse, if you think it would not trouble any of your family. I promise you that Coon shall be on his very best behavior, and--I'll tell you what!" he added, "I will provide the music, as I did last summer, at the Rabbit's Rinktum." "No, not really! will you, though?" cried the little woodmouse, his slender tail quivering with delight. "We shall be infinitely obliged, Mr. Toto, infinitely obliged, sir! We shall count upon you both. Bring Cracker, too, and any other friends who may be staying with you. Would your grandmother, possibly--eh? care to come?" "Thank you!" said Toto, gravely, "I think not. My grandmother never goes out in the evening." "We might bring Bruin!" suggested Coon, with a sly wink at Toto. But here the poor little woodmouse looked so unutterably distressed, that the two friends burst out laughing; and reassuring him by a word, bade him good-day, and proceeded on their walk. CHAPTER V. "AND now," said the squirrel, when the tea-things were cleared away that evening, "now for dancing-school. If we are going to a ball, we really must be more sure of our steps than we are now. Coon, oblige me with a whisk of your tail over the hearth. Some coals have fallen from the fire, and we shall be treading on them." "When the coals are cold," replied the raccoon, "I shall be happy to oblige you. At present they are red-hot. And meantime, as I have no idea of dancing immediately after my supper, I will, if you like, tell you the story of the Useful Coal, which your request brings to my mind. It is short, and will not take much time from the dancing-lesson." Right willingly the family all seated themselves around the blazing fire, and the raccoon began as follows:-- THE USEFUL COAL. There was once a king whose name was Sligo. He was noted both for his riches and his kind heart. One evening, as he sat by his fireside, a coal fell out on the hearth. The King took up the tongs, intending to put it back on the fire, but the coal said:-- "If you will spare my life, and do as I tell you, I will save your treasure three times, and tell you the name of the thief who steals it." These words gave the King great joy, for much treasure had been stolen from him of late, and none of his officers could discover the culprit. So he set the coal on the table, and said:-- "Pretty little black and red bird, tell me, what shall I do?" "Put me in your waistcoat pocket," said the coal, "and take no more thought for to-night." Accordingly the King put the coal in his pocket, and then, as he sat before the warm fire, he grew drowsy, and presently fell fast asleep. When he had been asleep some time, the door opened, very softly, and the High Cellarer peeped cautiously in. This was the one of the King's officers who had been most eager in searching for the thief. He now crept softly, softly, toward the King, and seeing that he was fast asleep, put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket; for in that waistcoat-pocket King Sligo kept the key of his treasure-chamber, and the High Cellarer was the thief. He put his hand into the waistcoat pocket. S-s-s-s-s! the coal burned it so frightfully that he gave a loud shriek, and fell on his knees on the hearth. "What is the matter?" cried the King, waking with a start. "Alas! your Majesty," said the High Cellarer, thrusting his burnt fingers into his bosom, that the King might not see them. "You were just on the point of falling forward into the fire, and I cried out, partly from fright and partly to waken you." The King thanked the High Cellarer, and gave him a ruby ring as a reward. But when he was in his chamber, and making ready for bed, the coal said to him:-- "Once already have I saved your treasure, and to-night I shall save it again. Only put me on the table beside your bed, and you may sleep with a quiet heart." So the King put the coal on the table, and himself into the bed, and was soon sound asleep. At midnight the door of the chamber opened very softly, and the High Cellarer peeped in again. He knew that at night King Sligo kept the key under his pillow, and he was coming to get it. He crept softly, softly, toward the bed, but as he drew near it, the coal cried out:-- "One eye sleeps, but the other eye wakes! one eye sleeps, but the other eye wakes! Who is this comes creeping, while honest men are sleeping?" The High Cellarer looked about him in affright, and saw the coal burning fiery red in the darkness, and looking for all the world like a great flaming eye. In an agony of fear he fled from the chamber, crying,-- "Black and red! black and red! The King has a devil to guard his bed." And he spent the rest of the night shivering in the farthest garret he could find. The next morning the coal said to the King:-- "Again this night have I saved your treasure, and mayhap your life as well. Yet a third time I shall do it, and this time you shall learn the name of the thief. But if I do this, you must promise me one thing, and that is that you will place me in your royal crown and wear me as a jewel. Will you do this?" "That will I, right gladly!" replied King Sligo, "for a jewel indeed you are." "That is well!" said the coal. "It is true that I am dying; but no matter. It is a fine thing to be a jewel in a king's crown, even if one is dead. Now listen, and follow my directions closely. As soon as I am quite black and dead,--which will be in about ten minutes from now,--you must take me in your hand and rub me all over and around the handle of the door of the treasure-chamber. A good part of me will be rubbed off, but there will be enough left to put in your crown. When you have thoroughly rubbed the door, lay the key of the treasure-chamber on your table, as if you had left it there by mistake. You may then go hunting or riding, but not for more than an hour; and when you return, you must instantly call all your court together, as if on business of the greatest importance. Invent some excuse for asking them to raise their hands, and then arrest the man whose hands are black. Do you understand?" "I do!" replied King Sligo, fervently, "I do, and my warmest thanks, good Coal, are due to you for this--" But here he stopped, for already the coal was quite black, and in less than ten minutes it was dead and cold. Then the King took it and rubbed it carefully over the door of the treasure-chamber, and laying the key of the door in plain sight on his dressing-table, he called his huntsmen together, and mounting his horse, rode away to the forest. As soon as he was gone, the High Cellarer, who had pleaded a headache when asked to join the hunt, crept softly to the King's room, and to his surprise found the key on the table. Full of joy, he sought the treasure-chamber at once, and began filling his pockets with gold and jewels, which he carried to his own apartment, returning greedily for more. In this way he opened and closed the door many times. Suddenly, as he was stooping over a silver barrel containing sapphires, he heard the sound of a trumpet, blown once, twice, thrice. The wicked thief started, for it was the signal for the entire court to appear instantly before the King, and the penalty of disobedience was death. Hastily cramming a handful of sapphires into his pocket, he stumbled to the door, which he closed and locked, putting the key also in his pocket, as there was no time to return it. He flew to the presence-chamber, where the lords of the kingdom were hastily assembling. The King was seated on his throne, still in his hunting-dress, though he had put on his crown over his hat, which presented a peculiar appearance. It was with a majestic air, however, that he rose and said:-- "Nobles, and gentlemen of my court! I have called you together to pray for the soul of my lamented grandmother, who died, as you may remember, several years ago. In token of respect, I desire you all to raise your hands to Heaven." The astonished courtiers, one and all, lifted their hands high in air. The King looked, and, behold! the hands of the High Cellarer were as black as soot! The King caused him to be arrested and searched, and the sapphires in his pocket, besides the key of the treasure-chamber, gave amble proof of his guilt. His head was removed at once, and the King had the useful coal, set in sapphires, placed in the very front of his crown, where it was much admired and praised as a BLACK DIAMOND. * * * * * "And _now_, Cracker, my boy," continued the raccoon, rising from his seat by the fire, "as you previously remarked, now for dancing-school!" With these words he proceeded to sweep the hearth carefully and gracefully with his tail, while Toto and Bruin moved the chairs and tables back against the wall. The grandmother's armchair was moved into the warm chimney-corner, where she would be comfortably out of the way of the dancers; and Pigeon Pretty perched on the old lady's shoulder, "that the two sober-minded members of the family might keep each other in countenance," she said. Toto ran into his room, and returned with a little old fiddle which had belonged to his grandfather, and stationed himself at one end of the kitchen, while the bear, the raccoon, and the squirrel formed in line at the other. "Now, then," said Master Toto, tapping smartly on the fiddle. "Stand up straight, all of you! That's the first thing, you know." Up they all went,--little Cracker sitting up jauntily, his tail cocked over his left ear, Coon pawing the air gracefully, but not quite sure of himself; while Bruin raised his huge form erect, and stood like a shaggy black giant, waiting further orders. "Bow to partners!" cried Toto. Coon and Cracker bowed to each other; and Bruin, having no partner, gravely saluted Miss Mary, who stood on one leg and surveyed the proceedings in silent but deep disdain. "Jump, and change your feet!" But this order, alas! was followed by dire confusion. Bruin dropped on all-fours, and frantically endeavored to stand on his fore-paws, with his hind-legs in the air, throwing up first one great shaggy leg and then another, and finally losing his balance and falling flat, with a thump that shook the whole house. "Dear me!" cried the grandmother, starting from her chair. "Dear, dear me! Who is hurt? What has happened? Are any bones broken?" "Oh, no! Madam," cried the bear, rising with surprising agility for one of his size; "it's nothing! nothing at all, I assure you. I--I was only jumping and changing my feet. But I cannot do it!" he added, in an aggrieved tone, to Toto. "It isn't possible, you know, for a fellow of my build to--a--do that sort of thing. You shouldn't, really--" "Oh, Bruin! Bruin!" cried Toto, wiping the tears from his eyes, as he leaned against the dresser in a paroxysm of merriment. "I didn't _mean_ you to do that! Look here! this is the way. You jump--_so!_ and change your feet--_so!_ as you come down. There, look at Coon; he has the idea, perfectly!" The astute Coon, in truth, seeing Bruin's error, had stood quietly in his place till he saw Toto perform the mystic manoeuvre of "jump and change feet," and had then begun to practise it with a quiet grace and ease, as if he had done it all his life. [Illustration: "Now, then, attention all! Forward and back!" And he played a lively air on his fiddle.--PAGE 97.] The squirrel, meanwhile, had obeyed the first part of the order by jumping to the top of the clock, where he sat inspecting his little black feet with an air of comical perplexity. "Change them, eh?" he said. "What's the matter with them? They'll do very well yet awhile." "Don't be absurd, Cracker!" said Toto, rather severely. "Come down and take your place at once! Now, then, attention all! Forward and back!" and he played a lively air on his fiddle. The bear brightened up at once. "Ah!" he said, "I am all right when we come to forward and back. Tum-tiddy tum-tum, tum-tum-tum!" and he pranced forward, put out one foot, and slid back again, with an air of enjoyment that was pleasant to behold. "That's right!" said the master, approvingly. "Stand a little straighter, Bruin! Cracker, you don't point your toe enough. Hold your head up, Coon, and don't be looking round at your tail every minute. _Tum_-tiddy tum-tum, _tum_-tum-tum! _tiddy_-iddy tum-tum, _tum_-tum-tum! Balance to partners! Here, Bruin! you can balance to me. Turn partners, and back to places! There, now you may rest a moment before you begin on the waltz step." "Ah! that is _my_ delight," said the squirrel. "What a sensation we shall make at the wedding! One of the woodmouse's daughters is very pretty, with such a nice little nose, and such bright eyes! I shall ask her to waltz with me." "There won't be any one of my size there, I suppose," said the raccoon. "You and I will have to be partners, Toto." "And I must stay at home and waltz alone!" said Bruin, goodnaturedly. "It is a misfortune, in some ways, to be so big." "But great good fortune in others, Bruin, dear!" said Pigeon Pretty, affectionately. "I, for one, would not have you smaller, for the world!" "Nor would I!" said the grandmother, heartily. "Bruin, my friend and protector, your size and strength are the greatest possible comfort to me, coupled as they are with a kind heart and a willing--" "Paw!" cried Toto. "Your sentiments are most correct, Granny, dear; but Bruin _must_ not stand bowing in the middle of the room, even if he is grateful. Go in the corner, Bruin, and practise your steps, while I take a turn with Coon. And you, Cracker, can--" But Master Cracker did not wait for instructions. He had been watching the parrot for some minutes, with his head on one side and his eyes twinkling with merriment; and now, springing suddenly upon her perch, he caught the astonished bird round the body, leaped with her to the floor, and began to whirl her round the room at a surprising rate, in tolerably good time to the lively waltz that Toto was whistling. Miss Mary gasped for breath, and fluttered her wings wildly, trying to escape from her tormentor, and presently, finding her voice, she shrieked aloud:-- "Ke-ke-kee! ki-ko! ki-ko-KAA! Let me go, you little wretch! Let me go this instant, or I'll peck your eyes out! I will--" "Oh, no, you won't, my dear!" said Cracker. "You wouldn't have the heart to do that; for then how could I look at you, the delight of my life? Tiddy-_tum_! tiddy-_tum_! tiddy-_tum_ tum-tum! just see what a pretty step it is! You will enjoy it immensely, as soon as you know it a little better." And he whirled her round faster and faster, trying to keep pace with Coon and Toto, who were circling in graceful curves. Suddenly the grandmother uttered an exclamation. "Toto!" she cried, "did you put that custard pie out in the snow to cool? Bruin doesn't like it hot, you know." Toto, his head still dizzy from waltzing, looked about him in bewilderment. "Did I?" he said. "I am sure I don't know! I don't remember what I did with it. Oh, yes, I do, though!" he added hastily. "It is there, on that chair. Bruin! Bruin, I say! mind what you are about. It is just behind you." Thus adjured, the good bear, who had been gravely revolving by himself in the corner until he was quite blind, tried to stop short; at the same instant the squirrel and the parrot, stumbling against his shaggy paw, fell over it in a confused heap of feathers and fur. He stepped hastily back to avoid treading on them, lost his balance, and sat down heavily--on the custard pie! At the crash of the platter, the squirrel released Miss Mary, who flew screaming to her perch; the grandmother wrung her hands and lamented, begging to be told what had happened, and who was hurt; and the unfortunate Bruin, staggering to his feet, stared aghast at the ruin he had wrought. It was a very complete ruin, certainly, for the platter was in small fragments, while most of its contents were clinging to his own shaggy black coat. "Well, old fellow," said Toto, "you have done it now, haven't you? I tried to stop you, but I was too late." "Yes," replied the bear, solemnly, "I have done it now! And I have also done _with_ it now. Dear Madam," he added, turning to the old lady, "please forgive me! I have spoiled your pie, and broken your platter; but I have also learned a lesson, which I ought to have learned before,--that is, that waltzing is not my forte, and that, as the old saying is, 'A bullfrog cannot dance in a grasshopper's nest.' This is my last dancing lesson!" CHAPTER VI. IT was a bright clear night, when Toto, accompanied by the raccoon and the squirrel, started from home to attend the wedding of the woodmouse's eldest son. The moon was shining gloriously, and her bright cold rays turned everything they touched to silver. The long icicles hanging from the eaves of the cottage glittered like crystal spears; the snow sparkled as if diamond-dust were strewn over its powdery surface. The raccoon shook himself as he walked along, and looked about him with his keen bright eyes. "What a fine night this would be for a hunt!" he said, sniffing the cold bracing air eagerly. "I smell something, surely! What is it?" "Rats, maybe!" suggested the squirrel. "There is the track of one yonder." "No, this is not a rat!" said the raccoon, sniffing again. "It's a--it's a cat! that's what it is, a cat! Do you see a track anywhere? I wonder how a cat came here, anyhow. I should like to chase her! It is a long time since I chased a cat." "Oh, never mind the cat now, Coon!" cried Toto. "We are late for the wedding as it is, with all your prinking. Besides," he added slyly, "I didn't lend you that red cravat to chase cats in." The raccoon instantly threw off his professional eagerness, and resumed the air of complacent dignity with which he had begun the walk. Never before had he been so fully impressed with the sense of his own charms. The red ribbon which he had begged from Toto set off his dark fur and bright eyes to perfection; and he certainly was a very handsome fellow, as he frisked daintily along, his tail curling gracefully over his back. "We shall make a sensation!" he said cheerfully; "we shall certainly make a sensation. Don't you think so, Toto?" "I do, indeed," replied Toto; "though it is a great pity that you and Cracker didn't let me put your tails in curl-papers last night, as I offered to do. You can't think what an improvement it would have been." "The cow offered to lend me her bell," said Cracker, "to wear round my neck, but it was too big, you know. She's the dearest old thing, that cow! I had a grand game, this morning, jumping over her back and balancing myself on her horns. Why doesn't she live in the house, with the rest of us?" "Oh!" said Toto, "one _couldn't_ have a cow in the house. She's too big, in the first place; and besides, Granny would not like it. One could not make a companion of a cow! I don't know exactly why, but that sort of animal is entirely different from you wood-creatures." "The difference is, my dear," said the raccoon, loftily, "that we have been accustomed to good society, and know something of its laws; while persons like Mrs. Cow are absolutely ignorant of such matters. Absolutely ignorant!" he repeated, impressively. "Why, only yesterday I went out to the barn, and being in need of a little exercise, thought I would amuse myself by swinging on her tail. And the creature, instead of saying, 'Mr. Coon, I am sensible of the honor you bestow upon me, but your well-proportioned figure is perhaps heavier than you are aware of,' or something of that sort, just kicked me off, without saying a word. _Kicked_, Toto! I give you my word for it. Kicked _me_!" "Humph!" said the squirrel, "I think I should have done the same in her place. But see, here we are at the cave. Just look at the tracks in the snow! Why, there must be a thousand persons here, at least." Indeed, the snow was covered in every direction with the prints of little feet,--feet that had hopped, had run, had crept from all sides of the forest, and had met in front of this low opening, from which the brambles and creeping vines had been carefully cleared away. Torches of light-wood were blazing on either side, lighting up the gloomy entrance for several feet, and from within came a confused murmur of many voices, as of hundreds of small creatures squeaking, piping, and chattering in every variety of tone. "We are late!" said Coon. "Everybody is here. So much the better; we shall make all the more sensation. Toto, is my neck-tie straight?" "Quite straight," replied Toto. "You look like--like--" "Like a popinjay!" muttered the squirrel, who had no neck-tie. "Come along, will you, Coon?" And the three companions entered the cave together. A brilliant scene it was that presented itself before their eyes. The cave was lighted not only by glow-worms, but by light-wood torches stuck in every available crack and cranny of the walls. The floor was sprinkled with fine white sand, clean and glittering, while branches of holly and alder placed in the corners added still more to the general air of festivity. As to the guests, they were evidently enjoying themselves greatly, to judge from the noise they were making. There were a great many of them,--hundreds, or perhaps even thousands, though it was impossible to count them, as they were constantly moving, hopping, leaping, jumping, creeping, trotting, running, even flying. Never were so many tiny creatures seen together. There were woodmice, of course, by the hundred,--old and young, big and little; cousins, uncles, aunts, grandmothers, of the bride and bridegroom. There were respectable field-mice, looking like well-to-do farmers, as indeed they were; frisky kangaroo-mice, leaping about on their long hind-legs, to the admiration of all those whose legs were short. There were all the moles, of both families,--those who wore plain black velvet without any ornament, and those who had lovely rose-colored stars at the end of their noses. These last gentlemen were very aristocratic indeed, and the woodmice felt highly honored by their presence. Besides all these, the squirrels had been invited, and had come in full force, the Grays and the Reds and the Chipmunks; and Mr. and Mrs. Titmouse were there, and old Mrs. Shrew and her daughters, and I don't know how many more. Hundreds and hundreds of guests, none of them bigger than a squirrel, and most of them much smaller. You can perhaps imagine the effect that was produced on this gay assembly by the sudden appearance among them of a RACCOON and a BOY! There was a confused murmur for a moment, a quick affrighted glance, and then dead silence. Not a creature dared to move; not a tail waved, not a whisker quivered; all the tiny creatures stood as if turned to stone, gazing in mute terror and supplication at their formidable visitors. The bride, who had just entered from a side-cave on her father's arm, prepared to faint; the bridegroom threw his arms about her and glared fiercely at the intruders, his tiny heart swelling as high as if he were a lion instead of a very small red mouse. Mr. Woodmouse, Senior, alone retained his presence of mind. He hastened to greet his formidable guests, and bade them welcome in a voice which, though tremulous, tried hard to be cordial. "Mr. Coon," he said, "you are welcome, most welcome. Mr. Toto, your most obedient, sir. Cracker, I am delighted to see you. Very good of you all, I'm sure, to honor this little occasion with your distinguished presence. Will you--ah!--hum--will you sit down?" The little host hesitated over this invitation; it would not be polite to ask his guests to be careful lest they should sit down _on_ the other guests, and yet they were so _very_ large, and took up so _much_ room,--two of them, at least! Coon, delighted at the sensation he had produced, was as gracious as possible, and sitting down with great care so as to avoid any catastrophe, looked about him with so benign an expression that the rest of the company began to take heart, and whiskers were pricked and tails were cocked again. "This is delightful, Mr. Woodmouse!" he said heartily,--"this is really delightful! A brilliant occasion, indeed! But I do not see your son, the happy-- Ah! there he is. Prick-ear, you rascal, come here! Are you too proud to speak to your old friends?" Thus adjured, the young woodmouse left his bride in her mother's care and came forward, looking half pleased and half angry. "Good evening, Coon!" he said. "I was not sure whether you _were_ a friend, after our last meeting. But I am very glad to see you, and I bear no malice." And with this he shook paws with an air of magnanimity. Coon rubbed his nose, as he was apt to do when a little confused. "Oh! ah! to be sure!" he said. "I had quite forgotten that little matter. But say no more about it, my boy; say no more about it! By-gones are by-gones, and we should think of nothing but pleasure on an occasion like the present." With a graceful and condescending wave of his paw he dismissed the past, and continued: "Pray, introduce me to your charming bride! I assure you I am positively longing to make her acquaintance. After you, my boy; after you!" and he crossed the room and joined the bridal party. "What trouble did your son have with Coon?" Toto inquired of Mr. Woodmouse. "Nothing serious, I trust?" "Why--ah!--well!" said his host, in some embarrassment, "it came _near_ being serious,--at least Prick-ear thought it did. It seems he met Mr. Coon one day last autumn, when he was bringing home a load of checkerberries for supper. Mr. Coon wanted the checkerberries, and--ah!--in point of fact, ate them; and when Prick-ear remonstrated, he chased him all round the forest, vowing that if he caught him he would--if you will excuse my mentioning such a thing--eat _him_ too. Now, that sort of thing is very painful, Mr. Toto; very painful indeed it is, I assure you, sir. And though Prick-ear escaped by running into a mole's burrow, I must confess that he has _not_ felt kindly toward Mr. Coon since then." "Very natural," said Toto, gravely. "I don't wonder at it." "It _has_ occurred to me," continued the woodmouse, "that possibly it may have been only a joke on Mr. Coon's part. Eh? what do you think? Seeing him so friendly and condescending here to-night, one can hardly suppose that he _really_--eh?--could have intended--" "He certainly would not do such a thing _now_," said Toto, decidedly, "certainly not. He has the kindest feeling for all your family." "A--exactly! exactly!" cried the woodmouse, highly delighted. "Most gratifying, I'm sure. But I see that the ceremony is about to begin. If you _would_ excuse me, Mr. Toto--" And the little host bowed himself away, leaving Toto to seat himself at leisure and watch the proceedings. These were certainly very interesting. The bride, an extremely pretty little mouse, was attired in a very becoming travelling-dress of brown fur, which fitted her to perfection. The ceremony was performed by a star-nosed mole of high distinction, who delivered a learned and impressive discourse to the young couple, and ended by presenting them with three leaves of wintergreen, of which one was eaten by each separately, while they nibbled the third together, in token of their united lives. When they met in the middle of the leaf, they rubbed noses together, and the ceremony was finished. Then everybody advanced to rub noses with the bride, and to shake paws with the happy bridegroom. One of the first to do so was the raccoon, who comported himself with a grace and dignity which attracted the admiration of all. The little bride was nearly frightened to death, it is true; but she bore up bravely, for her husband whispered in her ear that Mr. Coon was one of his dearest friends, _now_. Meanwhile, no one was enjoying the festivity more thoroughly than our little friend Cracker. He was whisking and frisking about from one group to another, greeting old friends, making new acquaintances, hearing all the wood-gossip of the winter, and telling in return of the wonderful life that he and Bruin and Coon were leading. His own relations were most deeply interested in all he had to tell; but while his cousins were loud in their expressions of delight and of envy, some of the elders shook their heads. Uncle Munkle, a sedate and portly chipmunk, looked very grave as he heard of all the doings at the cottage, and presently he beckoned Cracker to one side, and addressed him in a low tone. "Cracker, my boy," he said, "I don't quite like all this, do you know? Toto and his grandmother are all very well, though they seem to have a barbarous way of living; but who is this Mrs. Cow, about whom you have so much to say; not a domestic animal, I trust?" "Why--yes!" Cracker admitted, rather reluctantly, "she _is_ a domestic animal, Uncle; but she is a very good one, I assure you, and not objectionable in any way." The old chipmunk looked deeply offended. "I did not expect this of you, Cracker!" he said severely, "I did not, indeed. This is the first time, to my knowledge, that a member of my family has had anything to do with a domestic animal. I am disappointed in you, sir; distinctly disappointed!" There was a pause, in which the delinquent Cracker found nothing to say, and then his uncle added:-- "And in what condition are your teeth, pray? I suppose you are letting them grow, while you eat those wretched messes of soft food. Have you _any_ proper food, at all?" "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Cracker. "Indeed, Uncle Munkle, my teeth are in excellent condition. Just look at them!" and he exhibited two shining rows of teeth as sharp as those of a newly-set saw. "We have plenty of nuts; more than I ever had before, I assure you. Toto got quantities of them in the autumn, on purpose for me; and there are great heaps of hazels and beech-nuts and hickories piled up in the barn-chamber, where I can go and help myself when I please. And almonds, too!" he added. "Oh, they are _so_ jolly!" Uncle Munkle looked mollified; he even seemed interested. "Almonds?" he said. "They are foreign nuts, and don't grow in this part of the world. I tasted some once. Where did Toto get them, do you think?" "He bought them of a pedler," said Cracker. "I know he would give you some, Uncle, if you asked him. Why won't you come out and see us, some day?" At this moment a loud and lively whistle was heard,--first three notes of warning, and then Toto's merriest jig,--which put all serious thoughts to flight, and set the whole company dancing. Cracker flew across the room to a charming young red squirrel on whom he had had his eye for some time, made his bow, and was soon showing off to her admiring gaze the fine steps which he had learned in the kitchen at home. The woodmice skipped and hopped merrily about; the kangaroo-mice danced with long, graceful bounds,--three short hops after each one. It is easy to do when you know just how. As for the moles, they ran round and round in a circle, with their noses to the ground, and thought very well of themselves. Presently Toto changed his tune from a jig to a waltz; and then he and Coon danced together, to the admiration of all beholders. Round they went, and round and round, circling in graceful curves,--Toto never pausing in his whistle, Coon's scarlet neck-tie waving like a banner in the breeze. "Yes, that is a sight worth seeing!" said a woodmouse to a mole. "It is a pity, just for this once, that you have not eyes to see it." "Are their coats of black velvet?" inquired the mole. "And have they stars on their noses? Tell me that." "No," replied the woodmouse. "I thought as much!" said the mole, contemptuously. "Vulgar people, probably. I have no desire to _see_ them, as you call it. Are we to have anything to eat?" he added. "That is of more consequence, to my mind. One can show one's skill in dancing, but that does not fill the stomach, and mine warns me that it is empty." At this very moment the music stopped, and the voice of the host was heard announcing that supper was served in the side-cave. The mole waited to hear no more, but rushed as fast as his legs would carry him, following his unerring nose in the direction where the food lay. Bolting into the supper-room, he ran violently against a neatly arranged pyramid of hazel-nuts, and down it came, rattling and tumbling over the greedy mole, and finally burying him completely. The rest of the company coming soberly in, each gentleman with his partner, saw the heaving and quaking mountain of nuts beneath which the mole was struggling, and he was rescued amid much laughter and merriment. That was a supper indeed! There were nuts of all kinds,--butternuts, chestnuts, beech-nuts, hickories, and hazels. There were huge piles of acorns, of several kinds,--the long slender brown-satin ones, and the fat red-and-brown ones, with a woolly down on them. There were partridge-berries and checkerberries, and piles of fragrant, spicy leaves of wintergreen. And there was sassafras-bark and spruce-gum, and a great dish of golden corn,--a present from the field-cousins. Really, it gives one an appetite only to think of it! And I verily believe that there never was such a nibbling, such a gnawing, such a champing and cracking and throwing away of shells, since first the forest was a forest. When the guests were thirsty, there was root-beer, served in birch-bark goblets; and when one had drunk all the beer one ate the goblet; which was very pleasant, and moreover saved some washing of dishes. And so all were very merry, and the star-nosed moles ate so much that their stars turned purple, and they had to be led home by their fieldmouse neighbors. At the close of the feast, the bride and groom departed for their own home, which was charmingly fitted up under an elder-bush, from the berries of which they could make their own wine. "Such a convenience!" said all the family. And finally, after a last wild dance, the company separated, the lights were put out, and "the event of the season" was over. CHAPTER VII. TOTO and his companions walked homeward in high spirits. The air was crisp and tingling; the snow crackled merrily beneath their feet; and though the moon had set, the whole sky was ablaze with stars, sparkling with the keen, winter radiance which one sees only in cold weather. "Pretty wedding, eh, Toto?" said the raccoon. "Very pretty," said Toto; "very pretty indeed. I have enjoyed myself immensely. What good people they are, those little woodmice. See here! they made me fill all my pockets with checkerberries and nuts for the others at home, and they sent so many messages of regret and apology to Bruin that I shall not get any of them straight." "Hello!" said the squirrel, who had been gazing up into the sky, "what's that?" "What's _what_?" asked the raccoon. "_That!_" repeated Cracker. "That big thing with a tail, up among the stars." His companions both stared upward in their turn, and Toto exclaimed,-- "Why, it's a comet! I never saw one before, but I know what they look like, from the pictures. It certainly _is_ a comet!" "And _what_, if I may be so bold as to ask," said Coon, "_is_ a comet?" "Why, it's--it's--THAT, you know!" said Toto. "Exactly!" said Coon. "What a clear way you have of putting things, to be sure!" "Well," cried Toto, laughing, "I'm afraid I cannot put it _very_ clearly, because I don't know just _exactly_ what comets are, myself. But they are heavenly bodies, and they come and go in the sky, with tails; and sometimes you don't see one again for a thousand years; and though you don't see them move, they are really going like lightning all the time." Coon and Cracker looked at each other, as if they feared that their companion was losing his wits. "Have they four legs?" asked Cracker. "And what do they live on?" "They have no legs," replied Toto, "nothing but heads and tails; and I don't believe they live on anything, unless," he added, with a twinkle in his eye, "they get milk from the milky way." The raccoon looked hard at Toto, and then equally hard at the comet, which for its part spread its shining tail among the constellations, and took no notice whatever of him. "Can't you give us a little more of this precious information?" he said with a sneer. "It is so valuable, you know, and we are so likely to believe it, Cracker and I, being two greenhorns, as you seem to think." Toto flushed, and his brow clouded for an instant, for Coon could be so _very_ disagreeable when he tried; but the next moment he threw back his head and laughed merrily. "Yes, I will!" he cried. "I _will_ give you more information, old fellow. I will tell you a story I once heard about a comet. It isn't true, you know, but what of that? You will believe it just as much as you would the truth. Listen, now, both you cross fellows, to the story of THE NAUGHTY COMET. The door of the Comet House was open. In the great court-yard stood hundreds of comets, of all sizes and shapes. Some were puffing and blowing, and arranging their tails, all ready to start; others had just come in, and looked shabby and forlorn after their long journeyings, their tails drooping disconsolately; while others still were switched off on side-tracks, where the tinker and the tailor were attending to their wants, and setting them to rights. In the midst of all stood the Comet Master, with his hands behind him, holding a very long stick with a very sharp point. The comets knew just how the point of that stick felt, for they were prodded with it whenever they misbehaved themselves; accordingly, they all remained very quiet, while he gave his orders for the day. In a distant corner of the court-yard lay an old comet, with his tail comfortably curled up around him. He was too old to go out, so he enjoyed himself at home in a quiet way. Beside him stood a very young comet, with a very short tail. He was quivering with excitement, and occasionally cast sharp impatient glances at the Comet Master. "Will he _never_ call me?" he exclaimed, but in an undertone, so that only his companion could hear. "He knows I am dying to go out, and for that very reason he pays no attention to me. I dare not leave my place, for you know what he is." "Ah!" said the old comet, slowly, "if you had been out as often as I have, you would not be in such a hurry. Hot, tiresome work, _I_ call it. And what does it all amount to?" "Ay, that's the point!" exclaimed the young comet. "What _does_ it all amount to? That is what I am determined to find out. I cannot understand your going on, travelling and travelling, and never finding out why you do it. _I_ shall find out, you may be very sure, before I have finished my first journey." "Better not! better not!" answered the old comet. "You'll only get into trouble. Nobody knows except the Comet Master and the Sun. The Master would cut you up into inch pieces if you asked him, and the Sun--" "Well, what about the Sun?" asked the young comet, eagerly. "Short-tailed Comet No. 73!" rang suddenly, clear and sharp, through the court-yard. The young comet started as if he had been shot, and in three bounds he stood before the Comet Master, who looked fixedly at him. "You have never been out before," said the Master. "No, sir!" replied No. 73; and he knew better than to add another word. "You will go out now," said the Comet Master. "You will travel for thirteen weeks and three days, and will then return. You will avoid the neighborhood of the Sun, the Earth, and the planet Bungo. You will turn to the left on meeting other comets, and you are not allowed to speak to meteors. These are your orders. Go!" At the word, the comet shot out of the gate and off into space, his short tail bobbing as he went. Ah! here was something worth living for. No longer shut up in that tiresome court-yard, waiting for one's tail to grow, but out in the free, open, boundless realm of space, with leave to shoot about here and there and everywhere--well, _nearly_ everywhere--for thirteen whole weeks! Ah, what a glorious prospect! How swiftly he moved! How well his tail looked, even though it was still rather short! What a fine fellow he was, altogether! For two or three weeks our comet was the happiest creature in all space; too happy to think of anything except the joy of frisking about. But by-and-by he began to wonder about things, and that is always dangerous for a comet. "I wonder, now," he said, "why I may not go near the planet Bungo. I have always heard that he was the most interesting of all the planets. And the Sun! how I _should_ like to know a little more about the Sun! And, by the way, that reminds me that all this time I have never found out _why_ I am travelling. It shows how I have been enjoying myself, that I have forgotten it so long; but now I must certainly make a point of finding out. Hello! there comes Long-Tail No. 45. I mean to ask him." So he turned out to the left, and waited till No. 45 came along. The latter was a middle-aged comet, very large, and with an uncommonly long tail,--quite preposterously long, our little No. 73 thought, as he shook his own tail and tried to make as much of it as possible. "Good morning, Mr. Long-Tail!" he said as soon as the other was within speaking distance. "Would you be so very good as to tell me what you are travelling for?" "For six months," answered No. 45 with a puff and a snort. "Started a month ago; five months still to go." "Oh, I don't mean that!" exclaimed Short-Tail No. 73. "I mean _why_ are you travelling at all?" "Comet Master sent me!" replied No. 45, briefly. "But what for?" persisted the little comet. "What is it all about? What good does it do? _Why_ do we travel for weeks and months and years? That's what I want to find out." "Don't know, I'm sure!" said the elder, still more shortly. "What's more, don't care!" The little comet fairly shook with amazement and indignation. "You don't care!" he cried. "Is it possible? And how long, may I ask, have you been travelling hither and thither through space, without knowing or caring why?" "Long enough to learn not to ask stupid questions!" answered Long-Tail No. 45. "Good morning to you!" And without another word he was off, with his preposterously long tail spreading itself like a luminous fan behind him. The little comet looked after him for some time in silence. At last he said:-- "Well, _I_ call that simply _disgusting_! An ignorant, narrow-minded old--" "Hello, cousin!" called a clear merry voice just behind him. "How goes it with you? Shall we travel together? Our roads seem to go in the same direction." The comet turned and saw a bright and sparkling meteor. "I--I--must not speak to you!" said No. 73, confusedly. "Not speak to me!" exclaimed the meteor, laughing. "Why, what's the matter? What have I done? I never saw you before in my life." "N-nothing that I know of," answered No. 73, still more confused. "Then why mustn't you speak to me?" persisted the meteor, giving a little skip and jump. "Eh? tell me that, will you? _Why_ mustn't you?" "I--don't--know!" answered the little comet, slowly, for he was ashamed to say boldly, as he ought to have done, that it was against the orders of the Comet Master. "Oh, gammon!" cried the meteor, with another skip. "_I_ know! Comet Master, eh? But a fine high-spirited young fellow like you isn't going to be afraid of that old tyrant. Come along, I say! If there were any _real reason_ why you should not speak to me--" "That's just what I say," interrupted the comet, eagerly. "What IS the reason? Why don't they tell it to me?" "'Cause there isn't any!" rejoined the meteor. "Come along!" After a little more hesitation, the comet yielded, and the two frisked merrily along, side by side. As they went, No. 73 confided all his vexations to his new friend, who sympathized warmly with him, and spoke in most disrespectful terms of the Comet Master. "A pretty sort of person to dictate to you, when he hasn't the smallest sign of a tail himself! I wouldn't submit to it!" cried the meteor. "As to the other orders, some of them are not so bad. Of course, nobody would want to go near that stupid, poky Earth, if he could possibly help it; and the planet Bungo is--ah--is not a very nice planet, I believe. [The fact is, the planet Bungo contains a large reform school for unruly meteors, but our friend made no mention of that.] But as for the Sun,--the bright, jolly, delightful Sun,--why, I am going to take a nearer look at him myself. Come on! We will go together, in spite of the Comet Master." Again the little comet hesitated and demurred; but after all, he had already broken one rule, and why not another? He would be punished in any case, and he might as well get all the pleasure he could. Reasoning thus, he yielded once more to the persuasions of the meteor, and together they shot through the great space-world, taking their way straight toward the Sun. When the Sun saw them coming, he smiled and seemed much pleased. He stirred his fire, and shook his shining locks, and blazed brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter. The heat seemed to have a strange effect on the comet, for he began to go faster and faster. "Hold on!" said the meteor. "Why are you hurrying so? I cannot keep up with you." "I cannot stop myself!" cried No. 73. "Something is drawing me forward, faster and faster!" On he went at a terrible rate, the meteor following as best he might. Several planets which he passed shouted to him in warning tones, but he could not hear what they said. The Sun stirred his fire again, and blazed brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter; and forward rushed the wretched little comet, faster and faster, faster and faster! "Catch hold of my tail and stop me!" he shrieked to the meteor. "I am shrivelling, burning up, in this fearful heat! Stop me, for pity's sake!" But the meteor was already far behind, and had stopped short to watch his companion's headlong progress. And now,--ah, me!--now the Sun opened his huge fiery mouth. The comet made one desperate effort to stop himself, but it was in vain. An awful, headlong plunge through the intervening space; a hissing and crackling; a shriek,--and the fiery jaws had closed on Short-Tail No. 73, forever! "Dear me!" said the meteor. "How very shocking! I quite forgot that the Sun ate comets. I must be off, or I shall get an æon in the Reform School for this. I am really very sorry, for he was a nice little comet!" And away frisked the meteor, and soon forgot all about it. But in the great court-yard in front of the Comet House, the Master took a piece of chalk, and crossed out No. 73 from the list of short-tailed comets on the slate that hangs on the door. Then he called out, "No. 1 Express, come forward!" and the swiftest of all the comets stood before him, brilliant and beautiful, with a bewildering magnificence of tail. The Comet Master spoke sharply and decidedly, as usual, but not unkindly. "No. 73, Short-Tail," he said, "has disobeyed orders, and has in consequence been devoured by the Sun." Here there was a great sensation among the comets. "No. 1," continued the Master, "you will start immediately, and travel until you find a runaway meteor, with a red face and blue hair. You are permitted to make inquiries of respectable bodies, such as planets or satellites. When found, you will arrest him and take him to the planet Bungo. My compliments to the Meteor Keeper, and I shall be obliged if he will give this meteor two æons in the Reform School. I trust," he continued, turning to the assembled comets, "that this will be a lesson to all of you!" And I believe it was. CHAPTER VIII. "BRUIN, what do you think? Oh, Bruin! what _do_ you think?" Thus spoke the little squirrel as he sat perched on his big friend's shoulder, the day after the wedding party. "What do I think?" repeated the bear. "Why, I think that you are tickling my ear, Master Cracker, and that if you do not stop, I shall be under the painful necessity of knocking you off on the floor." "Oh, that isn't the kind of thinking I mean!" replied Cracker, impudently flirting the tip of his tail into the good bear's eye. "_That_ is of no consequence, you great big fellow! What are your ears for, if not for me to tickle? I mean, what do you think I heard at the party, last night?" "A great deal of nonsense!" replied the bear, promptly. "Bruin, I shall certainly be obliged to shake you!" cried the squirrel. "I shall shake you till your teeth rattle, if you give me any more of this impudence. So behave yourself now, and listen to me. I was talking with Chipper last night,--my cousin, you know, who lives at the other end of the wood,--and he told me something that really quite troubled me. You remember old Baldhead?" "Well, yes!" said Bruin, "I should say I did. He hasn't been in our part of the wood again, has he?" "Oh, no!" replied Cracker. "He is not likely to go anywhere for a long time, I should say. He has broken his leg, Chipper tells me, and has been shut up in his cavern for a week and more." "Dear me!" said the kind-hearted bear. "I am very sorry to hear it! How does the poor old man get his food?" "Chipper didn't seem to think he _could_ get any," replied the squirrel. "He peeped in at the door, yesterday, and saw him lying in his bunk, looking very pale and thin. He tried once or twice to get up, but fell back again; and Chipper is sure there was nothing to eat in the cave. I thought I wouldn't say anything to Coon or Toto last night, but would wait till I had told you." "It must be seen to at once!" cried Bruin, starting up. "I will go myself, and take care of the poor man till his leg is well. Where are the Madam and Toto? We must tell them at once." The blind grandmother was in the kitchen, rolling out pie-crust. She listened, with exclamations of pity and concern, to Cracker's account of the poor old hermit, and agreed with Bruin that aid must be sent to him without delay. "I will pack a basket at once," she said, "with nourishing food, bandages for the broken leg, and some simple medicines; and Toto, you will take it to the poor man, will you not, dear?" "Of course I will!" said Toto, heartily. But Bruin said: "No, dear Madam! I will go myself. Our Toto's heart is big, but he is not strong enough to take care of a sick person. It is surely best for me to go." The grandmother hesitated. "Dear Bruin," she said, "of course you _would_ be the best nurse on many accounts; but if the man is weak and nervous, I am afraid--you alarmed him once, you know, and possibly the sight of you, coming in suddenly, might--" "Speak out, Granny!" cried Toto, laughing. "You think Bruin would simply frighten the man to death, or at best into a fit; and you are quite right. I'll tell you what, old fellow!" he added, turning to Bruin, who looked sadly crestfallen at this throwing of cold water on the fire of his kindly intentions, "we will go together, and then the whole thing will be easily managed. I will go in first, and tell the hermit all about you; and then, when his mind is prepared, you can come in and make him comfortable." The good bear brightened up at this, and gladly assented to Toto's proposition; and the two set out shortly after, Bruin carrying a large basket of food, and Toto a small one containing medicines and bandages. Part of the food was for their own lunch, as they had a long walk before them, and would not be back till long past dinner-time. They trudged briskly along,--Toto whistling merrily as usual, but his companion very grave and silent. "What ails you, old fellow?" asked the boy, when a couple of miles had been traversed in this manner. "Has our account of the wedding made you pine with envy, and wish yourself a mouse?" "No!" replied the bear, slowly, "oh, no! I should not like to be a mouse, or anything of that sort. But I do wish, Toto, that I was not so frightfully ugly!" "Ugly!" cried Toto, indignantly, "who said you were ugly? What put such an idea into your head?" "Why, you yourself," said the bear, sadly. "You said I would frighten the man to death, or into a fit. Now, one must be horribly ugly to do that, you know." "My _dear_ Bruin," cried Toto, "it isn't because you are _ugly_; why, you are a perfect beauty--for a bear. But--well--you are _very_ large, you know, and somewhat shaggy, if you don't mind my saying so; and you must remember that most bears are very savage, disagreeable creatures. How is anybody who sees you for the first time to know that you are the best and dearest old fellow in the world? Besides," he added, "have you forgotten how you frightened this very hermit when he stole your honey, last year?" Bruin hung his head, and looked very sheepish. "I shouldn't roar, now, of course," he said. "I meant to be very gentle, and just put one paw in, and then the end of my nose, and so get into the cave by degrees, you know." Toto had his doubts as to the soothing effect which would have been produced by this singular measure, but he had not the heart to say so; and after a pause, Bruin continued:-- "Of course, however, you and Madam were quite right,--quite right you were, my boy. But I was wondering, just now, whether there were not some way of making myself less frightful. Now, you and Madam have no hair on your faces,--none anywhere, in fact, except a very little on the top of your head. That gives you a gentle expression, you see. Do you think--would it be possible--would you advise me to--to--in fact, to shave the hair off my face?" The excellent bear looked wistfully at Toto, to mark the effect of this proposition; but Toto, after struggling for some moments to preserve his gravity, burst into a peal of laughter, so loud and clear that it woke the echoes of the forest. "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the boy. "Ho! oh, dear me! ho! ho! ha! Bruin, dear, you really _must_ excuse me, but I cannot help it. Ho! ho! ho!" Bruin looked hurt and vexed for a moment, but it was only a moment. Toto's laughter was too contagious to be resisted; the worthy bear's features relaxed, and the next instant he was laughing himself,--or coming as near to it as a black bear can. "I am a foolish old fellow, I suppose!" he said. "We will say no more about it, Toto. But, hark? who is that speaking. It sounded like a crow, only it was too feeble." They listened, and presently the sound was heard again; and this time it certainly was a faint but distinct "Caw!" and apparently at no great distance from them. The two companions looked about, and soon saw the owner of the voice perched on a stump, and croaking dismally. A more miserable-looking bird was never seen. His feathers drooped in limp disorder, and evidently had not been trimmed for days; his eyes were half-shut, and save when he opened his beak to utter a despairing "Caw!" he might have been mistaken for a stuffed bird,--and a badly stuffed bird at that. "Hello, friend!" shouted Toto, in his cheery voice. "What is the matter that you look so down in the beak?" The crow raised his head, and looked sadly at the two strangers. "I am sick," he said, "and I can't get anything to eat for myself or my master." "Who is your master?" asked the boy. "He is a hermit," replied the crow. "He lives in a cave near by; but last week he broke his leg, and has not been able to move since then. He has nothing to eat, for he will not touch raw snails, and I cannot find anything else for him. I fear he will die soon, and I shall probably die too." "Come! come!" said the bear, "don't let me hear any nonsense of that kind. Die, indeed! Here, take that, sir, and don't talk foolishness!" "That" was neither more nor less than the wing of a roast chicken which Bruin had pulled hastily from the basket. The famished crow fell upon it, beak and claw, without more ado; and a silence ensued, while the two friends, well pleased, watched the first effect of their charitable mission. "Poor creature!" said Toto. "Were you ever so hungry as that, Bruin?" "Oh, yes!" said the bear, carelessly, "often and often. When I came out in the spring, you know. But I never stayed hungry very long," he added, with a significant grimace. "This crow is sick, you see, and probably cannot help himself much. How does that go, old fellow?" he said, addressing the crow, who had polished the chicken-bone till it shone again, and now looked up with a twinkle in his eyes very different from the wretched, lacklustre expression they had at first worn. "You have given me life, sir!" he said warmly; "you have positively given me life. I am once more a crow. And now, tell me how I can serve you, for you are evidently bent on some errand." "We have come to see your master," said Toto. "We heard of his accident, and thought he must be in need of help. So, if you will show us the way--" The crow needed no more, but joyfully spread his wings, and half hopped, half fluttered along the ground as fast as he could go. "Noble strangers!" he cried, "our humble dwelling is close at hand. Follow me, I pray you, and blessings attend your footsteps." The two friends followed, and soon came upon the entrance to a cave, around which a sort of rustic porch had been built. Vines were trained over it, and a rude chair and table stood beneath the pleasant shade. "This is my master's study," said the crow. "Here we have spent many happy and profitable hours. May it please you to enter, worshipful sirs?" "What do you say, Bruin?" asked Toto, glancing at his companion. "Shall we go in, or send the crow first, to announce us?" "You had better go in alone," said the bear, decidedly. "I will stay here with Master Crow, and when--that is, _if_ you think it best for me to come in, later, you have but to call me." Accordingly Toto entered the cavern, which was dimly lighted by a hole in the roof. As soon as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he perceived a rude pallet at one side, on which was stretched the form of a tall old man. His long white hair and beard were matted and tangled; his thin hands lay helpless by his side; it seemed as if he were scarcely alive. He opened his eyes, however, at the sound of footsteps, and looked half-fearfully at the boy, who bent softly over him. "Good morning, sir!" said Toto, not knowing what else to say. "Is your leg better, to-day?" "Water!" murmured the old man, feebly. "Water? Why, yes, of course! I'll get some in a minute." He started for the mouth of the cave, but before he reached it, a huge, shaggy, black paw was thrust in at the aperture, holding out a bark dish, while a sort of enormous whisper, which just _was_ not a growl, murmured, "Here it is!" "Thank you, Bru--I mean, thank you!" said Toto, in some confusion, glancing apprehensively toward the bed. But the old man noticed nothing, till the clear cool water was held to his lips. He drank eagerly, and seemed to gain a little strength at once, for he now gazed earnestly at Toto, and presently said, in a feeble voice:-- "Who are you, dear child, and what good angel has sent you to save my life?" "My name is Toto," replied the boy. "As to how I came here, I will tell you all that by-and-by; but now you are too weak either to talk or to listen, and I must see at once about getting you some--" "_Food!_" came the huge whisper again, rolling like a distant muttering of thunder through the cavern; and again the shaggy paw appeared, solemnly waving a bowl of jelly. Toto flew to take it, but paused for a moment, overcome with amusement at the aspect presented by his friend. The good bear had wedged his huge bulk tightly into a corner behind a jutting fragment of rock. Here he sat, with the basket of provisions between his knees, and an air of deep and solemn mystery in his look and bearing. Not seeing Toto, he still held the bowl of jelly in his outstretched paw, and opening his cavernous jaws, was about to send out another rolling thunder-whisper of "Food!" when Toto sprang quickly on the jelly, and taking a spoon from the basket, rapped the bear on the nose with it, and then returned to his charge. The poor hermit submitted meekly to being fed with a spoon, and at every mouthful seemed to gain strength. A faint color stole into his wan cheek, his eyes brightened, and before the bowl was two thirds empty, he actually smiled. "I little thought I should ever taste jelly again," he said. "Indeed, I had fully made up my mind that I must starve to death here; for I was unable to move, and never thought of human aid coming to me in this lonely spot. Even my poor crow, my faithful companion for many years, has left me. I trust he has found some other shelter, for he was feeble and lame, himself." "Oh, he is all right!" said Toto, cheerily. "It was he who showed us the way here; and he's outside now, talking to--that is--talking to himself, you know." "Showed _us_ the way?" repeated the hermit. "You have a companion, then? Why does he not come in, and let me thank him also for his kindness?" "He?" said Toto, stammering. "He--oh--he--he doesn't like to be thanked." "But at least he will come in!" urged the old man. "Do, pray, ask him! I am distressed to think of his staying outside. Is he a very shy boy?" "He isn't a boy," said Toto. "He's--oh! what a muddle I'm making of it! He's bigger than a boy, sir, a great deal bigger. And--I hope you won't mind, but--he's black!" "A negro! is it possible?" exclaimed the hermit. "My dear boy, I have no prejudice against the Ethiopian race. I must insist on his coming in. Stay! I will call him myself. I believe they are generally called either Cæsar or Pompey. Mr. Pomp--" "Oh, stop!" cried Toto, in distress. "His name _isn't_ Pompey, it's Bruin. And he wouldn't come in yet if I were to--" "Cut him into inch pieces!" came rolling like muffled thunder through the doorway. The old hermit started as if he had been shot. "Ah! what is that?" he cried. "Boy! boy! who--_what_ is that speaking?" "Oh, dear!" cried Toto, distractedly. "Oh, dear! what shall I do? Please don't be alarmed, Mr. Baldhead--I mean, Mr. Hermit. He is the best, dearest, kindest old fellow _in the world_, and it isn't his fault, because he was--" "Born so!" resounded from without; and the poor hermit, now speechless with terror, could only gasp, and gaze at Toto with eyes of agonized entreaty. "Yes, he was born so!" continued the boy. "And we might have been bears ourselves, you know, if we had happened to have them for fathers and mothers; so--" But here he paused in dismay, for the hermit, without more ado, quietly fainted away. "Oh, Bruin! Crow! come here!" cried Toto. "I am afraid he is dead, or dying. What shall we do?" At this summons the crow came hopping and fluttering in, followed by the unhappy bear, who skulked along, hugging the wall and making himself as small as possible, while he cast shamefaced and apologetic glances toward the bed. "Oh, you needn't mind now!" cried Toto. "He won't know you are here. Do you think he is dead, Crow? Have you ever seen him like this before?" But the crow never had; and the three were standing beside the bed in mute dismay, when suddenly a light flutter of wings was heard, and a soft voice cooed, "Toto! Bruin!" and the next moment Pigeon Pretty came flying into the cave, with a bunch of dried leaves in her bill. A glance showed her the situation, and alighting softly on the old man's breast she held the leaves to his nostrils, fanning him the while with her outspread wings. "Oh!" she said, "I have flown so fast I am quite out of breath. You see, dears, I was afraid that something of this sort might happen, as soon as I heard of your going. I was in the barn, you know, when you were talking about it, and getting ready. So I flew to my old nest and got these leaves, of which I always keep a store on hand. See, he is beginning to revive already." In truth, the pungent fragrance of the leaves, which now filled the air, seemed to have a magical effect on the sick man. His eyelids fluttered, his lips moved, and he muttered faintly, "The bear! oh, the bear!" The wood-pigeon motioned to Bruin and Toto to withdraw, which they speedily did, casting remorseful glances at one another. Silently and sadly they sat down in the porch, and here poor Bruin abandoned himself to despair, clutching his shaggy hair, and even pulling out several handfuls of it, while he inwardly called himself by every hard name he could think of. Toto sat looking gloomily at his boots for a long time, but finally he said, in a whisper:-- "Cheer up, old fellow! it was all my fault. I do suppose I am the stupidest boy that ever lived. If I had only managed a little better--hark! what is that?" Both listened, and heard the soft voice of the wood-pigeon calling, "Bruin! Bruin! Toto! come in, both of you. Mr. Hermit understands all about it now, and is ready to welcome _both_ his visitors." Much amazed, the two friends rose, and slowly and hesitatingly re-entered the cave, the bear making more desperate efforts even than before to conceal his colossal bulk. To his astonishment, however, the hermit, who was now lying propped up by an improvised pillow of dry moss, greeted him with an unflinching gaze, and even smiled and held out his hand. "Mr. Bruin," he said, "I am glad to meet you, sir! This sweet bird has told me all about you, and I am sincerely pleased to make your acquaintance. So you have walked ten miles and more to bring help and comfort to an old man who stole your honey!" But this was more than the good bear could stand. He sat down on the ground, and thrusting his great shaggy paws into his eyes, fairly began to blubber. At this, I am ashamed to say, all the others fell to laughing. First, Toto laughed--but Toto, bless him! was always laughing; and then Pigeon Pretty laughed; and then Jim Crow; and then the hermit; and finally, Bruin himself. And so they all laughed together, till the forest echoes rang, and the woodchucks almost stirred in their holes. CHAPTER IX. IT was late in the afternoon of the same day. In the cottage at home all was quiet and peaceful. The grandmother was taking a nap in her room, with the squirrel curled up comfortably on the pillow beside her. In the kitchen, the fire and the kettle were having it all their own way, for though two other members of the family were in the room, they were either asleep or absorbed in their own thoughts, for they gave no sign of their presence. The kettle was in its glory, for Bruin had polished it that very morning, and it shone like the good red gold. It sang its merriest song, and puffed out clouds of snow-white steam from its slender spout. "Look at me!" it said to the fire. "Am I not well worth looking at? I feel almost sure that I must have turned into gold, for I never used to look like this. A golden kettle is rather a rare thing, I flatter myself. It really seems a pity that there is no one here except the stupid parrot, who has gone to sleep, and that odious raccoon, who always looks at me as if I were a black pot, and a cracked pot at that." "To be sure!" crackled the fire, encouragingly. "To be sure! But never mind, my dear! I admire you immensely, as you know, and it is my greatest pleasure to see myself reflected in your bright face. Crick! crack! cr-r-r-r-rickety!" said the fire. "Hm! hm! tsing! tsing! tsing!" sang the kettle. And they performed really a very creditable duet together. Now it happened that the parrot was not asleep, though she had had the bad taste to turn her back on the fire and the kettle. She was looking out of the window, in fact, and wondering when the wood-pigeon would come back. Though not a bird of specially affectionate nature, Miss Mary was still very fond of Pigeon Pretty, and always missed her when she was away. This afternoon had seemed particularly long, for no one had been in the kitchen save Coon, with whom she was not on very good terms. Now, she thought, it was surely time for her friend to return; and she stretched her neck, and peered out of the window, hoping to catch the flutter of the soft brown wings. Instead of this, however, she caught sight of something else, which made her start and ruffle up her feathers, and look again with a very different expression. Outside the cottage stood a man,--an ill-looking fellow, with a heavy pack strapped on his back. He was looking all about him, examining the outside of the cottage carefully, and evidently listening for any sound that might come from within. All being silent, he stepped to the window (not Miss Mary's window, but the other), and took a long survey of the kitchen; and then, seeing no living creature in it (for the raccoon under the table and the parrot on her perch were both hidden from his view), he laid down his pack, opened the door, and quietly stepped in. An ill-looking fellow, Miss Mary had thought him at the first glance; but now, as she noiselessly turned on her perch and looked more closely at him, she thought his aspect positively villanous. He had a hooked nose and a straggling red beard, and his little green eyes twinkled with an evil light as he looked about the cosey kitchen, with all its neat and comfortable appointments. First he stepped to the cupboard, and after examining its contents he drew out a mutton-bone (which had been put away for Bruin), a hunch of bread, and a cranberry tart, on which he proceeded to make a hearty meal, without troubling himself about knife or fork. He ate hurriedly, looking about him the while,--though, curiously enough, he saw neither of the two pairs of bright eyes which were following his every movement. The parrot on her perch sat motionless, not a feather stirring; the raccoon under the table lay crouched against the wall, as still as if he were carved in stone. Even the kettle had stopped singing, and only sent out a low, perturbed murmur from time to time. His meal finished, the rascal--his confidence increasing as the moments went by without interruption--proceeded to warm himself well by the fire, and then on tiptoe to walk about the room, peering into cupboards and lockers, opening boxes and pulling out drawers. The parrot's blood boiled with indignation at the sight of this "unfeathered vulture," as she mentally termed him, ransacking all the Madam's tidy and well-kept stores; but when he opened the drawer in which lay the six silver teaspoons (the pride of the cottage), and the porringer that Toto had inherited from his great-grandfather,--when he opened this drawer, and with a low whistle of satisfaction drew the precious treasures from their resting-place, Miss Mary could contain herself no longer, but clapped her wings and cried in a clear distinct voice, "Stop thief!" The man started violently, and dropping the silver back into the drawer, looked about him in great alarm. At first he saw no one, but presently his eyes fell on the parrot, who sat boldly facing him, her yellow eyes gleaming with anger. His terror changed to fury, and with a muttered oath he stepped forward. "It was you, was it?" he said fiercely. "You'll never say 'Stop thief' again, my fine bird, for I'll wring your neck before I'm half a minute older." [Illustration: But at this last mishap the robber, now fairly beside himself, rushed headlong from the cottage.--PAGE 163.] He stretched his hand toward the parrot, who for her part prepared to fly at him and fight for her life; but at that moment something happened. There was a rushing in the air; there was a yell as if a dozen wild-cats had broken loose, and a heavy body fell on the robber's back,--a body which had teeth and claws (an endless number of claws, it seemed, and all as sharp as daggers); a body which yelled and scratched and bit and tore, till the ruffian, half mad with terror and pain, yelled louder than his assailant. Vainly trying to loosen the clutch of those iron claws, the wretch staggered backward against the hob. Was it accident, or did the kettle by design give a plunge, and come down with a crash, sending a stream of boiling water over his legs? Who can tell? It was a remarkable kettle. But at this last mishap the robber, now fairly beside himself, rushed headlong from the cottage, and still bearing his terrible burden, fled screaming down the road. At the same moment the door of the grandmother's room was opened hurriedly, and the old lady cried, in a trembling voice, "What has happened? What is it? Coon! Mary! are you here?" "I am here, Madam!" replied the parrot, quickly. "Coon has--has just stepped out, with--in fact, with an acquaintance. He will be back directly, no doubt." "But that fearful noise!" said the grandmother. "Was that--" "The acquaintance, dear Madam!" replied Miss Mary, calmly. "He was excited!--about something, and he raised his voice, I confess, higher than good breeding usually allows. Yes. Have you had a pleasant nap?" The good old lady, still much mystified, though her fears were set at rest by the parrot's quiet confidence, returned to her room to put on her cap, and to smooth the pretty white curls which her Toto loved. No sooner was the door closed than the squirrel, who had been fairly dancing up and down with curiosity and eagerness, opened a fire of questions:-- "Who was it? What happened? What did he want? Who knocked down the kettle? Why didn't you want Madam to know?" etc. Miss Mary entered into a full account of the thrilling adventure, and had but just finished it when in walked the raccoon, his eyes sparkling, his tail cocked in its airiest way. "Well?" cried the parrot, eagerly, "is he gone?" "Yes, my dear, he is gone!" replied Coon, gayly. "Oh, dear me! what a pleasant ride I have had! Why didn't you come too, Miss Mary? You might have held on by his hair. It would have been such fun! Yes, I went on quite a good bit with him, just to show him the way, you know. And then I bade him good-by, and begged him to come again; but he didn't say he would." Coon shook himself, and fairly chuckled with glee, as did also his two companions; but presently Miss Mary, quitting her perch, flew to the table, and holding out her claw to the raccoon, said gravely:-- "Coon, you have saved my life, and perhaps the Madam's and Cracker's too. Give me your paw, and receive my warmest thanks for your timely aid. We have not been the best of friends, lately," she added, "but I trust all will be different now. And the next time you are invited to a party, if you fancy a feather or so to complete your toilet, you have only to mention it, and I shall be happy to oblige you." "And for my part, Miss Mary," responded the raccoon warmly, "I beg you to consider me the humblest of your servants from this day forth. If you fancy any little relish, such as snails or fat spiders, as a change from your every-day diet, it will be a pleasure to me to procure them for you. Beauty," he continued, with his most gallant bow, "is enchanting, and valor is enrapturing; but beauty and valor _combined_, are--" "Oh, come!" said the squirrel, who felt rather crusty, perhaps, because he had not seen the fun, and so did not care for the fine speeches, "stop bowing and scraping to each other, you two, and let us put this distracted-looking room in order before Madam comes in again. Pick up the kettle, will you, Coon? Look! the water is running all over the floor." The raccoon did not answer, being apparently very busy setting the chairs straight; so Cracker repeated his request, in a sharper voice. "Do you hear me, Coon? Please pick up that kettle. I cannot do it myself, for it is twice as big as I am, but I should think you could lift it easily, now that it is empty." The raccoon threw a perturbed glance at the kettle, and then said in a tone which tried to be nonchalant, "Oh! the kettle is all right. It will get up, I suppose, when it feels like it. If it should ask me to help it, of course I would; but perhaps it may prefer the floor for a change. I--I often lie on the floor, myself," he added. The squirrel stared. "What do you mean?" he said. "It isn't alive! Toto said it wasn't." The raccoon beckoned him aside, and said in a low tone, "My good Cracker, Toto _says_ a great many things, and no doubt he thinks they are all true. But he is a young boy, and, let me tell you, he does _not_ know everything in the world. If that thing is not alive, why did it jump off its seat just at the critical moment, and pour hot water over the robber's legs?" "Did it?" exclaimed the squirrel, much impressed. "Yes, it did!" replied the raccoon, emphatically. "I saw it with these eyes. And I don't deny that it was a great help, Cracker, and that I was very glad the kettle did it. But see, now! when a creature has no more self-respect than to lie there for a quarter of an hour, with its head on the other side of the room, without making the smallest attempt to get up and put itself together again, why, I tell you frankly _I_ don't feel much like assisting it. You never knew one of _us_ to behave in that sort of way, did you, now?" "N-n-no!" said Cracker, doubtfully. "But then, if any of us were to lose our heads, we should be dead, shouldn't we?" "Exactly!" cried the raccoon, triumphantly. "And when that thing loses its head, it _isn't_ dead. That's just the difference. It can go without its head for an hour! I've seen it, when Toto took it off--the head, I mean--and forgot to put it on again. I tell you, it just _pretends_ to be dead, so that it can be taken care of, and carried about like a baby, and given water whenever it is thirsty. A secret, underhand, sly creature, I call it, and I sha'n't touch it to put its head on again!" And that was all the thanks the kettle got for its pains. CHAPTER X. WHEN Toto came home, as he did just when night was closing in around the little cottage, he was whistling merrily, as usual; and the first sound of his clear and tuneful whistle brought Coon, Cracker, and Miss Mary all running to the door, to greet, to tell, and to warn him. The boy listened wide-eyed to the story of the attempted robbery, and at the end of it he drew a long breath of relief. "I am _so_ glad you didn't let Granny know!" he cried. "That was clever of you. She never would have slept quietly again. And, I say! what a good fellow you are, Coon! Shake paws, old boy! And Miss Mary, you are a trump, and I would give you a golden nose-ring like your Princess's if you had a nose to wear it on. To think of you two defending the castle, and putting the enemy to flight, horse, foot, and dragoons!" "What is dragoons?" asked the parrot, gravely. "I don't think he had any about him, unless it was concealed. He had no horse, either; but he had two feet,--and very ugly ones they were. He danced on them when the kettle poured hot water over his legs,--danced higher than ever you did, Toto." "Did he?" laughed Toto, who was in high spirits. "Ha! ha! I am delighted to hear it. But," he added, "it is so dark that you do not see our guest, whom I have brought home for a little visit. Where are you, Jim Crow? Come here and be introduced to the family!" Thus adjured, the crow hopped solemnly forward, and made his best bow to the three inmates, who in turn saluted him, each after his or her fashion. The raccoon was gracious and condescending, the squirrel familiar and friendly, the parrot frigidly polite, though inwardly resenting that a crow should be presented to her,--to _her_, the favorite attendant of the late lamented Princess of Central Africa,--without her permission having been asked first. As for the crow, he stood on one leg and blinked at them all in a manner which meant a great deal or nothing at all, just as you chose to take it. "Distinguished persons!" he said, gravely, "it is with pleasure that I make your acquaintance. May this day be the least happy of your lives! Lady Parrot," he added, addressing himself particularly to Miss Mary, "grant me the honor of leading you within. The evening air is chill for one so delicate and fragile." Miss Mary, highly delighted at being addressed by such a stately title as "Lady Parrot," relaxed at once the severity of her mien, and gracefully sidled into the house in company with the sable-clad stranger, while Toto and the two others followed, much amused. After a hearty supper, in the course of which Toto related as much of his and Bruin's adventures in the hermit's cave as he thought proper, the whole family gathered around the blazing hearth. Toto brought the pan of apples and the dish of nuts; the grandmother took up her knitting, and said, with a smile: "And who will tell us a story, this evening? We have had none for two evenings now, and it is high time that we heard something new. Cracker, my dear, is it not your turn?" "I think it is," said the squirrel, hastily cramming a couple of very large nuts into his cheek-pouches, "and if you like, I will tell you a story that Mrs. Cow told me a day or two ago. It is about a cow that jumped over the moon." "What!" cried Toto. "Why, I've known that story ever since I was a baby! And it isn't a story, either, it's a rhyme,-- "Hey diddle diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow--" "Yes, yes! I know, Toto," interrupted the squirrel. "She told me that, too, and said it was a pack of lies, and that people like you didn't know anything about the real truth of the matter. So now, if you will just listen to me, I will tell you how it really happened." THE MOON-CALF. There once was a young cow, and she had a calf. "And that's half!" said Toto, in rather a provoking manner. "No, it isn't, it's only the beginning," said the little squirrel, indignantly; "and if you would rather tell the story yourself, Toto, you are welcome to do so." "Beg pardon! Crackey," said Toto, apologetically. "Won't do so again, Crackey; go on, that's a dear!" and the squirrel, who never bore malice for more than two minutes, put his little huff away, and continued:-- * * * * * This young cow, you see, she was very fond of her calf,--very fond indeed she was,--and when they took it away from her, she was very unhappy, and went about roaring all day long. "Cows don't roar!" said Toto the irrepressible. "They _low_. There's a piece of poetry about it that I learned once:-- "'The lowing herd--' do something or other, I don't remember what." "'The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,'" quoted the grandmother, softly. "What do they wind?" asked the raccoon. "Yarn, or a chain-pump like the one in the yard, or what?" "I don't know what you mean by _low_, Toto!" said the squirrel, without noticing Coon's remarks. "Your cow roared so loud the other day that I fell off her horn into the hay. I don't see anything _low_ in that." "Why, Cracker, can't you understand?" cried Toto. "They _low_ when they _moo_! I don't mean that they moo _low_, but 'moo' _is_ 'low,' don't you see?" "No, I do _not_ see!" replied the squirrel, stoutly. "And I don't believe there is anything _to_ see, I don't. So there, now!" At this point Madam interfered, and with a few gentle words made the matter clear, and smoothed the ruffled feathers--or rather fur. The raccoon, who had been listening with ears pricked up, and keen eyes glancing from one to the other of the disputants, now murmured, "Ah, yes! very explicit. Quite what I should have said myself!" and relapsed into his former attitude of graceful and dignified ease. The squirrel repeated to himself, "Moo! low! loo! mow! moo!" several times, shook his head, refreshed himself with a nut, and finally, at the general request, continued his story: * * * * * So, as I said, this young cow was very sad, and she looed--I mean mowed--all day to express her grief. And she thought, "If I could only know where my calf is, it would not be quite so dreadfully bad. But they would not tell me where they were taking him, though I asked them politely in seven different tones, which is more than any other cow here can use." Now, when she was thinking these thoughts it chanced that the maid came to milk the cows, and with the maid came a young man, who was talking very earnestly to her. "What is it, Molly?" says he. "Doesn't thee know me well enough?" "I knows a moon-calf when I sees him!" says the maid; and with that she boxed his ears, and sat down to milk the cow, and he went away in a huff. But the cow heard what the maid said, and began to wonder what moon-calves were, and whether they were anything like her calf. Presently, when the maid had gone away with the pail of milk, she said to the Oldest Ox, who happened to be standing near,-- "Old Ox, pray tell me, what is a moon-calf?" The Oldest Ox did not know anything about moon-calves, but he had no idea of betraying his ignorance to anybody, much less to a very young cow; so he answered promptly, "It's a calf that lives in the moon, of course." "Is it--are they--like other calves?" inquired the cow, timidly, "or a different sort of animal?" "When a creature is called a calf," replied the Ox, severely, "it _is_ a calf. If it were a cat, a hyena, or a toad with three tails, it would be called by its own name. Now do you understand?" Then he shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep, for he did not like to answer questions on matters of which he knew nothing; it fatigued his brain, and oxen should always avoid fatigue of the brain. But the young cow had one more question to ask, and could not rest till it was answered; so mustering all her courage, she said, desperately, "Oh, Old Ox! before you go to sleep, please--_please_, tell me if people ever take calves to the moon from here?" "Frequently!" said the Oldest Ox. "I wish you were there, now. I am asleep. Good-night to you!" and in a few minutes he really was asleep. But the young cow stood still, thinking. She thought so hard that when the farmer's boy came to drive the cattle into the barn, she hardly saw where she was going, but stumbled first against the door and then against the wall, and finally walked into Old Brindle's stall instead of her own, and got well prodded by the latter's horns in consequence. "This cow is sick!" said the farmer's boy. "I must give her a warm mash, and cut an inch or two off her tail to-morrow." Next day the cows were driven out into the pasture, for the weather was warm, and they found it a pleasant change from the barn-yard. They cropped the honey-clover, well seasoned with buttercups and with just enough dandelions scattered about to "give it character," as Mother Brindle said. They stood knee-deep in the cool, clear stream which flowed under the willows, and lay down in the shade of the great oak-tree, and altogether were as happy as cows can possibly be. All but the young red cow. She cared nothing for any of the pleasures which she had once enjoyed so keenly; she only walked up and down, up and down, thinking of her lost calf, and looking for the moon. For she had fully made up her mind by this time that her darling Bossy had been taken to the moon, and had become a moon-calf; and she was wondering whether she might not see or hear something of him when the moon rose. The day passed, and when the evening was still all rosy in the west, a great globe of shining silver rose up in the east. It was the full moon, coming to take the place of the sun, who had put on his nightcap and gone to bed. The young cow ran towards it, stretching out her neck, and calling,-- "Bossy! Moo! moo! Bossy, are you there?" Then she listened, and thought she heard a distant voice which said, "There!" "I knew it!" she cried, frantically, "I knew it! Bossy is now a moon-calf. Something must be done about it at once, if I only knew what!" And she ran to Mother Brindle, who was standing by the fence, talking to the neighbor's black cow,--her with the spotted nose. "Mother Brindle!" she cried. "Have you ever had a calf taken to the moon? My calf, my Bossy, is there, and is now a moon-calf. Tell me, oh! tell me, how to get at him, I beseech you!" "What nonsense is this?" said Mother Brindle, severely. "Compose yourself! You are excited, and will injure your milk, and that would reflect upon the whole herd. As for your calf, why should you be better off than other people? I have lost ten calves, the finest that ever were seen, and I never made half such a fuss about them as you make over this puny little red creature." "But he is _there_, in the moon!" cried the poor cow. "I must find him and get him down. I _must_, do you hear?" "Decidedly, your wits must be in the moon, my dear," said the neighbor's black cow, not unkindly. "They certainly have left you. Who ever heard of calves in the moon? Not I, for one; and I am not more ignorant than others, perhaps." The red cow was about to reply, when suddenly across the meadow came ringing the farm-boy's call, "Co, Boss! Co, Boss! Co, Boss!" "Ah!" said Mother Brindle, "can it really be milking-time? What a pleasant day this has been! Good-evening to you, neighbor. And you, child," she added, turning to the red cow, "come straight home with me. I heard James promise you a warm mash, and that will be the best thing for you." But at these words the young cow started, and with a wild bellow ran to the farthest end of the pasture. "Bossy!" she cried, staring wildly up at the silver globe, which was rising steadily higher and higher in the sky, "you are going away from me! Jump down from the moon, and come to your mother! Bossy! Bossy! _Come!_" And then a distant voice, floating softly down through the air, answered, "Come! come!" "He calls me!" cried the red cow. "My darling calls me, and I go. I will go to the moon; I will be a moon-cow! Bossy, Bossy, I come!" She ran forward like an antelope, gave a sudden leap into the air, and went up, up, up,--over the haystacks, over the trees, over the clouds,--up among the stars. But, alas! in her frantic desire to reach the moon she overshot the mark; jumped clear over it, and went down on the other side, nobody knows where, and she never was seen or heard of again. And Mother Brindle, when she saw what had happened, ran straight home and gobbled up the warm mash before any of the other cows could get there, and ate so fast that she made herself ill. * * * * * "That is the whole story," said the squirrel, seriously; "and it seemed to me a very curious one, I confess." "Very!" said Toto, dryly. "But there's nothing about the others in it,--the cat and fiddle, and the little dog, you know." "Well, they _weren't_ in it really, at all!" replied Cracker. "They were all lies, Mrs. Cow says, every one of them." "Humph!" said Toto "Well, Mrs. Cow ought to be a good judge of lies, I should say." "What can be expected," said the raccoon loftily, "from a creature who eats hay? Be good enough to hand me those nuts, Toto, will you? The story has positively made me hungry,--a thing that has not happened--" "Since dinner-time!" said Toto. "Wonderful indeed, Coon! But I shall hand the nuts to Cracker first, for he has told us a very good story, whether it is true or not." CHAPTER XI. THE apples and nuts went round again and again, and for a few minutes nothing was heard save the cracking of shells and the gnawing of sharp white teeth. At length the parrot said, meditatively:-- "That was a very stupid cow, though! Are all cows as stupid as that?" "Well, I don't think they are what you would call brilliant, as a rule," Toto admitted; "but they are generally good, and that is better." "Hem! possibly!" said Miss Mary, dryly. "That is probably why we have no cows in Central Africa. Our animals being all, without exception, clever _and_ good, there is really no place for creatures of the sort you describe." "How about the bogghun, Miss Mary?" asked the raccoon, slyly, with a wink at Toto. The parrot ruffled up her feathers, and was about to make a sharp reply; but suddenly remembering the raccoon's brave defence of her an hour before, she smoothed her plumage again, and replied gently,-- "I confess that I forgot the bogghun, Coon. It is indeed a treacherous and a wicked creature!--a dark blot on the golden roll of African animals." She paused and sighed, then added, as if to change the subject, "But, come! is it too late to have another story? If not, I have a short one in mind, which I will tell you, if you wish." All assented joyfully, and Miss Mary, without more delay, related the story of THE THREE REMARKS. There was once a princess, the most beautiful princess that ever was seen. Her hair was black and soft as the raven's wing [here the Crow blinked, stood on one leg and plumed himself, evidently highly flattered by the allusion]; her eyes were like stars dropped in a pool of clear water, and her speech like the first tinkling cascade of the baby Nile. She was also wise, graceful, and gentle, so that one would have thought she must be the happiest princess in the world. But, alas! there was one terrible drawback to her happiness. She could make only three remarks. No one knew whether it was the fault of her nurse, or a peculiarity born with her; but the sad fact remained, that no matter what was said to her, she could only reply in one of three phrases. The first was,-- "What is the price of butter?" The second, "Has your grandmother sold her mangle yet?" And the third, "With all my heart!" You may well imagine what a great misfortune this was to a young and lively princess. How could she join in the sports and dances of the noble youths and maidens of the court? She could not always be silent, neither could she always say, "With all my heart!" though this was her favorite phrase, and she used it whenever she possibly could; and it was not at all pleasant, when some gallant knight asked her whether she would rather play croquet or Aunt Sally, to be obliged to reply, "What is the price of butter?" On certain occasions, however, the princess actually found her infirmity of service to her. She could always put an end suddenly to any conversation that did not please her, by interposing with her first or second remark; and they were also a very great assistance to her when, as happened nearly every day, she received an offer of marriage. Emperors, kings, princes, dukes, earls, marquises, viscounts, baronets, and many other lofty personages knelt at her feet, and offered her their hands, hearts, and other possessions of greater or less value. But for all her suitors the princess had but one answer. Fixing her deep radiant eyes on them, she would reply with thrilling earnestness, "_Has_ your grandmother sold her mangle yet?" and this always impressed the suitors so deeply that they retired weeping to a neighboring monastery, where they hung up their armor in the chapel, and taking the vows, passed the remainder of their lives mostly in flogging themselves, wearing hair shirts, and putting dry toast-crumbs in their beds. Now, when the king found that all his best nobles were turning into monks, he was greatly displeased, and said to the princess:-- "My daughter, it is high time that all this nonsense came to an end. The next time a respectable person asks you to marry him, you will say, 'With all my heart!' or I will know the reason why." But this the princess could not endure, for she had never yet seen a man whom she was willing to marry. Nevertheless, she feared her father's anger, for she knew that he always kept his word; so that very night she slipped down the back stairs of the palace, opened the back door, and ran away out into the wide world. She wandered for many days, over mountain and moor, through fen and through forest, until she came to a fair city. Here all the bells were ringing, and the people shouting and flinging caps into the air; for their old king was dead, and they were just about to crown a new one. The new king was a stranger, who had come to the town only the day before; but as soon as he heard of the old monarch's death, he told the people that he was a king himself, and as he happened to be without a kingdom at that moment, he would be quite willing to rule over them. The people joyfully assented, for the late king had left no heir; and now all the preparations had been completed. The crown had been polished up, and a new tip put on the sceptre, as the old king had quite spoiled it by poking the fire with it for upwards of forty years. When the people saw the beautiful princess, they welcomed her with many bows, and insisted on leading her before the new king. "Who knows but that they may be related?" said everybody. "They both came from the same direction, and both are strangers." Accordingly the princess was led to the market-place, where the king was sitting in royal state. He had a fat, red, shining face, and did not look like the kings whom she had been in the habit of seeing; but nevertheless the princess made a graceful courtesy, and then waited to hear what he would say. The new king seemed rather embarrassed when he saw that it was a princess who appeared before him; but he smiled graciously, and said, in a smooth oily voice,-- "I trust your 'Ighness is quite well. And 'ow did yer 'Ighness leave yer pa and ma?" At these words the princess raised her head and looked fixedly at the red-faced king; then she replied, with scornful distinctness,-- "What is the price of butter?" At these words an alarming change came over the king's face. The red faded from it, and left it a livid green; his teeth chattered; his eyes stared, and rolled in their sockets; while the sceptre dropped from his trembling hand and fell at the princess's feet. For the truth was, this was no king at all, but a retired butterman, who had laid by a little money at his trade, and had thought of setting up a public house; but chancing to pass through this city at the very time when they were looking for a king, it struck him that he might just as well fill the vacant place as any one else. No one had thought of his being an impostor; but when the princess fixed her clear eyes on him and asked him that familiar question, which he had been in the habit of hearing many times a day for a great part of his life, the guilty butterman thought himself detected, and shook in his guilty shoes. Hastily descending from his throne, he beckoned he princess into a side-chamber, and closing the door, besought her in moving terms not to betray him. "Here," he said, "is a bag of rubies as big as pigeon's eggs. There are six thousand of them, and I 'umbly beg your 'Ighness to haccept them as a slight token hof my hesteem, if your 'Ighness will kindly consent to spare a respeckable tradesman the disgrace of being hexposed." The princess reflected, and came to the conclusion that, after all, a butterman might make as good a king as any one else; so she took the rubies with a gracious little nod, and departed, while all the people shouted, "Hooray!" and followed her, waving their hats and kerchiefs, to the gates of the city. With her bag of rubies over her shoulder, the fair princess now pursued her journey, and fared forward over heath and hill, through brake and through brier. After several days she came to a deep forest, which she entered without hesitation, for she knew no fear. She had not gone a hundred paces under the arching limes, when she was met by a band of robbers, who stopped her and asked what she did in their forest, and what she carried in her bag. They were fierce, black-bearded men, armed to the teeth with daggers, cutlasses, pistols, dirks, hangers, blunderbusses, and other defensive weapons; but the princess gazed calmly on them, and said haughtily,-- "Has your grandmother sold her mangle yet?" [Illustration: "It is true!" he gasped. "We are undone! Noble princess!" and here he and the whole band assumed attitudes of supplication.--PAGE 195.] The effect was magical. The robbers started back in dismay, crying, "The countersign!" Then they hastily lowered their weapons, and assuming attitudes of abject humility, besought the princess graciously to accompany them to their master's presence. With a lofty gesture she signified assent, and the cringing, trembling bandits led her on through the forest till they reached an open glade, into which the sunbeams glanced right merrily. Here, under a broad oak-tree which stood in the centre of the glade, reclined a man of gigantic stature and commanding mien, with a whole armory of weapons displayed upon his person. Hastening to their chief, the robbers conveyed to him, in agitated whispers, the circumstance of their meeting the princess, and of her unexpected reply to their questions. Hardly seeming to credit their statement, the gigantic chieftain sprang to his feet, and advancing toward the princess with a respectful reverence, begged her to repeat the remark which had so disturbed his men. With a royal air, and in clear and ringing tones, the princess repeated,-- "_Has_ your grandmother sold her mangle yet?" and gazed steadfastly at the robber chief. He turned deadly pale, and staggered against a tree, which alone prevented him from falling. "It is true!" he gasped. "We are undone! The enemy is without doubt close at hand, and all is over. Yet," he added with more firmness, and with an appealing glance at the princess, "yet there may be one chance left for us. If this gracious lady will consent to go forward, instead of returning through the wood, we may yet escape with our lives. Noble princess!" and here he and the whole band assumed attitudes of supplication, "consider, I pray you, whether it would really add to your happiness to betray to the advancing army a few poor foresters, who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow. Here," he continued, hastily drawing something from a hole in the oak-tree, "is a bag containing ten thousand sapphires, each as large as a pullet's egg. If you will graciously deign to accept them, and to pursue your journey in the direction I shall indicate, the Red Chief of the Rustywhanger will be your slave forever." The princess, who of course knew that there was no army in the neighborhood, and who moreover did not in the least care which way she went, assented to the Red Chief's proposition, and taking the bag of sapphires, bowed her farewell to the grateful robbers, and followed their leader down a ferny path which led to the farther end of the forest. When they came to the open country, the robber chieftain took his leave of the princess, with profound bows and many protestations of devotion, and returned to his band, who were already preparing to plunge into the impenetrable thickets of the midforest. The princess, meantime, with her two bags of gems on her shoulders, fared forward with a light heart, by dale and by down, through moss and through meadow. By-and-by she came to a fair high palace, built all of marble and shining jasper, with smooth lawns about it, and sunny gardens of roses and gillyflowers, from which the air blew so sweet that it was a pleasure to breathe it. The princess stood still for a moment, to taste the sweetness of this air, and to look her fill at so fair a spot; and as she stood there, it chanced that the palace-gates opened, and the young king rode out with his court, to go a-catching of nighthawks. Now when the king saw a right fair princess standing alone at his palace-gate, her rich garments dusty and travel-stained, and two heavy sacks hung upon her shoulders, he was filled with amazement; and leaping from his steed, like the gallant knight that he was, he besought her to tell him whence she came and whither she was going, and in what way he might be of service to her. But the princess looked down at her little dusty shoes, and answered never a word; for she had seen at the first glance how fair and goodly a king this was, and she would not ask him the price of butter, nor whether his grandmother had sold her mangle yet. But she thought in her heart, "Now, I have never, in all my life, seen a man to whom I would so willingly say, 'With all my heart!' if he should ask me to marry him." The king marvelled much at her silence, and presently repeated his questions, adding, "And what do you carry so carefully in those two sacks, which seem over-heavy for your delicate shoulders?" Still holding her eyes downcast, the princess took a ruby from one bag, and a sapphire from the other, and in silence handed them to the king, for she willed that he should know she was no beggar, even though her shoes were dusty. Thereat all the nobles were filled with amazement, for no such gems had ever been seen in that country. But the king looked steadfastly at the princess, and said, "Rubies are fine, and sapphires are fair; but, maiden, if I could but see those eyes of yours, I warrant that the gems would look pale and dull beside them." At that the princess raised her clear dark eyes, and looked at the king and smiled; and the glance of her eyes pierced straight to his heart, so that he fell on his knees and cried: "Ah! sweet princess, now do I know that thou art the love for whom I have waited so long, and whom I have sought through so many lands. Give me thy white hand, and tell me, either by word or by sign, that thou wilt be my queen and my bride!" And the princess, like a right royal maiden as she was, looked him straight in the eyes, and giving him her little white hand, answered bravely, "_With all my heart!_" CHAPTER XII. NOW, if we had looked into the hermit's cave a few days after this, we should have seen a very pleasant sight. The good old man was sitting up on his narrow couch, with his lame leg on a stool before him. On another stool sat our worthy friend Bruin, with a backgammon-board on his knees, and the two were deep in the mysteries of Russian backgammon. "Doublets!" said the hermit, throwing the dice. "Dear, dear, what luck you do have!" said the bear. "Double sixes again! That takes you out, doesn't it?" "Yes," said the hermit, "this finishes the game and the rubber. But just remember, my friend, how you beat me yesterday. I was gammoned over and over again, with never a doublet to save me from ruin." "To be sure!" said Bruin, with a chuckle. "To be sure! yesterday was one of my good days. And so to-day you have gammoned me back again. I suppose that is why the game is called back-gammon, hey?" "Possibly!" replied the hermit, smiling. "And how have you been in the habit of playing?" continued the bear. "You spoke of playing last winter, you know. Whom did you play with, for example?" "With myself," said the hermit,--"the right hand against the left. I taught my crow the game once, but it didn't work very well. He could not lift the dice-box, and could only throw the dice by running against the box, and upsetting it. This was apt to disarrange the pieces, you see; and as he would not trust me to throw for him, we gave it up." "I see!" said Bruin, thoughtfully. "And what else did you do in the way of amusement?" "I read, chiefly," replied the old man. "You see I have a good many books, and they are all good ones, which will bear reading many times." "Humph!" said the bear. "That is _one_ thing about you people that I cannot understand,--the reading of books. Seems so senseless, you know, when you can use your eyes for other things. But, tell me," he added, "have you never thought of trying our way of passing the winter? It is certainly much the best way, when one is alone. Choose a comfortable place, like this, for example, curl yourself up in the warmest corner, and there you are, with nothing to do but to sleep till spring comes again." "I am afraid I could not do that," said the hermit with a smile. "We are made differently, you see. I cannot sleep more than a few hours at a time, at any season of the year." "Not if you sucked your paw?" inquired the bear, eagerly. "That makes all the difference, you know. Have you ever _tried_ sucking your paw?" The hermit was forced to admit that he never had. "Ah! well, you really must try it some day," said Bruin. "There is nothing like it, after all. Nothing like it! I will confess to you," he added in a low tone, and looking cautiously about to make sure that they were alone, "that I have missed it sadly this winter. In most respects this has been the happiest season of my life, and I have enjoyed it more than I can tell you; but still there are times,--when I am tired, you know, or the weather is dull, or Coon is a little trying, as he is sometimes,--times when I feel as if I would give a great deal for a quiet corner where I could suck my paw and sleep for a week or two." "Couldn't you manage it, somehow?" asked the hermit, sympathetically. "Oh, no! no!" replied the good bear, decidedly. "Coon thinks the Madam would not like it. He is very genteel, you know,--very genteel indeed, Coon is; and he says it wouldn't be at all 'the thing' for me to suck my paw anywhere about the place. I never know just what 'thing' he means when he says that, but it's a favorite expression of his; and he certainly knows a great deal about good manners. Besides," he added, more cheerfully, "there is always plenty of work to do, and that is the best thing to keep one awake. But now, Mr. Baldhead, it is time for your dinner, sir; and here am I sitting and talking, when I ought to be warming your broth!" With these words the excellent bear arose, put away the backgammon board, and proceeded to build up the fire, hang the kettle, and put the broth on to warm, all as deftly as if he had been a cook all his life. He stirred and tasted, shook his head, tasted again, and then said,-- "You haven't the top of a young pine-tree anywhere about the house, I suppose? It would give this broth such a nice flavor." "I am afraid not!" said the hermit, laughing. "I don't generally keep a large stock of such things on hand. But I fancy the broth will be very good without it, to judge from the last I had." The bear still looked dissatisfied. "Do you ever put frogs in your broth?" he asked, presently. "Whole ones, you know, rolled in a batter, just like dumplings?" "_No!_" said the hermit, quickly and decidedly. "I am quite sure I should not like them, thank you,--though it was very kind of you to make the suggestion!" he added, seeing that Bruin looked disappointed. "You have no idea how nice they are," said the good bear, rather sadly. "But you are so strange, you people! I never could induce Toto or Madam to try them, either. I invented the soup myself,--at least the frog-dumpling part of it,--and made it one day as a little surprise for them. But when I told them what the dumplings were, Toto choked and rolled on the floor, and Madam was quite ill at the very thought, though she had not begun to eat her soup. So Coon and Cracker and I had it all to ourselves, and uncommonly good it was. It's a pity for people to be so prejudiced." The good hermit was choking a little himself, for some reason or other, but he looked very grave when Bruin turned toward him for assent, and said, "Quite so!" which is a safe remark under most circumstances. The broth being now ready, the bear proceeded to arrange a tray neatly, and set it before his patient, who took up his wooden spoon and fell to with right good-will. The good bear stood watching him with great satisfaction; and it was really a pity that there was no one there to watch the bear himself, for as he stood there with a clean cloth over his arm, his head on one side, and his honest face beaming with pride and pleasure, he was very well worth looking at. At this moment a sharp cry of terror was heard outside, then a quick whirr of wings, and the next moment the wood-pigeon darted into the cave, closely pursued by a large hawk. Poor Pigeon Pretty! She was quite exhausted, and with one more piteous cry she fell fainting at Bruin's feet. In another instant the hawk would have pounced upon her, but that instant never came for the winged marauder. Instead, something or somebody pounced on _him_. A thick white covering enveloped him, entangling his claws, binding down his wings, well-nigh stifling him. He felt himself seized in an iron grasp and lifted bodily into the air, while a deep, stern voice exclaimed,-- "Now, sir! have you anything to say for yourself, before I wring your neck?" Then the covering was drawn back from his head, and he found himself face to face with the great bear, whom he knew perfectly well by sight. But he was a bold fellow, too well used to danger to shrink from it, even in so terrible a form as this; and his fierce yellow eyes met the stern gaze of his captor without shrinking. "Have you anything to say?" repeated the bear, "before I wring your ugly neck?" "No!" replied the hawk, sullenly, "wring away." This answer rather disconcerted our friend Bruin, who, as he sometimes said sadly to himself, had "lost all taste for killing;" so he only shook Master Hawk a little, and said,-- "Do you know of any reason why your neck should _not_ be wrung?" "None in life!" answered the hawk. "Wring away, I tell you! Are you afraid, you great clumsy monster?" "I'll soon show you whether I am afraid or not!" said the bear, sternly. "Why did you chase my pigeon?" "'Cause I wanted to eat her!" was the defiant reply. "If _you_ had had nothing to eat for a week, you'd have eaten her long before this, I'll be bound!" "Nothing to eat for a week!" repeated the bear, incredulously. "Why was that?" "'Cause there wasn't anything, stupid!" said the other. Here Bruin began to rub his nose with his disengaged paw, and to look helplessly about him, as he always did when disturbed in mind. "Now--now--now!" he exclaimed, "you hawk, what do you mean by that? Couldn't you dig for roots?" The hawk stared. "Dig for roots?" he repeated, contemptuously. "Look at my beak! Do you think I can dig with that?" "It _is_ rather short," said Bruin; "but--yes! why, of course, _any one_ can dig, if he wants to." "Ask that old thing," said the hawk, nodding toward the hermit, "whether _he_ ever dug with his beak; and it's twice as long as mine." "Of course he has!" replied Bruin, promptly; but then he faltered, for it suddenly occurred to him that he had never seen either Toto or the Madam dig with their noses; and it was with some hesitation that he asked: "Mr. Baldhead--excuse me! but--a--have you ever tried digging for roots in the ground--with your beak--I mean, nose?" The hermit looked up gravely, as he sat with Pigeon Pretty on his knee. "No, my friend," he said with great seriousness, "I have never tried it, and doubt if I could do it. I can dig with my hands, though," he added, seeing the good bear look more and more puzzled. "Ah, yes!" said Bruin. "But you see this bird has no hands, though he has very ugly claws; so that doesn't help-- Well!" he cried, breaking off short, and once more addressing the hawk. "I don't see anything for it _but_ to wring your neck, do you? After all, it will keep you from being hungry again." But here the soft voice of the wood-pigeon interposed. "No, no! Bruin, dear," cried the gentle bird. "Give him something to eat, and let him go. If he had eaten nothing for a week, I am sure he was not to blame for pursuing the first eatable creature he saw. Remember," she added in a lower tone, which only the bear could hear, "that before this winter, any of us would have done the same." Bruin scratched his head helplessly; the hawk turned his yellow eyes on Pigeon Pretty with a strange look, but said nothing. But now the hermit saw that it was time for him to interfere. "Pigeon Pretty," he said, "you are right, as usual. Bruin, my friend, bring your prisoner here, and let him finish this excellent broth, into which I have crumbled some bread. I will answer for Master Hawk's good behavior, for the present at least," he added, "for I know that he comes of an old and honorable family." Wonder of wonders! In five minutes the hawk was sitting quietly on the hermit's knee, sipping broth, pursuing the floating bits of bread in the bowl, and submitting to have his soft black plumage stroked, with the best grace in the world. On the good man's other knee sat Pigeon Pretty, now quite recovered from her fright and fatigue, her soft eyes beaming with pleasure; while Bruin squatted opposite them, looking from one to the other, and assuring himself over and over again that Pigeon Pretty was "a most astonishing bird! 'pon my word, a _most_ astonishing bird!" His meal ended, the stranger wiped his beak politely on his feathers, plumed himself, and thanked his hosts for their hospitality, with a stately courtesy which contrasted strangely with his former sullen and ferocious bearing. The fierce glare was gone from his eyes, which were, however, still strangely bright; and with his glossy plumage smooth, and his head held proudly erect, he really was a noble-looking bird. "Long is it, indeed," he said, "since any one has spoken a kind word to Ger-Falcon. It will not be forgotten, I assure you. We are a wild and lawless family,--our beak against every one, and every one's claw against us,--and yet, as you observed, Sir Baldhead, we are an old and honorable race. Alas! for the brave, brave days of old, when my sires were the honored companions of kings and princes! My grandfather seventy times removed was served by an emperor, the obsequious monarch carrying him every day on his own wrist to the hunting. He ate from a golden dish, and wore a collar of gems about his neck. Ah, me! what would be the feelings of that noble ancestor if he could see his descendant a hunted outlaw, persecuted by the sons of those very men who once courted and caressed him, and supporting a precarious existence by the ignoble spoils of barn-yards and hen-roosts!" The hawk paused, overcome by these recollections of past glory, and the good bear said kindly,-- "Dear! dear! very sad, I'm sure. And how did this melancholy change come about, pray?" "Fashion, my dear sir!" replied the hawk, "ignoble fashion! The race of men degenerated, and occupied themselves with less lofty sports than hawking. My family, left to themselves, knew not what to do. They had been trained to pursue, to overtake, to slay, through long generations; they were unfitted for anything else. But when they began to lead this life on their own account, man, always ungrateful, turned upon them, and persecuted them for the very deeds which had once been the delight and pride of his fickle race. So we fell from our high estate, lower and lower, till the present representative of the Ger-Falcon is the poor creature you behold before you." The hawk bowed in proud humility, and his hearers all felt, perhaps, much more sorry for him than he deserved. The wood-pigeon was about to ask something more about his famous ancestors, when a shadow darkened the mouth of the cave, and Toto made his appearance, with the crow perched on his shoulder. "Well, Mr. Baldhead!" he cried in his fresh, cheery voice, "how are you to-day, sir? Better still? I have brought you some--hello! who is this?" And catching sight of the stranger, he stopped short, and looked at the bear for an explanation. "This is Mr. Ger-Falcon, Toto," said Bruin. "My friend Toto, Mr. Falcon." Toto nodded, and the hawk made him a stately bow; but the two looked distrustfully at each other, and neither seemed inclined to make any advances. Bruin continued,-- "Mr. Falcon came here in a--well, not in a friendly way at all, I must say. But he is in a very different frame of mind, now, and I trust there will be no further trouble." "Do you ever change your name, sir?" asked Toto, abruptly, addressing the hawk. "I do not understand you, sir!" replied the latter, haughtily. "I have no reason to be ashamed of my name." "Perhaps not!" said the boy. "And yet I am tolerably sure that Mr. Ger-Falcon is no other than Mr. Chicken Hawkon, and that it was he who tried to carry off my Black Spanish chickens yesterday morning." "You are right, sir!" said the hawk. "You are quite right! I was starving, and the chickens presented themselves to me wholly in the light of food. May I ask for what purpose you keep chickens, sir?" "Why, we eat them when they grow up," said Toto; "but--" "Ah, precisely!" murmured the hawk. "You eat them also. I thought so." "But we don't steal other people's chickens," said the boy, "we eat our own." "Precisely!" said the hawk, again. "You eat the tame, confiding creatures who feed from your hand, and stretch their necks trustfully to meet their doom. I, on the contrary, when the pangs of hunger force me to snatch a morsel of food to save me from starvation, snatch it from strangers, not from my friends." Toto was about to make a hasty reply, but the bear, with a motion of his paw, checked him, and said gravely to the hawk,-- "Come, come! Mr. Falcon, I cannot have any dispute of this kind. There is some truth in what you say, and I have no doubt that emperors and other disreputable people have had a large share in forming the bad habits into which you and all your family have fallen. But those habits must be changed, sir, if you intend to remain in this forest. You must not meddle with Toto's chickens; you must not chase quiet and harmless birds. You must, in short, become a respectable and law-abiding bird, instead of a robber and a murderer." "All very fine!" said the hawk, angrily. "But how am I to live, pray? I can be 'respectable,' as you call it, in summer; but in weather like this--" "That can be easily managed," said the kind hermit. "You can stay with me, Falcon. I shall soon be able to shift for myself, and I will gladly undertake to feed you until the snow and frost are gone. You will be a companion for my crow-- By the way, where is my crow? Surely he came in with you, Toto?" "He did," said Toto, "but he hopped off the moment we entered. Didn't like the looks of the visitor, I fancy," he added in a low tone. Search was made, and finally the crow was discovered huddled together, a disconsolate little bunch of black feathers, in the darkest corner of the cave. "Come, Jim!" cried Toto, who was the first to catch sight of him. "Come out, old fellow! Why are you rumpling and humping yourself up in that absurd fashion?" "Is he gone?" asked the crow, opening one eye a very little way, and lifting his head a fraction of an inch from the mass of feathers in which it was buried. "Good Toto, kind Toto, is he gone? I would not be eaten to-day, Toto, if it could be avoided. _Did_ you say he was gone?" "If you mean the hawk," said Toto, "he is _not_ gone; and what is more, he isn't going, for your master has asked him to stay the rest of the winter. But cheer up, old boy! he won't hurt you. Bruin has bound him over to keep the peace, and you must come out and make the best of it." The unhappy crow begged and protested, but all in vain. Toto caught him up, laughing, and carried him to his master, who set him on his knee, and smoothed his rumpled plumage kindly. The hawk, who was highly gratified by the hermit's invitation, put on his most gracious manner, and soon convinced the crow that he meant him no harm. "A member of the ancient family of Corvus!" he exclaimed. "Contemporaries, and probably friends, of the early Falcons. Let us also be friends, dear sir; and let the names of James Crow and Ger-Falcon go down together to posterity." But now Bruin and Pigeon Pretty were eager to hear all the home news from the cottage. They listened with breathless interest to Toto's account of the attempted robbery, and of Coon's noble "defence of the castle," as the boy called it. Miss Mary also received her full share of the credit, nor was the kettle excluded from honorable mention. When all was told, Toto proceeded to unpack the basket he had brought, which contained gingerbread, eggs, apples, and a large can of butter-milk marked "For Bruin." Many were the joyous exclamations called forth by this present of good cheer; and it seemed as if the old hermit could not sufficiently express his gratitude to Toto and his good grandmother. "Oh, don't!" cried the boy, half distressed by the oft-repeated thanks. "If you only knew how we _like_ it! It's so jolly, you know. Besides," he added, "I want you to do something for _me_ now, Mr. Baldhead, so that will turn the tables. A shower is coming up, and it is early yet, so I need not go home for an hour. So, will you not tell us a story? We are very fond of stories,--Bruin and Pigeon Pretty and I." "A story! a story!" cried every one, eagerly. "A story, hey?" said the good hermit, smiling. "With all my heart, dear lad! And what shall the story be about?" "About fairies!" replied Toto, promptly. "I have not heard a fairy story for a long time." "So be it!" said the hermit, after a moment's reflection. "When I was a boy like you, Toto, I lived in Ireland, the very home of the fairy-folk; so I know more about them than most people, perhaps, and this is an Irish fairy story that I am going to tell you." And settling himself comfortably on his moss-pillows, the hermit began the story of-- CHAPTER XIII. GREEN JACKET. "'It's Green Men, it's Green Men, All in the wood together; And, oh! we're feared o' the Green Men In all the sweet May weather,'-- "ON'Y I'm _not_ feared o' thim mesilf!" said Eileen, breaking off her song with a little merry laugh. "Wouldn't I be plazed to meet wan o' thim this day, in the wud! Sure, it 'ud be the lookiest day o' me loife." She parted the boughs, and entered the deep wood, where she was to gather faggots for her mother. Holding up her blue apron carefully, the little girl stepped lightly here and there, picking up the dry brown sticks, and talking to herself all the while,--to keep herself company, as she thought. "Thin I makes a low curchy," she was saying, "loike that wan Mother made to the lord's lady yistherday, and the Green Man he gi'es me a nod, and-- "'What's yer name, me dear?' says he. "'Eileen Macarthy, yer Honor's Riverence!' says I.--No! I mustn't say 'Riverence,' bekase he's not a priest, ava'. 'Yer Honor's Grace' wud do better. "'And what wud ye loike for a prisint, Eily?' says he. "And thin I'd say--lit me see! what wud I have first? Oh, I know! I'd ask him-- Och! what's that? A big green grasshopper, caught be his leg in a spider's wib. Wait a bit, poor crathur, oi'll lit ye free agin." Full of pity for the poor grasshopper, Eily stooped to lift it carefully out of the treacherous net into which it had fallen. But what was her amazement on perceiving that the creature was not a grasshopper, but a tiny man, clad from head to foot in light green, and with a scarlet cap on his head. The little fellow was hopelessly entangled in the net, from which he made desperate efforts to free himself, but the silken strands were quite strong enough to hold him prisoner. For a moment Eileen stood petrified with amazement, murmuring to herself, "Howly Saint Bridget! what will I do now at all? Sure, I niver thought I'd find wan really in loife!" but the next moment her kindness of heart triumphed over her fear, and stooping once more she very gently took the little man up between her thumb and finger, pulled away the clinging web, and set him respectfully on the top of a large toadstool which stood conveniently near. The little Green Man shook himself, dusted his jacket with his red cap, and then looked up at Eileen with twinkling eyes. "Thank ye, my maiden!" he said kindly. "Ye have saved my life, and ye shall not be the worse for it, if ye _did_ take me for a grasshopper." Eily was rather abashed at this, but the little man looked very kind; so she plucked up her courage, and when he asked, "What is yer name, my dear?" ("jist for all the wurrld the way I thought of," she said to herself) answered bravely, with a low courtesy, "Eileen Macarthy, yer Honor's Riverence--Grace, I mane!" and then she added, "They calls me Eily, most times, at home." "Well, Eily," said the Green Man, "I suppose ye know who I am?" "A fairy, plaze yer Honor's Grace!" said Eily, with another courtesy. "Sure, I've aften heerd av yer Honor's people, but I niver thought I'd see wan of yez. It's rale plazed I am, sure enough. Manny's the time Docthor O'Shaughnessy's tell't me there was no sich thing as yez; but I niver belaved him, yer Honor!" "That's right!" said the Green Man, heartily, "that's very right. Never believe a word he says! And now, Eily, alanna, I'm going to do ye a fairy's turn before I go. Ye shall have yer wish of whatever ye like in the world. Take a minute to think about it, and then make up yer mind." Eily fairly gasped for breath. Her dreams had then come true; she was to have a fairy wish! Could it possibly be true? And what should she wish for? The magic carpet? The goose that laid eggs of gold? The invisible cloak? Eily had all the old fairy-stories at her tongue's end, for her mother told her one every night as she sat at her spinning. Jack and the Beanstalk, the Sleeping Beauty, the Seven Swans, the Elves that stole Barney Maguire, the Brown Witch, and the Widdy Malone's Pig,--she knew them all, and scores of others besides. Her mother always began the stories with, "Wanst upon a time, and a very good time it was;" or, "Long, long ago, whin King O'Toole was young, and the praties grew all ready biled in the ground;" or, "Wan fine time, whin the fairies danced, and not a poor man lived in Ireland." In this way, the fairies seemed always to be thrown far back into a remote past, which had nothing in common with the real work-a-day world in which Eily lived. But now--oh, wonder of wonders!--now, here was a real fairy, alive and active, with as full power of blessing or banning as if the days of King O'Toole had come again,--and what was more, with good-will to grant to Eileen Macarthy whatever in the wide world she might wish for! The child stood quite still, with her hands clasped, thinking harder than she had ever thought in all her life before; and the Green Man sat on the toadstool and watched her, with eyes which twinkled with some amusement, but no malice. "Take yer time, my dear," he said, "take yer time! Ye'll not meet a Green Man every day, so make the best o' your chance!" Suddenly Eily's face lighted up with a sudden inspiration. "Och!" she cried, "sure I have it, yer Riverence's Grace--Honor, I shud say! I have it! it's the di'monds and pearrls I'll have, iv ye plaze!" "Diamonds and pearls?" repeated the fairy, "what diamonds and pearls? There are a great many in the world. You don't want them _all_, surely?" "Och, no, yer Honor!" said Eily. "Only wan of aich to dhrop out o' me mouth ivery time I shpake, loike the girrl in the sthory, ye know. Whiniver she opened her lips to shpake, a di'mond an' a pearrl o' the richest beauty dhropped from her mouth. That's what I mane, plaze yer Honor's Grace. Och! wudn't it be beautiful, entirely?" "Humph!" said the fairy, looking rather grave. "Are ye _quite_ sure that this is what you wish for most, Eileen? Don't decide hastily, or ye may be sorry for it." "Sorry!" cried Eileen, "what for wud I be sorry? Sure I'd be richer than the Countess o' Kilmoggen hersilf, let alone the Queen, be the time I'd talked for an hour. An' I _loove_ to talk!" she added softly, half to herself. The Green Man laughed outright at this. "Well, Eily," he said, "ye shall have yer own way. Stoop down to me here!" Eileen bent down, and he touched her lips three times with the scarlet tassel of his cap. "Slanegher Banegher!" he said. "The charm is worked. Now go home, Eileen Macarthy, and the good wishes of the Green Men go with ye. Ye will have yer own wish fulfilled as soon as ye cross the threshold of yer home. But hark ye now!" he added, impressively. "A day may come when ye will wish with all yer heart to have the charm taken away. If that ever happens, come to this same place with a sprig of holly in yer hand. Strike this toadstool three times, and say, 'Slanegher Banegher, Skeen na Lane!' And now good-by to ye!" and clapping his scarlet cap on his head, the little man leaped from the toadstool, and instantly disappeared from sight among the ferns and mosses. Eileen stood still for some time, lost in a dream of wonder and delight. Finally rousing herself, she gave a long, happy sigh, and hastily filling her apron with sticks, turned her steps homeward. The sun was sinking low when she came in sight of the little cabin, at the door of which her mother was standing, looking anxiously in every direction. "Is it yersilf, Eily?" cried the good woman in a tone of relief, as she saw the child approaching. "And where have ye been at all? It's a wild colleen y'are, to be sprankin' about o' this way, and it nearly sundown. Where have ye been, I'm askin' ye?" Eily held up her apronful of sticks with a beaming smile, but answered never a word till she stood on the threshold of the cottage. ("Sure I might lose some," she had been saying to herself, "and that 'ud niver do.") But as soon as she had entered the little room which was kitchen, hall, dining-room, and drawing-room for the Macarthy family, she dropped her bundle of faggots, and clasping her hands together, cried, "Och, mother! what do ye think? Sure ye'll niver belave me whin I till ye--" Here she suddenly stopped, for hop! pop! two round shining things dropped from her mouth, and rolled away over the floor of the cabin. "Howly Michael be me guide!" cried Mrs. Macarthy; "phwhat's that?" "It's marvels! [marbles]" shouted little Phelim, jumping up from his seat by the fire and running to pick up the shining objects. "Eily's got her mouf full o' marvels! Hurroo!" "They aren't marvels!" said Eily, indignantly. "Wait till I till ye, mother asthore! I wint to the forest as ye bade me, to gather shticks, an'--" hop! pop! out flew two more shining things from her mouth and rolled away after the others. Mrs. Macarthy uttered a piercing shriek, and clapped her hand over Eileen's mouth. "She's bewitched!" she cried. "Me choild's bewitched, an' shpakin' buttons! Och, wirra! wirra! what'll I do at all? Run, Phelim," she added, "an' call yer father. He's in the praty-patch, loikely. An' ye kape shtill!" she said to Eily, who was struggling vainly to free herself from her mother's powerful grasp. "Kape shtill, I'm tillin' ye, an' don't open yer lips! It's savin' yer body an' sowl I may be this minute. Saint Bridget, Saint Michael, an' blissid Saint Patrick!" she ejaculated piously, "save me choild, an' I'll serve ye on me knees the rist o' me days." Poor Eily! This was a sad beginning of all her glory. She tried desperately to open her mouth, sure that in a moment she could make her mother understand the whole matter. But Honor Macarthy was a stalwart woman, and Eily's slender fingers could not stir the massive hand which was pressed firmly upon her lips. At this moment her father entered hastily, with Phelim panting behind him. "Phwhat's the matther, woman?" he asked anxiously. "Here's Phelim clane out o' his head, an' shcramin' about Eily, an' marvels an' buttons, an' I dunno what all. Phwhat ails the choild?" he added in a tone of great alarm, as he saw Eileen in her mother's arms, flushed and disordered, the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Och, Dinnis!" cried Honor, "it's bewitched she is,--clane bewitched out o' her sinses, an shpakes buttons out av her mouth wid ivery worrd she siz. Och, me choild! me poor, misfortunate choild! Who wud do ye sich an ill turn as this, whin ye niver harmed annybody since the day ye were born?" "_Buttons!_" said Dennis Macarthy; "what do ye mane by buttons? How can she shpake buttons, I'm askin' ye? Sure, ye're foolish yersilf, Honor, woman! Lit the colleen go, an' she'll till me phwhat 'tis all about." "Och, av ye don't belave me!" cried Honor. "Show thim to yer father, Phelim! Look at two av thim there in the corner,--the dirrty things!" Phelim took up the two shining objects cautiously in the corner of his pinafore and carried them to his father, who examined them long and carefully. Finally he spoke, but in an altered voice. "Lit the choild go, Honor," he said. "I want to shpake till her. Do as I bid ye!" he added sternly; and very reluctantly his wife released poor Eily, who stood pale and trembling, eager to explain, and yet afraid to speak for fear of being again forcibly silenced. "Eileen," said her father, "'tis plain to be seen that these things are not buttons, but jew'ls." "Jew'ls!" exclaimed Honor, aghast. "Ay!" said Dennis; "jew'ls, or gims, whichiver ye plaze to call thim. Now, phwhat I want to know is, where did ye get thim?" "Oh, Father!" cried Eily; "don't look at me that a-way! Sure, I've done no harrum! I only--" hop! pop! another splendid diamond and another white, glistening pearl fell from her lips; but she hurried on, speaking as quickly as she could: "I wint to the forest to gather shticks, and there I saw a little Grane Man, all the same loike a hoppergrass, caught be his lig in a spidher's wib; and whin I lit him free he gi' me a wish, to have whativer I loiked bist in the wurrld; an' so I wished, an' I sid--" but by this time the pearls and diamonds were hopping like hail-stones all over the cabin-floor; and with a look of deep anger and sorrow Dennis Macarthy motioned to his wife to close Eileen's mouth again, which she eagerly did. "To think," he said, "as iver a child o' mine shud shtale the Countess's jew'ls, an' thin till me a pack o' lies about thim! Honor, thim is the beads o' the Countess's nickluss that I was tillin' ye about, that I saw on her nick at the ball, whin I carried the washin' oop to the Castle. An' this misfortunate colleen has shwallied 'em." "Shwallied 'em!" echoed Honor, incredulously. "How wud she shwally 'em, an' have 'em in her mouth all the toime? An' how wud she get thim to shwally, an' the Countess in Dublin these three weeks, an' her jew'ls wid her? Shame an ye, Dinnis Macarthy! to suspict yer poor, diminted choild of shtalin'! It's bewitched she is, I till ye! Look at the face av her this minute!" Just at that moment the sound of wheels was heard; and Phelim, who was standing at the open door, exclaimed,-- "Father! here's Docthor O'Shaughnessy dhrivin' past. Will I shtop him? Maybe he wud know." "Ay, shtop him! shtop him, lad!" cried both mother and father in a breath. Phelim darted out, and soon returned, followed by the doctor,--a tall, thin man with a great hooked nose, on which was perched a pair of green spectacles. Eileen had never liked Dr. O'Shaughnessy; and now a cold shiver passed over her as he fixed his spectacled eyes on her and listened in silence to the confused accounts which her father and mother poured into his ear. "Humph!" he said at last. "Bewitched? 'tis very loikely. I've known many so of late. Let me see the jew'ls, as ye call thim." The pearls and diamonds were brought,--a whole handful of them,--and poured into the doctor's hand, which closed suddenly over them, while his dull black eyes shot out a quick gleam under the shading spectacles. The next moment, however, he laughed good-humoredly and turned them carelessly over one by one. "Why, Dinnis," he said, "'tis aisy to see that ye've not had mich expeerunce o' jew'ls, me bye, or ye'd not mistake these bits o' glass an' sich fer thim. No! no! there's no jew'ls here, wheriver the Countess's are. An' these bits o' trash dhrop out o' the choild's mouth, ye till me, ivery toime she shpakes?" "Ivery toime, yer Anner!" said Honor. "Out they dhrops, an' goes hoppin' an' leppin' about the room, loike they were aloive." "I see!" said the doctor. "I understand. This is a very sirrious case, Misther Macarthy,--a very sirrious case _in_dade, sirr; an' I'll be free to till ye that I know but _wan_ way av curin' it." "Och, whirrasthru!" cried Mrs. Macarthy. "What is it at all, Docthor alanna? Is it a witch has overlooked her, or what is it? Och, me choild! me poor, diminted choild! will I lose ye this-a-way? Ochone! ochone!" and in her grief she loosed her hold of Eileen and clapped her hands to her own face, sobbing aloud. But before the child could open her lips to speak, she found herself seized in another and no less powerful grasp, while another hand covered her mouth,--not warm and firm like her mother's, but cold, bony, and frog-like. Holding her as in a vice, Dr. O'Shaughnessy spoke once more to her parents. "I'll save her loife," said he, "and mebbe her wits as well, av the thing's poassible. But it's not here I can do ut at all. I'll take the choild home wid me to me house, and Misthress O'Shaughnessy will tind her as if she wuz her own; and thin I will try th' ixpirimint which is the ownly thing on airth can save her." "Spirimint?" said Honor. "Sure, there's two, three kinds o' mint growin' here in oor own door-yard, but I dunno av there's anny o' that kind. Will ye make a tay av it, Docthor, or is it a poultuss ye'll be puttin' an her, to dhraw out the witchcraft, loike?" "Whisht, whisht, woman!" said Dennis, impatiently. "Howld yer prate, can't ye, an' the docthor waitin'? Is there no way ye cud cure her, an' lave her at home thin, Docthor? Faith, I'd be loth to lave her go away from uz loike this, let alone the throuble she'll be to yez!" "No throuble at all!" said the doctor, briskly. "At laste," he added more gravely, "naw moor thin I'd gladly take for ye an' yer good woman, Dinnis! Come, help me wid the colleen, now. Aisy does it! Now, thin, oop wid ye, Eily!" And the next moment Eileen found herself in the doctor's narrow gig, wedged tightly between him and the side of the vehicle. "Ye can sind her bits o' clothes over by Phelim," said Dr. O'Shaughnessy, as he gathered up the reins, apparently in great haste. "I'll not shtop now. Good-day t' ye, Dinnis! My respicts to ye, Misthress Macarthy. Ye'll hear av the choild in a day or two!" And whistling to his old pony, they started off at as brisk a trot as the latter could produce on such short notice. Poor Eileen! Was this the result of the fairy's gift? She sat still, half-paralyzed with grief and terror, for she made no doubt that the hated doctor was going to do something very, very dreadful to her. Seeing that she made no effort to free herself, or to speak, her captor removed his hand from her mouth; but not until they were well out of sight and hearing of her parents. "Now, Eileen," he said, not unkindly, "av ye'll be a good colleen, and not shpake a wurrd, I'll lave yer mouth free. But av ye shpake, so much as to say, 'Bliss ye!' I'll tie up yer jaw wid me pock'-handkercher, so as ye can't open ut at all. D' ye hear me, now?" Eileen nodded silently. She had not the slightest desire to say "Bliss ye!" to Dr. O'Shaughnessy; nor did she care to fill his rusty old gig, or to sprinkle the high road, with diamonds and pearls. "That's roight!" said the Doctor, "that's a sinsible gyurrl as ye are. See, now, what a foine bit o' sweet-cake Misthress O'Shaughnessy 'ull be givin' ye, whin we git home." The poor child burst into tears, for the word 'home' made her realize more fully that she was going every moment farther and farther away from her own home,--from her kind father, her anxious and loving mother, and dear little Phelim. What would Phelim do at night, without her shoulder to curl up on and go to sleep, in the trundle-bed which they had shared ever since he was a tiny baby? Who would light her father's pipe, and sing him the little song he always liked to hear while he smoked it after supper? These, and many other such thoughts, filled Eileen's mind as she sat weeping silently beside the green-spectacled doctor, who cared nothing about her crying, so long as she did not try to speak. After a drive of some miles, they reached a tall, dark, gloomy-looking house, which was not unlike the doctor himself, with its small greenish window-panes and its gaunt chimneys. Here the pony stopped, and the doctor, lifting Eileen out of the gig, carried her into the house. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and stared in amazement at the burden in her husband's arms. "Honor Macarthy's Eily!" she exclaimed. "The Saints protict uz! Is she kilt, or what's the matther?" "Open the door o' the best room!" said the doctor, briefly. "Open it, woman, I'm tillin' ye!" and entering a large bare room, he set Eileen down hastily on a stool, and then drew a long breath and wiped his brow. "I've got ye!" he said. "Safe and sound I've got ye now, glory for ut! And ye'll not lave this room until ye've made me _King av Ireland_!" Eileen stared at the man, thinking he had gone mad; for his face was red, and his eyes, from which he had snatched the green spectacles, glittered with a strange light. The same idea flashed into his wife's mind, and she crossed herself devoutly, exclaiming,-- "Howly St. Pathrick, he's clane diminted. 'King,' indade! will ye hear um?" The doctor turned on her sharply. "Diminted?" he said; "ye'll soon see av I'm diminted. I till ye I'll be King av Ireland before the month's oot. Shpake, now, Eileen! Open yer mouth, alanna, and make yer manners to Misthress O'Shaughnessy." Thus adjured, Eileen dropped a courtesy, and said, timidly, "Good day t' ye, Ma'm! I houp ye're well!" Hop! pop! down dropped a pearl and a diamond, and the doctor, pouncing on them, held them up in triumph before the eyes of his astonished wife. "Div ye see that?" he cried. "That's a dimind! There's no sich in Queen Victory's crownd this day. And look a' that! That's a pearrl, an' as big as a marrowfat pay. The loike of ut's not in Ireland, I till ye. Woman, there's a fortin' in ivery wurrd this colleen shpakes! And she's goin' to shpake," he added, grimly, "and to kape an shpakin', till Michael O'Shaughnessy is rich enough to buy all Ireland,--ay, and England too, av he'd a mind to!" "But--but," cried Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, utterly bewildered by her husband's wild talk, and by the sight of the jewels, "what does it all mane? Has the choild swallied 'em? And won't she die av 'em, av it's that manny in her stumick?" "Whisht wid yer foolery!" said her husband, contemptuously. "Swallied 'em, indade! The gyurrl has met a Grane Man, that's the truth of ut; and he's gi'n her a wish, and she's got ut,--and now I've got _her_." And he chuckled, and rubbed his bony hands together, while his eyes twinkled with greed. "A Grane Man! The saints be good to uz!" cried Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "Sure, ye always till't me there was no sich thing ava'." "I lied, thin!" shouted the doctor. "I lied, an' that's all there is to say about ut. Do ye think I'm obleeged to shpake the thruth ivery day in the week to an ignor'nt crathur like yersilf? It's worn out I'd be, body and sowl, at that rate. Now, Eileen Macarthy," he continued, turning to his unhappy little prisoner, "ye are to do as I till ye, an' no harrum'll coom to ye, an' maybe good. Ye are to sit in this room and _talk_; and ye'll kape an talkin' till the room is _full-up_! d'ye hear me, now?" "Full-up?" exclaimed Eileen, faintly. "Full-up!" repeated the doctor. "No less'll satisfy me, and it's the laste ye can do for all the throuble I've taken forr ye. Misthress O'Shaughnessy an' mesilf 'ull take turns sittin' wid ye, so 'at ye'll have some wan to talk to. Ye'll have plinty to ate an' to dhrink, an' that's more than manny people have in Ireland this day. So lit me hear no complainin'." With this, the worthy man proceeded to give strict injunctions to his wife to keep the child talking, and not to leave her alone for an instant; and finally he departed, shutting the door behind him, and leaving the captive and her jailer alone together. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy immediately poured forth a flood of questions, to which Eileen replied by telling the whole pitiful story from beginning to end. It was a relief to be able to speak at last, and to rehearse the whole matter to understanding, if not sympathetic, ears. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy listened and looked, looked and listened, with open mouth and staring eyes. With her eyes shut, she would not have believed her ears; but the double evidence was too much for her. The diamonds and pearls kept on falling, falling, fast and faster. They filled Eileen's lap, they skipped away over the floor, while the doctor's wife pursued them with frantic eagerness. Each diamond was clear and radiant as a drop of dew, each pearl lustrous and perfect; but they gave no pleasure now to the fairy-gifted child. She could only think of the task that lay before her,--to FILL this great, empty room; of the millions and millions, and yet again millions of gems that must fall from her lips before the floor would be covered even a few inches deep; of the weeks and months,--perhaps the years,--that must elapse before she would see her parents and Phelim again. She remembered the words of the fairy: "A day may come when you will wish with all your heart to have the charm removed." And then, like a flash, came the recollection of those other words: "When that day comes, come here to this spot," and do so and so. In fancy, Eileen was transported again to the pleasant green forest; was looking at the Green Man as he sat on the toadstool, and begging him to take away this fatal gift, which had already, in one day, brought her so much misery. Harshly on her reverie broke in the voice of Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, asking,-- "And has yer father sold his pigs yit?" She started, and came back to the doleful world of reality. But even as she answered the woman's question, she made in her heart a firm resolve,--somehow or other, _somehow_, she would escape; she would get out of this hateful house, away from these greedy, grasping people; she would manage somehow to find her way to the wood, and then--then for freedom again! Cheered by her own resolution, she answered the woman composedly, and went into a detailed account of the birth, rearing, and selling of the pigs, which so fascinated her auditor that she was surprised, when the recital was over, to find that it was nearly supper-time. The doctor now entered, and taking his wife's place, began to ply Eily with questions, each one artfully calculated to bring forth the longest possible reply:-- "How is it yer mother is related to the Countess's auld housekeeper, avick; and why is it, that wid sich grand relations she niver got into the castle at all?" "Phwhat was that I h'ard the other day about the looky bargain yer father--honest man!--made wid the one-eyed peddler from beyant Inniskeen?" and-- "Is it thrue that yer mother makes all her butther out av skim-milk just by making the sign of the cross--God bless it!--over the churn?" Although she did not like the doctor, Eily did, as she had said to the Green Man, "_loove_ to talk;" so she chattered away, explaining and disclaiming, while the diamonds and pearls flew like hail-stones from her lips, and her host and jailer sat watching them with looks of greedy rapture. Eily paused, fairly out of breath, just as Mrs. O'Shaughnessy entered, bringing her rather scanty supper. There was quite a pile of jewels in her lap and about her feet, while a good many had rolled to a distance; but her heart sank within her as she compared the result of three hours' steady talking with the end to which the rapacious doctor aspired. She was allowed to eat her supper in peace, but no sooner was it finished than the questioning began again, and it was not until ten o'clock had struck that the exhausted child was allowed to lay her head down on the rude bed which Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had hastily made up for her. The next day was a weary one for poor Eily. From morning till night she was obliged to talk incessantly, with only a brief space allowed for her meals. The doctor and his wife mounted guard by turns, each asking questions, until to the child's fancy they seemed like nothing but living interrogation points. All day long, no matter what she was talking about,--the potato-crop, or the black hen that the fox stole, or Phelim's measles,--her mind was fixed on one idea, that of escaping from her prison. If only some fortunate chance would call them both out of the room at once! But, alas! that never happened. There was always a pair of greedy eyes fixed on her, and on the now hated jewels which dropped in an endless stream from her lips; always a harsh voice in her ears, rousing her, if she paused for an instant, by new questions as stupid as they were long. Once, indeed, the child stopped short, and declared that she could not and would not talk any more; but she was speedily shown the end of a birch rod, with the hint that the doctor "would be loth to use the likes av it on Dinnis Macarthy's choild; but her parints had given him charge to dhrive out the witchcraft be hook or be crook; and av a birch rod wasn't first cousin to a crook, what was it at all?" and Eily was forced to find her powers of speech again. By nightfall of this day the room was ankle-deep in pearls and diamonds. A wonderful sight it was, when the moon looked in at the window, and shone on the lustrous and glittering heaps which Mrs. O'Shaughnessy piled up with her broom. The woman was fairly frightened at the sight of so much treasure, and she crossed herself many times as she lay down on the mat beside Eileen's truckle-bed, muttering to herself, "Michael knows bist, I suppose; but sorrow o' me if I can feel as if there was a blissing an it, ava'!" The third day came, and was already half over, when an urgent summons came for Doctor O'Shaughnessy. One of his richest patrons had fallen from his horse and broken his leg, and the doctor must come on the instant. The doctor grumbled and swore, but there was no help for it; so he departed, after making his wife vow by all the saints in turn, that she would not leave Eileen's side for an instant until he returned. When Eily heard the rattle of the gig and the sound of the pony's feet, and knew that the most formidable of her jailers was actually _gone_, her heart beat so loud for joy that she feared its throbbing would be heard. Now, at last, a loop-hole seemed to open for her. She had a plan already in her head, and now there was a chance for her to carry it out. But an Irish girl of ten has shrewdness beyond her years, and no gleam of expression appeared in Eileen's face as she spoke to Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, who had been standing by the window to watch her husband's departure, and who now returned to her seat. "We'll be missin' the docthor this day, ma'm, won't we?" she said. "He's so agrayable, ain't he, now?" "He is that!" replied Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, with something of a sigh. "He's rale agrayable, Michael is--whin he wants to be," she added. "Yis, I'll miss um more nor common to-day, for 'tis worn out I am intirely wid shlapin so little these two nights past. Sure, I _can't_ shlape, wid thim things a-shparklin' an' a-glowerin' at me the way they do; and now I'll not get me nap at all this afthernoon, bein' I must shtay here and kape ye talkin' till the docthor cooms back. Me hid aches, too, mortial bad!" "Do it, now?" said Eily, soothingly. "Arrah, it's too bad, intirely! Will I till ye a little shtory that me grandmother hed for the hidache?" "A shtory for the hidache?" said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "What do ye mane by that, I'm askin' ye?" "I dunno roightly how ut is," replied Eily, innocently, "but Granny used to call this shtory a cure for the hidache, and mebbe ye'd find ut so. An' annyhow it 'ud kape me talkin'," she added meekly, "for 'tis mortial long." "Go an wid it, thin!" said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, settling herself more comfortably in her chair. "I loove a long shtory, to be sure. Go an, avick!" And Eily began as follows, speaking in a clear, low monotone:-- "Wanst upon a toime there lived an owld, owld woman, an' her name was Moira Magoyle; an' she lived in an owld, owld house, in an owld, owld lane that lid through an owld, owld wood be the side of an owld, owld shthrame that flowed through an owld, owld shthrate av an owld, owld town in an owld, owld county. An' this owld, owld woman, sure enough, she had an owld, owld cat wid a white nose; an' she had an owld, owld dog wid a black tail, an' she had an owld, owld hin wid wan eye, an' she had an owld, owld cock wid wan leg, an' she had--" Mrs. O'Shaughnessy yawned, and stirred uneasily on her seat. "Seems to me there's moighty little goin' an in this shtory!" she said, taking up her knitting, which she had dropped in her lap. "I'd loike somethin' a bit more loively, I'm thinkin', av I had me ch'ice." "Jist wait, ma'm!" said Eily, with quiet confidence, "ownly wait till I coom to the parrt about the two robbers an' the keg o' gunpowdther, an' its loively enough ye'll foind ut. But I must till ut the same way 'at Granny did, else it 'ull do no good, ava. Well, thin, I was sayin' to ye, ma'm, this owld woman (Saint Bridget be good to her!) she had an owld, owld cow, an' she had an owld, owld shape, an' she had an owld, owld kitchen wid an owld, owld cheer an' an owld, owld table, an' an owld, owld panthry wid an owld, owld churn, an' an owld, owld sauce-pan, an' an owld, owld gridiron, an' an owld, owld--" Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's knitting dropped again, and her head fell forward on her breast. Eileen's voice grew lower and softer, but still she went on,--rising at the same time, and moving quietly, stealthily, towards the door,-- "An' she had an owld, owld kittle, an' she had an owld, owld pot wid an owld, owld kiver; an' she had an owld, owld jug, an' an owld, owld platther, an' an owld, owld tay-pot--" Eily's hand was on the door, her eyes were fixed on the motionless form of her jailer; her voice went on and on, its soft monotone now accompanied by another sound,--that of a heavy, regular breathing which was fast deepening into a snore. "An' she had an owld, owld shpoon, an' an owld, owld fork, an' an owld, owld knife, an' an owld, owld cup, an' an owld, owld bowl, an' an owld, owld, owld--" The door is open! The story is done! Two little feet go speeding down the long passage, across the empty kitchen, out at the back door, and away, away! Wake, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy! wake! the story is done and the bird is flown! Surely it was the next thing to flying, the way in which Eily sped across the meadows, far from the hated scene of her imprisonment. The bare brown feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground; the brown locks streamed out on the wind; the little blue apron fluttered wildly, like a banner of victory. On! on! on! with panting bosom, with parted lips, with many a backward glance to see if any one were following; on went the little maid, over field and fell, through moss and through mire, till at last--oh, happy, blessed sight!--the dark forest rose before her, and she knew that she was saved. Quite at the other end of the wood lay the spot she was seeking; but she knew the way well, and on she went, but more carefully now,--parting the branches so that she broke no living twig, and treading cautiously lest she should crush the lady fern, which the Green Men love. How beautiful the ferns were, uncurling their silver-green fronds and spreading their slender arms abroad! How sweetly the birds were singing! How pleasant, how kind, how friendly was everything in the sweet green wood! And here at last was the oak-tree, and at the foot of it there stood the yellow toadstool, looking as if it did not care about anything or anybody, which in truth it did not: Breathless with haste and eagerness, Eileen tapped the toadstool three times with a bit of holly, saying softly, "Slanegher Banegher! Skeen na lane!" And, lo! and, behold! there sat the Green Man, just as if he had been there all the time, fanning himself with his scarlet cap, and looking at her with a comical twinkle in his sharp little eyes. "Well, Eily," he said, "is it back so soon ye are? Well, well, I'm not surprised! And how do ye like yer gift?" "Oh, yer Honor's Riverence--Grace, I mane!" cried poor Eily, bursting into tears, "av ye'll plaze to take it away! Sure it's nearly kilt I am along av it, an' no plazure or coomfort in ut at all at all! Take it away, yer Honor, take it away, and I'll bliss ye all me days!" and, with many sobs, she related the experiences of the past three days. As she spoke, diamonds and pearls still fell in showers from her lips, and half-unconsciously she held up her apron to catch them as they fell, so that by the time she had finished her story she had more than a quart of splendid gems, each as big as the biggest kind of pea. The Green Man smiled, but not unkindly, at the recital of Eileen's woes. "Faith, it's a hard time ye've had, my maiden, and no mistake! But now 'tis all over. Hold fast the jewels ye have there, for they're the last ye'll get." He touched her lips with his cap, and said, "Cabbala ku! the charm is off." Eily drew a long breath of relief, and the fairy added,-- "The truth is, Eily, the times are past for fairy gifts of this kind. Few people believe in the Green Men now at all, and fewer still ever see them. Why, ye are the first mortal child I've spoken to for a matter of two hundred years, and I think ye'll be the last I ever speak to. Fairy gifts are very pretty things in a story, but they're not convenient at the present time, as ye see for yourself. There's one thing I'd like to say to ye, however," he added more seriously; "an' ye'll take it as a little lesson-like, me dear, before we part. Ye asked me for diamonds and pearls, and I gave them to ye; and now ye've seen the worth of that kind for yourself. But there's jewels and jewels in the world, and if ye choose, Eily, ye can still speak pearls and diamonds, and no harm to yourself or anybody." "How was yer Honor maning?" asked Eily, wondering. "Sure, I don't undershtand yer Honor at all." "Likely not," said the little man, "but it's now I'm telling ye. Every gentle and loving word ye speak, child, is a pearl; and every kind deed done to them as needs kindness, is a diamond brighter than all those shining stones in your apron. Ye'll grow up a rich woman, Eily, with the treasure ye have there; but it might all as well be frogs and toads, if with it ye have not the loving heart and the helping hand that will make a good woman of ye, and happy folk of yer neighbors. And now good-by, mavourneen, and the blessing of the Green Men go with ye and stay with ye, yer life long!" "Good-by, yer Honor," cried Eily, gratefully. "The saints reward yer Honor's Grace for all yer kindness to a poor silly colleen like me! But, oh, wan minute, yer Honor!" she cried, as she saw the little man about to put on his cap. "Will Docthor O'Shaughnessy be King av Ireland? Sure it's the wicked king he'd make, intirely. Don't let him, plaze, yer Honor!" Green Jacket laughed long and heartily. "Ho! ho! ho!" he cried. "_King_, is it? Nothing less would suit him, sure enough! Have no fears, Eily, alanna! Dr. O'Shaughnessy has come into his kingdom by this time, and I wish him joy of it." With these words he clapped his scarlet cap on his head, and vanished like the snuff of a candle. * * * * * Now, just about this time Dr. Michael O'Shaughnessy was dismounting from his gig at his own back door, after a long and weary drive. He thought little, however, about his bodily fatigue, for his heart was full of joy and triumph, his mind absorbed in dreams of glory. He could not even contain his thoughts, but broke out into words, as he unharnessed the rusty old pony. "An' whin I coom to the palace, I'll knock three times wid the knocker; or maybe there'll be a bell, loike the sheriff's house (bad luck to um!) at Kilmagore. And the gossoon'll open the dure, and-- "'Phwhat's yer arrind?' says he. "'It's Queen Victory I'm wantin',' says I. 'An' ye'll till her King Michael av Ireland is askin' for her,' I says. "Thin whin Victory hears that, she'll coom roonnin' down hersilf, to bid me welkim; an' she'll take me oop to the best room, an'-- "'Sit down an the throne, King Michael,' says she. 'The other cheers isn't good enough for the loikes of ye,' says she. "'Afther ye, ma'm,' says I, moinding me manners. "'An' is there annythin' I can du for ye, to-day, King Michael?' says she, whin we've sat down an the throne. "An' I says, loight and aisy loike, all as if I didn't care, 'Nothin' in loife, ma'm, I'm obleeged to ye, widout ye'd lind me the loan o' yer Sunday crownd,' says I, 'be way av a patthern,' says I. "An' says she--" But at this moment the royal meditations were rudely broken in upon by a wild shriek which resounded from the house. The door was flung violently open, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy rushed out like a mad woman. "She's gone!" she cried wildly. "The colleen's gone, an' me niver shtirrin' from her side! Och, wirra, wirra! what'll I do? It must be the witches has taken her clane up chimley." Dr. O'Shaughnessy stood for a moment transfixed, glaring with speechless rage at the unhappy woman; then rushing suddenly at her, he seized and shook her till her teeth chattered together. "Ye've been ashlape!" he yelled, beside himself with rage and disappointment. "Ye've fell ashlape, an' laved her shlip out! Sorrow seize ye, ye're always the black bean in me porridge!" Then flinging her from him, he cried, "I don't care! I'll _be_ it! I'll be king wid what's in there now!" and dashed into the house. He paused before the door of the best room, lately poor Eily's prison, to draw breath and to collect his thoughts. The door was closed, and from within--hark! what was that sound? Something was stirring, surely. Oh, joy! was his wife mistaken? Waking suddenly from her nap, had she failed to see the girl, who had perhaps been sleeping, too? At all events the jewels were there, in shining heaps on the floor, as he had last seen them, with thousands more covering the floor in every direction,--a king's ransom in half a handful of them. He would be king yet, even if the girl were gone. Cautiously he opened the door and looked in, his eyes glistening, his mouth fairly watering at the thought of all the splendor which would meet his glance. What did Dr. O'Shaughnessy see? Oh, horror! Oh, dismay, terror, anguish! What did he see? Captive was there none, yet the room was not empty. Jewels were there none, yet the floor was covered; covered with living creatures,--toads, snakes, newts, all hideous and unclean reptiles that hop or creep or wriggle. And as the wretched man stared, with open mouth and glaring eye-balls, oh, horror! they were all hopping, creeping, wriggling towards the open door,--towards him! With a yell beside which his wife's had been a whisper, O'Shaughnessy turned and fled; but after him--through the door, down the passage and out of the house--came hopping, creeping, wriggling his myriad pursuers. Fly, King Michael! stretch your long legs, and run like a hunted hare over hill and dale, over moss and moor. They are close behind you; they are catching at your heels; they come from every side, surrounding you! Fly, King O'Shaughnessy! but you cannot escape. The Green Men are hunting you, if you could but know it, in sport and in revenge; and three times they will chase you round County Kerry, for thrice three days, till at last they suffer you to drop exhausted in a bog, and vanish from your sight. And Eily? Eily went home with her apron full of pearls and diamonds, to tell her story again, and this time to be believed. And she grew up a good woman and a rich woman; and she married the young Count of Kilmoggan, and spoke diamonds and pearls all her life long,--at least her husband said she did, and he ought to know. CHAPTER XIV. "EGGS! eggs!" cried Toto, springing lightly into the barn, and waving a basket round his head. "Mrs. Speckle, Mrs. Spanish, Dame Clucket, where are you all? I want all the fresh eggs you can spare, please! directly-now-this-very-moment!" and the boy tossed his basket up in the air and caught it again, and danced a little dance of pure enjoyment, while he waited for the hens to answer his summons. Mrs. Speckle and Dame Clucket, who had been having a quiet chat together in the mow, peeped cautiously over the billows of hay, and seeing that Toto was alone, bade him good-morning. "I don't know about eggs, to-day, Toto!" said Dame Clucket. "I want to set soon, and I cannot be giving you eggs every day." "Oh, but I haven't had any for two or three days!" cried Toto. "And I _must_ have some to-day. Good old Clucket, dear old Cluckety, give me some, please!" "Well, I never can refuse that boy, somehow!" said Dame Clucket, half to herself; and Mrs. Speckle agreed with her that it could not be done. Indeed, it would have been hard to say "No!" to Toto at that moment, for he certainly was very pleasant to look at. The dusty sunbeams came slanting through the high windows, and fell on his curly head, his ruddy-brown cheeks, and honest gray eyes; and as the eyes danced, and the curls danced, and the whole boy danced with the dancing sunbeams, why, what could two soft-hearted old hens do but meekly lead the way to where their cherished eggs lay, warm and white, in their fragrant nests of hay? "And what is to be done with them?" asked Mrs. Speckle, as the last egg disappeared into the basket. "Why, don't you know?" cried the boy. "We are going to have a party to-night,--a real party! Mr. Baldhead is coming, and Jim Crow, and Ger-Falcon. And Granny and Bruin are making all sorts of good things,--I'll bring you out some, if I can, dear old Speckly,--and these eggs are for a custard, don't you see?" "I see!" said Mrs. Speckle, rather ruefully. "And Coon and I are decorating the kitchen," continued he; "and Cracker is cracking the nuts and polishing the apples; and Pigeon Pretty and Miss Mary are dusting the ornaments,--so you see we are all very busy indeed. Ho! ho! what fun it will be! Good-by, Mrs. Speckle! good-by, Cluckety!" and off ran boy Toto, with his basket of eggs, leaving the two old hens to scratch about in the hay, clucking rather sadly over the memories of their own chickenhood, when they, too, went to parties, instead of laying eggs for other people's festivities. In the cottage, what a bustle was going on! The grandmother was at her pastry-board, rolling out paste, measuring and filling and covering, as quickly and deftly as if she had had two pairs of eyes instead of none at all. The bear, enveloped in a huge blue-checked apron, sat with a large mortar between his knees, pounding away at something as if his life depended on it. On the hearth sat the squirrel, cracking nuts and piling them up in pretty blue china dishes; and the two birds were carefully brushing and dusting, each with a pair of dusters which she always carried about with her,--one pair gray, and the other soft brown. As for Toto and the raccoon, they were here, there, and everywhere, all in a moment. "Now, then, where are those greens?" called the boy, when he had carefully deposited his basket of eggs in the pantry. "Here they are!" replied Coon, appearing at the same moment from the shed, dragging a mass of ground-pine, fragrant fir-boughs, and alder-twigs with their bright coral-red berries. "We will stand these big boughs in the corners, Toto. The creeping stuff will go over the looking-glass and round the windows. Eh, what do you think?" "Yes, that will do very well," said Toto. "We shall need steps, though, to reach so high, and the step-ladder is broken." "Never mind!" said Coon. "Bruin will be the step-ladder. Stand up here, Bruin, and make yourself useful." The good bear meekly obeyed, and the raccoon, mounting nimbly upon his shoulders, proceeded to arrange the trailing creepers with much grace and dexterity. "This reminds me of some of our honey-hunts, old fellow!" he said, talking as he worked. "Do you remember the famous one we had in the autumn, a little while before we came here?" "To be sure I do!" replied the bear. "That was, indeed, a famous hunt! It gave us our whole winter's supply of honey. And we might have got twice as much more, if it hadn't been for the accident." "Tell us about it," said Toto. "I wasn't with you, you know; and then came the moving, and I forgot to ask you." "Well, it was a funny time!" said the bear. "Ho! ho! it was a funny time! Coon, you see, had discovered this hive in a big oak-tree, hollow from crotch to ground. He couldn't get at it alone, for the clever bees had made it some way down inside the trunk, and he couldn't reach far enough down unless some one held him on the outside. So we went together, and I stood on my hind tip-toes, and then he climbed up and stood on my head, and I held his feet while he reached down into the hole." "Dear me!" said the grandmother, "that was very dangerous, Bruin. I wonder you allowed it." "Well, you see, dear Madam," replied the bear, apologetically, "it was really the only way. I couldn't stand on Coon's head and have him hold _my_ feet, you know; and we couldn't give up the honey, the finest crop of the season. So--" "Oh, it was all right!" broke in the raccoon. "At least, it was at first. There was such a quantity of honey,--pots and pots of it!--and all of the very best quality. I took out comb after comb, laying them in the crotch of the tree for safe-keeping till I was ready to go down." "But where were the bees all the time?" asked Toto. "Oh, they were there!" replied the raccoon, "buzzing about and making a fine fuss. They tried to sting me, of course, but my fur was too much for them. The only part I feared for was my nose, and that I had covered with two or three thicknesses of mullein-leaves, tied on with stout grass. But as ill-luck would have it, they found out Bruin, and began to buzz about him, too. One flew into his eye, and he let my feet go for an instant,--just just for the very instant when I was leaning down as far as I could possibly stretch to reach a particularly fine comb. Up went my heels, of course, and down went I." "Oh, oh!" cried the grandmother. "My _dear_ Coon! do you mean--" "I mean _down_, dear Madam!" repeated the raccoon, gravely,--"the very downest down there was, I assure you. I fell through that hollow tree as the falling star darts through the ambient heavens. Luckily there was a soft bed of moss and rotten wood at the bottom, or I might not have had the happiness of being here at this moment. As it was--" "As it was," interrupted the bear, "I dragged him out by the tail through the hole at the bottom. Ho! ho! I wish you could have seen him. He had brought the whole hive with him. Indeed, he looked like a hive himself, covered from head to foot with wax and honey, and a cloud of bees buzzing about him. But he had a huge piece of comb in each paw, and was gobbling away, eating honey, wax, bees and all, as if nothing had happened." "Naturally," said the raccoon, "I am of a saving disposition, as you know, and cannot bear to see anything wasted. It is not generally known that bees add a slight pungent flavor to the honey, which is very agreeable. Ve-ry agreeable!" he repeated, throwing his head back, and screwing up one eye, to contemplate the arrangement he had just completed. "How is that, Toto; pretty, eh?" "Very pretty!" said Toto. "But, see here, if you keep Bruin there all day, we shall never get through all we have to do. Jump down, that's a good fellow, and help me to polish these tankards." When all was ready, as in due time it was, surely it would have been hard to find a pleasanter looking place than that kitchen. The clean white walls were hung with wreaths and garlands, while the great fir-boughs in the corners filled the air with their warm, spicy fragrance. Every bit of metal--brass, copper, or steel--was polished so that it shone resplendent, giving back the joyous blaze of the crackling fire in a hundred tiny reflections. The kettle was especially glorious, and felt the importance of its position keenly. "I trust you have no unpleasant feeling about this," it said to the black soup-kettle. "Every one cannot be beautiful, you know. If you are useful, you should be content with that." "Hubble! bubble! Bubble! hubble! Some have the fun, and some have the trouble!" replied the soup-kettle. "My business is to make soup, and I make it. That is all I have to say." The table was covered with a snowy cloth, and set with glistening crockery--white and blue--and clean shining pewter. The great tankard had been brought out of its cupboard, and polished within an inch of its life; while the three blue ginger-jars, filled with scarlet alder-berries, looked down complacently from their station on the mantelpiece. As for the floor, I cannot give you an idea of the cleanness of it. When everything else was ready and in place, the bear had fastened a homemade scrubbing-brush to each of his four feet, and then executed a sort of furious scrubbing-dance, which fairly made the house shake; and the result was a shining purity which vied with that of the linen table-cloth, or the very kettle itself. And you should have seen the good bear, when his toilet was completed! The scrubbing-brushes had been applied to his own shaggy coat as well as to the floor, and it shone, in its own way, with as much lustre as anything else; and in his left ear was stuck a red rose, from the monthly rose-bush which stood in the sunniest window and blossomed all winter long. It is extremely uncomfortable to have a rose stuck in one's ear,--you may try it yourself, and see how you like it; but Toto had stuck it there, and nothing would have induced Bruin to remove it. And you should have seen our Toto himself, carrying his own roses on his cheeks, and enough sunshine in his eyes to make a thunder-cloud laugh! And you should have seen the great Coon, glorious in scarlet neck-ribbon, and behind his ear (_not_ in it! Coon was not Bruin) a scarlet feather, the gift of Miss Mary, and very precious. And you should have seen the little squirrel, attired in his own bushy tail, and rightly thinking that he needed no other adornment; and the parrot and the wood-pigeon, both trim and elegant, with their plumage arranged to the last point of perfection. Last of all, you should have seen the dear old grandmother, the beloved Madam, with her snowy curls and cap and kerchief; and the ebony stick which generally lived in a drawer and silver paper, and only came out on great occasions. How proud Toto was of his Granny! and how the others all stood around her, gazing with wondering admiration at her gold-bowed spectacles (for those she usually wore were of horn) and the large breastpin, with a weeping-willow displayed upon it, which fastened her kerchief. "Made out of your grandfather's tail, did you say, Toto?" said the bear, in an undertone. "Astonishing!" "No, no, Bruin!" cried the boy, half pettishly. "Made out of his _hair_! Surely you might know by this time that we have no tails." "True! true!" murmured the bear, apologetically. "I beg your pardon, Toto, boy. You are not really vexed with old Bruin?" Toto rubbed his curly head affectionately against the shaggy black one, in token of amity, and the bear continued:-- "When Madam was a young grandmother, was she as beautiful as she is now?" "Why, yes, I fancy so," replied Toto. "Only she wasn't a grandmother then, you know." "How so?" inquired Bruin. "What else could she be? You never were anything but a boy, were you?" "Oh, no, of course not!" said Toto. "But that is different. When Granny was young, she was a girl, you see." "I don't believe it!" said the bear, stoutly. "I--do--_not_--believe it! I saw a girl once--many years ago; it squinted, and its hair was frowzy, and it wore a hideous basket of flowers on its head,--a dreadful creature! Madam never can have looked like _that_!" At this moment a knock was heard at the door. Toto flew to open it, and with a beaming face ushered in the old hermit, who entered leaning on his stick, with his crow perched on one shoulder and the hawk on the other. Then, what greetings followed! What introductions! What bows and courtesies, and whisking of tails and flapping of wings! The hermit's bow in greeting to the old lady was so stately that Master Coon was consumed with a desire to imitate it; and in so doing, he stepped back against the nose of the tea-kettle and burned himself, which caused him to retire suddenly under the table with a smothered shriek. (But the kettle was glad.) And the hawk and the pigeon, the raccoon and the crow, the hermit and the bear, all shook paws and claws, and vowed that they were delighted to see each other; and what is more, they really _were_ delighted, which is not always the case when such vows are made. Now, when all had become well acquainted, and every heart was prepared to be merry, they sat down to supper; and the supper was not one which was likely to make them less cheerful. For there was chicken and ham, and, oh, such a mutton-pie! You never saw such a pie; the standing crust was six inches high, and solid as a castle wall; and on that lay the upper-crust, as lightly as a butterfly resting on a leaf; while inside was store of good mutton, and moreover golden eggballs and tender little onions, and gravy as rich as all the kings of the earth put together. Ay! and besides all that there was white bread like snow, and brown bread as sweet as clover-blossoms, and jam and gingerbread, and apples and nuts, and pitchers of cream and jugs of buttermilk. Truly, it does one's heart good to think of such a supper, and I only wish that you and I had been there to help eat it. However, there was no lack of hungry mouths, with right good-will to keep their jaws at work, and for a time there was little conversation around the table, but much joy and comfort in the good victuals. The good grandmother ate little herself, though she listened with pleasure to the stirring sound of knives and forks, which told her that her guests were well and pleasantly employed. Presently the hermit addressed her, and said:-- "Honored Madam, you will be glad to know that there has been a great change in the weather during the past week. Truly, I think the spring is at hand; for the snow is fast melting away, the sun shines with more than winter's heat, and the air to-day is mild and soft." At these words there was a subdued but evident excitement among the company. The raccoon and the squirrel exchanged swift and significant glances; the birds, as if by one unconscious impulse, ruffled their feathers and plumed themselves a little. But boy Toto's face fell, and he looked at the bear, who, for his part, scratched his nose and looked intently at the pattern on his plate. "It has been a long, an unusually long, season," continued the hermit, "though doubtless it has seemed much shorter to you in your cosey cottage than to me in my lonely cavern. But I have lived the forest-life long enough to know that some of you, my friends," and he turned with a smile to the forest-friends, "must be already longing to hear the first murmur of the greenwood spring, and to note in tree and shrub the first signs of awakening life." There was a moment of silence, during which the raccoon shifted uneasily on his seat, and looked about him with restless, gleaming eyes. Suddenly the silence was broken by a singular noise, which made every one start. It was a long-drawn sound, something between a snort, a squeal, and a snore; and it came from--where _did_ it come from? "Was it you?" said one. "No! was it you?" "It seemed to come," said the hawk, who sat facing the fire, "from the wall near the fireplace." At this moment the sound was heard again, louder and more distinct, and this time it certainly _did_ come from the wall,--or rather from the cupboard in the wall, near the fireplace. "Yaw-haw! yaw-ah-hee!" Then came a muffled, scuffling sound, and finally a shrill peevish voice cried, "Let me out! let me out, I say! Coon, I know your tricks; let me out, or I'll tell Bruin this minute!" The bear burst into a volcanic roar of laughter, which made the hermit start and turn pale in spite of himself, and going to the cupboard he drew out the unhappy woodchuck, hopelessly entangled in his worsted covering, from which he had been vainly struggling to free himself. Oh, how they all laughed! It seemed as they would never have done laughing; while every moment the woodchuck grew more furious,--squeaking and barking, and even trying to bite the mighty paw which held him. But the wood-pigeon had pity on him, and with a few sharp pulls broke the worsted net, and begged Bruin to set him down on the table. This being done, Master Chucky found his nose within precisely half an inch of a most excellent piece of dried beef, upon which he fell without more ado, and stayed not to draw breath till the plate was polished clean and dry. That made every one laugh again, and altogether they were very merry, and fell to playing games and telling stories, leaving the woodchuck to try the keen edge of his appetite upon every dish on the table. By-and-by, however, this gentleman could eat no more; so he wiped his paws and whiskers, brushed his coat a little, and then joined in the sport with right good-will. It was a pleasant sight to see the great bear blindfolded, chasing Toto and Coon from one corner to another, in a grand game of blindman's buff; it was pleasant to see them playing leap-frog, and spin-the-platter, and many a good old-fashioned game besides. Then, when these sat down to rest and recover their breath, what a treat it was to see the four birds dance a quadrille, to the music of Toto's fiddle! How they fluttered and sidled, and hopped and bridled! How gracefully Miss Mary courtesied to the stately hawk; and how jealous the crow was of this rival, who stood on one leg with such a perfect grace! Ah! altogether that was a party worth going to. And when late in the evening it broke up, and the visitors started on their homeward walk, all declared it was the merriest time they had yet had together, and all wished that they might have many more such times. And yet each one knew in his heart,--and grieved to know,--that it was the last, and that the end was come. CHAPTER XV. YES, the end was come! The woodchuck sounded, the next morning, the note which had for days been vibrating in the hearts of all the wild creatures, but which they had been loth to strike, for Toto's sake. "Come!" he said. "It is time we were off. I don't know what you are all thinking of, to stay on here after you are awake. I smelt the wet earth and the water, and the sap running in the trees, even in that dungeon where you had put me. The young reeds will soon be starting beside the pool, and it is my work to trim them and thin them out properly; besides, I am going to dig a new burrow, this year. I tell you I must be off." And the squirrel with a chuckle, and the wood-pigeon with a sigh, and the raccoon with a strange feeling which he hardly understood, but which was not all pleasure, echoed the words, "We must be off!" Only the bear said nothing, for he was in the wood-shed, splitting kindling-wood with a fury of energy which sent the chips flying as if he were a saw-mill. So it came to pass that on a soft, bright day in April, when the sun was shining sweetly, and the wind blew warm from the south, and the buds were swelling on willow and alder, the party of friends stood around the door of the little cottage, exchanging farewells, half merry, half sad, and wholly loving. "After all, it is hardly good-by!" said the squirrel, gayly. "We shall be here half the time, just as we were last summer; and the other half, Toto will be in the forest. Eh, Bruin?" But Bruin rubbed his nose with his right paw, and said nothing. "And you will come to the forest, too, dear Madam!" cried the raccoon, "will you not? You will bring the knitting and the gingerbread, and we will have picnics by the pool, and you will learn to love the forest as much as Toto does. Won't she, Bruin?" But Bruin rubbed his nose with his left paw, and still said nothing. "And when my nest is made, and my little ones are fledged," cooed the wood-pigeon in her tender voice, "their first flight shall be to you, dear Madam, and their first song shall tell you that they love you, and that we love you, every day and all day. For we do love you; don't we, Bruin?" But the bear only looked helplessly around him, and scratched his head, and again said nothing. "Well," said Toto, cheerily, though with a suspicion of a quiver in his voice, "you are all jolly good fellows, and we have had a merry winter together. Of course we shall miss you sadly, Granny and I; but as you say, Cracker, we shall all see each other every day; and I am longing for the forest, too, almost as much as you are." "Dear friends," said the blind grandmother, folding her hands upon her stick, and turning her kindly face from one to the other of the group,--"dear friends, merry and helpful companions, this has indeed been a happy season that we have spent together. You have, one and all, been a comfort and a help to me, and I think you have not been discontented yourselves; still, the confinement has of course been strange to you, and we cannot wonder that you pine for your free, wildwood life. Coon, give me your paw! it is a mischievous paw, but it has never played any tricks on me, and has helped me many and many a time. My little Cracker, I shall miss your merry chatter as I sit at my spinning-wheel. Mary, and Pigeon Pretty, let me stroke your soft feathers once more, by way of 'good-by.' Woodchuck, I have seen little of you, but I trust you have enjoyed your visit, in your own way. "And now, last of all, Bruin! my good, faithful Bruin! come here and let me shake your honest, shaggy paw, and thank you for all that you have done for me and for my boy." She paused, but no answer came. "Why, where _is_ Bruin?" cried Toto, starting and looking round; "surely he was here a minute ago. Bruin! Bruin! where are you?" But no deep voice was heard, roaring cheerfully, "Here, Toto boy!" No shaggy form came in sight. Bruin was gone. "He has gone on ahead, probably," said the raccoon; "he said something, this morning, about not liking to say good-by. Come, you others, we must follow our leader. Good-by, dear Madam! See you to-morrow, Toto!" "Good-by!" "Good-by!" "Good-by!" cried all the others. And with many a backward glance, and many a wave of paw, or tail, or fluttering wing, the party of friends took their way to the forest home. Boy Toto stood with his hands in his pockets, looking after them with bright, wide-open eyes. He did not cry,--it was a part of Toto's creed that boys did not cry after they had left off petticoats,--but he felt that if he had been a girl, the tears might have come in spite of him. So he stared very hard, and puckered his mouth in a silent whistle, and felt of the marbles in his pockets,--for that is always a soothing and comforting thing to do. "Toto, dear," said his grandmother, "do you think our Bruin is really _gone_, without saying a word of farewell to us?" "So it seems!" said the boy, briefly. "I am very much grieved!" cried the old lady, putting her handkerchief to her sightless eyes,--"very, very much grieved! If it had been Coon, now, I should not have been so much surprised; but for Bruin, our faithful friend and helper, to leave us so, seems--" "_Hello!_" cried Toto, starting suddenly, "what is that noise?" Both listened, and, lo! on the quiet air came the sharp crashing sound of an axe. "He's there!" cried the boy. "He _isn't_ gone! I'll go--" and with that he went, as if he had been shot out of a catapult. Rushing into the wood-shed, he caught sight of the well-beloved shaggy figure, just raising the axe to deliver a fearful blow at an unoffending log of wood. Flinging his arms round it (the figure, not the axe nor the log), he gave it such a violent hug that bear and boy sat down suddenly on the ground, while the axe flew to the other end of the shed. "Oh, Bruin, Bruin!" cried Toto, "we thought you were gone, without saying a word to us. How could you frighten us so?" The bear rubbed his nose confusedly, and muttered something about "a few more sticks in case of cold weather." But here Toto burst out laughing in spite of himself, for the shed was piled so high with kindling-wood that the bear sat as it were at the bottom of a pit whose sides of neatly split sticks rose high above his head. "You old goose!" cried the boy. "There's kindling-wood enough here to last us ten years, at the very least. Come away! Granny wants you. She thought--" "There will be more butter to make, now, Toto, since that new calf has come," said the bear, breaking in with apparent irrelevance. "I suppose there will!" said the boy, staring. "What of it?" "And that pig is getting too big for you to manage," continued Bruin, in a serious tone. "He was impudent to _me_ the other day, and I had to take him up by the tail and swing him, before he would apologize. Now, you _couldn't_ take him up by the tail, Toto, much less swing him, and there is no use in your deceiving yourself about it." "Of course I couldn't!" cried Toto. "No one could, except you, old monster. But what _are_ you thinking about that for, now? Come along, I tell you! Granny will think you are gone, after all." And catching the bear by the ear, he led him back in triumph to the cottage-door, crying, "Granny, Granny! here he is! Now give him a good scolding, please, for frightening us so." But the grandmother never scolded. She only stroked the shaggy black fur, and said, "Bruin, dear! my good, faithful, true-hearted Bruin! I could not bear to think that you had left me without saying good-by. That hurt me very much. But you would not have done it, would you, Bruin? We ought to have known you better." The bear looked about him distractedly, and bit his paw severely, as if to relieve his feelings. "Yes I would!" he cried. "At least, if I meant to say good-by. I wouldn't say it, because I couldn't. But I don't mean to say it,--I mean I don't mean to do it. If you don't want me in the house,--being large and clumsy, as I am well aware, and ugly too,--I can sleep out by the pump, and come in to do the work. But I cannot leave the boy, please, dear Madam, nor you. And the calf wants attention, and that pig _ought_ to be swung at least once a week, and--and--" But there was no need of further speech, for Toto's arms were clinging round his neck, and Toto's voice was shouting exclamations of delight; and the grandmother was shaking his great black paw, and calling him her best friend, her dearest old Bruin, and telling him that he should never leave them. And, in fact, he never did leave them. He settled down quietly in the little cottage, and washed and churned, baked and brewed, milked the cow and kept the pig in order. Happy was the good bear, and happy was Toto, in those pleasant days. For every afternoon, when the work was done, they welcomed one or all of their forest friends; or else they sought the green, beloved forest themselves, and sat beside the fairy pool, and wandered in the cool green mazes where all was sweetness and peace, with rustle of leaves and murmur of water, and chirp of bird and insect. But evening found them always at the cottage door again, bringing their woodland joyousness to the blind grandmother, making the kitchen ring with laughter as they related the last exploits of the raccoon or the squirrel, or described the courtship of the parrot and the crow. And if you had asked any of the three, as they sat together in the porch, who was the happiest person in the world, why, Toto and the Grandmother would each have answered, "I!" But Bruin, who had never studied grammar, and knew nothing whatever about his nominatives and his accusatives, would have roared with a thunder-burst of enthusiasm, "ME!!!" University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 44, illustration caption, "Wah-song! Wah-song!" changed to "Wah-Song! Wah-Song!" (Golden Dragon. "Wah-Song! Wah-Song! Awake!") Page 194, "gigantie" changed to "gigantic" (statement, the gigantic) 
34335	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 34335-h.htm or 34335-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/34335/34335-h/34335-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/34335/34335-h.zip) [Illustration] THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS. by MRS. A. M. DIAZ. With Illustrations. [Illustration] Boston: Fields, Osgood, & Co. 1870. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1870, by Fields, Osgood, & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., Cambridge. EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION. MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS:-- Much to my surprise, I was asked one day if I would be willing to edit the William Henry Letters for publication in a volume. At first it seemed impossible for me to do anything of the kind; "for," said I, "how can any one edit who is not an editor? Besides, I am not enough used to writing." It was then explained to me that my duties would simply be to collect and arrange the Letters, and furnish any little items concerning William Henry and his home which might interest the reader. It was also hinted, in the mildest manner possible, that I was not chosen for this office on account of my talents, or my learning, or my skill in writing; but wholly because of my intimate acquaintance with the two families at Summer Sweeting place,--for I have at times lived close by them for weeks together, and have taken tea quite often both at Grandmother's and at Aunt Phebe's. * * * * * After a brief consideration of the proposal, I agreed to undertake the task; at the same time wishing a more experienced editor could have been found. My acquaintance with the families commenced just about the time of William Henry's going to school, and in rather a curious way. I was then (and am now) much interested in the Freedmen. While serving in the Army of the Potomac, I had seen a good deal of them, and was connected with a hospital in Washington at the time when they were pouring into that city, hungry and sick, and half-naked. I belonged to several Freedmen's Societies, and had just then pledged myself to beg a barrelful of old clothing to send South. But this I found was, for an unmarried man, having few acquaintances in the town, a very rash promise. I had no idea that one barrel could hold so much. The pile of articles collected seemed to me immense. I wondered what I should do with them all. But when packed away there was room left for certainly a third as many more; and I had searched thoroughly the few garrets in which right of search was allowed me. Even in those, I could only glean after other barrel-fillers. A great many garrets yielded up their treasures during the war; for "Old clo'! old clo'!" was the cry then all over the North. Now, as I was sitting one afternoon by my barrel, wishing it were full, it happened that I looked down into the street, and saw there my _unknown friend_, waiting patiently in his empty cart. This _unknown friend_ was a tall, high-shouldered man, who drove in, occasionally, with vegetables. There were others who came in with vegetables also, and oftener than he; but this one I had particularly noticed, partly because of his bright, good-humored face, and partly because his horse had always a flower, or a sprig of something green, stuck in the harness. At first I had only glanced at him now and then in the crowd. Then I found myself watching for his blue cart, and next I began to wonder where he came from, and what kind of people his folks were. He joked with the grocery-men, threw apples at the little ragged street children, and coaxed along his old horse in a sort of friendly way that was quite amusing. And though I had never spoken a word to him, nor he to me, I called him my unknown friend, for a sight of him always did me good. It was a bony old gray horse that he drove, with a long neck poking way ahead; and the man was a farmer-like man, and wore farmer-like clothes; but he had a pleasant, twinkling eye, and the horse, as I said before, was seldom without a flower or bit of green stuck behind his ear or somewhere else about the harness. And often, when the town was hot and dusty, and business people were mean, I would say to myself, as my friend drove past on his way home, How I should like to ride out with him, no matter where, if 't is only where they have flowers and green things growing in the garden! On this particular afternoon, as I have said, I observed my friend sitting quietly in his cart, "bound out," as the fishermen say,--sitting becalmed, waiting for something ahead to get started. It happened that I was just then feeling very sensibly the heat and confinement of the town, and was more than usually weary of business ways and business people; actually pining for the balmy air of pine woods and the breath of flowery fields. And perhaps, thought I, my friend may live among warm-hearted country folk, who will be delighted to give to my poor contrabands, and whose garrets no barrelman has yet explored! So, giving a second look, and seeing that he still sat there, patiently awaiting his turn, I ran down, without stopping to think more about it, and asked if I might ride out with him. "O yes. Jump in! jump in!" said he, in the pleasantest manner possible; then he offered me his cushion, and began to double up an empty bag for himself. "No, no. Give me the bag," said I; and folding it, I laid it on the board, just to take off the edge of the jolting a little. And my seat seemed a charming one, after having been perched up on an office-stool so long. That cushion of his took my eye at once. It looked as if it came out of a rocking-chair. The covering was of black cloth, worked in a very old-fashioned way, with pinks and tulips. The colors were faded, but it had a homespun, comfortable, countrified look; in fact, the first glance at that queer old cushion assured me that I was going to exactly the right place. Presently we got started, and certainly I never had a better ride, nor one with a pleasanter companion. He asked me all sorts of funny questions about electricity, and oxygen, and flying-machines, and the telegraph, and the moon and stars. "Now you are a learned man, I suppose," said he; "and I want you to tell me how that golden-rod gets its yellow out of black ground." I said I was not a learned man at all, and I didn't believe learned men themselves could tell how it got its yellow, and the asters their purple, and the succory its blue, and the everlasting its white, all out of the same black ground. He said he was pretty sure his wife couldn't boil up a kettleful and color either of those colors from them. So we went talking on. He asked me where I'd been stopping, and what I did for a living. And I told him what I did for a living, and all about soldier life, and the contrabands, and about my barrel. Our road led through woods part of the way, and I drew in long breaths of woody air. He told me a funny woodchuck story, and had a good deal to say about wood-lots,--how some rich men formerly owned great tracts, but becoming poor were forced to sell; and how, when pines were cut off, oaks grew up in their place. And among other things he told me that a hardhack would turn into a huckleberry-bush. I said that seemed like a miracle. He was going on to tell me about one that he had watched, but just then we turned into a pleasant, shady lane. We hadn't gone far down this shady lane before we heard a loud screaming behind us, and looking round saw a small boy caught fast in the bushes by the skirt of his frock. "Do you see that little boy?" I asked. "O yes, I see him," he said, laughing. "Hullo, Tommy! what you staying there for?" The boy kept on crying. "What you waiting for?" he called out again, just as if he couldn't see that the bushes would not let the child stir. We found out afterwards that little Tommy had hid there to jump out and scare his father, but got caught by the briers. I went to untangle him,--his clothes had several rents,--and was going to put him in the cart; but he would get in "his own self," he said. Then he stopped crying, and wanted to drive. His father said, "No, not till we get through the bars." Then Tommy began again. And at last he said, half crying and half talking, "When I'm--the--father, and you 'm--the--ittle Tommy--you can't--drive--my--horse!" His father laughed and said: "Well, when I'm the little Tommy, I'll brush the snarls off my face--so, and throw them under the wheels--so, and let 'em get run over!" This made Tommy laugh, and very soon after we came to the bars. I looked ahead and saw a neat white house, not very large, with green blinds and a piazza, where flowering plants were climbing. There was a garden on one side and an orchard on the other. Just across the garden stood an old, brown, unpainted house. There were tall apple-trees growing near it, that looked about a hundred years old. My friend, Uncle Jacob,--I've heard him called Uncle Jacob so much since that I really don't know how to put a Mister to his name,--said those were Summer Sweeting trees, that had pretty nigh done bearing. He said there used to be Summer Sweeting trees growing all about there; and that when he took part of the place, and built him a house, he cut down the ones on his land, and set out Baldwins and Tallmans and Porters; but his mother kept her's for the good they had done, and for the sake of what few apples they did bear, to give away to the children. The houses had their backs towards me, and I was glad of that, for I always like back doors better than front ones. Uncle Jacob whistled, and I saw a blind fly open, and a handkerchief wave from an upper window, where two girls were sitting. Uncle Jacob's wife stepped to the door and waved a sunbonnet, and then stepped back again. "Here, Tommy," said Uncle Jacob, "you carry in the magazine to Lucy Maria, and here's Matilda's gum-arabic. I don't see where Towser is." I jumped out, and said I guessed I would keep on; for I began to feel bashful about seeing so many women-folks. "Where you going to keep on to?" Uncle Jacob asked. "This road don't go any farther." I said I would walk across the fields to the next village and find a hotel. "O no," said he, "stay here. Grandmother'll be glad enough to hear about the contrabands. She'll knit stockings, and pick up a good deal about the house to send off. And I want to ask much as five hundred questions more about matters and things myself. Come, stay. Yes, we'll give you a good supper, a first-rate supper. Don't be afraid. My wife'll--There! I forgot her errand, now! But if you--Whoa! whoa! Georgiana, take this pattern in to your Aunt Phebe, and tell her I forgot to see if I could match it; but I don't believe the man had any like it." Georgiana was a nice little girl that just then came running across the garden,--William Henry's sister, as I learned afterwards. Just then Aunt Phebe stepped to the door again. "Here are two hungry travellers," said Uncle Jacob, "and one of us is bashful." "Well," said Aunt Phebe, very cheerily, "if anybody is hungry, this is just the right place. How do you do, sir? Come right in. We live so out of the way we 're always glad of company. Father, can't you introduce your friend?" "Well--no--I can't," said he. "But I guess he's brother to the President!" I said my name was Fry. Aunt Phebe said her father had a cousin that married a _Fry_, and asked what my mother's maiden name was. I told her my mother was a _Young_, and that I was named for my father and mother both,--_Silas Young Fry_. I heard a tittering overhead, behind a pair of blinds, where I guessed some girls were peeping through. And afterwards, when I was sitting on the piazza, I heard one tell another, not thinking I was within hearing, that a young fry had come to supper. When we all sat round the table the girls seemed full of tickle, which they tried to hide,--and one of them asked me,--I think it was Hannah Jane,--with a very sober face,-- "Mr. Fry, will you take some fried fish?" I laughed and said, "No, I never take anything _fried_." Then we all laughed together, and so got acquainted very pleasantly; for I have observed that a little ripple of fun sets people nearer together than a whole ocean of calm conversation. After supper Uncle Jacob read the paper aloud, while the girls washed up the dishes. All were eager to hear; and I found they kept the run of affairs quite as well as townspeople. When there was too much rattling of dishes for Uncle Jacob to be heard, and the girls lost some important item, he was always willing to read it over. Little Tommy was rolled up in a shawl and set down in the rocking-chair (that cushion did come out of it) while his mother mended his clothes. This was the way he usually got punished for tearing them. He was done up in a shawl, arms and all, and kept in the rocking-chair while the clothes were being mended, and he was obliged to remain pretty quiet, or the chair would tip. Aunt Phebe said Tommy was so careless, something must be done, and keeping him still was the worst punishment he could have. When the girls finished their dishes and took out their sewing, and were going to light the large lamp, their mother said that we mustn't think of settling ourselves for the evening. She said we must all go in to grandmother's, for she'd be dreadful lonely, missing Billy so. Then Aunt Phebe told me how her nephew, Billy, a ten-year old boy, had gone away to school only the day before, and how they all missed him. "Isn't he pretty young to go away to school?" I asked. "That's what I told his father," said she. "His father sent him away to keep him," said Uncle Jacob. "Grandmother was spoiling him." "Ruining the boy with kindness?" said Lucy Maria. "Well," said Aunt Phebe, "I suppose 't was so. I know 't was so. But we did hate to have Billy go!" Uncle Jacob then took me across the garden, and introduced me to Mr. Carver, the father of William Henry, and to Grandmother,--old Mrs. Carver, as the neighbors called her. She was a smiling, blue-eyed old lady, though with a little bit of an anxious look just between the eyes. I thought there was no doubt about her being a grandmother that would spoil boys. "Why, there's Towser, now?" said Uncle Jacob. "He didn't come to meet me to-night." "He's been there, off and on, pretty much all day," said grandmother. "You see what he's got his head on don't you?" "Billy's old boots!" said Uncle Jacob. "Yes. He set a good deal by Billy. I haven't put the boots away yet," she said, with a sigh. "Here, Towser! come here, sir!" cried Uncle Jacob. Towser was a big, shaggy, clever-looking dog. He got up slowly, sniffed at my trousers, then walked to Uncle Jacob, then round the room, then to the door, then up stairs and down again, and then back he went and lay down by the boots. "He misses my grandson," said grandmother to me, trying to smile about it. The little girl, Georgiana, sat on a cricket, holding a kitten, tying and untying its ribbon. A square of patchwork had fallen on the floor. She stooped to pick it up and dropped her spool. That rolled away towards the door, and kitty jumped for it and soon got the thread in a tangle. The door opened so suddenly that she hopped up about two feet into the air and tumbled head over heels. It was Lucy Maria who opened the door. The other girls came soon after; and when Tommy was asleep Aunt Phebe came too. We had a very sociable time. I don't call myself a talker, but I didn't mind talking there, they seemed so easy, just like one's own folks. I told grandmother many things about the contrabands, and about Southern life, and Southern people, and about soldier life and battles and rations and making raids, and the Washington hospitals, and how needy the contrabands were, and about my barrel. "Poor creatures!" said she. "I must look up some things for them to-morrow." Aunt Phebe thought there might be a good many things lying about that would be of use to folks who hadn't anything. "Billy's boots!" cried Hannah Jane. "Why, yes," said her mother, "no use keeping boots for a growing boy." This and other remarks brought us back to William Henry again, and grandmother seemed glad of it. She liked to keep talking about her boy. "I shall feel very anxious," she said. "I hope he will write soon as he gets there. I told him he'd better write every day, so I could be sure just how he was. For if well one day, he mightn't be the next." "O grandmother, that's too bad!" said Lucy Maria. "'T is cruel to ask a boy to write every day!" "I wouldn't worry, mother," said Aunt Phebe. "Billy's always been a well child." "These strong constitutions," said grandmother, "when they do take anything, 't is apt to go hard with 'em." "He's taken pretty much everything that can be given to him already," said Aunt Phebe. "I suppose they'll put clothes enough on his bed," said grandmother. "I can't bear to think of his sleeping cold nights." "Perhaps they have blankets in that part of the country," said Uncle Jacob. "But people are not always thoughtful about it," said grandmother. "I really hope he'll take care of himself, and not be climbing up everywhere. Houses and trees were bad enough; but now they have gymnastic poles and everything else, to tempt boys off the ground. O dear! when we think of everything that might happen to boys, 't is a wonder one of them ever lives to grow up. Isn't there a pond near by?" "O yes," said Lucy Maria, "Crooked Pond. That's what gives the name to the school,--Crooked Pond School." "I hope he won't be whipped," said his little sister. "Whipped!" cried Aunt Phebe, "I should like to see anybody whipping our Billy!" "O mother, I shouldn't," said Matilda. "'T isn't an impossible thing," said grandmother. "He's quick. Billy's good-hearted, but he's quick. He might speak up. I gave him a charge how to behave. But then, what's a boy's memory? I don't suppose he'll remember one half the things I told him. I meant to have charged him over again, the last thing, not to stay out in the rain and get wet, where there's nobody to see to his clothes being dried." "Well," said Uncle Jacob, "if a boy doesn't know enough to go into the house when it rains, he better come home?" "What I hope is," said Aunt Phebe, "that he'll keep himself looking decent." "If he does," said Lucy Maria, "then 'twill be the first time. The poor child never seemed to have much luck about keeping spruced up. If anybody here ever saw William Henry with no buttons off and both shoes tied, and no rip anywhere, let 'em raise their hands!" Everybody laughed. I thought grandmother's eye wandered round the circle, as if half taking it all in earnest, and half hoping some hand would go up. But no hand went up. "Billy always was hard on his clothes," she said, with a sigh. "If he only keeps well I won't say a word; but there's always danger of boys eating unwholesome things, where there's nobody to deny them." "Billy's stomach's his own, and he must learn to have the care of it," said Mr. Carver. Mr. Carver seemed a very quiet, thoughtful man, and of quite a different turn from his brother. I suggested that boarding-house diet was apt to be plain; and then told grandmother about a nephew of mine, a nice boy, who was rather older than her grandson, who was named after me, and of whom I thought everything. I told her he had been away at school a year, and that he enjoyed himself, and went ahead in his studies, and never had a sick day, and came home with better manners than he had when he went away. As this pleased her, I said everything I could think of about my nephew, including some anecdotes of little Silas, when he was quite small; and she told a few about William Henry, the others helping her out, now and then, with some missing items. Uncle Jacob said he shouldn't dare to say how many times she'd been frightened almost to death about Billy. Many and many a time she was sure he was lost, or drowned, or run over, or carried off, and would never come back alive; but he always managed to come out straight at last. Uncle Jacob said that if all the worry that was worried in this world were piled up together, 't would make a mountain; but if all of it that needn't be worried were knocked off, what was left wouldn't be bigger than a huckleberry hill. Mr. Carver said there was one thing which made him entirely willing to trust William Henry away, and that was, he had always been a boy of principle. "I have watched him pretty closely," said Mr. Carver, "and have noticed that he has a kind of pride about him that will not permit him to lie, or equivocate in any way. "That's true!" cried Aunt Phebe. "True enough! Billy don't always look fit to be seen, but he isn't deceitful. I'll say that for him!" "When he went to our school," said Matilda, "and was in the class below me, and there was a fuss among the boys, and all of 'em told it a different way, the teacher used to say she would ask William Henry, and then she could tell just how it happened." "He couldn't have a better name than that," said Mr. Carver. Grandmother wiped her eyes, she seemed so gratified that her boy's good qualities were remembered at last. I am almost certain that an editor should not be so long in telling his story. But I should like to say a little more about that first night,--just a very little more. * * * * * Grandmother wouldn't hear of my going to a hotel. Anybody that had been a soldier, and was doing good, should never go from her house to find a night's lodging. And she might as well have said, particularly anybody that had a little Silas away at school, for I saw she felt it. It required very little urging to make me stay; for in all my travels I had never met with a pleasanter set of people. My choice was offered me, whether to lodge in the front chamber, or in the little back chamber where Billy slept. Of course I chose the last; for people's best, front, spare chambers never suit me very well. [Illustration] Billy's room was a snug little room, low in the walls, and papered with flowery paper. There were two windows, the curtains to which were made of paper like that on the walls. You had to roll them up with your hands, and tie them with a string that went over the top. The room was over the sink-room, and in going into it we stepped one step down. There was no carpet on the floor, excepting a strip by the bedside and a mat before the table. Grandmother said the table Billy and she made together, so the legs didn't stand quite true. It was covered with calico, and more calico was puckered on round the edge and came down to the floor. That was done, she said, to make a place for his boots and shoes. She thought 't was well for a boy to have a place for his things, even if he did always leave them somewhere else. There was nothing under the table but one rubber boot, with the rubber mostly cut off, and some pieces of new pine, easy to whittle, that Billy had picked up and stowed away there. A narrow looking-glass hung over the table. It had a queer picture at the top, of two Japanese figures. The glass had a little crack in one corner,--cracked by his ball bouncing up when he was trying it. Some green tissue-paper hung around this fracture with a very innocent, ornamental air. Not far from the glass I observed a rusty jack-knife stuck in the wall, close to the window-frame; and on its handle was hanging a string of birds'-eggs. In stepping up to examine these I stumbled against an old hair-covered trunk, quite a large one. The cover seemed a little askew, and not inclined to shut. This trunk was the color of a red cow, and for aught I know was covered with the skin of a red cow. In the middle of the cover the letters W. C. were printed in brass nails, which led me to guess that the trunk had belonged to William Henry's father. Grandmother raised the cover, to see what kept it from shutting, and found 't was a great scraggly piece of sassafras (saxifax) root, which lay on top. There was everything in that trunk,--everything. Of course I don't mean meeting-houses, or steamboats, or anacondas; but everything a boy would be likely to have. I saw picture papers, leather straps, old pocket-books, a pair of dividers, the hull of a boat, a pair of boot-pullers, a chrysalis, several penholders, a large clam-shell, a few pocket combs,--comb parts gone,--fishing-lines, reels, bobs, sinkers, a bullet-mould, arrows, a bag of marbles, a china egg, a rule, hammers, a red comforter, two odd mittens, "that had lost the mates of 'em," a bird-call, a mask, an empty cologne-bottle, a dime novel, odd cards,--all these, and more, were visible by merely stirring the top layer a little. Also several tangles of twine, twining and intertwining among the mass. Grandmother shook up the things some,--by means of a handle which probably belonged to a hatchet, but the hatchet part was buried,--and I saw that the bottom was covered with marbles, dominos, nails, bottles, slate-pencils, bits of brass clock machinery, and all the innumerable nameless, shapeless things which would be likely to settle down to the bottom of a boy's trunk. Grandmother said she should set it to rights if it weren't for fish-hooks; but anybody's hands going in there would be likely to get fish-hooks stuck into them. In one end of the trunk was quite a fanciful box. It was nothing but a common pine box, painted black, with "cut out" pictures pasted on it. There were ladies' faces, generals' heads, bugs, horses, butterflies, chairs, ships, birds, and in the centre of the cover, outside, there was a large red rose on its stalk. At the centre, inside, was a laughing, or rather a grinning face, cut from some comic magazine. In this box was kept some of his more precious treasures,--a little brass anchor, a silver pencil-case, a whole set of dominos, and a ball, very prettily worked, orange-peel pattern, in many colors. This was a present from his teacher. There was also a curious pearl-handled knife, with the blades broken short off. She said he never felt so badly about breaking any knife as when that got broken, for it was one his cousin brought him home from sea. He was keeping it to have new blades put in. "How much this trunk reminds me of little Silas's bureau-drawer!" I said, taking up an old writing-book. As I spoke several bits of paper fell out and among them were some very funny pictures, done with a lead-pencil and then inked over. "What are these?" I asked. "Does he draw?" "Well--not exactly," she answered,--"nothing that can be called drawing. He tries sometimes to copy what he sees." "I suppose I may look at them," I said, picking up one of the bits of paper. "Pray what is this?" Grandmother put on her spectacles, and turned the paper round, as if trying to find the up and down of it. [Illustration] "O, this is Uncle Jacob chasing the calf," said she; "those things that look like elbows are meant for his legs kicking up. And on this piece he's tried to make the old gobbler flying at Georgiana. You see the turkey is as big as she is. But maybe you don't know which the turkey is! That one is the fat man, and that one is the cat and kittens. And that one is a dandy, making a bow. He saw one over at the hotel that he took it from." She was sitting by the bed, and as she named them, spread them out upon it, one by one, along with some others I have not mentioned, all very comical. When I had finished laughing over them I said,-- "I should like to send these pictures in my barrel. 'T would give the little sick contrabands something to laugh at." "Well, I'll tell Billy when he comes," she answered, then gathered them up and smoothed the quilt again. The bedstead was a low one, without any posts, except that each leg ended at the top with a little round, flat head or knob. The quilt was made of light and dark patchwork. Grandmother told me, lowering her voice, that Billy's mother made that patchwork when she was a little girl just learning to sew; but 't was kept laid away, and about the last work she ever did was to set it together. And 't was her request that Billy should have it on his bed. She said Billy was a very _feeling_ boy, though he didn't say much. One time, a couple years ago, she hung that quilt out to blow, and forgot to take it in till after the dew began to fall, so, being a little damp, she put on another one. But next morning she looked in, and there 't was, over him, spread on all skewy! "Sometimes I think," she added, "that boys have more feeling than we think for!" "I know they have!" I answered. A picture of William Henry's mother hung opposite the bed. It was not a very handsome face, nor a pretty face. But it had such an earnest, loving, wistful expression, that I could not help exclaiming, "Beautiful!" "Yes, she was a beautiful woman. We all loved her. She was just like a daughter to me. Billy doesn't know what he's lost, and 't is well he don't. I try to be a mother to him; but they say," said the tender-hearted old lady,--"they say a grandmother isn't fit to have the bringing up of a child! Billy has his faults." "Now if I were a child," I exclaimed, "I should rather you would have the bringing up of me than anybody I know of! And 't is my opinion, from what I hear, that you've done well by Billy. Of course boys are boys, and don't always do us they ought to. Now there's little Silas. He's been a world of trouble first and last. But then boys soon get big enough to be ashamed of all their little bad ways. The biggest part of 'em like good men best, and mean to be good men. And I think Billy's going to grow up a capital fellow! A capital fellow! If a boy's true-hearted he'll come out all right. And your boy is, isn't he?" "O very!" she said. "Very!" I was so glad to think, after the old lady had gone down, that I'd said something which, if she kept awake, thinking about the boy, would be a comfort to her. * * * * * Next morning grandmother brought out quite an armful of old clothes. A poor old couple, living near, she said, took most of hers and Mr. Carver's; but what few there were of Billy's that were decent to send I might have. A couple of linen jackets, a Scotch cap, two pairs of thin trousers, not much worn, but outgrown, a small overcoat, several pairs of stockings, and some shoes. And the boots also, and some underclothing, that William Henry might have worn longer, she said, if he were only living at home, where she could put a stitch in 'em now and then. Grandmother sighed as she emptied the pockets of crumbles, green apples, reins, bullets, and knotted, gray, balled-up pocket-handkerchiefs. Among the clothes she brought out a funny little uniform, which I had seen hanging up in his room,--one that he had when a soldier, or trainer, as she called it, in a military company, formed near the beginning of the war. It consisted of a blue flannel sack, edged with red braid, red flannel Zouave trousers, and a blue flannel cap, bound with red, and having a square visor. That uniform would fit some little contraband, she said. "Hadn't you better keep those?" I asked. "Won't he want them?" "O no," she said. "He's outgrown them. And 't is no use keeping them for moths to get into." She gave me some picture-books, and two primers, a roll of linen, and quite a good blanket, all of which I received thankfully. In rolling up the different articles, I saw her eye resting so lovingly on the little uniform, that I said, "Here, grandmother, hadn't you better take back these?" "O, I guess not," she answered. "I guess you better send them. But," she added a moment after, "perhaps they might as well stay till you send another barrel." "Just exactly as well," I said. And the old lady seemed as if she had recovered a lost treasure. Aunt Phebe added a good many valuable articles, so that by the time Uncle Jacob was ready to start I had collected two immense bundles, and felt almost brave enough to face another barrel. For they all said they would beg from their friends, and save things, and that I must certainly come again. "For you know," said Aunt Phebe, "'t is a great deal better to hear you tell things than to read about them in the newspapers." They stood about the door to see us off, and Matilda stroked the old horse, and talked to him as if he understood. She broke off two heads of phlox, red and white, and fastened them in behind his ear. Uncle Jacob told me, as we rode along, that the old horse really expected to be patted and talked to before starting. And indeed I noticed myself that after being dressed up he stepped off with an exceedingly satisfied air, just as I have seen some little girls,--and boys too, for that matter, and occasionally grown people. * * * * * But it is quite time to give you the Letters. There should be more of them, for the correspondence covers a period of about two years. 'T is true that, after the first, William Henry did not write nearly as often. But still there are many missing. Little Tommy cut up some into strings of boys and girls, and at one time when grandmother wasn't very well, and had to hire help, the girl look some to kindle fire with. The old lady said she was sitting up in her arm-chair, by the fireplace one day, when she saw, in the corner, a piece of paper with writing on it, half burnt up. She poked it out with a yardstick, and 't was one of Billy's letters! Quite a number which were perfect have been omitted. This is because that some coming between were missing; and so, as the children say, there wouldn't be any sense to them. Others contained mostly private matters. Very few were dated. This is, however, of small importance, as the Letters probably will never be brought forward to decide a law case. THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS. The first letter from William Henry which has been preserved seems to have been written a few weeks after entering his school, and when he had begun to get acquainted with the boys. Could the letter itself be made to appear here, with its _very_ peculiar handwriting, and with all the other distinctive marks of a boy's first exploit on paper, it would be found even more entertaining than when given in the printed form. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- I think the school that I have come to is a very good school. We have dumplings. I've tied up the pills that you gave me in case of feeling bad, in the toe of my cotton stocking that's lost the mate of it. The mince pies they have here are baked without any plums being put into them. So, please, need I say, No, I thank you, ma'am, to 'em when they come round? If they don't agree, shall I take the pills or the drops? Or was it the hot flannels,--and how many? I've forgot about being shivery. Was it to eat roast onions? No, I guess not. I guess it was a wet band tied round my head. Please write it down, because you told me so many things I can't remember. How can anybody tell when anybody is sick enough to take things? You can't think what a great, tall man the schoolmaster is. He has got something very long to flog us with, that bends easy, and hurts,--Q. S. So Dorry says. Q. S. is in the abbreviations, and stands for a sufficient quantity. Dorry says the master keeps a paint-pot in his room, and has his whiskers painted black every morning, and his hair too, to make himself look scareful. Dorry is one of the great boys. But Tom Cush is bigger. I don't like Tom Cush. I have a good many to play with; but I miss you and Towser and all of them very much. How does my sister do? Don't let the cow eat my peach-tree. Dorry Baker he says that peaches don't grow here; but he says the cherries have peach-stones in them. In a month my birthday will be here. How funny 't will seem to be eleven, when I've been ten so long! I don't skip over any button-holes in the morning now; so my jacket comes out even. Why didn't you tell me I had a red head? But I can run faster than any of them that are no bigger than I am, and some that are. One of the spokes of my umbrella broke itself in two yesterday, because the wind blew so when it rained. We learn to sing. He says I've a good deal of voice; but I've forgot what the matter is with it. We go up and down the scale, and beat time. The last is the best fun. The other is hard to do. But if I could only get up, I guess 't would be easy to come down. He thinks something ails my ear. I thought he said I hadn't got any at all. What have a feller's ears to do with singing, or with scaling up and down? Your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. P.S. Here's a conundrum Dorry Baker made: In a race, why would the singing-master win? Because "Time flies," and he _beats time_. I want to see Aunt Phebe, and Aunt Phebe's little Tommy, dreadfully. W. H. * * * * * This second letter must have been pleasing to Aunt Phebe, as it shows that William Henry was beginning to have some faint regard for his personal appearance. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- I've got thirty-two cents left of my spending-money. When shall I begin to wear my new shoes every day? The soap they have here is pink. Has father sold the bossy calf yet? There's a boy here they call Bossy Calf, because he cried for his mother. He has been here three days. He sleeps with me. And every night, after he has laid his head down on the pillow, and the lights are blown out, I begin to sing, and to scale up and down, so the boys can't hear him cry. Dorry Baker and three more boys sleep in the same room that we two sleep in. When they begin to throw bootjacks at me, to make me stop my noise, it scares him, and he leaves off crying. I want a pair of new boots dreadfully, with red on the tops of them, that I can tuck my trousers into and keep the mud off. One thing more the boys plague me for besides my head. Freckles. Dorry held up an orange yesterday. "Can you see it?" says he. "To be sure," says I. "Didn't know as you could see through 'em," says he, meaning freckles. Dear grandmother, I have cried once, but not in bed. For fear of their laughing, and of the bootjacks. But away in a good place under the trees. A shaggy dog came along and licked my face. But oh! he did make me remember Towser, and cry all over again. But don't tell, for I should be ashamed. I wish the boys would like me. Freckles come thicker in summer than they do in winter. [Illustration] Your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * If William Henry's recipe for the prevention of spunkiness were generally adopted, I fancy that many a boy would be seen practising the circus performance here mentioned. It must have been "sure cure!" I well remember the "plaguing" of my school days, and know from experience how hard it is for a boy (or a man) always to keep his temper. The fellows used to make fun of my name. In our quarrels, when there was nothing else left to say, they would call out,--leaving off the Silas,--"Y Fry? why not bake?" or "boil," or "stew." Of course to such remarks there was no answer. It is to be regretted that so few of Grandmother's letters were preserved. As Billy here makes known the state of his pocket-book, we may infer that she had been inquiring into his accounts, and perhaps cautioning him against spending too freely. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- I do what you told me. You told me to bite my lips and count ten, before I spoke, when the boys plague me, because I'm a spunky boy. But doing it so much makes my lips sore. So now I go head over heels sometimes, till I'm out of breath. Then I can't say anything. This is the account you asked me for, of all I've bought this week:-- Slippery elm 1 cent. Corn-ball 1 cent. Gum 1 cent. [Illustration] And I swapped a whip-lash that I found for an orange that only had one suck sucked out of it. The "Two Betseys," they keep very good things to sell. They are two old women that live in a little hut with two rooms to it, and a ladder to go up stairs by, through a hole in the wall. One Betsey, she is lame and keeps still, and sells the things to us sitting down. The other Betsey, she can run, and keeps a yardstick to drive away boys with. For they have apple-trees in their garden. But she never touches a boy, if she does catch him. They have hens and sell eggs. [Illustration] The boys that sleep in the same room that we do wanted Benjie and me to join together with them to buy a great confectioner's frosted cake, and other things. And when the lamps had been blown out, to keep awake and light them up again, and so have a supper late at night, with the curtains all down and the blinds shut up, when people were in bed, and not let anybody know. But Benjie hadn't any money. Because his father works hard for his living,--but his uncle pays for his schooling,--and he wouldn't if he had. And I said I wouldn't do anything so deceitful. And the more they said you must and you shall, the more I said I wouldn't and I shouldn't, and the money should blow up first. So they called me "Old Stingy" and "Pepper-corn" and "Speckled Potatoes." Said they'd pull my hair if 't weren't for burning their fingers. Dorry was the maddest one. Said he guessed my hair was tired of standing up, and wanted to lie down to rest. I wish you would please send me a new comb, for the large end of mine has got all but five of the teeth broken out, and the small end can't get through. I can't get it cut because the barber has raised his price. Send quite a stout one. I have lost two of my pocket-handkerchiefs, and another one went up on Dorry's kite, and blew away. Your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- I did what you told me, when I got wet. I hung my clothes round the kitchen stove on three chairs, but the cooking girl she flung them under the table. So now I go wrinkled, and the boys chase me to smooth out the wrinkles. I've got a good many hard rubs. But I laugh too. That's the best way. Some of the boys play with me now, and ask me to go round with them. Dorry hasn't yet. Tom Cush plagues the most. Sometimes the schoolmaster comes out to see us when we are playing ball, or jumping. To-day, when we all clapped Dorry, the schoolmaster clapped too. Somebody told me that he likes boys. Do you believe it? A cat ran up the spout this morning, and jumped in the window. Dorry was going to choke her, or drown her, for the working-girl said she licked out the inside of a custard-pie. I asked Dorry what he would take to let her go, and he said five cents. So I paid. For she was just like my sister's cat. And just as likely as not somebody's little sister would have cried about it. For she had a ribbon tied round her neck. [Illustration] The woman that I go to have my buttons sewed on to, is a very good woman. She gave me a cookie with a hole in the middle, and told me to mind and not eat the hole. Coming back, I met Benjie, and he looked so sober, I offered it to him as quick as I could. But it almost made him cry; because, he said, his mother made her cookies with a hole in the middle. But when he gets acquainted, he won't be so bashful, and he'll feel better then. We walked away to a good place under the trees, and he talked about his folks, and his grandmother, and his Aunt Polly, and the two little twins. They've got two cradles just like each other, and they are just as big as each other, and just as old. They creep round on the floor, and when one picks up anything, the other pulls it away. I wish we had some twins. I told him things too. Kiss yourself for me. Your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. If you send a cake, send quite a large one. I like the kind that Uncle Jacob does. Aunt Phebe knows. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- I was going to tell you about "Gapper Skyblue." "Gapper" means grandpa. He wears all the time blue overalls, faded out, and a jacket like them. That's why they call him "Gapper Skyblue." He's a very poor old man. He saws wood. We found him leaning up against a tree. Benjie and I were together. His hair is all turned white, and his back is bent. He had great patches on his knees. His hat was an old hat that he had given him, and his shoes let in the mud. I wish you would please to be so good as to send me both your old-fashioned india-rubbers, to make balls of, as quick as holes come. Most all the boys have lost their balls. And please to send some shoe-strings next time, for I have to tie mine up all the time now with some white cord that I found, and it gets into hard knots, and I have to stoop my head way down and untie 'em with my teeth, because I cut my thumb whittling, and jammed my fingers in the gate. Old Gapper Skyblue's nose is pretty long, and he looked so funny leaning up against a tree, that I was just going to laugh. But then I remembered what you said a real gentleman would do. That he would be polite to all people, no matter what clothes they had on, or whether they were rich people or poor people. He had a big basket with two covers to it, and we offered to carry it for him. He said, "Yes, little boys, if you won't lift up the covers." We found 't was pretty heavy. And I wondered what was in it, and so did Benjie. The basket was going to "The Two Betseys." When we had got half-way there, Dorry and Tom Cush came along, and called out: "Hallo! there, you two. What are you lugging off so fast?" [Illustration] We said we didn't know. They said, "Let's see." We said, "No, you can't see." Then they pushed us. Gapper was a good way behind. I sat down on one cover, and Benjie on the other, to keep them shut up. Then they pulled us. I swung my arms round, and made the sand fly with my feet, for I was just as mad as anything. Then Tom Cush hit me. So I ran to tell Gapper to make haste. But first picked up a stone to send at Tom Cush. But remembered about the boy that threw a stone and hit a boy, and he died. I mean the boy that was hit. And so dropped the stone down again and ran like lightning. "Go it, you pesky little red-headed firebug!" cried Tom Cush. "Go it, Spunkum! I'll hold your breath," Dorry hollered out. The dog, the shaggy dog that licked my face when I was lying under the trees, he came along and growled and snapped at them, because they were hurting Benjie. You see Benjie treats him well, and gives him bones. And the master came in sight too. So they were glad to let us alone. The basket had rabbits in it. Gapper Skyblue wanted to pay us two cents apiece. But we wouldn't take pay. We wouldn't be so mean. When we were going along to school, Bubby Short came and whispered to me that Tom and Dorry were hiding my bird's eggs in a post-hole. But I got them again. Two broke. Bubby Short is a nice little fellow. He's about as old as I am, but over a head shorter and quite fat. His cheeks reach way up into his eyes. He's got little black eyes, and little cunning teeth, just as white as the meat of a punkin-seed. I had to pay twenty cents of that quarter you sent, for breaking a square of glass. But didn't mean to, so please excuse. I haven't much left. Your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. When punkins come, save the seeds--to roast. If you please. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- One of my elbows came through, but the woman sewed it up again. I've used up both balls of my twine. And my white-handled knife,--I guess it went through a hole in my pocket, that I didn't know of till after the knife was lost. My trousers grow pretty short. But she says 't is partly my legs getting long. I'm glad of that. And partly getting 'em wet. I stubbed my toe against a stump, and tumbled down and scraped a hole through the knee of my oldest pair. For it was very rotten cloth. I guess the hole is too crooked to have her sew it up again. She thinks a mouse ran up the leg, and gnawed that hole my knife went through, to get the crumbles in the pocket. I don't mean when they were on me, but hanging up. My boat is almost rigged. She says she will hem the sails if I won't leave any more caterpillars in my pockets. I'm getting all kinds of caterpillars to see what kind of butterflies they make. Yesterday, Dorry and I started from the pond to run and see who would get home first. He went one way, and I went another. I cut across the Two Betseys' garden. But I don't see how I did so much hurt in just once cutting across. I knew something cracked,--that was the sink-spout I jumped down on, off the fence. There was a board I hit, that had huckleberries spread out on it to dry. They went into the rain-water hogshead. I didn't know any huckleberries were spread out on that board. I meant to go between the rows, but guess I stepped on a few beans. My wrist got hurt dreadfully by my getting myself tripped up in a squash-vine. And while I was down there, a bumble-bee stung me on my chin. I stepped on a little chicken, for she ran the way I thought she wasn't going to. I don't remember whether I shut the gate or not. But guess not, for the pig got in, and went to rooting before Lame Betsey saw him, and the other Betsey had gone somewhere. I got home first, but my wrist ached, and my sting smarted. You forgot to write down what was good for bumble-bee stings. Benjie said his Aunt Polly put damp sand on to stings. So he put a good deal of it on my chin, and it got better, though my wrist kept aching in the night. And I went to school with it aching. But didn't tell anybody but Benjie. Just before school was done, the master said we might put away our books. Then he talked about the Two Betseys, and told how Lame Betsey got lame by saving a little boy's life when the house was on fire. She jumped out of the window with him. And he made us all feel ashamed that we great strong boys should torment two poor women. Then he told about the damage done the day before by some boy running through their garden, and said five dollars would hardly be enough to pay it. "I don't know what boy it was, but if he is present," says he, "I call upon him to rise." Then I stood up. I was ashamed, but I stood up. For you told me once this saying: "Even if truth be a loaded cannon walk straight up to it." The master ordered me not to go on to the playground for a week, nor be out of the house in play-hours. From your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * I was very sorry that while in the neighborhood of the Crooked Pond school, a short time since, lack of time prevented my finding out the Two Betseys' shop. These worthy women, as will be seen further on, became William Henry's firm friends. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- Lame Betsey gave me something to put on my wrist that cured it. I went there to ask how much money must be paid. I had sold my football, and my brass sword, and my pocket-book. They told me they should not take any money, but if I would saw some wood for them, and do an errand now and then, they should be very glad. When I told Dorry, he threw up his hat, and called out, "Three cheers for the 'Two Betseys.'" And when his hat came down, he picked it up and passed it round; "for," says he, "we all owe them something." One great boy dropped fifty cents in. And it all came to about four dollars. And Bubby Short carried it to them. But I shall saw some wood for them all the same. Last evening it was rainy. A good many boys came into our room, and we sat in a row, and every one said some verses, or told a riddle. These two verses I send for Aunt Phebe's little Tommy to learn. I guess he's done saying "Fishy, fishy in the brook" by this time, Dorry said he got them out of the German. "When you are rich, You can ride with a span; But when you are poor, You must go as you can. "Better honest and poor, And go as you can, Than rich and a rogue, And ride with a span." This riddle was too hard for me to guess. But Aunt Phebe's girls like to guess riddles, and I will send it to them. Mr. Augustus says that a soldier made it in a Rebel prison. Mr. Augustus is a tall boy, that knows a good deal, and wears spectacles, and that's why we call him Mr. Augustus. RIDDLE. I'm one half a Bible command, That aye and forever shall stand; And, throughout our beautiful land, 'T is needed now to foil the traitorous band. I'm always around,--yet they say Too often I'm out of the way. Thereby leading astray; I'm decked in jewels fine and rich array. Although from my heart I am stirred, I can utter but one little word, And that very seldom is heard; My elder sister sometimes kept a bird. Reads the riddle clear to you? I am very near to you: Both very near and dear--to you, Yet kept in chains. Does that seem queer to you? That about being "stirred from the heart" is all true. So is that about being "_around_." The "Bible command," spoken of at the beginning, is only in three words, or two words joined by "and." This word is the first half. But I mustn't tell you too much. They are all _dear_. But some kinds are dearer than others. I wish my father would send me one. That about the bird is first-rate, though I never saw one of that kind of--I won't say what I mean (Dorry says you mustn't say what you mean when you tell riddles). But maybe you've seen one. They used to have them in old times. I've launched my boat. She's the biggest one in school. Dorry broke a bottle upon her, and christened her the "General Grant." The boys gave three cheers when she touched water, and Benjie sent up his new kite. It's a ripper of a kite with a great gilt star on it that's got eight prongs. My hat blew off, and I had to go in swimming after it. It is quite stiff. The master was walking by, and stopped to see the launching. When he smiles, he looks just as pleasant as anything. He patted me on my cheek, and says he, "You ought to have called her the 'Flying Billy.'" And then he walked on. "What does 'Flying Billy' mean?" says I. "It means you," said Dorry. "And it means that you run fast, and that he likes you. If a boy can run fast, and knows his multiplication-table, and won't lie, he likes him." But how can such a great man like a small boy? From your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. When the boys laugh at me, I laugh too. That's a good way. P. S. There's a man here that's got nine puppies. If I had some money I could buy one. The boys don't plague me quite so much. I'm sorry you dropped off your spectacles down the well. I suppose they sunk. I've got a sneezing cold. W. H. * * * * * About the spectacles, I may as well confess that I was the means of their being lost. One day Uncle Jacob came into the office hastily, and, with a look of distress, said to me very solemnly,-- "Mr. Fry, if you can, I want you to leave everything, and ride out with me!" "Oh! what is the matter?" I exclaimed. "Why," said he, "ever since we sent out word about old clothes, they've been coming in so fast the rooms are all filled up, and we don't know where to go!" He then went on to tell that the notice had spread into all the neighborhoods round about, and that bundles of every description were constantly pouring in. They were left at the back door, front door, side door, dropped on the piazza, and in at the windows. Men riding by tossed them into the yard, and little boys came tugging bundles, bigger than they could lift, or dragged them in roller-carts, or wheeled them in wheelbarrows. He said he found bundles waiting for him at the store, at the post-office, and he could hardly ride along the street without some woman knocking at the window, and holding up one, and beckoning with her forefinger for him to come in after it! Even in the meeting-house somebody took a roll of something from under a shawl and handed him! He would have brought, the parcels, or a part of them, but there was every kind of a thing sent in,--white vests and flounced lace or muslin gowns, and open-work stockings; and some things were too poor, and some were too nice, and his folks thought Mr. Fry should come out. So what could I do but go? And, as it happened, I could "leave everything" just as well as not, and was glad to. * * * * * Grandmother received me in the kindest manner, gave me a pair of black yarn stockings, asked about the contrabands, talked about Billy, read me his letters, and, on the whole, seemed much easier in her mind concerning him than when I saw her before. She was skimming pans of milk. With her permission I watched the skimming, for pans of milk to a city man were a rare sight to see! I was also given some of the cream, and a baked Summer Sweeting to eat with it. The cream was put into a large yellow bowl, and the bowl set in a six-quart tin pail. It was then ready to be lowered into the well; for, as country people seldom have ice, they use the well as a refrigerator, and it is there they keep their butter, cream, fresh meat, or anything that is likely to spoil. "Do let me lower it down the well for you," I said; seeing that her hand trembled a little; and besides, I hardly thought it prudent for her to go out, as the grass was damp, there having been quite a sprinkle of rain. "Well, if you've a mind to take the trouble," she said, as she handed me the pail, at the same time telling me to be particular about putting stones around the bowl, in the bottom, to steady it. She then handed me the line, and cautioned me about hitting another pail, which was already down the well. Just as I went out Uncle Jacob passed through the gate into the garden, to pick his mother some beans. "Sha' n't I do that?" he asked. "O no," said I; "I am very glad to make myself useful." Little Tommy stood by the well watching me, and I was talking to him and playing with Towser, and by not attending to my business, I must have tied a granny-knot, though I meant to tie a square one; and about half-way down the pail slipped off, and went plump to the bottom. Little Tommy ran into the house calling out, "Grandmother! Grandmother! that man lost your pail! Mr. Fwy let go of your pail!" Grandmother came running out and looked down. Her spectacles were tipped up on top of her head; and when she bent over the well-curb they slipped off, just touched the tip of her nose, and were out of sight in a moment. Uncle Jacob came up laughing and said, "Of course the specs must go down to see where the cream went to!" But Grandmother thought it was no laughing matter. Mr. Carver and Uncle Jacob had a good many spells of fishing in the well. At last Uncle Jacob was lucky enough to catch the handle of the pail with his hook, and then he drew the pail up. It was found to be in quite a damaged condition. The water looked creamy for some time. The glasses never came to light. It seemed, therefore, no more than my duty to send Grandmother another pair, which I did soon after in a bright new six-quart pail, wishing with all my heart they were gold-bowed ones. But I could not afford to do more than replace the lost ones. I will add that the six-quart pail was filled with the best of peaches. * * * * * The next three letters seem to have been sent at one time. Before they reached Grandmother she had worked herself into a perfect fever of anxiety. Owing to the rabbit affair, of which they contain the whole story, William Henry had not felt like writing, so that, even before his letter was begun, they at the farm were already looking for it to arrive. Then it took a longer time than he expected to finish up his account of the matter; and when at last the letter was sealed and directed, the boy who carried it to the post-office forgot his errand, and it hung in an overcoat pocket several days. No wonder, then, the old lady grew anxious. I was at the farm at the time they were looking for the letters, and I really tried very hard to be entertaining; but not the funniest story I could tell about the funniest little rollypoly contraband in the hospital could excite more than a passing smile. Aunt Phebe gave me my charge before I went in. "You must be lively," said she. "Be lively! Turn her thoughts off of Billy! That's the way! Though I do feel worried," she added. "'T is a puzzle why we don't have letters. I'm afraid something _is_ the matter, or else it seems to me we should. He's been very good about writing. If anything has happened to Billy, I don't know what we should do. 'T would come pretty hard to Grandmother. And I do have my fears! But 't won't do to let her know I worry about him. And you better be very lively! We all have to be!" I observed that Mr. Carver, although he talked very calmly with his mother, and urged her to rest easy, was after all not so very much at ease himself. He sat by the window apparently reading a newspaper. But it was plain that he only wished Grandmother to think he was reading; for he paid but little attention to the paper, and was constantly looking across the garden to see when Uncle Jacob should get back from the post-office; and the moment Towser barked he folded his paper and went out. Grandmother put on her "out-door" spectacles, and stood at the window. When Mr. Carver returned she glanced rapidly over him with an earnest, beseeching look, which seemed to say that it was not possible but that somewhere about him, in some pocket, or in his hat, or shut up in his hand, there must be a letter. "The mail was late," Mr. Carver said; "Uncle Jacob couldn't wait, and had left the boy to fetch it." Grandmother was setting the table. In her travels to and from the buttery she stopped often to glance up the road, and during meal-time her eyes were constantly turning to the windows. Presently Aunt Phebe came in. "The boy didn't bring any letters," said she; "but I've been thinking it over, and for my part I don't think 't is worth while to worry. No news is good news. Bad news travels fast. A thousand things might happen to keep a boy from writing. He might be out of paper, or out of stamps, or out of anything to write about, or might have lessons to learn, or be too full of play, or be kept after school, or might a good many things!" "You don't suppose," said Grandmother, "that--you don't think--it couldn't be possible, could it, that Billy's been punished and feels ashamed to tell of it?" "Nonsense!" said Aunt Phebe. "Now don't, Grandmother, I beg of you get started off on that notion! Yesterday 't was the measles. And day before 't was being drowned, and now 't is being punished!" "'T wouldn't be like William not to tell of it," said Mr. Carver. "Not a bit like him," said Aunt Phebe. "No," said Grandmother, "I don't think it would. But you know when anybody gets to thinking, they are apt to think of everything." I told them there was a possibility of the letter being mis-sent. And that idea reminded me of just such an anxious time we had once about little Silas. His letter went to a town of the same name in Ohio, and was a long time reaching us. I made haste to tell this to Grandmother, and thought it comforted her a little. When I left the next morning, Mr. Carver followed me out and asked me to make inquiries in regard to the telegraphic communication with the Crooked Pond School, and to be in readiness to telegraph; for, in case no letter came that day, he should send me word to do so. But no word arrived, as the next mail brought the following letters, with their amusing illustrations. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- I suppose if I should tell you I had had a whipping you would feel sorry. Well, don't feel sorry. I will begin at the beginning. We can't go out evenings. But last Monday evening one of the teachers said I might go after my overjacket that I took off to play ball, and left hanging over a fence. It was a very light night. I had to go down a long lane to get where it was; and when I got there, it wasn't there. The moon was shining bright as day. Old Gapper Skyblue lives down that lane. He raises rabbits. He keeps them in a hen-house. Now I will tell you what some of the great boys do sometimes. They steal eggs and roast them. There is a fireplace in Tom Cush's room. Once they roasted a pullet. The owners have complained so that the master said he would flog the next boy that robbed a hen-house or an orchard, before the whole school. Now I will go on about my overjacket. While I was looking for it I heard a queer noise in the rabbit-house. So I jumped over. Then a boy popped out of the rabbit-house and ran. I knew him in a minute, for all he ran so fast,--Tom Cush. [Illustration] Now when he started to run, something dropped out of his hand. I went up to it, and 't was a rabbit, a dead one, just killed; for when I stooped down and felt of it, it was warm. And while I was stooping down, there came a great heavy hand down on my shoulder. It was a man's great heavy hand. Gapper had set a man there to watch. He hollered into my ears, "Now I've got you!" I hollered, too, for he came sudden, without my hearing. "You little thief!" says he. "I didn't kill it," says I. "You little liar!" says he. "I'm not a liar," says I. "I'll take you to the master," says he. "Take me where you want to," says I. Then he pulled me along, and kept saying, "Who did, if you didn't? If you didn't, who did?" And he walked me straight up into the master's room, without so much as giving a knock at the door. "I've brought you a thief and a liar," says he. Then he told where he found me, and what a bad boy I was. Then he went away, because the master wanted to talk with me all by myself. Now I didn't want to tell tales of Tom, for it's mean to tell tales. So all I could say was that I didn't do it. The master looked sorry. Said he was afraid I had begun to go with bad boys. "Didn't I see you walking in the lane with Tom Cush yesterday?" says he. I said I was helping him find his ball. And so I was. "If you were with the boys who did this," said he, "or helped about it in any way, that's just as bad." I said I didn't help them, or go with them. "How came you there so late?" says he. "I went after my overjacket," says I. "And where is your overjacket?" says he. I said I didn't know. It wasn't there. Then he said I might go to bed, and he would talk with me again in the morning. When I got to our room, the boys were sound asleep. I crept into bed as still as a mouse. The moon shone in on me. I thought my eyes would never go to sleep again. I tried to think how much a flogging would hurt. Course, I knew 't wouldn't be like one of your little whippings. I wasn't so very much afraid of the hurt, though. But the name of being whipped, I was afraid of that, and the shame of it. Now I will tell you about the next morning, and how I was waked up. Your affectionate grandchild, * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- I had to leave off and jump up and run to school without stopping to sign my name, for the bell rang. But, now school is done, I will write another letter to send with that, because you will want to know the end at the same time you do the beginning. It was little pebbles that waked me up the next morning,--little pebbles dropping down on my face. I looked up to find where they came from, and saw Tom Cush standing in the door. He was throwing them. He made signs that he wanted to tell me something. So I got up. And while I was getting up, I saw my overjacket on the back of a chair. I found out afterwards that Benjie brought it in, and forgot to tell me. Tom made signs for me to go down stairs with him. He wouldn't let me put my shoes on. He had his in his hand, and I carried mine so. So we went through the long entries in our stocking-feet, and sat down on the doorstep to put our shoes on. Nobody else had got up. The sky was growing red. I never got up so early before, except one Fourth of July, when I didn't go to bed, but only slept some with my head leaned down on a window-seat, and jumped up when I heard a gun go off. Tom carried me to a place a good ways from the house. Our shoes got soaking wet with dew. Now I will tell you what he said to me. He asked me if I saw him anywhere the night before. I said I did. He asked me where I saw him. I said I saw him coming out of the hen-house, where Gapper Skyblue kept his rabbits. He asked me if I was sure, and I said I was sure. "And did you tell the master?" says he. I said, "No." "Nor the boys?" "No." Then he told me he had been turned away from one school on account of his bad actions, and he wouldn't have his father hear of this for anything; and said that, if I wouldn't tell, he would give me a four-bladed knife, and quite a large balloon, and show me how to send her up, and if I was flogged he would give me a good deal more, would give money,--would give two dollars. "I don't believe he'll whip you," says he, "for he likes you. And if he does, he wouldn't whip a small boy so hard as he would a big one." I said a little whipping would hurt a little boy just as much as a great whipping would hurt a great boy. But I said I wouldn't be mean enough to tell or to take pay for not telling. He didn't say much more. And we went towards home then. But before we came to the house, he turned off into another path. A little while after, I heard somebody walking behind me. I looked round, and there was the master. He'd been watching with a sick man all night. He asked me where I had been so early. I said I had been taking a walk. He asked who the boy was that had just left me. I said 't was Tom Cush. He asked if I was willing to tell what we had been talking about. I said I would rather not tell. Says he, "It has a bad look, your being out with that boy so early, after what happened last night." Then he asked me where I had found my overjacket. I said, "In my chamber, sir, on a chair-back." "And how came it there?" says he. "I don't know, sir," says I. And, Grandmother, I almost cried; for everything seemed going against me, to make me out a bad boy. I will tell the rest after supper. Your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- Now I will tell you what happened that afternoon. The school was about half done. The master gave three loud raps with his ruler. This made the room very still. He asked the other teachers to come up to the platform. And they did. Next, he waved his ruler, and said, "Fold." And we all folded our arms. It was so still that we could hear the clock tick. He told Tom Cush to close the windows and shut the blinds. Then he talked to us about stealing and telling lies. Said he didn't like to punish, but it must be done. He said he had reason to believe that the boy whose name he should call out was not honest, that he took other people's things and told lies. Then he told the story, all that he knew about it, and said he hoped that all concerned in it would have honor enough to speak out and own it. Nobody said anything. Then the master said, "William Henry, you may come to the platform." I went up. Somebody way in the back part shouted out, "Don't believe it!" "Silence!" said the master. And he thumped his ruler on the desk. Then he told me to take off my jacket, and fold it up. And I did. He told me to hand my collar and ribbon to a teacher. And I did. Then he laid down his ruler, and took his rod and bent it to see if it was limber. It wasn't exactly a rod. It was the thing I told you about when I first came to this school. [Illustration] He tried it twice on the desk first. Then he took hold of my shoulder and turned my back round towards him. He said I had better bend down my head a little, and took hold of the neck of my shirt to keep me steady. I shut my teeth together tight. At that very minute Bubby Short cried out, "Master! Master! Stop! Don't! He didn't do it! He didn't kill it! I know who! I'll tell! I will! I will! I don't care what Tom Cush does! 'T was Tom Cush killed it!" The master didn't say one word. But he handed me my jacket. The boys all clapped and gave three cheers, and he let them. Then he said to me, whispering, "Is this so, William?" And I said, low, "Yes, sir." Then he took hold of my hand and led me to my seat. And when I sat down he put his hand on my shoulder just as softly,--it made me remember the way my mother used to before she died, and, says he, "My dear boy," then stopped and began again, "My dear boy," and stopped again. If he'd been a boy I should have thought he was going to cry himself. But of course a man wouldn't. And what should he cry for? It wasn't he that almost had a whipping. At last he told me to come to his room after supper. Then Bubby Short was called up to the platform. Now I will tell you how Bubby Short found out about it. He sleeps in a little bed in a little bit of a room that lets out of Tom's. 'T isn't much bigger than a closet. But it is just right for him. That morning when Tom got up so early and threw pebbles at me, Bubby Short had been keeping awake with the toothache. And he heard Tom telling another boy about the rabbit. He made believe sleep. But once, while Tom was dressing himself, he peeped out from under the bedquilt, with one eye, to see a black-and-blue spot, that Tom said he hit his head against a post and made, when he was running. But they caught him peeping out, and were dreadful mad because he heard, and said if he told one single word they would flog him. But he says he would have told before, if he had known it had been laid to me. Wasn't he a nice little fellow to tell? O, I was so glad when the boys all clapped! And when we were let out, they came and shook hands with Bubby Short and me. Great boys and all. Mr. Augustus, and Dorry, and all. And the master told me how glad he was that he could keep on thinking me to be an honest boy. Now aren't you glad you didn't feel sorry? Your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * The next time I went down to the farm I was told, of course, all about the foregoing letters,--how they were received, and what effect they produced in the family when they were read. Grandmother, however, gives a happy account of the reception and reading of them in the following reply, which she wrote soon after they were received. * * * * * _Grandmother's Letter to William Henry, in reply._ MY DEAR LITTLE BOY,-- Your poor old grandmother was so glad to get those letters, after such long waiting! My dear child, we were anxious; but now we are pleased. I was afraid you were down with the measles, for they're about. Your aunt Phebe thinks you had 'em when you were a month old; but I know better. Your father was anxious himself at not hearing; though he didn't show it any. But I could see it plain enough. As soon as he brought the letters in, I set a light in the window to let your aunt Phebe know she was wanted. She came running across the yard, all of a breeze. You know how your aunt Phebe always comes running in. "What is it?" says she. "Letters from Billy? I mistrusted 't was letters from Billy. In his own handwriting? Must have had 'em pretty light. Measles commonly leave the eyes very bad." But you know how your aunt Phebe goes running on. Your father came in, and sat down in his rocking-chair,--your mother's chair, dear. Your sister was sewing on her doll's cloak by the little table. She sews remarkably well for a little girl. "Now, Phebe," says I, "read loud, and do speak every word plain." I put on my glasses, and drew close up, for she does speak her words so fast. I have to look her right in the face. At the beginning, where you speak about being whipped, your father's rocking-chair stopped stock still. You might have heard a pin drop. Georgianna said, "O dear!" and down dropped the doll's cloak. "Pshaw!" said Aunt Phebe, "'t isn't very likely our Billy's been whipped." Then she read on and on, and not one of us spoke. Your father kept his arms folded up, and never raised his eyes. I had to look away, towards the last, for I couldn't see through my glasses. Georgianna cried. And, when the end came, we all wiped our eyes. "Now what's the use," said Aunt Phebe, "for folks to cry before they're hurt?" "But you almost cried yourself," said Georgianna. "Your voice was different, and your nose is red now." And that was true. After your sister was in bed, and Aunt Phebe gone, your father says to me: "Grandma, the boy's like his mother." And he took a walk around the place, and then went off to his bedroom without even opening his night's paper. If ever a man set store by his boy, that man is your father. And, O Billy, if you had done anything mean, or disgraced yourself in any way, what a dreadful blow 't would have been to us all! The measles come with a cough. The first thing is to drive 'em out. Get a nurse. That is, if you catch them. They're a natural sickness, and one sensible old woman is better than half a dozen doctors. Saffron's good to drive 'em out. Aunt Phebe is knitting you a comforter. As if she hadn't family enough of her own to do for! From your loving GRANDMOTHER. * * * * * I think this the proper place to insert the following letter from Dorry Baker to his sister. I am sorry we have so few of Dorry's letters. Two very entertaining ones will be given presently, describing a visit Dorry made to William Henry's home. The two boys, as we shall see, soon after their acquaintance, grew to be remarkably good friends. Mr. Baker, Dorry's father, hearing his son's glowing accounts of William Henry's family, took a little trip to Summer Sweeting place on purpose to see them, and was so well pleased with Grandmother, Mr. Carver, Uncle Jacob, and the rest, as to suggest to his wife that they should buy some land in the vicinity, and turn farmers. He and Grandmother had a very pleasant talk about their boys; and not long after, knowing, I suppose, that it would gratify the old lady, he sent her some of Dorry's letters, that she might have the pleasure of reading for herself what Dorry had written about her Billy, and about Billy's people and Billy's home. Perhaps, too, Mr. Baker was a little bit proud of the smart letters his son could write. * * * * * _Dorry's Letter to his Sister._ DEAR SIS,-- If mother's real clever, I want you to ask her something right away. But if it's baking-day, or washing-day, or company's coming off, or preserves going on, or anything's upset down below; or if she's got a headache or a dress-maker, or anything else that's bad,--then wait. I want you to ask her if I may bring home a boy to spend Saturday. Not a very big boy,--do very well to "Philopene" with you: won't put her out a bit. If you don't like him at first, you will afterwards. When he first came we used to plague him on account of his looks. He's got a furious head of hair, and freckles. But we don't think at all about his looks now. If anything, we like his looks. He's just as pleasant and gen'rous, and not a mean thing about him. I don't believe he would tell a lie to save his life. I know he wouldn't. He's always willing to help everybody. And had just as lief give anything away as not. And when he plays, he plays fair. Some boys cheat to make their side beat. You don't catch William Henry at any such mean business. All the boys believe every word he says. Teachers too. I will tell you how he made me ashamed of myself. Me and some other boys. One day he had a box come from home. 'T was his birthday. It was full of good things. Says I to the boys, "Now, maybe, if we hadn't plagued him so, he would give us some of his goodies." That very afternoon, when we had done playing, and ran up to brush the mud off our trousers, we found a table all spread out with a table-cloth that he had borrowed, and in the middle was a frosted cake with "W. H." on top done in red sugar. And close to that were some oranges, and a dish full of nuts, and as much as a pound of candy, and more figs than that, and four great cakes of maple-sugar, made on his father's land, as big as small johnny-cakes, and another kind of cake. And doughnuts. "Come, boys," says he, "help yourselves." But not a boy stirred. I felt my face a-blushing like everything. O, we were all of us just as ashamed as we could be! We didn't dare go near the table. But he kept inviting us, and at last began to pass them round. And I tell you the things were tip-top and more too. Such cake! And doughnuts, that his cousin made! And tarts! You must learn how. But I don't believe you ever could. Of course we had manners enough not to take as much as we wanted. I want to tell you some more things about him. But wait till I come. He's most as old as you are, and is always a laughing, the same as you are. Ask mother what I told you. Take her at her cleverest, and don't eat up all the sweet apples. From your brother, DORRY. P. S. Put some away in meal to mellow. Don't mellow 'em with your knuckles. * * * * * Mrs. Baker, I imagine, was not particularly fond of boys. She gave her permission, however, for Dorry to bring a "muddy-shoed" companion home with him, as we see by the following letter from William Henry to his grandmother. * * * * * _A Letter from William Henry._ MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- Dorry asked his sister to ask his mother if he might ask me to go home with him. And she said yes; but to wait a week first, because the house was just got ready to have a great party, and she couldn't stand two muddy-shoed boys. May I go? Tom Cush was sent home; but he didn't go. His father lives in the same town that Dorry does. He has been here to look for him. I never went to make anybody a visit. I hope you will say yes. I should like to have some money. Everybody tells boys not to spend money; but if they knew how many things boys want, and everything tasted so good, I believe they would spend money themselves. Please write soon. From your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * To this short letter Grandmother sent at once the following reply; and in the succeeding letters from William Henry we get a pretty good idea of what sort of people Dorry's folks were, and also hear something about Tom Cush. * * * * * _Grandmother's Second Letter._ MY DEAR BOY,-- Do you have clothes enough on your bed? Ask for an extra blanket. I do hope you will take care of yourself. When the rain beats against the windows, I think, "Now who will see that he stands at the fire and dries himself?" And you're very apt to hoarse up nights. We are willing you should go to see Dorry. Your uncle J. has been past his father's place, and he says there's been a pretty sum of money laid out there. Behave well. Wear your best clothes. Your aunt Phebe has bought a book for her girls that tells them how to behave. It is for boys too, or for anybody. I shall give you a little advice, and mix some of the book in with it. Never interrupt. Some children are always putting themselves forward when grown people are talking. Put "sir" or "ma'am" to everything you say. Make a bow when introduced. If you don't know how, try it at a looking-glass. Black your shoes, and toe out if you possibly can. I hope you know enough to say "Thank you," and when to say it. Take your hat off, without fail, and step softly, and wipe your feet. Be sure and have some woman look at you before you start, to see that you are all right. Behave properly at table. The best way will be to watch and see how others do. But don't stare. There is a way of looking without seeming to look. A sideways way. Anybody with common sense will soon learn how to conduct properly; and even if you should make a mistake, when trying to do your best, it isn't worth while to feel very much ashamed. _Wrong_ actions are the ones to be ashamed of. And let me say now, once for all, never be ashamed because your father is a farmer and works with his hands. Your father's a man to be proud of; he is kind to the poor; he is pleasant in his family; he is honest in his business; he reads high kind of books; he's a kind, noble Christian man; and Dorry's father can't be more than all this, let him own as much property as he may. I mention this because young folks are apt to think a great deal more of a man that has money. Your aunt Phebe wants to know if you won't write home from Dorry's, because her Matilda wants a stamp from that post-office. If the colt brings a very good price, you may get a very good answer to your riddle. From your loving GRANDMOTHER. P. S. Take your overcoat on your arm. When you come away, bid good by, and say that you have had a good time. If you have had,--not without. * * * * * _William Henry's Reply._ DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- I am here. The master let us off yesterday noon, and we got here before supper, and this is Saturday night, and I have minded all the things that you said. I got all ready and went down to the Two Betseys to let some woman look at me, as you wrote. They put on both their spectacles and looked me all over, and picked off some dirt-specks, and made me gallus up one leg of my trousers shorter, and make some bows, and then walk across the room slow. They thought I looked beautiful, only my hair was too long. Lame Betsey said she used to be the beater for cutting hair, and she tied her apron round my throat, and brought a great pair of shears out, that she used to go a-tailoring with. The Other Betsey, she kept watch to see when both sides looked even. Lame Betsey tried very hard. First she stood off to look, and then she stood on again. She said her mother used to keep a quart-bowl on purpose to cut her boys' hairs with; she clapped it over their heads, and then clipped all round by it even. The shears were jolly shears, only they couldn't stop themselves easy, and the apron had been where snuff was, and made me sneeze in the wrong place. Says I, "If you'll only take off this apron, I'll jump up and shake myself out even." I'm so glad I'm a boy. Aprons are horrid. So are apron-strings, Dorry says. They gave me a few peppermints, and said to be sure not to run my head out and get it knocked off in the cars, and not to get out till we stopped going, and to beware of pickpockets. [Illustration] O, we did have a jolly ride in the cars! Do you think my father would let me be the boy that sells papers in the cars? I wish he would. I didn't see any pickpockets. We got out two miles before we got there. I mean to the right station. For Dorry wanted to make his sister Maggie think we hadn't come. We took a short cut through the fields. Not very short. And went through everything. My best clothes too. But I guess 't will all rub off. There were some boggy places. When we came out at Dorry's house, it was in the back yard. I said to Dorry, "There's your mother on the doorstep. She looks clever." Dorry said, "She? She's the cook. I'll tell mother of that. No, I won't neither." I suppose he saw I'd rather he wouldn't. The cook said everybody had gone out. Then Dorry took me into a jolly great room and left me. Three kinds of curtains to every window! What's the use of that? Gilt spots on the paper, and gilt things hanging down from up above. A good many kinds of chairs. I was going to sit down, but they kept sinking in. Everything sinks in here. I tried three, and this made me laugh, for I seemed to myself like the little boy that went to the bears' house and tried their chairs, and their beds, and their bowls of milk. Then I came to a looking-glass big enough for the very biggest bear. I thought I would make some bows before it, as you said. I was afraid I couldn't make a bow and toe out at the same time. Because it is hard to think up and down both at once. While I was trying to, I heard a little noise, I looked round, and--what do you think? Bears? O no. Not bears. A queen and a princess, I thought. All over bright colors and feathers and shiny silks. The queen--that's Dorry's mother you know,--couldn't think who I was, because they had been to the depot, and thought we hadn't come. So she looked at me hard, and I suppose I was very muddy. And she said, "Were you sent of an errand here?" Before I could make up any answer, Dorry came in. He had some cake, and he passed it round with a very sober face. Then he introduced me, and I made quite a good bow, and said, "Very well, I thank you, ma'am." I tried to pull my feet behind me, and wished I was sitting down, for she kept looking towards them; and I wanted to sit down on the lounge, but I was afraid 't wouldn't bear. She was quite glad to see Dorry. But didn't hug him very hard. I know why. Because she had those good things on. Dorry's grandmother lives here. She can't bear to hear a door slam. She wears her black silk dress every day. And her best cap too. 'T is a stunner of a cap. White as anything. And a good deal of white strings to it. Everything makes her head ache. I'd a good deal rather have you. When boys come nigh, she puts her hand out to keep them off. This is because she has nerves. Dorry says his mother has 'em sometimes. I like his father. Because he talks to me some. But he's very tired. His office tires him. He isn't a very big man. He doesn't laugh any. If Maggie was a boy she'd be jolly. She'll fly kites, or anything, if her mother isn't looking. Her mother don't seem a bit like Aunt Phebe. I don't believe she could lift a teakettle. Not a real one. When she catches hold of her fork, she sticks her little finger right up in the air. She makes very pretty bows to the company. Sinks way down, almost out of sight. She gave us a dollar to spend; wasn't she clever? Dorry says she likes him tip-top. If he'll only keep out of the way. I guess I'd rather live at our house. About every room in this house is too good for a boy. But I tell you they have tip-top things here. Great pictures and silver dishes! Now, I'll tell you what I mean to do when I'm a man. I shall have a great nice house like this, and nice things in it. But the folks shall be like our folks. I shall have horses, and a good many silver dishes. And great pictures, and gilt books for children that come a-visiting. And you shall have a blue easy-chair, and sit down to rest. Now, maybe you'll say, "But, Billy, Billy, where are you going to get all these fine things?" O you silly grandmother! Don't you remember your own saying that you wrote down?--"What a man wants he can get, if he tries hard enough." Or a boy either, you said. I shall try hard enough. There's more to write about. But I'm sleepy. I would tell you about Tom Cush's father coming here, only my eyes can't keep open. Isn't it funny that when you are sleepy your eyes keep shutting up and your mouth keeps coming open? Please excuse the lines that go crooked. There's another gape! I guess Aunt Phebe will be tired reading all this. I'm on her side. I mean about measles. I'd rather have 'em when I was a month old. I suppose I was a month old once. Don't seem as if 't was the same one I am now. But if I do have 'em,--there I go gaping again,--if I catch 'em, and all the doctors do come, I'll--O dear! There I go again. I do believe I'm asleep--I'll--I'll get some natural-born old woman to drive 'em out, as you said, and good night. WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- I am back again, and had a good time; but came back hungry. I'll tell you why. The first time I sat down to table I felt bashful, and Dorry's mother said a great deal about my having a small appetite, and afterwards I didn't like to make her think it was a large one. I guess I behaved quite well at the table. But I couldn't look the way you said. It made me feel squint-eyed. Once I almost laughed at table. The day they had roast duck, it smelt nice. I thought it wouldn't go round, for they had company besides me; and I said, "No, I thank you, ma'am." Dorry whispered to me, "You must be a goose not to love duck"; and that was when I almost laughed at table. His grandmother shook her head at him. Now I'll tell about Tom Cush's father. That Saturday, when we were eating dinner, somebody came to the front door, and inquired for us two,--Dorry and me. It was Tom Cush's father. He wanted to ask us about Tom, and whether we knew anything about him. But we knew no more than he did. He talked some with us. The next evening,--Sunday evening,--Tom Cush's mother sent for Dorry and me to come and see her. His father came after us. She said they wanted to know more about what I wrote to you in those letters. O, I don't want ever again to go where the folks are so sober. The room was just as still as anything, not much light burning, and great curtains hanging way down, and she looked like a sick woman. Just as pale! Only sometimes she stood up and walked, and then sat down again, and leaned way forward, and asked a question, and looked into our faces so. We didn't know what to do. Dorry talked more than I could. Tom's father kept just as sober! He said to Dorry: "It is true, then, that my boy wouldn't own up to his own actions?" or something like that. Dorry said, "Yes, sir." Tom's father said, "And he was willing to sit still and see another boy whipped in his place?" "Yes, sir," Dorry said. But he didn't say it very loud. Then they stopped asking questions, and not one of us spoke for ever so long. O, 't was so still! At last Dorry said, just as softly, "Can't you find him anywhere?" And then I said that I didn't believe he was lost. Then Tom's father got up from his chair and said, "Lost? That's not it. That's not it. 'T is his not being honorable! 'T is his not being true! Lost? Why, he was lost before he left the school." Says he: "When he did a mean thing, then he lost himself. For he lost his truth. He lost his honor. There's nothing left worth having when they are gone." O, I never saw Dorry so sober as he was that night going home. And when we went to bed, he hardly spoke a word, and didn't throw pillows, or anything. I shut my eyes up tight and thought about you all at home, and Aunt Phebe, and Aunt Phebe's little Tommy, and about school, and about Bubby Short, and all the time Tom's mother's eyes kept looking at me just as they did; and when I was asleep I seemed back again in that lonesome room, and they two sitting there. From your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. I want to tell that when I was at Dorry's I let a little vase fall down and break. I didn't think it was so rotten. I felt sorry; but didn't say so; I didn't know how to say it very well. I wish grown-up folks would know that boys feel sorry very often when they don't say so, and sometimes they think about doing right, too. And mean to, but don't tell of it. Next time I shall tell about Bubby Short and me going to ride in Gapper's donkey-cart. He's going to lend it to us. I should like to buy them a new vase. W. H. P. S. Benjie's had a letter, and one twin fell down stairs. * * * * * There is one sentence in the first paragraph of the following letter which reminds me of a very windy day, when I was staying at Summer Sweeting place. In returning from a walk, by a short cut across the field, I met a boy who was running just about as fast as he could. Soon after I came to another and much smaller boy, who was not running at all, but was sitting flat upon the ground, under a tree, and crying with might and main. This smaller boy proved to be Tommy. On a branch of the tree, just out of his reach, hung a broom, towards which his weeping eyes were turned in despair. A paper of peanuts which I happened to have soon quieted him, because, in order to crack them, he had to shut his mouth. At the first of it, however, he went on with his crying while picking out the meats, which so amused me that I was obliged to turn aside and laugh. It appeared that Tommy had been riding horseback on his mother's broom "to see Billy," and when he had made believe get there, he wanted to hitch his horse. A larger boy, out of mischief, or rather in mischief, bent down a branch of the tree, telling Tommy there was a tiptop thing to tie up to. He helped Tommy to tie the horse to the branch, and then ran off across the field. It is very plain what happened when the branch sprang back to its place. I unhitched the _animal_, and then Tommy and I mounted it, he behind me, and away we cantered to the house, my amazing gallops causing the little chap to laugh as loudly as he had cried. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- Please to tell my sister I am much obliged to her for picking up that old iron for me. But that old rusty fire-shovel handle, I guess that will not do to put in again. For my father said, the last time, that he had bought that old fire-shovel handle half a dozen times. But Aunt Phebe's Tommy, he pulls it out again to ride horseback on. I know a little girl just about as big as my sister, named Rosy. Maybe that is not her name. Maybe it is, because her face is so rosy. She had a lamb. And she's lost it. It ate out of her hand, and it followed her. It was a pet lamb. But it's lost. Gapper came up to inquire about it. Mr. Augustus wrote a notice and nailed it on to the Liberty Pole, and then Dorry chalked out a white lamb on black pasteboard, and painted a blue ribbon around its neck, and hung that up there too. Gapper let Bubby Short and me have his donkey-cart to go to ride in. He kicked up when we licked him, and broke something. But a man came by and mended it. So we didn't get back till after dark. But the master didn't say anything after we told the reason why. Did you ever see a ghost? Do you believe they can whistle? I'll tell you what I ask such a question for. There is an old house, and part of it is torn down, and nobody lives in it. It is built close to where the woods begin. The boys say there is a ghost in it. I'll tell you why. They say that if anybody goes by there whistling, something inside of that house whistles the same tune. Dorry says it's a jolly old ghost. Mr. Augustus thinks 'tis all very silly. Now I'll tell you something. The night Bubby Short and I were coming back from taking a ride in Gapper's donkey-cart, we tried it. We didn't dare to lick him again, for fear he would kick up, so we rode just as slow!--and it was a lonesome road, but the moon was shining bright. Says Bubby Short, "Do you believe that's the honeymoon?" "No," says I. "That's what shines when a man is married to his wife." "Are you scared of ghosts?" said Bubby Short. "Can't tell till I see one," says I. "How far off do you suppose they can see a fellow?" says he. Says I, "I don't know. They can see best in the dark." "Do you think they'd hurt a fellow?" says he. "Maybe," says I. "There's the old house." "I know it," says he; "I've been looking at it." Says I, "Are you scared to whistle?" "Scared! No," says he. "Let's whistle, I say." "Well," says I, "you whistle first." "No," says he, "you whistle first." "Let _him_ whistle first," says I. "He won't do it. Ghosts never whistle first," says he. I asked him who said that, and he said 't was Dorry. Then I said, "Let's whistle together." So we waited till we almost got past, and then whistled "Yankee Doodle." And, grandmother, it did,--it whistled it. Bubby Short whispered, "Lick him a little." Then I whispered back, "'T won't do to. If I do, he won't go any." But in a minute he began to go faster of his own accord. He heard somebody ahead calling. It was Gapper, coming to see what the matter was that kept us so late. Now what do you think about it? From your affectionate WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. My boots leak. Shall I get them tapped, or get a new pair, or throw them away, or else keep the legs to make new boots of? W. H. * * * * * Here we have William Henry trying his hand at story-telling. MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- Sometimes Dorry writes stories in his letters for his sister, just as he tells them to her, talking, at home. Now I'll write one for my sister, and I'll call it by a name. I'll call it THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM. Once there was a little boy named Billy, and Gapper lent him his donkey to go ride. That's me, you know. Next day Gapper came and said, "You boys lost my whip." Now I remembered having the whip when we crept in among the bushes,--for we got sight of a woodchuck, and came near finding his hole. So when school was done at noon, I asked leave to put some bread and meat in my pocket, instead of eating any dinner, and go to look for Gapper's whip. And he said I might. 'T was two miles off. But I found it. And I dug for a good deal of saxifax-root. And picked lots of boxberry-plums. And I never noticed how the sky looked, till I heard a noise something like thunder. It was very much like thunder. Almost just like it. I thought it was thunder. Only it sounded a great ways off. I was walking along slow, snapping my whip and eating my dinner, for I thought I wouldn't hurry for thunder, when something hard dropped down close to me. Then another dropped,--and then another. And they kept dropping. I picked one up and found they were hailstones, and they were bigger than bullets. It kept growing dark, and the hailstones came thicker, and hit me in the face. Then they began to pour right down, and I ran. They beat upon me just like a driving storm all of sharp stones. The horses and cows cut across the fields like mad. The horses flung up their heads. I was almost to that old house and ran for that, and kicked the door through to get in, for I thought I should be killed with the hail. The shingles off the roof were flying about; and when I got inside, 't was awful. I thought to be sure the roof would be beat in. Such a noise! It sounded just exactly as if a hundred cartloads of stones were being tipped up on to the roof. And then the window-glass! It was worse than being out doors, for the window-glass was flying criss-cross about the room, like fury, all mixed up with the hail. I crouched down all in a bunch and put my arms over my head, and so tried to save myself. But then I spied a closet door a crack open, and I jumped in there. And there I sat all bent over with my hands up to my ears, and thought, O, what would become of me if the old house should go? And now the strangest part is coming. You see 't was a pretty deep closet--School-bell! I didn't think 't was half time for that to ding. I'll tell the rest next time. Should you care if I brought home Dorry to make a visit? He wants to bad. 'T would be jolly if Bubby Short went too. From your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- Everybody's been setting glass. Counting the house and the school-house, and the panes set over the barn door, and four squares in the hen-house, we had to set four hundred and twenty-three squares. The express-man has brought loads and loads. All the great boys helped set. We slept one night with bedquilts and rugs hung up to the windows. The master tried to shut his blind in the storm, but the hail drove him in, and he couldn't even shut down his window again. A rich man has given to the Two Betseys better windows than they had before. Now I will tell about my being in that closet. When it began to grow stiller, I took my hands down from my ears, and one hand when it came down touched something soft. Quite soft and warm. I jumped off from it in a hurry. Then I heard a kind of bleating noise, and a little faint "ba'a ba'a." But now comes the very strangest part. Farther back in the closet I heard somebody move, somebody step. I was scared, and gave the door a push, to let the light in. Now who do you think was there? Aunt Phebe must stop reading and let you guess. But maybe you're reading yourself. Then stop and guess. 'T wasn't a ghost. 'T wasn't a man. 'T wasn't a woman. 'T was Tom Cush! and Rosy's lamb! Says he, "William Henry!" Says I, "Tom!" Then we walked out into the room, and O, what a sight! Says I, "I thought 't was going to be the end of the old house." Says Tom, "I thought 't was going to be the end of the world." In the corners the hailstones were heaped up in great banks. You might have shovelled up barrels full. Most of them were the size of bird's eggs. But some were bigger. Then we looked out doors. The ground was all white, and drifts in every cornering place, and the leaves stripped off the trees. Then we looked at one another, and he was just as pale as anything. He leaned against the wall, and I guessed he was crying. To see such a great boy crying seemed most as bad as the hailstorm. Maybe he didn't cry. When he turned his head round again, says he: "Billy, I'm sick, and what shall I do?" "Go home," says I. "No," says he, "I won't go home. And if you let 'em know, I'll--" And then he picked up Gapper's whip,--"I'll flog you." "Flog away," says I; "maybe I shall, and maybe I sha' n't." He dropped the whip down, and says he, "Billy, I sha' n't ever touch you. But they mustn't know till I'm gone to sea." I asked him when he was going. And he told me all about it. When he was sent away from school, he went into town and inquired about the wharves for a chance to go, and got one, and came back to get some things he left hid in the old house, and to wait till 't was time to go. He sold his watch, and bought a great bag full of hard bread and cheese and cakes. He was mad at Gapper for setting a man to watch, and so he took Rosy's lamb. He was going to kill it. And then skin it. But he couldn't do it. It licked his hand, and looked up so sorryful, he couldn't do it. And when he cut his foot--he cut it chopping something. That's why he stayed there so long. And he was the ghost that whistled. He knew the fellows wouldn't go in to see what it was that whistled. And he ate up most all his things, and tied a string to the lamb, and let it out nights to eat grass, and then pulled it in again. I wouldn't have stayed there so for anything. He went into town three times, nights, to get victuals to eat. I don't see what he wants to be such a kind of a boy for. He says he means to go to sea, and if ever he's good he's going home. I told him about his father and mother, and he walked while I was talking, and kept his back towards me. I asked him what ailed him, and he said 't was partly cutting him, and partly sleeping cold nights, and partly the crackers and cheese. I gave him the rest of my meat, and he was glad enough. He said he was ashamed to go home. Now I have got to the end of another sheet of paper. I wish I hadn't begun to tell my sister this story. It takes so long. And I want every minute of the time to play in. For 't is getting a little cooler, and a fellow can stand it to run some. The master says it's good weather for studying. Dorry says he never saw any weather yet good enough for studying. I shall write a very short letter next time, to tell the rest of it. From your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. I forgot to put this letter in the office. I guess I will not write any more letters till I go home. I was going to tell more, but I can do it better talking. I went to see Tom Cush the next day, and he had gone. Rosy's got her lamb back again. But her flower-garden was killed by the hail. Not one leaf left. She found her lamb on the doorstep, waiting to get in. * * * * * We have next a letter from Aunt Phebe, a dear, good-hearted woman, who took almost a mother's interest in William Henry. Indeed, I have heard her remark, that she hardly knew any difference between her feelings for him and for her own children. Some of her letters will be found to contain good advice, given in a very amusing way. * * * * * _Letter from Aunt Phebe._ DEAR BILLY,-- You rogue, you! I meant to have written before. You've frightened us all to pieces with your ghost that wasn't a ghost, and your whipping that wasn't a whipping, and your measles that you didn't have. Grandmother may talk, but she's losing her memory. You were red as a beet with 'em. As if I didn't carry you about all night and go to sleep walking! Grandmother says, "Yes, indeed! bring Dorry, and let him stay a week if he wants to." Bless her soul! She'll always keep her welcome warm, so never mind her memory. And Bubby Short, too. Pray bring Bubby Short. I want to see his black eyes shine. Don't Benjie want to come? I've got beds enough, and girls enough to work, and a great batch of poor mince-pies that I want eaten up. Don't see how I came to make such a miss in my pies this baking. Your uncle J. thinks I skinched on plums. There never was such a man for plums. I do believe if they were put into his biscuits he'd think he'd got no more than his rights. Your uncle J. says: "Tell the boys to come on. I've got apples to gather, and husking to do." They'd better bring some old clothes to wear. This is such a tearing place. I've put my Tommy into jacket and trousers. He used to hitch his clothes upon every rail. Such a climber! I don't know what that boy'll be when he grows up. I send you a good warm comforter, knit in stripes; and all the family are knit into it, especially Tommy. The pink stripes are his good-boy days, and the black ones are his naughty actions. I showed him where I knit 'em in. That clouded gray and black stripe is for my two great girls quarrelling together about whose work 't was to do some little trifle. I told 'em they should be knit in, big as they are, if they couldn't behave and be accommodating. That bright red stripe is for Hannah Jane's school report, all perfect. That blue stripe is for your sister Georgianna when she made a sheet. It matches her eyes as near as I could get the yarn. My blue dye is weak this fall. Indigo is high. Your uncle J. says it's on account of the Rebs feeling so blue. That gray stripe, dotted with yellow, means a funny crying spell Tommy had at table. I came home, and there he sat in his high chair, with his two hands on the arms of it, his mouth wide open, eyes shut, and the tears streaming down, making the dolefullest noise,--"O-oh, a-ah; o-oh, a-ah." Lucy Maria said he'd been going on in that strain almost half an hour, because we didn't have mince-meat for supper. That green stripe is for the day we all took the hay-cart and went to ride in the woods. The orange-colored one is for the box of oranges your uncle J. fetched home. "A waste of money," says I. "Please the children," says he; "and the peel will save spice." Makes me laugh when your uncle J. sets out to save. My girls and Tommy have got the very best of fathers, only they don't realize it. But young folks can't realize. The pale rose-colored stripe is for the travelling doctor's curing your grandmother's rheumatics, and promising she never should have another touch of 'em if she was careful. The dark red stripe is for the red cow's getting choked to death with a turnip. She was a prime butter cow. Any man but your uncle J. would look sober for a month about it. But he says, "O, there's butter enough in the world, Phebe. And the calf will soon be a cow on its own hook." That's your uncle J. The plain dark purple stripe is for my Matilda's speaking disrespectfully to grandmother. She was sorry enough afterwards, but I told her it should go in. That bright yellow stripe is for the day your father went to market and got such a great price for his colt. The bright fringe, mixed colors, is for us all in both houses, when we got news of your coming home, and felt so glad. There's a stitch dropped in one place. That may go for a tear-drop,--a tear of mine, dear, if you please. Do you think we grown-up women, we jolly, busy women, never shed tears? O, but we do sometimes, in an out-of-the-way corner, or when the children are all gone to school, or everybody is in bed. Bitterer tears they are, Billy, than boys' tears. One more stripe, that plain white one in the centre, is for the little Tommy that died. I couldn't bear to leave him out, Billy. He had such little loving ways. You don't remember him. There's your uncle J.'s whistle. He always whistles when he gets to the bars, to let me know it's time to begin to take up dinner. From your loving AUNT PHEBE. * * * * * I will insert here two of Dorry Baker's letters to his sister. When they were written Dorry and Bubby Short were making William Henry a visit. _Dorry to his Sister._ DEAR SIS,-- Who's been giving you an inch, that you take so many "l's"? Or is father putting an "L" to his house, or some great "LL. D." been dining there, or what is the matter, that about every "l" in your letter comes double? I wouldn't spell "painful" with two "l's" if the pain was ever so bad. But I know. You are thinking about Billy and the good times we are having. Aunt Phebe says you might have come too, just as well as not; for her family is so big, three or four more don't make a mite of difference. We got here last night. Billy's grandmother's a brick. She took Billy right in her arms, and I do believe she cried for being glad, behind her spectacles. His sister is full as pretty as you. Billy brought her a round comb. Aunt Phebe's little Tommy's as fat as butter. He sat and sucked his thumb and stared, till Billy held out a whistle to him, and then he walked up and took it, as sober as a judge. "And I've brought you something, Grandmother," says Billy. He went out and brought in a bandbox tied up. I wondered, coming in the cars, what he had got tied up in that bandbox. He out with his jack-knife, and cut the strings, and took out--have you guessed yet? Of course you haven't,--took out a new cap like grandma's. He stuck his fist in it, and turned it round and round, to let her see it. "Now sit down," says he, "and we'll try it on." She wouldn't, but he made her. "Come here, Dorry," says he, "and see which is the front side of this." When her old cap was pulled off, there was her gray hair all soft and crinkly. He got the cap part way on. "You tip it down too much," says I. "We'll turn it round," says he. "'T is upside down," said Billy's father. "Now 't is one-sided," says Uncle J., "like the colt's blinders." "'T was never meant for my head," says Grandmother. "Send for Phebe," says Uncle J. [Illustration] But "Phebe" was coming. There was a great chattering outside, and the door opened, and in came Aunt Phebe, laughing, and her three great girls laughing too, with their red cheeks, and their great braids of hair tied up in red bow-knots of ribbon. And they all went to kissing Billy. And then says Aunt Phebe, "What in the world are you doing to your grandmother? A regular milliner's cap, if I breathe! Well done, Grandmother! Here, let me give it a twist. It's hind side before. What do boys know? or men either? What are all these kinds of strings for?" "The great ones to hang down, and the little ones to tie up," says Billy. The girls stood by to pick the bows apart, and fuzz up the ruffles where they were smashed in; and Billy's father and Uncle Jacob, they sat and laughed. Grandmother couldn't help herself, but she kept saying, "Now, Phebe! now, girls! now, Billy!" "And now, grandmother!" says Aunt Phebe. "There! fold your hands together. Don't lean back hard, 't will jam easy. Now see, girls! Isn't she a beauty?" And, Maggie, I do believe she's the prettiest grandmother there is going. Her face is just as round and smiling! "Now sit still, Grandmother," said Aunt Phebe. And she winked to the girls, and they whisked two tables up together, spread on the cloth, set on the dishes; then out into the entry, and brought in great loaves of plum-cake, and pies and doughnuts, and set out the table,--all done while you'd be tying your shoe. Then they set a row of lights along the middle, and we all sat round,--Grandmother at the head, and Aunt Phebe's little Tommy in his high chair; and I'll tell you what, if these are poor mince-pies, I hope I shall never see any good ones. "Why didn't you have some fried eggs?" said Uncle Jacob. "Now did anybody ever hear the like?" said Aunt Phebe. "Fried eggs! when they're shedding their feathers, and it takes seventy-six fowls to lay a dozen, and every egg is worth its weight in currency! Better ask why we don't have cranberry sauce!" "There!" says Uncle J. "I declare, if I didn't forget that errand, after all!" "When I told you to keep saying over 'Cranberries, cranberries,' all the way going along!" says Aunt Phebe. "They would 'a' set my teeth on edge before I got to Ne'miah's corner," said Uncle J. "The very thoughts of 'em is enough. Lucy Maria, please to pass that frosted cake. I declare, I'm sorry I forgot that errand." For all we were so hungry, there was a great deal left, and I was glad to see it going into Billy's buttery. Billy says it's just like his aunt Phebe to come to supper, and make that an excuse to bring enough to last a week, to save Grandmother steps. I do like to stay where folks are jolly. They keep me a-laughing; and as for Bubby Short, his little black eyes have settled themselves into a twinkle, and there they stay. I never had such a good time in my life. From your same old brother, DORRY. P. S. We have got good times enough planned out to last a month. Uncle J. says we may have his old horse, and Young Gray, and Dobbin, and the cow too, if we want, to ride horseback on, or tackle up into anything we can find, from a hay-cart to a wheelbarrow. I shall want to write, but sha' n't. There'll be no time. When I get home, I'll talk a week. Love to all inquiring friends. * * * * * Maggie could have formed but little idea of the nature of the offer mentioned in Dorry's postscript, because she had never, at that time, stood on the spot and seen with her own eyes all the "wheel-ed things" that were to be seen in Uncle Jacob's back-yard. How gladly would I, if space permitted, go into a minute description of that roomy enclosure, with its farming implements, garden tools, cattle, pump, fowls, watering-trough, grindstone, woodpile, haystack, etc., and carryalls, carts, wagons, wheelbarrows, roller-carts, and tip-carts, some in good repair, others very far out of it! "Entertainment for man and beast" might truly have been written over the entrance! Mother Delight (an old nurse-woman) once remarked of Uncle Jacob, that he was a very _buying man_. This was a true remark, and yet he never bought without a reason. For instance, if Quorm (a Corry Pond Indian) brought bushel-baskets along to sell, Uncle Jacob took one, not because he had not bushel-baskets enough, but to encourage Quorm. And if Old Pete Brale wanted to let Uncle Jacob have an infirm, rickety wagon, and take his pay in potatoes, Uncle Jacob traded, that Pete Brale might be kept from starvation. And so of other things. It may be imagined, therefore, that as time went on all manner of vehicles were there gathered together. Some of these were in good running order, while others had been bought partly with a view to their being repaired and sold at a profit. The expression on Aunt Phebe's face when Uncle Jacob brought home an addition to his interesting collection was very striking. I remember particularly observing this at the coming into harbor of a rattling, shackly, green-bottomed carryall, which had a door at the back, and seats running lengthwise. It formerly belonged to some person who, having then a large family of small children to get to meeting, contrived a conveyance which would take in and discharge again the greatest number with the least trouble. In this odd vehicle, which had been run under an overhanging apple-tree, I often sat through the summer afternoon, now reading my book, now watching the animal life about me, gaining useful knowledge from both. Sometimes, when feeling like a boy again,--as I often did and do feel,--I would amuse myself with playing _go to ride_ in a comical old chaise. It was set high, and pitched forward, the lining was ragged, the back "light" gone, the stuffing running out of the cushions; yet there I liked to sit, and "ride," and joggle up and down, as in the happy days of boyhood. But not, as in those happy days, "hard as I could," for reasons easy to guess. I trust no one will imagine that spacious yard to have been merely a sort of safe anchorage, where all manner of disabled craft might run in for shelter! Lest any words of mine should imply this, or seem to cast blame on Uncle Jacob, let me hasten to say that he really required a variety of "wheel-ed things" to carry on his business. Neither of the Mr. Carvers got their living wholly, or even chiefly, by farming. They drew wood from lots owned by themselves, or by others, and used their teams in any way, according as employment was offered them. Thus heavy carts were wanted for heavy work, and light carts for light work, besides carryalls for dry and for rainy weather, and riding wagons, because they were handy. For all the Summer Sweeting folks were hard workers, they knew how to get up a good time, and enjoyed it too, as we shall see by the account of one which Dorry gives in the following letter:-- * * * * * _Dorry to his Sister._ DEAR SIS,-- O, we've hurrahed and hurrahed and hurrahed ourselves hoarse! Such a bully time! You'd better believe the old horses went some! And that hay-cart went rattle and bump, rattle and thump,--seemed as if we should jolt to pieces! But I've counted myself all over, and believe I'm all here! Bubby Short's throat is so sore that all he can do is to lie flat on the floor and wink his eyes. You see we cheered at every house, and they came running to their windows, and some cheered back again, and some waved and some laughed, and all of them stared. But part of the way was through the woods. This morning Billy and Bubby Short and I went over to Aunt Phebe's of an errand, to borrow a cup of dough. I wish mother could see how her stove shines! And while we were sitting down there, having some fun with Aunt Phebe's little Tommy, Uncle Jacob came in and said, "Mother, let's go somewhere." She said, "Thank you! thank you! we shall be very happy to accept your invitation. Girls, your father has given us an invitation! Boys, he means you too!" "But you can't go,--can you?" Uncle Jacob cried out, and made believe he didn't know what to make of it. O, he's such a droll man! "I thought you couldn't leave the ironing," says he. "O yes, we can!" Hannah Jane said; and "O yes, we can!" they all cried out. Aunt Phebe said it would be entirely convenient, and told her girls to shake out the sprinkled clothes to dry. "O, now," said Uncle Jacob, "who'd have thought of your saying 'yes.' I expected you couldn't leave." Then they kept on talking and laughing. O, they are all so funny here! Uncle Jacob tried to get off without going; but at last he said, "Well, boys, we must catch Old Major." That's the old gray horse, you know. And we were long enough about it. For, just as we got him into a corner, he'd up heels, and away he'd go. And once he slapped his tail right in my face. But after a while we got him into the barn. Then pretty soon Uncle Jacob put on a long face, and looked very sober, and put his head in at the back kitchen door, and said he guessed we should have to give up going, after all, for the mate to Old Major had got to be shod, and the blacksmith had gone away. "Harness in the colt, then," Aunt Phebe said. "No matter about their matching, if we only get there!" That colt is about twenty years old. He's black, and short, and takes little stubby steps; and he's got a shaggy mane, that goes flop, flop, flop every step he takes. But Old Major is bony, and has a long neck, like the nose of a tunnel. Such a span as they made! What would my mother say to see that span! They were harnessed in to the hay-cart. A hay-cart is a long cart that has stakes stuck in all round it. We put boards across for benches. Aunt Phebe brought out a whole armful of quite small flags, that they had Independent Day, and we tied one to the end of every stake. Such a jolly time as we did have getting aboard! First all the baskets and pails full of cake and pies were stowed away under the benches, and jugs of water, and bottles of milk, and a hatchet, and some boiled eggs, and apples and pears. Then uncle called out, "Come! where is everybody? Tumble in! tumble in! Where's little Tommy?" Then we began to look about and to call "Tommy!" "Tommy!" "Tommy!" At last Bubby Short said, "There he is, up there!" We all looked up, and saw Tommy's face part way through a broken square of glass--I mean where the glass was broken out. He said he couldn't "tum down, betause the _roosted_ was on his feets." You see, he'd got his feet tangled up in Lucy Maria's worsteds. "O dear!" Lucy Maria said; "all that shaded pink!" When they brought him down, Uncle Jacob looked very sober, and said, "Why, Tommy! Did you get into all that shaded pink?" "Didn't get in _all_ of it," said Tommy. Then he told us he was taking down the "gimmerlut to blower a hole with." Next he began to cry for his new hat; and when he got his new hat, he began to cry for a posy to be stuck in it. That little fellow never will go anywhere without a flower stuck in his hat. Aunt Phebe says his grandmother began that notion when her damask rosebush was in bloom. After we were all aboard, Uncle Jacob brought out the teakettle, and slung it on behind with a rope. He said maybe mother would want a cup of tea. Then they laughed at him, for he is the tea-drinker himself. Next he brought out a long pan. "Now that's my cookie-pan!" Aunt Phebe said. "You don't cook clams in my cookie-pan!" He made believe he was terribly afraid of Aunt Phebe, and trotted back with it just like a little boy, and then came bringing out an old sheet-iron fireboard. "Is this anybody's cookie-pan?" said he, then stowed it away in the bottom of the cart. Bubby Short wanted to know what that was for. "That's for the clams," Uncle Jacob said. But we couldn't tell whether he meant so. We never can tell whether Uncle Jacob is funning or not. I haven't told you yet where we were bound. We were bound to the shore. That's about six miles off. The last thing that Uncle Jacob brought out was a stick that had strips of paper tied to the end of it. "That's my flyflapper!" Aunt Phebe said. "What are you going to do with my flyflapper?" He said that was to brush the snarls off little Tommy's face. Tommy is a tip-top little chap; but he's apt to make a fuss. Sometimes he teased to drive, and then he teased for a drink, and then for a sugar-cracker, and then to sit with Matilda, and then with Hannah Jane. And, every time he fretted, Uncle Jacob would take out the flyflapper, and play brush the snarls off his face, and say, "There they go! Pick 'em up! pick 'em up!" And that would set Tommy a-laughing. Tommy tumbled out once, the back end of the cart. Billy was driving, and he whipped up quick, and they started ahead, and sent Tommy out the back end, all in a heap. But first he stood on his head, for 't was quite a sandy place. I drove part of the way, and so did Bubby Short. We didn't hurrah any going. Some men that we met would laugh and call out, "What'll you take for your span?" And sometimes boys would turn round, and laugh, and holler out, "How are _you_, teakettle?" I think a hay-cart is the best thing to ride in that ever was. Just as we got through the woods, we looked round and saw Billy's father coming, bringing Billy's grandmother in a horse and chaise. Then we all clapped. For they said they guessed they couldn't come. When we got to the shore the horses had to be hitched to the cart, for there wasn't a tree there, nor so much as a stump. Uncle Jacob called to us to come help him dig the clams. Billy carried the clam-digger, and I carried the bucket. Isn't it funny that clams live in the mud? How do you suppose they move round? Do you suppose they know anything? Uncle Jacob struck his clam-digger in everywhere where he saw holes in the mud; and as fast as he uncovered the clams we picked them up, and soon got the bucket full. Then he told us to run like lamplighters along the shore, and pick up sticks and bits of boards. "Bring them where you see a smoke rising," says he. O, such loads as we got, and split up the big pieces with the hatchet! Uncle Jacob had fixed some stones in a good way, and put his iron fireboard on top, and made a fire underneath. Then he spread his clams on the fireboard to roast. O, I tell you, sis, you never tasted of anything so good in your life as clams roasted on a fireboard! And he put some stones together in another place, and set on the teakettle, and made a fire under it,--to make a cup of tea for mother, he said. Tommy kept helping making the fire, and once he joggled the teakettle over. Aunt Phebe and the girls sat on the rocks, the side where the wind wouldn't blow the smoke in their eyes. But Billy's grandmother had a soft seat made of sea-weed and the chaise cushions, and shawls all over her, and Billy's father read things out of the newspaper to her. He said they two were the invited guests, and mustn't work. It took the girls ever so long to cut up the cakes and pies, and butter the biscuits. I know I never was so hungry before! The clams were passed round, piping hot, in box covers, and tin-pail covers, and some had to have shingles. You'd better believe those clams tasted good! Then all the other things were passed round. O, I don't believe any other woman can make things as good as Aunt Phebe's! Georgianna had a frosted plum-cake baked in a saucer; and, every time she moved her seat, Uncle Jacob would go too, and sit close up to her, and say how much he liked Georgie, she was the best little girl that ever was,--a great deal better than Aunt Phebe's girls. Then Georgianna would say, "O, I know you! you want my frosted cake!" Then Uncle Jacob would pucker his lips together, and shut up his eyes, and shake his head so solemn! He keeps every body a-laughing, even Billy's grandmother. He was just as clever to her! picked out the best mug there was to put her tea in,--Aunt Phebe don't carry her good dishes, they get broken so,--and shocked out the clams for her in a saucer. When you get this letter, I guess you'll get a good long one. After dinner we scattered about the shore. 'T was fun to see the crabs and frys and things the tide had left in the little pools of water. And I found lots of _blanc-mange_ moss. We boys ran ever so far along shore, and went in swimming. The water wasn't very cold. When it was time to go home, Uncle Jacob drummed loud on the six-quart pail, and waved his handkerchief. And the wind took it out of his hand, and blew it off on the water. Billy said, "Now the fishes can have a pocket-handkerchief." And that made little Tommy laugh. Tommy had been in wading without his trousers being rolled up, and got 'em sopping wet. Just as we were going to leave, a sail-boat went past, quite near the shore, with a party on board. We gave them three cheers, and they gave us three cheers and a tiger; then they waved, and then we waved. Uncle Jacob hadn't any pocket-handkerchief, so he caught Georgianna up in his arms, with her white sunbonnet on, and waved her; then the people in the boat clapped. O, we had a jolly time coming home! In the woods we all got out and rested the horses, and I came pretty near catching a little striped squirrel. I should give it to you if I had. Did you ever see any live fences? Fences that branch out, and have leaves grow on them? Now I suppose you don't believe that! But it's true, for I've seen them. In the woods, if they want to fence off a piece, they don't go to work and build a fence, but they bend down young trees, or the branches of trees, and fasten them to the next, and so on as far as they want the fence to go. And these trees and branches keep growing, and look so funny, something like giants with their legs and arms all twisted about. And every spring they leaf out the same as other trees, and that makes a real live fence. My squirrel was on that kind of fence. I wish it was my squirrel. He had a striped back. I got close up to him that is, I got quite close up,--near enough to see his eyes. What things they are to run! Coming home we sang songs, and laughed; and every time we came to a house we cheered all together, and waved our flags. Everybody came to their windows to look, for there isn't much travelling on that road. O, I'm so out of breath, and so hoarse! But I'm sorry we've got home, I wish it had been ten miles. Now I hear them laughing and clapping over at Aunt Phebe's. What can they be doing? Now Uncle Jacob is calling us to come over. Bubby Short's jumped up. He says his throat feels better now. I wonder what Uncle Jacob wants of us. We must go and see. Good by, sis. This letter is from your BROTHER DORRY. * * * * * I remember what they were clapping about. It happened that I came out from the city that day. The weather was so fine, I felt as if I must take one more look at the country, before winter came and spoiled every bright leaf and flower. I think the flowers and leaves seem very precious in the fall, when we know frost is waiting to kill them. It was quite a disappointment to find the people all gone, and I was glad enough when at last the old hay-cart came rattling down the lane. Such a jolly set as they were! I jumped them out at the back of the cart. That little Tommy was always such a funny chap. Just like his father for all the world. When the girls took their things off, he got himself into an old sack, and then tied on one of his mother's checked aprons, and began to parade round. When Lucy Maria saw him she took him up stairs and put more things on him, and dressed him up for Mother Goose. I don't know when I've seen anything so droll. They put skirts on him, till they made him look like a little fat old woman. He had a black silk handkerchief pinned over his shoulders, and a ruffle round his neck, and an old-fashioned, high-crowned nightcap on. Then spectacles. They put a peaked piece of dough on the end of his nose, to make it look like a hooked nose, and then set him down in the arm-chair. He kept sober as a judge. Bubby Short laughed till he tumbled down and rolled himself across the floor. Lucy Maria sent us out of the room to see something in the yard, and when we came back, there was a little old man with his hat on, and a cane, sitting opposite Mother Goose. He was made of a stuffed-out overcoat, trousers with sticks of wood in them, and boots. "That is Father Goose," Lucy Maria said. Then Bubby Short had to tumble down again; and this time he rolled way through the entry, out on the doorstep! Then came such a pleasant evening! Aunt Phebe said 't was a pity for Grandmother to go to getting supper, they might as well all come over. Where anybody had to boil the teakettle and set the table, half a dozen more or less didn't matter much. So we all ate supper together, and it seemed to me I never did get into such a jolly set! Uncle Jacob and Aunt Phebe were so funny that we could hardly eat. And in the evening--But 't is no use. If I begin to tell, and tell all I want to, there won't be any room left for the letters. Now comes quite a gap in the correspondence. There must have been many letters written about this time, which were, unfortunately not preserved. The next in order I find to be a short epistle from Bubby Short, written, it would seem, soon after the winter holidays. * * * * * _A Letter from Bubby Short._ DEAR BILLY,-- My mother is all the one that I ever wrote a letter to before. So excuse poor writing, and this pen isn't a very good pen to write with I bet. I am very sorry that you can't come back quite yet. I hope that it won't be a fever that you are going to have. Does your grandma think that 't is going to be a fever? Do you take bitter medicine? I never had a fever. I take little pills every time I have anything. My mother likes little pills best now. But she used to make me take bitter stuff. Once she put it in my mouth and I wouldn't swallow it down. Then she pinched my nose together and it made me swallow it down. Once I ate up all the little pills out of the bottle, and she was very scared about it. It wasn't very full. But the doctor said that it wouldn't hurt me any if I did eat them. How many presents did you have? I had five. Dorry he says he hopes that it won't be a slow fever that you are going to have if you do have any fever, for he wants you to hurry and come back. Some new fellows have come. One is a tip-top one. And one good "pitcher." I hope you will come back very soon, 'cause I like you very much. Do you know who 't is writing? I am that one all you fellers call BUBBY SHORT. * * * * * As may be gathered from the foregoing letter, William Henry did not go back to school with the rest. He was taken ill just at the close of vacation, and remained at home until spring. Grandmother said it was such a comfort that it didn't happen away. And it seemed to me that this thought really made her enjoy his being sick at home. Indeed, the people at Summer Sweeting place seemed ready to get enjoyment from everything, even from gruel, which is usually considered flat. I passed a day there at a time when William Henry was subsisting on this very simple but wholesome food. Aunt Phebe and Uncle Jacob came in to take tea at grandmother's. The old lady was bringing out her nice things to set on the table, when Aunt Phebe said suddenly, I suppose seeing a hungry look in Billy's eyes. She said,-- "Now, Grandmother, I wouldn't bring those out. Let's have a gruel supper, and all fare alike! We'll make it in different ways,--milk porridge, oatmeal, corn-starch,--and I think 't will be a pleasant change." "Gruel is very nourishing, well made," said Grandmother; "but what will Mr. Fry say?" "Mr. Fry will say," I answered, "that milk porridge, with Boston crackers, is a dish fit for a king." "I'm afraid Jacob won't think he's been to supper," said Grandmother. "O yes," said Uncle Jacob, "I'll think I have at any rate. But I like mine the way the man in the moon did his, or part of the way." "Yes," said Aunt Phebe, "I understand! The last part--the 'plum' part!" "O, don't all eat gruel for me," said Billy. "Course I sha' n't be a baby, and cry for things!" But Aunt Phebe seemed resolved to develop the gruel idea to its utmost. She made all kinds,--Indian meal, oatmeal, corn-starch, flour, mixed meals, wheat; made it sweetened, and spiced with plums, and plain. One kind, that she called "thickened milk," was delicious. "Course" we had one cup of tea, and bread and butter, and I can truly say that I have eaten many a worse supper than a "gruel supper." Here is a letter from William Henry to Dorry, written when he began to get well:-- * * * * * _William Henry's Letter to Dorry._ DEAR DORRY,-- I'm just as hungry as anything, now, about all the time. My grandmother says she's so glad to see me eat again; and so am I glad to eat myself. Things taste better than they did before. Maybe I shall come back to school again pretty soon, my father says; but my grandmother guesses not very, because she thinks I should have a relapse if I did. A relapse is to get sick when you're getting well; and, if I should get sick again, O what should I do! for I want to go out-doors. If they'd only let me go out, I'd saw wood all day, or anything. There isn't much fun in being sick, I tell you, Dorry; but getting well, O, that's the thing! I tell you getting well's jolly! I have very good things sent to me about every day, and when I want to make molasses candy my grandmother says yes every time, if she isn't frying anything in the spider herself; and then I wait and whistle to my sister's canary-bird, or else look out the window. But she tells me to stand a yard back, because she says cold comes in the window-cracks: and my uncle Jacob he took the yardstick one day, and measured a yard, and put a chalk mark there, where my toes must come to, he said. If I hold the yardstick a foot and a half up from the floor, my sister's kitty can jump over it tip-top. My sister has made a Red-Riding-Hood cloak for her kitty, and a muff to put her fore paws in, and takes her out. [Illustration] [Illustration] Yesterday Uncle Jacob came into the house and said he had brought a carriage to carry me over to Aunt Phebe's; and when I looked out it wasn't anything but a wheelbarrow. My grandmother said I must wrap up, for 't was the first time; so she put two overcoats on me, and my father's long stockings over my shoes and stockings, and a good many comforters, and then a great shawl over my head so I needn't breathe the air; and 't was about as bad as to stay in. Uncle Jacob asked her if there was a Billy in that bundle, when he saw it. "Hallo, in there!" says he. "Hallo, out there!" says I. Then he took me up in his arms, and carried me out, and doubled me up, and put me down in the wheelbarrow, and threw the buffalo over me; but one leg got undoubled, and fell out, so I had to drag my foot most all the way. Aunt Phebe undid me, and set me close to the fire; and Lucy Maria and the rest of them brought me story-books and picture-papers; and Tommy, he kept round me all the time, making me whittle him out little boats out of a shingle, and we had some fun sailing 'em in a milk-pan. Aunt Phebe had chicken broth for dinner, and I had a very good appetite. She let me look into all her closets and boxes, and let me open all her drawers. But I had to have a little white blanket pinned on when I went round, because she was afraid her room wasn't kept so warm as my grandmother's. Soon as Uncle Jacob came in and saw that little white blanket he began to laugh. "So Aunt Phebe has got out the _signal of distress_," says he. He calls that blanket the "signal of distress," because when any of them don't feel well, or have the toothache or anything, she puts it on them. She says he shall have to wear it some time, and I guess he'll look funny, he's so tall, with it on. The fellers played base-ball close to Aunt Phebe's garden. I tell you I shall be glad enough to get out-doors. I tell you it isn't much fun to look out the window and see 'em play ball. But Uncle Jacob says if the ball hit me 't would knock me over now. Aunt Phebe was just as clever, and let me whittle right on the floor, and didn't care a mite. And we made corn-balls. But the best fun was finding things, when I was rummaging. I found some pictures in an old trunk that she said I might have, and I want you to give them to Bubby Short to put in the Panorama he said he was going to make. He said the price to see it would be two cents. They are true ones, for they are about Aunt Phebe's little Tommy. One day, when he was a good deal smaller feller than he is now, he went out when it had done raining one day, and the wind blew hard, and he found an old umbrella, and did just what is in the pictures. The school-teacher that boarded there, O, she could draw cows and pigs and anything; and she drew these pictures, and wrote about them underneath. I wish you would write me a letter, and tell Benjie to and Bubby Short. From your affectionate friend, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. What are you fellers playing now? * * * * * Thinking the school-teacher's pictures might please other little Tommys, I have taken some pains to procure them for insertion here. Little "fellers" usually are fond of carrying umbrellas,--large size preferred. Nothing suited Tommy better than marching off to school of a rainy day with one up full spread, provided he could hold it. His cousin Myra once took an old umbrella and cut it down into a small one, by chopping off the ends of the sticks, supposing he would be delighted with it. But no, he wanted a "_man's one_." TOMMY ON HIS TRAVELS. Tommy sets forth upon his travels around the house, taking with him his whip. [Illustration] [Illustration] At the first corner he picks up an umbrella. A larger boy opens the umbrella, and shows him the way to hold it. Being an old umbrella, it shuts down again. But Tommy still keeps on in his way. [Illustration] At the second corner a gust of wind takes down the umbrella, and blows his capes over his head. He pushes on, however, whip in hand, dragging the umbrella behind him. [Illustration] On turning the third corner a hen runs between his legs, and throws him down in the mud. He is taken inside, stripped and washed, and left sitting upon the floor in his knit shirt, waiting for clean clothes. He can reach the handle of the molasses-jug. He does reach the handle, and tips over the jug. His mother finds him eating molasses off the floor with his forefinger. Tommy looks up with a sweet smile. [Illustration] Here we have William Henry back at school again. * * * * * _William Henry to his Grandmother._ MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- [Illustration] I've been here three days now. I came safe all the way, but that glass vial you put that medicine into, down in the corner of the trunk, broke, and some white stockings down there, they soaked it all up; but I sha' n't have to take it now, and no matter, I guess, for I feel well, all but my legs feeling weak so I can't run hardly any. When I got here, the boys were playing ball; but they all ran to shake hands, and slapped my shoulders so they almost slapped me down, and hollered out, "How are you, Billy?" "How fares ye?" "Welcome back!" "Got well?" "Good for you, Billy!" Gus Beals--he's the great tall one we call "Mr. Augustus"--he called out, "How are you, red-top?" And then Dorry called out to him, "How are you, hay-pole?" Dorry and Bubby Short want me to tell you to thank Aunt Phebe for their doughnuts, and you, too, for that molasses candy. The candy got soft, and the paper jammed itself all into the candy, but Bubby Short says he loves paper when it has molasses candy all over it. I gave some of the things to Benjie. Something hurt me all the way coming, in the toe of my boot; and when I got here I looked, and 't was a five-cent piece right in the toe! I know who 't was! 'T was Uncle Jacob when he made believe look to see if that boot-top wasn't made of mighty poor leather. I went to spend it yesterday, down to the Two Betseys' shop. Lame Betsey called me a poor little dear, and was just going to kiss me, but I twisted my face round. I'm too big for all that now, I guess. She looked for something to give me, and was just going to give me a stick of candy; but the other Betsey said 't was no use to give little boys candy, for they'd only swallow it right down, so she gave me a row of pins, for she said pins were proper handy things when your buttons ripped off. Just when I was coming back from the Two Betseys' shop I met Gapper Skyblue. He goes about selling cakes now. A good many boys were round him, in a hurry to buy first, and all you could hear was, "Here, Gapper!" [Illustration] "This way, Gapper!" "You know me, Gapper!" "Me, me, me!" One boy--he's a new boy--spoke up loud and said, "Mr. Skyblue, please attend to me, if you please, for I have five pennies to spend!" He came from Jersey. The fellers call him "Old Wonder Boy," because he brags and tells such big stories. But now, just as soon as he begins to tell, Dorry begins too, and always tells the biggest,--makes them up, you know. O, I tell you, Dorry gives it to him good! You'd die a laughing to hear Dorry, and so do all the fellers. W. B.,--that's what we call Old Wonder Boy sometimes,--W stands for Wonder, and B stands for Boy,--he says cents are not cents; says they are pennies, for the Jersey folks call them pennies, and he guesses they know. He says he gets his double handful of pennies to spend every day down in Jersey. But Bubby Short says he knows that's a whopper, for he knows there wouldn't anybody's mother give them their double handful of pennies to spend every day, nor cents either, nor their father either. And then Dorry told Old Wonder Boy that he supposed it took his double handful of pennies to buy a roll of lozenges down in Jersey. Then W. B. said that our lozenges were all flour and water, but down in Jersey they were clear sugar, and just as plenty as huckleberries. Dorry said he didn't believe any huckleberries grew out there, or if they did, they'd be nothing but red ones, for the ground was red out in Jersey. But W. B. said no matter if the ground was red, the huckleberries were just as black as Yankee huckleberries, and blacker too, and three times bigger, and ten times thicker. Said he picked twenty quarts one day. Dorry said, "Poh, that wasn't much of a pick!" Says he, "Now I'll tell you a huckleberry story that's worth something." Then all the boys began to hit elbows, for they knew Dorry would make up some funny thing. Says he: "I went a huckleberrying once to Wakonok Swamp, and I carried a fourteen-quart tin pail, and a great covered basket, besides a good many quart and pint things. You'd better believe they hung thick in that swamp! I found a thick spot, and I slung my fourteen-quart tin pail round my waist, and picked with both hands, and ate off the bushes with my mouth all the while. I got all my things full without stirring two yards from the spot, and then I didn't know what to do. But I'll tell you what I did. I took off my jacket, and cut my fishing-line, and tied up the bottom ends of my jacket sleeves and picked them both full. And then I didn't know what to do next. But I'll tell you what I did. I took off my overalls, and tied up the bottoms of their legs, and picked them so full you wouldn't know but there was a boy standing up in 'em!" Then the boys all clapped. "Well," Old Wonder Boy said, "how did you get them home?" "O, got them home easy enough," Dorry said. "First I put the overalls over my shoulders, like a boy going pussy-back. I slung all the quart and pint things round my waist, and hung the covered basket on one arm, and took the fourteen-quart tin pail in that same hand. Then I tied my jacket to the end of my fishing-pole, and held it up straight in my other hand like--like a flag in a dead calm!" O, you ought to 've seen the boys,--how they winked at one another and puffed out their cheeks; and some of 'em rolled over and over down hill to keep from laughing! Bubby Short got behind the fence, and put his face between two bars, and called out, "S--e--double l!" But Dorry says they don't know what a "s--e--double l" is down in Jersey. But I don't believe that W. B. believes Dorry's stories; for I looked him in the face, and he had a mighty sly look when he asked Dorry how it was he got his huckleberries home. To-day they got a talking about potatoes. Old Wonder Boy said that down in Jersey they grow so big you have to pry 'em up out of the hill, and it don't take much more than two to make a peck. Dorry told him that down in Maine you could stand on top the potato-hills and look all round the country, they were so high; and he asked W. B. how they planted 'em in Jersey, with their eyes up or down? He said he didn't know which way they did turn their eyes. Then Dorry told him the Yankees always planted potatoes eyes up, so they could see which way to grow. Said he planted a hill of potatoes in his father's garden, last summer, with their eyes all down, and waited and waited, but they didn't come up. And when he had waited a spell longer, he raked off the top of that hill of potatoes, and all he saw was some roots sticking up. And he began to dig down. And he kept digging. Followed their stems. But he never got to the potato-tops; and says he, "I never did get to those potato-tops!" O, you ought to 've heard the boys! Old Wonder Boy wanted to know where Dorry thought they'd gone to. Dorry thought to himself a minute, and looked just as sober, and then says he, just like a school-teacher, "The earth, in the middle, is afire. I think when they got deep enough to feel the warm, they guessed 't was the sun, and so kept heading that way." Is the world afire in the middle? Dorry told me that part of his story was really true. How Uncle Jacob would laugh to sit down and hear Dorry and Old Wonder Boy tell about whales. W. B. calls 'em wales. His uncle is a ship-captain, he says, and once he saw a wale, and the wale was making for his ship, and it chased 'em. And, no matter how they steered, that wale would chase. And by and by, in a calm day, he got under the vessel and boosted her up out of water, when all the crew gave a yell,--such a horrid yell that the wale let 'em down so sudden that the waves splashed up to the tops of the masts, and they thought they were all drowned. "O, poh!" Dorry cried out. "My uncle was a regular whaler, and went a whaling for his living. And once he was cruising about the whaling-grounds and 't was in a place where the days were so short that the nights lasted almost all day. And they got chased by a whale. And he kept chasing them. Night and day. And there came up a gale of wind that lasted three days and nights; and the ship went like lightning, night and day, the whale after them. And, when the wind went down, the whale was so tuckered that he couldn't swim a stroke. So he floated. Then the cap'n sang out to 'em to lower a boat. And they did. And the cap'n got in and took a couple of his men to row him. The whale was rather longer than a liberty-pole. About as long as a liberty-pole and a half. He was asleep, and they steered for the tail end. A whale's head is about as big as the Two Betseys' shop, and 't is filled with clear oil, without any trying out. The cap'n landed on the whale's tail, and went along up on tiptoe, and the men rowed the boat alongside, and kept even with him; and, when he got towards her ears, he took off his shoes, and threw 'em to the men to catch. After a while he got to the tip-top of her head. Now I'll tell you what he had in his hand. He had a great junk of cable as big round as the trunk of a tree, and not quite a yard long. In one end of it there was a point of a harpoon stuck in, and the other end of it was lighted. He told the men to stand ready. Then he took hold of the cable with both hands, and with one mighty blow he stuck that pointed end deep in the whale's head, and then gave one jump into the boat, and he cried out to the men, 'Row! row for your lives! To the tail end! If you want to live, row!' And before that whale could turn round they were safe aboard the ship! But now I'll tell you the best part of the whole story. They didn't have any more long dark nights after that. They kept throwing over bait to keep her chasing, and the great lamp blazed, and as fast as the oil got hot it tried out more blubber, and that whale burned as long as there was a bit of the inside of him left. Flared up, and lighted up the sea, and drew the fishes, and they drew more whales; and they got deep loaded, and might have loaded twenty more ships. And when they left they took a couple in tow,--of whales,--and knocked out their teeth for ivory, and then sold their carcasses to an empty whaler." Dorry says some parts of this story are true. But he didn't say which parts. Said I must look in the whale-book and find out. Your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. I wish you would please to send me a silver three-cent piece or five-cent. Two squaws have got a tent a little ways off, and the boys are going to have their fortunes taken. But you have to cross the squaws' hands with silver. W. H. [Illustration] * * * * * _Georgianna's Letter to William Henry._ MY DEAR BROTHER BILLY,-- O Billy, my pretty, darling little bird is dead! My kitty did it, and O, I don't know what I shall do, for I love my kitty if she did kill my birdie; but I don't forget about it, and I keep thinking of my birdie every time my kitty comes in the room. I was putting some seeds in the glass, and my birdie looked so cunning; and I held a lump of white sugar in my lips, and let him peck it. And while I was thinking what a dear little bird he was, I forgot he could fly out; but he could, for the door was open, and he flew to the window. I didn't think anything about kitty. It flew up to that bracket you made, and then it went away up in the corner just as high as it could, on a wooden peg that was there. I didn't know what made it flutter its wings and tremble so, but grandmother pointed her finger down to the corner, on the floor, and there was my kitty stretching out and looking up at my bird. And that was what made poor birdie tremble so. And it dropped right down. Before we could run across to catch kitty, he dropped right down into her mouth. I never thought she could get him. I didn't know what made grandmother hurry. I didn't know that kitties could charm birds, but they do. She didn't have him a minute in her teeth, and I thought it couldn't be dead. But, O Billy, my dear birdie never breathed again! I warmed him in my hands, and tried to make him stir his wings, but he never breathed again. Now the tears are coming again. I thought I wasn't going to cry any more. But they come themselves; when I don't know it, they come; and O, it was such a good birdie! When I came home from school I used to run to the cage, and he would sing to meet me. And I put chickweed over his cage. Grandmother has put away that empty cage now. She's sorry, too. Did you think a grandmother would be sorry about a little bird as that? But she'd rather give a good deal. When she put the plates on the table, and rattled spoons, he used to sing louder and louder. And in the morning he used to wake me up, singing away so loud! Now, when I first wake up, I listen. But O, it is so still now! Then in a minute I remember all about it. Sometimes kitty jumps up on the bed, and puts her nose close down, and purrs. But I say, "No, kitty. Get down. You killed little birdie. I don't want to see you." But she don't know what I mean. She rubs her head on my face, and purrs loud, and wants me to stroke her back, and don't seem as if she had been bad. She used to be such a dear little kitty. And so she is. She's pretty as a pigeon. Aunt Phebe says she never saw such a pretty little gray and white kitty as she is. I was going to have her drowned. But then I should cry for kitty too. Then I should think how she looked all drowned, down at the bottom, just the same way I do now how my birdie looked when it couldn't stir its little wings, and its eyes couldn't move. My father says that kitty didn't know any better. I hope so. I took off that pretty chain she had round her neck. But grandmother thinks I had better put it on again. Aunt Phebe's little Tommy says, "Don't kye, Dordie, I'll _bung_ dat tat. I'll take a tick and _bung_ dat tat!" He calls me Dordie, I guess I rather have kitty alive than let her be drowned, don't you? Grandmother wants you not to catch cold and be sick. From your affectionate sister, GEORGIANNA. P. S. Grandmother showed me how to write this letter. * * * * * A caged bird is never a very interesting object to me. But this little canary of Georgie's was really a beautiful creature, and very intelligent. They used to think that he listened for her step at noon and night; for no sooner was it heard in the entry than he peeped out with his little bright eyes, and tuned up, and sang away, as if to say, "Glad! glad! glad you've come! glad you've come!" Then she would go to the cage and talk to him, and let him take sugar from her mouth, and would hang fresh chickweed about its cage. Mornings she used to sing, from her bed, and the bird would answer. Indeed, he really seemed quite a companion for her. At the time the accident happened I had been staying for a few weeks at the hotel, a mile or two off, and called at the farm that very day. Lucy Maria told me, as I stopped at their door, what the kitten had done, and how Georgianna had cried and mourned and could not be comforted. I found her sitting on the doorstep. She had placed the bird in a small round basket, lined with cotton-wool, and was bending over, and stroking it. I had always noticed the bird a great deal, used to play with it, and whistle to make it sing louder and louder. The sight of me brought all this back to her mind, and she burst into tears again, sobbing out, "O, he never--will sing--any more! Dear little birdie! He had to fall down! He couldn't--help it!" I talked with her awhile, in a cheerful way, and when she had become quite calm I held out my hand and said, "Come, Georgie, don't you want to go with me and find a pretty place where we can put birdie away, under the soft grass? And we will plant a flower there." The idea of the soft grass and the flower seemed to please her. She took my hand, and we went to look about. We thought the garden not a very good place, because it was dug up every year, and the field would be mowed and trampled upon. But just over the fence, back of the garden, we came upon some uneven ground, where the old summer-sweeting trees grew. In one place there was a sudden pitch downwards, into a little hollow, which grass and plantain leaves made almost forever green. For here was what they called the Boiling Spring. The water bubbled out of the ground on the slope of the bank, and in former times, before the well was dug, had been used in the family. Several trees grew about there,--wild cherry, damson, and poplar,--and a profusion of yellow flowers, wild ones. Some of these grandmother called "Ladies' Slipper"; the others, "Sullendine." The spring had once been stoned up and boxed over. But the boards were now rotting away, the stones falling in, and our little hollow had quite a deserted look. The water trickled out and ran away around the curve of the bank. Grandmother came with us, and Georgie's teacher, and Matilda and Tommy. We hollowed out a little place under the wild-cherry tree, wrapped the birdie in cotton-wool, lay him in, and covered him over with the green sod. I then went down by the stone wall, where sweetbriers were growing, dug up a very pretty little one, and set it out close by, so that it might lean against the cherry-tree. Tommy kept very sober, and scarcely spoke a word, till it was all over. He then said to me, in a very earnest tone, "Mr. Fwy, now will another birdie grow up there?" I suppose he was thinking of his father's planting corn and more corn growing. * * * * * _William Henry to his Sister._ MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER,-- I'm sorry your little birdie's dead! He was a nice singing birdie! But I wouldn't cry. Maybe you'll have another one some time, if you're a good little girl. Maybe father'll go to Boston and buy you one, or maybe Cousin Joe will send one home to you, in a vessel, or maybe I'll catch one, or maybe a man will come along with birds to sell, or maybe Aunt Phebe's bird will lay an egg and hatch one out. I wouldn't feel bad about it. It isn't any use to feel bad about it. Maybe, if he hadn't been killed, he'd 'a' died. Dorry says, "Tell her, 'Don't you cry,' and I'll give her something, catch her a rabbit or a squirrel!" Says he'll tease his sister for her white mice. Says he'll tease her with the tears in his eyes,--or else her banties. How do you like your teacher? Do you learn any lessons at school? You must try to get up above all the other ones. We've got two new teachers this year. One is clever, and we like that one, but the other one isn't very. We call the good one Wedding Cake, and we call the other one Brown Bread. Did grandmother tell you about the Fortune Tellers? We went to-day and she told mine true. She said my father was a very kind man, and said I was quick to get mad, and said I had just got something I'd wanted a long time (watch, you know), and said I should have something else that I wanted, but didn't say when. I wonder how she knew I wanted a gun. I thought perhaps somebody told her, and laid it to Old Wonder Boy, for we two had been talking about guns. But he flared up just like a flash of powder. "There. Now you needn't blame that on to me!" says he. "You fellers always do blame everything on to me!" Sometimes when somebody touches him he hollers out, "Leave me loose! Leave me loose!" Dorry says that's the way fellers talk down in Jersey. The Fortune Teller told W. B. that he came from a long way off, and that he wanted to be a soldier, but he'd better give up that, for he wouldn't dare to go to war, without he went behind to sell pies. All of us laughed to hear that, for Old Wonder Boy is quick to get scared. But he is always straightening himself up, and looking big, and talking about his native land, and what he would do for his native land, and how he would fight for his native land, and how he would die for his native land. He says that why she told him that kind of a fortune was because he gave her pennies and not silver money. His uncle that goes cap'n of a vessel has sent him a letter, and in the letter it said that he had a sailor aboard his ship that used to come to this school. [Illustration] I was going to tell you a funny story about W. B.'s getting scared, but Dorry he keeps teasing me to go somewhere. I made these joggly letters when he tickled my ears with his paint-brush. Has your pullet begun to lay yet? I hope my rooster won't be killed. Tell them not to. Benjie says he had a grand great rooster. It was white and had green and purple tail feathers, O, very long tail feathers, and stood 'most as high as a barrel of flour, with great yellow legs, and had a beautiful crow, and could drive away every other one that showed his head, and he set his eyes by that rooster, but when he got home they had killed him for broth, and when he asked 'em where his rooster was they brought out the wish-bone and two tail feathers, and that was all there was left of him. I wouldn't have poor little kitty drowned way down in the deep water 'cause to drown a kitty couldn't make a birdie alive again. Have your flowers bloomed out yet? You must be a good little girl, and try to please your grandmother all you can. From your affectionate brother, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. Now Dorry's run to head off a loose horse, and I'll tell you about Old Wonder Boy's getting scared. It was one night when--Now there comes Dorry back again! But next time I will. W. H. * * * * * _William Henry to his Sister, about Old Wonder Boy's Fright._ MY DEAR SISTER,-- I will put that little story I am going to tell you right at the beginning, before Dorry and Bubby Short get back. I mean about W. B.'s getting scared. But don't you be scared, for after all 't was--no, I mean after all 't wasn't--but wait and you'll know by and by, when I tell you. 'T was one night when Dorry and I and some more fellers were a sitting here together, and we all of us heard some thick boots coming-a hurrying up the stairs, and the door came a banging open, and W. B. pitched in, just as pale as a sheet, and couldn't but just breathe. And he tried to speak, but couldn't, only one word at once, and catching his breath between, just so,--"Shut--the--door!--Do!--Do!--shut--the door!" Then we shut up the door, and Bubby Short stood his back up against it because 't wouldn't quite latch, and now I will tell you what it was that scared him. Not at the first of it, but I shall tell it just the same way we found it out. Says he, "I was making a box, and when I got it done 't was dark, but I went to carry the carpenter's tools back to him, because I promised to. And going along," says he, "I thought I heard a funny noise behind me, but I didn't think very much about it, but I heard it again, and I looked over my shoulder, and I saw something white behind me, a chasing me. I went faster, and then that went faster. Then I went slower, and then that went slower. And then I got scared and ran as fast as I could, and looked over my shoulder and 't was keeping up. But it didn't run with feet, nor with legs, for then I shouldn't 'a' been scared. But it came--O, I don't know how it came, without anything to go on." Dorry asked him, "How did it look?" "O,--white. All over white," says W. B. "How big was it?" Bubby Short asked him. "O,--I don't know," says W. B. "First it looked about as big as a pigeon, but every time I looked round it seemed to grow bigger and bigger." "Maybe 't was a pigeon," says Dorry. "Did it have any wings?" "Not a wing," says W. B. "Maybe 't was a white cat," says Mr. Augustus. "O, poh, cat!" says W. B. "Or a poodle dog," says Benjie. "Nonsense, poodle dog!" says W. B. "Or a rabbit," says Bubby Short. "O, go 'way with your rabbit!" says W. B. "Didn't I tell you it hadn't any feet or legs to go with?" "Then how could it go?" Mr. Augustus asked him. "That's the very thing," said W. B. "Snakes do," says Bubby Short. "But a snake wouldn't look white," says Benjie. "Without 't was scared," says Dorry. I said I guessed I knew. Like enough 't was a ghost of something. I said like enough of a robin or some kind of bird. "Of what?" then they all asked me. "That he'd stolen the eggs of," says Dorry. "O yes!" says Old Wonder Boy. "It's easy enough to laugh, in the light here, but I guess you'd 'a' been scared, seeing something chasing you in the dark, and going up and down, and going tick, tick, tick, every time it touched ground, and sometimes it touched my side too." "For goodness gracious!" says Dorry. "Can't you tell what it seemed most like?" "I tell you it didn't seem most like anything. It didn't run, nor walk, nor fly, nor creep, nor glide along. And when I got to the Great Elm-Tree, I cut round that tree, and ran this way, and that did too." "Where is it now?" Dorry asked him. "O, don't!" says W. B. "Don't open the door. 'T is out there." "Come, fellers," Dorry said, "let's go find it." Benjie said, "Let's take something to hit it with!" And he took an umbrella and I took the bootjack, and Bubby Short took the towel horse, and Mr. Augustus took a hair-brush, and Dorry took his boot with his arm run down in it, and first we opened the door a crack and didn't go out, but peeped out, but didn't see anything there. Then we went out a little ways, and then we didn't see anything. And pretty soon, going along towards the stairs, Bubby Short stepped on something. "What's that?" says he. And he jumped, and we all flung our things at it. "Hold the light!" Dorry cried out. [Illustration] Then W. B. brought out the light, and there wasn't anything there but a carpenter's reel, with a chalk line wound up on it, and they picked it up and began to wind up, and when they came to the end of it--where do you s'pose the other end was? In W. B.'s pocket! and his ball and some more things held it fast there, and that chalk-line reel was what went bobbing up and down behind Old Wonder Boy every step he took,--bob, bob, bobbing up and down, for there was a hitch in the line and it couldn't unwind any more, and the line under the door was why 't wouldn't latch, and O, but you ought to 've heard the fellers how they roared! and Bubby Short rolled over on the floor, and Dorry he tumbled heels over head on all the beds, and we all shouted and hurrahed so the other fellers came running to see what was up, and then the teachers came to see who was flinging things round so up here, and to see what was the matter, but there couldn't anybody tell what the matter was for laughing, and W. B. he looked so sheepish! O, if it wasn't gay! How do you like this story? That part where it touched his side was when that reel caught on something and so jerked the string some. Now I must study my lesson. Your affectionate brother, WILLIAM HENRY. P.S. When you send a box don't send very many clothes in it, but send goodies. I tell you things taste good when a feller's away from his folks. Dorry's father had a picture taken of Dorry's little dog and sent it to him, and it looks just as natural as some boys. Tell Aunt Phebe's little Tommy he may sail my boat once. 'T is put away up garret in that corner where I keep things, side of that great long-handled thing, grandmother's warming-pan. I mean that little sloop boat I had when I's a little feller. W. H. * * * * * _Georgianna's Letter to William Henry._ MY DEAR BROTHER BILLY,---- Kitty isn't drowned. I've got ever so many new dolls. My grandmother went to town, not the same day my kitty did that, but the next day, and she brought me home a new doll, and that same day she went there my father went to Boston, and he brought me home a very big one,----no, not very, but quite big,----and Aunt Phebe went a visiting to somebody's house that very day, and she brought me home a doll, and while she was gone away Hannah Jane dressed over one of Matilda's old ones new, and none of the folks knew that the others were going to give me a doll, and then Uncle J. said that if it was the family custom to give Georgianna a doll, he would give Georgianna a doll, and he went to the field and catched the colt, and tackled him up into the riding wagon on purpose, and then he started off to town, and when he rode up to our back door there was a great dolly, the biggest one I had, and she was sitting down on the seat, just like a live one. And she had a waterfall, and she had things to take off and on. Then Uncle J. asked me what I should do with my old dollies that were 'most worn out. And I said I didn't know what I should. And then Uncle J. said that he would take the lot, for twenty-five cents a head, to put up in his garden, for scarecrows, and he asked me if I would sell, and I said I would. And he put the little ones on little poles and the big ones on tall poles, with their arms stretched out, and the one with a long veil looked the funniest, and so did the one dressed up like a sailor boy, but one arm was broke off of him, and a good many of their noses too. The one that had on old woman's clothes Uncle J. put a pipe in her mouth. And the one that had a pink gauze dress, but 't is all faded out now, and a long train, but the train was torn very much, that one has a great bunch of flowers----paper----pinned on to her, and another in her hand, and the puppy he barks at 'em like everything. My pullet lays, little ones, you know. I hope she won't do like Lucy Maria's Leghorn hen. That one flies into the bedroom window every morning, and lays eggs on the bedroom bed. For maybe 't would come in before I got up. My class has begun to learn geography, and my father has bought me a new geography. But I guess I sha' n't like to learn it very much if the backside is hard as the foreside is. Uncle J. says no need to worry your mind any about that old fowl, for he's so tough he couldn't be killed. I wish you would tell me how long he could live if it wasn't killed, for Uncle J. says they grow tougher every year, and if you should let one live too long, then he can't die. But I guess he's funning, do you? Our hens scratched and scratched up some of my flowers, and so did the rain wash some up that night it came down so hard, but one pretty one bloomed out this morning, but it has budded back again now. Aunt Phebe says she sends her love to you, tied up with this pretty piece of blue ribbon. She says, if you want to, you can take the ribbon and wear it for a neck bow. Grandmother says how do you know but that sailor that went to your school in Old Wonder Boy's uncle's vessel is that big boy, that bad one that ran away, you called Tom Cush? Father laughs to hear about Old Wonder Boy, and he says a bragger ought to be laughed at, and bragging is a bad thing. But he don't want you to pick out all the bad things about a boy to send home in your letters; says next time you must send home a good thing about him, because he thinks every boy you see has some good things as well as some bad things. A dear little baby has moved in the house next to our house. It lets me hold her, and its mother lets me drag her out. It's got little bits of toes, and it's got a little bit of a nose, and it says "Da da! da da! da da!" And when I was dragging her out, the wheel went over a poor little butterfly, but I guess it was dead before. O, its wings were just as soft! and 't was a yellow one. And I buried it up in the ground close to where I buried up my little birdie, side of the spring. Your affectionate sister, GEORGIANNA. * * * * * Among the other letters I find the following, from Tom Cush. As the people at Summer Sweeting place had been told the circumstances of his running away, it was not only proper, but just, that William Henry should send them this letter. * * * * * _A Letter from Tom Cush to Dorry._ DEAR FRIEND,---- I have not seen you for a great while. I hope you are in good health. Does William Henry go to school there now? And does Benjie go, and little Bubby Short? I hope they are in good health. Do the Two Betseys keep shop there now? Is Gapper Skyblue alive now? I am in very good health. I go to sea now. That's where I went when I went away from school. I suppose all the boys hate me, don't they? But I don't blame them any for hating me. I should think they would all of them hate me. For I didn't act very well when I went to that school. Our captain knows about that school, for he is uncle to a boy that has begun to go. He's sent a letter to him. I wish that boy would write a letter to him, because he might tell about the ones I know. I've been making up my mind about telling you something. I've been thinking about it, and thinking about it. I don't like to tell things very well. But I am going to tell this to you. It isn't anything to tell. I mean it isn't like news, or anything happening to anybody. But it is something about when I was sick. For I had a fit of sickness. I don't mean afterwards, when I was so very sick, but at the first beginning of it. The captain he took some books out of his chest and said I might have them to read if I wanted to. And I read about a man in one of them, and the king wanted him to do something that the man thought wasn't right to do; but the man said he would not do what was wrong. And for that he was sent to row in a very large boat among all kinds of bad man, thieves and murderers and the worst kind. They had to row every minute, and were chained to their oars, and above their waists they had no clothes on. They had overseers with long whips. The officers stayed on deck over the rowers' heads, and when they wanted the vessel to go faster, the overseers made their long whip-lashes cut into the men's backs till they were all raw and bleeding. Nights the chains were not taken off, and they slept all piled up on each other. Sometimes when the officers were in a hurry, or when there were soldiers aboard, going to fight the enemy's vessels, then the men wouldn't have even a minute to eat, and were almost starved to death, and got so weak they would fall over, but then they were whipped again. And when they got to the enemy's ships, they had to sit and have cannons fired in among them. Then the dead ones were picked up and thrown into the water. And the king told the man that if he wanted to be free, and have plenty to eat and a nice house, and good clothes to wear, all he had to do was to promise to do that wrong thing. But the man said no. For to be chained there would only hurt his body. But to do wrong would hurt his soul. And I read about some people that lived many hundred years ago and the emperor of that country wanted these people to say that their religion was wrong and his religion was the right one. But they said, "No. We believe ours is true, and we cannot lie." Then the emperor took away all their property, and pierced them with red-hot irons, and threw some into a place where they kept wild beasts. But they still kept saying, "We cannot lie, we must speak what we believe." And one was a boy only fifteen years old. And the emperor thought he was so young they could scare him very easy. And he said to him, "Now say you believe the way I want you to, or I will have you shut up in a dark dungeon." But the boy said, "I will not say what is false." And he was shut up in a dark dungeon, underground. And one day the emperor said to him, "Say you believe the way I want you to, or I will have you stretched upon a rack." But the boy said, "I will not speak falsely." And he was stretched upon a rack till his bones were almost pulled apart. Then the emperor asked, "Now will you believe that my religion is right?" But the boy could not say so. And the emperor said, "Then you'll be burned alive!" The boy said, "I can suffer the burning, but I cannot lie." Then he was brought out and the wood was piled up round him, and set on fire, and the boy was burned up with the wood. And while he was burning up he thanked God for having strength enough to suffer and not lie. Dorry, I want to tell you how much I've been thinking about that man and that boy ever since. And I want to ask you to do something. I've been thinking about how mean I was, and what I did there so as not to get punished. And I want you to go see my mother and tell her that I'm _ashamed_. Don't make any promises to my mother, but only just tell, "_Tom's ashamed_." That's all. I don't want to make promises. But I know myself just what I mean to do. But I sha' n't talk about that any. Give my regards to all inquiring friends. Your affectionate friend, TOM. P.S. Can't you tell things about me to William Henry and the others, for it is very hard to me to write a letter? Write soon. T. * * * * * Mr. Carver's visit to the Crooked Pond School alluded to in the following letter was quite an event for my Summer Sweeting friends, and caused an extra amount of cooking to be done in both families. Boys don't half appreciate the blessing of not being too old to have goodies sent them. Now goodies taste good to me, very good, but I haven't a friend in the world who would think of boiling up a kettleful of molasses into candy, or of making a waiterful of seed-cakes to send me. _Too old_, they say,--in actions, if not in words. How cruelly we are misjudged sometimes, and by those who ought to know us best! I shall never be too old to receive a box like that of William Henry's, never, never!--unless my whole constitution is altered and several _clauses_ taken out of it. I remember of seeing that waiter of "good seed-cakes" on grandmother's best room table, between the front windows, waiting to be packed in Mr. Carver's valise. Mr. Carver's black silk neck-handkerchief, tall hat, clean dickies, stockings, two red and white silk pocket-handkerchiefs, and various other articles were distributed over the adjacent chairs, and his umbrella, in a brown cambric covering, stood near by. I have the impression that most of these things were ironed over, five or six times, as grandmother felt that apparel going away from home could not be too much ironed. Besides, it seemed to her impossible that such an event as Billy's father setting out on his travels should take place without extra exertions in some quarter. Mr. Carver had other business which took him from home, but as "going to see Billy" was thought _enough to tell Mrs. Paulina_, why, it is enough for me to tell. "Mrs. Paulina" was an elderly woman, the wife of Mr. John Slade, one of the neighbors, and she was called "Mrs. Paulina," to distinguish her from several other Mrs. Slades. Mrs. Paulina had her own opinion as to how money and time should be spent,--everybody's money and time. She was one of the prying sort, and had wonderful skill in ferreting out all the whys and wherefores of her neighbor's proceedings. It was a common thing at the Farm to say, when undertaking some new scheme, "Well, how much shall we tell Mrs. Paulina?" It being a matter of course that she would inquire into it. The girls often amused themselves by giving her _blinding_ answers just to see how she would contrive to carry her point. I remember their having great fun doing this, just after William Henry went away to school. Lucy Maria said 't was just like a conundrum to Mrs. Paulina, a great mammoth conundrum, and the poor thing must be told about "Old Uncle Wallace," or she would wear herself out, wondering "how Mr. Carver could possibly afford the money." The "Old Uncle Wallace" thus brought to the rescue of Mrs. Paulina would probably not have came to her rescue, or to any woman's rescue, had he been free to choose, seeing that he lived and died a bachelor, and a stingy bachelor at that! The old miser was a distant uncle,--either half-uncle, or grand-uncle, or half grand-uncle of the Mr. Carvers, and lived, that is before he died, in a town some twenty miles off. Billy's father was named for Uncle Wallace, and when a little boy, lived in the same neighborhood, and was quite a favorite with him. The acquaintance with that distant branch of the family, however, had not been kept up, in fact I have no recollection of a single member of it ever coming to the Farm. They were people well to do in the world, and neither Mr. Carver nor Uncle Jacob were men to "honey round" rich relations. Certainly they never would have fawned upon the miserly old fellow, who had the reputation of being mean and tricky as well as miserly. It seems, however, that "Uncle Wallace" did not wholly forget his namesake, for in his will he left him quite a valuable wood-lot near Corry's Pond,--some six or eight miles from the Farm,--and a few hundred dollars besides. This occurred not a great while before my first ride out with Uncle Jacob. Mr. Carver had long felt that Billy was being spoiled at home, and the Crooked Pond School being recommended at that time as "really good," and "not too expensive," he resolved that while _feeling rich_ he would place his son at that institution. And he was more especially inclined to do so for the reason that an old friend of his lived near there, and this friend's wife promised to see that the boy did not go about in actual rags. She is probably the person to whom William Henry refers in his first letters, as "the woman I go to have my buttons sewed on to." The above circumstances were duly imparted to Mrs. Paulina, yet that perplexed woman got no relief. True, it was something to know where the money came from, but "How could a man," she asked, "spend so much money on eddication, when it might be drawing interest, or put into land?" Mrs. Paulina couldn't guess. She gave it up. * * * * * _William Henry's Letter to his Grandmother._ MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,---- I suppose my father has got home again by this time. I like to have my father come to see me. The boys all say my father is a tip-top one. I guess they like to have a man treat them with so many peanuts and good seed-cakes. I got back here to-day from Dorry's cousin's party. My father let me go. I wish my sister could have seen that party. Tell her when I get there I will tell her all about the little girls, and tell her how cunning the little ones, as small as she, looked dancing, and about the good things we had. O, I never saw such good things before! I didn't know there were such kinds of good things in the world. Did my father tell you all about that letter that Tom Cush wrote to Dorry? Ask him to. Dorry sent that letter right to Tom Cush's mother. And when Dorry and I were walking along together the next morning after the party, she was sitting at her window, and as soon as she saw us she said, "Won't you come in, boys? Do come in!" And looked so glad! And laughed, and about half cried, after we went in, and it was that same room where we went before. But it didn't seem so lonesome now, not half. It looked about as sunshiny as our kitchen does, and they had flower-vases. I wish I could get some of those pretty seeds for my sister, for she hasn't got any of that kind of flowers. She seemed just as glad to see us! And shook hands and looked so smiling, and so did Tom's father when he came into the room. He had a belt in his hand that Tom used to wear when he used to belong to that Base-ball Club. And when we saw that Dorry said, "Why! has Tom got back?" Tom's mother said, "O no." But his father said, "O yes! Tom's got back. He hasn't got back to our house, but he's got back. He hasn't got back to town, but he's got back. He hasn't got back to his own country, but he's got back. For I call that getting back," says he, "when a boy gets back to the right way of feeling." Then Tom's mother took that belt and hung it up where it used to be before, for it had been taken down and put away, because they didn't want to have it make them think of Tom so much. She said when Tom got back in earnest, back to the house, that we two, Dorry and I, must come there and make a visit, and I hope we shall, for they've got a pond at the bottom of their garden, and Tom's father owns a boat, and you mustn't think I should tip over, for I sha' n't, and no matter if I should, I can swim to shore easy. Your affectionate grandchild, WILLIAM HENRY. P.S. Bubby Short didn't mean to, but he sat down on my speckled straw hat, and we couldn't get it out even again, and I didn't want him to, but he would go to buy me a new one, and I went with him, but the man didn't have any, for he said the man that made speckled straw hats was dead and his shop was burnt down, and we found a brown straw hat, but I wouldn't let Bubby Short pay any of his money, only eight cents, because I didn't have quite enough. Don't shopkeepers have the most money of all kinds of men? Wouldn't you be a shopkeeper when I grow up? It seems just as easy! If you was me would you swap off your white-handled jack-knife your father bought you for a four-blader? My sister said to send some of W. B.'s good things. He wrote a very good composition about heads, the teacher said, and I am going to send it, for that will be sending one of his good things. It's got in it about two dozen kinds of heads besides our own heads. W. B. is willing for me to copy it off. And Bubby Short wrote a very cunning little one, and if you want to, you may read it. The teacher told us a good deal about heads. W. H. [Illustration] * * * * * _W. B.'s Composition._ HEADS. Heads are of different shapes and different sizes. They are full of notions. Large heads do not always hold the most. Some persons can tell just what a man is by the shape of his head. High heads are the best kind. Very knowing people are called long-headed. A fellow that won't stop for anything or anybody is called hot-headed. If he isn't quite so bright, they call him soft-headed; if he won't be coaxed nor turned, they call him pig-headed. Animals have very small heads. The heads of fools slant back. When your head is cut off you are beheaded. Our heads are all covered with hair, except baldheads. There are other kinds of heads besides our heads. First, there are Barrel-heads. Second, there are Pin-heads. Third, Heads of sermons,--sometimes a minister used to have fifteen heads to one sermon. Fourth, Headwind. Fifth, Head of cattle,--when a farmer reckons up his cows and oxen he calls them so many head of cattle. Sixth, Drumheads,--drumheads are made of sheepskin. Seventh, Heads or tails,--when you toss up pennies. Eighth, Doubleheaders,--when you let off rockets. Ninth, Come to a head--like a boil or a rebellion. Tenth, Cabbageheads,--dunces are called cabbageheads, and good enough for them. Eleventh, At Loggerheads,--when you don't agree. Twelfth, Heads of chapters. Thirteenth, Head him off,--when you want to stop a horse, or a boy. Fourteenth, Head of the family. Fifteenth, A Blunderhead. Sixteenth, The Masthead,--where they send sailors to punish them. Seventeenth, get up to the head,--when you spell the word right. Eighteenth, The Head of a stream,--where it begins. Nineteenth, Down by the head,--when a vessel is deep loaded at the bows. Twentieth, a Figurehead carved on a vessel. Twenty-first, The Cathead, and that's the end of a stick of timber that a ship's anchor hangs by. Twenty-second, A Headland, or cape. Twenty-third, A Head of tobacco. Twenty-fourth, A Bulkhead, which is a partition in a ship. Twenty-fifth, Go ahead,--but first be sure you are right. * * * * * _Bubby Short's Composition._ ON MORNING. It is very pleasant to get up in the morning and walk in the green fields, and hear the birds sing. The morning is the earliest part of the day. The sun rises in the morning. It is very good for our health to get up early. It is very pleasant to see the sun rise in the morning. In the morning the flowers bloom out and smell very good. If it thunders in the morning, or there's a rainbow, 't will be rainy weather. Fish bite best in the morning, when you go a fishing. I like to sleep in the morning. Here is a letter which, judging from the improvement shown in handwriting, and from its rather more dashing style, seems to have been written during William Henry's second school year. * * * * * _William Henry's Letter about the "Charade."_ MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- I never did in all my life have such a real tiptop time as we fellers had last night. We acted charades, and I never did any before, and the word was--no, I mustn't tell you, because it has to be guessed by actions, and when you get the paper that I'm going to send you, soon as I buy a two-cent stamp, then you'll see it all printed out in that paper. The teacher the fellers call Wedding Cake, because he's such a good one, asked all the ones that board here to come to his house last night, and we acted charades, and his sister told us what to be, and what things to put on, and everything. You'll see it printed there, but you must please to send it back, for I promised to return. There weren't females enough, and so Dorry he was the Fat Woman, and we all liked to ha' died a laughing, getting ready, but when we were--there, I 'most told! O if you could ha' seen Bubby Short, a fiddling away, with old ragged clothes and old shoes and his cap turned wrong side out, then he passed round that cap--just as sober--much as we could do to keep in! I was a clerk and had a real handsome mustache done under my nose with a piece of burnt cork-stopple burned over the light. And she told me to act big, like a clerk, and I did. Mr. Augustus was the dandy, and if he didn't strut, but he struts other times too, but more then, and made all of us laugh. Old Wonder Boy was the boy that sold candy, and he spoke up smart and quick, just as she told him to, and the teacher was the country feller and acted just as funny, and so did his sister; his sister was the shopping woman. Both of them like to play with boys, and they're grown up, too. Should you think they would? And they like candy same as we do. And when it came to the end, just as the curtain was dropping down, we all took hold of the rounds of our chairs, and jerked ourselves all of a sudden up in a heap together, and groaned, and so forth. I wish you all and Aunt Phebe's folks had been there. We had a treat, and O, if 't wasn't a treat, why, I'll agree to treat myself. Three kinds of ice-creams shaped up into pyramids and rabbits, and scalloped cakes and candy, and _such_ a great floating island in a platter!--Dorry said 't was a floating continent!--and had red jelly round the platter's edge, and some of that red jelly was dipped out every dip. O, if he isn't a tiptop teacher! Dorry says we ought to be ashamed of ourselves if we have missing lessons, or cut up any for much as a week, and more too, I say. And so I can't tell any more now, for I mean to study hard if I possibly can, Your affectionate grandson, WILLIAM HENRY. Please lend it to Aunt Phebe's folks. * * * * * CHARADE. (_Carpet._) FIRST SYLLABLE. _Chairs placed in two rows, to represent seats of cars. Passengers enter and take their seats. Placard stuck up, "Beware of Pickpockets," in capitals._ _First._ Enter two school-girls, M. and A., with books strapped about, lunch-box, &c. They are laughing and chatting. M. gives A. a letter to read. A. smiles while reading it, M. watching her face, then both look over it together. Afterwards, study their lessons. All this must be going on while the other passengers are entering. _Second._ Business man and two clerks, one at a time. One takes out little account-book, another reads paper, another sits quietly, after putting ticket in his hat-band. _Third._ Fat woman, with old-fashioned carpet-bag, umbrella, and bundles tied up in handkerchiefs; seats herself with difficulty. _Fourth._ A clergyman, all in black, very solemn, with white neckcloth and spectacles. _Fifth._ Yankee fellow from the country, staring at all new-comers. _Sixth._ Dandy, with yellow gloves, slender cane, stunning necktie, watch-chain, and eyeglass comes in with a flourish, lolls back in his seat, using his eyeglass frequently. _Seventh._ Lady with infant (very large rag-baby, in cloak and sunbonnet) and nurse girl. Baby, being fussy, has to be amused, trotted, changed from one to the other. Lady takes things from her pocket to please it, dancing them up and down before its face. _Eighth._ Plainly dressed, industrious woman, who knits. _Ninth._ Fashionable young lady, dressed in the extreme of fashion. She minces up the aisle, looks at the others, seats herself apart from them, first brushing the seat. Shakes the dust from her garments, fans herself, takes out smelling-bottle, &c. (Shout is heard.) "All aboard!" _Tenth._ In a hurry, Lady that's been a-shopping, leading or pulling along her little boy or girl. She carries a waterproof on her arm, and has a shopping-bag and all sorts of paper parcels, besides a portfolio, a roller cart, a wooden horse on wheels, a drum, a toy-whip (and various other things). Doll's heads stick out of a paper. Lady drops a package. Dandy picks it up with polite bow. Drops another. Yankee picks it up, imitating Dandy's polite bow. Gets seated at last, arranges her bonnet-strings, takes off the child's hat, smooths its hair, &c. Steam-whistle heard. Every passenger now begins the jerking, up-and-down motion peculiar to the cars. This motion must be kept up by all, whatever they are doing, and by every one who enters. Enter Conductor with an immense _badge_ on his hat, or coat. Calls out "Have your tickets ready!" Then passes along the aisle, and calls out again, "Tickets!" The tickets must be large and absurd. Passengers take them from pocket-books, gloves, &c. Fat old woman fumbles long for hers in different bundles, finds it at last in a huge leather pocket-book. Conductor, after _nipping_ the tickets, passes out. Enter boy with papers, "Mornin' papers! Herald, Journal, Traveller!" (Business man buys one.) "Mornin' papers! Herald, Journal, Traveller!" (Clerk buys one.) Paper boy passes out. Conductor appears, calls out, "Warburton! Warburton! Passengers for Bantam change cars!" (Noise heard of brakes, jerking motion ceases, school-girls leave, with those little hopping motions peculiar to school-girls. Yankee moves nearer fashionable miss. Two laborers enter. Steam-whistle heard, jerking motion resumed.) Candy boy enters. "Jessup's candy! All flavors! Five cents a stick!" (Lady buys one for baby.) "Jessup's candy! All flavors! Lemon, vanilla, pineapple, strorbry!" (Yankee buys one, offers half to fashionable miss. She declines. Crunches it himself.) Boy passes out. Enter boy with picture-papers, which he distributes. Some examine them, others let them lie. (Dandy buys one.) Boy collects them and passes out. Enter a very little ragged boy, with fiddle, or accordion. After playing awhile, passes round his hat. Most of the passengers drop something in it. Exit boy. Enter Conductor. "Tickets!" Collects tickets. (Steam-whistle heard.) Passengers pick up their things. Curtain drops just as the last one goes out. (This scene might be ended by the passengers, at a given signal, pulling their seats together, pitching over, and having the curtain fall on a smash-up.) SECOND SYLLABLE. _LADY in morning-dress and jaunty breakfast-cap, sadly leaning her head on her hand. On table near is toast, chocolate, &c. Enter MAGGIE with tray._ _Maggie._ Ate a bit, mum, ate a bit. 'T will cheer ye up like! _Lady (looking up)._ No, no, I cannot eat. O, the precious darling! It is now seventeen hours since I saw him last. Ah, he's lost! _Maggie._ And did ye slape at arl, mum? _Lady._ Scarcely, Maggie. And in dreams I saw my darling, chased by rude boys, or at the bottom of deep waters, in filthy mud, eaten by fishes, or else mauled by dreadful cats. Take away the untasted meal. I cannot, cannot eat. _Exit MAGGIE with breakfast things. Enter MIKE with newspapers._ _Mike._ Mornin' paper, mum. _Lady (catching it, and looking eagerly up and down its columns)._ Let me see if he is found. O, here! "Found! A diamond pin on--" Pshaw, diamond pin! Here it is. "Dog found! Black and tan--" Faugh, black and tan! My beauty was pure white. But, Mike where's the notice of our darling's being lost? _Mike._ Shure, an' it's to the side o' the house I put it, mum, arl writ in illegant sizey litters, mum. _Lady (in alarm)._ And didn't you go to the printers at all? _Mike._ Shure an' be n't it better out in the brard daylight, mum, laning aginst th' 'ouse convanient like, an' aisy to see, mum? _Lady._ O Mike, you've undone me! Quick! Pen, ink, and paper. Quick! I say. _Exit MIKE._ _Lady (solus)._ It was but yesterday I held him in these arms! He licked my face, and took from my hand the bits of chicken, and sipped of my chocolate. His little black eyes looked up, O so brightly! to mine. His little tail, it wagged so happy! O, dear, lovely one, where are you now? _Enter MIKE, with placard on long stick, with these words in very large letters._ Dog Lost! V Dollus! ReeWarD! InnQuire Withinn! Live oR DED!!! _Reads it aloud, very slowly, pointing with finger._ _Mike._ An' it's meeself larned the fine writin', mum, in th' ould counthry. _Lady (excited)._ Pray take that dreadful thing away, and bring me pen and paper! _Exit MIKE, muttering. Knock heard at door._ _Lady._ Come! _Enter_ MARKET-MAN, _in blue frock_. _Market-man._ Good day, ma'am. Heard you'd lost a dog. _Lady (eagerly, with hand extended)._ Yes, yes! Where is he? _Market-man._ Was he a curly, shaggy dog? _Lady._ Yes! O yes! Where did you find him? _Market-man._ Was your dog bright and playful? _Lady (in an excited manner)._ O, very! very! _Market-man._ Answered to the name of Carlo? _Lady._ Yes! He did! he did! O, if I had him in these arms! _Market-man (in surprise)._ Arms, ma'am? Arms? 'T is a Newfoundland dog! He could carry you in his arms! _Lady (dejected)._ O cruel, cruel disappointment! _Market-man._ What kind of a dog was yours? _Lady._ O, a dear little lapdog. His curls were white and soft as silk! _Market-man (going)._ Good day, ma'am. If I see him, I'll fetch him. _Exit MARKET-MAN. MIKE enters with writing materials, and goes out again. LADY begins to write, repeating the words she writes aloud._ _Lady._ Lost, strayed, or stolen. A curly--(_Tap at door._) Come! _Enter stupid-looking BOY, in scanty jacket and trousers, and too large hat._ _Lady._ Did you wish to see me? _Boy (drawling)._ Yes, ma'am. _Lady._ About a dog? _Boy._ Yes, ma'am. _Lady._ Have you found one? _Boy._ Yes, ma'am. _Lady._ Is it a very small dog? _Boy._ Yes, ma'am. _Lady._ Sweet and playful? _Boy._ Yes, ma'am? _Lady._ Did you bring him with you? _Boy._ Yes, ma'am (_pointing_). Out there. _Lady (excited)._ O, bring him to me. Quick! O, if it should be he! If it should! (BOY _brings in small dog, yellow or black or spotted_.) _Lady (in disgust)._ O, not that horrid creature! Take him away! Take him away! _Boy._ Isn't that your dog? _Lady._ No! no! O, can't you take the horrid animal away? _Boy (going)._ Yes, ma'am. _Exit_ BOY _with dog_. LADY _prepares to write_. _Lady._ Stupid thing! Now I'll write. (_Repeats._) LOST, STRAYED, OR STOLEN. A CURLY, WHITE--(_Tap at the door._) Come! (_Lays down pen._) _Enter ragged BOY, with covered basket._ _Lady._ Have _you_ found a dog? _Boy._ No, I hain't found no dog. _Lady._ Then what do you want? _Boy._ Father sells puppies. Father said if you'd lost your dog, you'd want to buy one of 'em. Said you could take your pick out o' these 'ere five. (_Opens basket for her to look in._) _Lady (shuddering)._ Little wretches! Away with them! _Boy._ They'll grow, father said, high's the table. _Lady._ Carry them off, can't you? _Boy._ Father wants to know what you'll take for your dog, running. Father said he'd give a dollar, an' risk the ketchin' on him. _Lady._ Dollar? No. Not if he were dead! Not if I knew he were drowned, and the fishes had eaten him, would I sell my darling pet for a paltry dollar! _Boy (going)._ Good mornin'. Guess I'll be goin'. If I find your dog, I won't (_aside_) let you know. _Exit BOY, with bow and scrape._ _Lady (writes again, and repeats)._ LOST, STRAYED, OR STOLEN. A CUR--(_Knock at the door._) Come! (_Lays down pen._) _Enter MRS. MULLIGAN._ _Mrs. Mulligan._ An' is it yourself lost a dog, thin? _Lady (eagerly)._ Yes. A small, white, curly, silky dog. Have you seen him? _Mrs. Mulligan._ Och, no. But't was barkin' all night he was, behint th' 'ouse. An' the b'ys,--that's me Pat an' Tim, they _drooned_ him, mum, bad luck to 'em, in the mornin' arly. _Lady._ And did you see him? _Mrs. Mulligan._ No, shure. _Lady._ And where is he now? _Mrs. Mulligan._ O, it's safe he is, Pat tould me, to the bottom o' No Bottom Pond, mum. _Lady._ And how do you know 't is my dog? _Mrs. Mulligan._ Faith, an' whose dog should it be, thin? _Lady._ Send your boys, and I'll speak with them. _Mrs. Mulligan (going)._ I'll send them, mum. Mornin' mum. _Exit MRS. MULLIGAN. Another tap at the door._ _Lady._ O, this is not to be borne! Come! _Enter COUNTRYWOMAN with bandbox,--not an old woman._ _Lady (earnestly)._ If it's about a dog, tell me all you know at once! Is he living? _Countrywoman._ Yes'm, but he's quite poorly. I think dogs shows their sickness, same as human creturs do. Course they have their feelin's. _Lady._ Do tell quick. _Countrywoman._ Just what I want, for I'm in a hurry myself. So I'll jump right inter the thick on 't. You see last night when my old man was ridin' out o' town in his cart, with some o' his cabbages left over, for garden sarse hadn't been very brisk all day, and he was late a comin' out on account o' the off ox bein' some lame, and my old man ain't apt to hurry his critters, for a marciful man is marciful to his beasts, you-- _Lady._ But about the dog! _Countrywoman._ Wal, the old man was a ridin' along, slow, you know,--I alwers tell him he'll never set the great pond afire,--and a countin' over his cabbageheads and settlin' the keg o' molasses amongst 'em, and a little jug of--(_nods and winks and smiles_),--jest for a medicine, you know. For we _never do_,--I nor the old man,--never, 'xcept in case o' sickness. _Lady (impatiently)._ But what about the dog? _Countrywoman._ Wal, he was a ridin' along, and jest got to the outskirts o' the town, when he happened to see two boys a squabblin' which should have a dog,--a little teenty white curly mite of a cretur-- _Lady._ Yes! Go on! Go on! _Countrywoman._ And he asked 'em would they take fifty cents apiece and give it up. For he knew 't would be rewarded in the newspapers. And they took the fifty. _Lady (eagerly)._ And what did he do with him? Where is he now? _Countrywoman._ Why, I was goin' to ride in with the old man this mornin' to have my bunnet new done over, and I took the dog along. And we happened to see that 'ere notice, and he and I together, we spelt it out! (_Opening bandbox._) Now look in here! Snug as a bug, right in the crown o' my bunnet Seems poorly, but he'll pick up. (_Takes out a white lapdog._)[A] [Footnote A: A white lapdog may be easily made of wool and wire.] _Lady (snatches him, and hugs and kisses him)._ 'T is my Carlo. O my precious, precious pet! Ah, he is too weak to move. I must feed him and put him to sleep. (_Rises to go out._) _Countrywoman._ But the five dollars, marm! _Lady._ O, you must call again. I can't think of any paltry five dollars, now. (_Exit._) _Countrywoman (calling out)._ I'll wait, marm! _Enter MIKE._ _Mike._ An' what bisness are ye doin' here? _Countrywoman._ Waiting for my pay. _Mike._ Pay, is it? Och, she'll niver pay the day. She's owin' me wages, an' owin' the cook, and Mrs. Flarty that scoors, and the millinery lady, an' 't is "Carl agin," she sez. "Carl agin. Can't ye carl agin?" _Countrywoman._ Then I'll get mine now. (_Takes off shawl, and sits down. Takes out long blue stocking, and goes to knitting, first pinning on her knitting-sheath._) I don't budge, without the pay. _MIKE looks on admiringly. Curtain drops._ WHOLE WORD. _CLERK standing behind counter, with shawls and various dry goods to sell. Also rolls or pieces of carpet, oil and other kinds. Various placards on the walls,--"No credit." "Goods marked down!" &c. Enter OLD WOMAN._ _Old Woman (speaking in rather high key)._ Do you keep stockings? _Clerk (handing box of stockings)._ O yes. Here are some, very good quality. _Old Woman (examining them)._ Mighty thin, them be. _Clerk._ I assure you, they are warranted to wear. _Old Woman._ To wear out, I guess. _Enter YOUNG MARRIED COUPLE._ _Clerk._ Good morning. Can we sell you anything to-day? _Wife (modestly)._ We wish to look at a few of your carpets. _Clerk._ This way, ma'am. _Husband._ Hem! (_Clearing his throat._) We will look at something for parlors. _Clerk._ Here is a style very much admired. (_Unrolls carpet._) Elegant pattern. We import all our goods, ma'am. That's a firm piece of goods. You couldn't do better. We warrant it to wear. All fast colors. _Old Woman (coming near)._ A good rag carpet'll wear out two o' that. _Wife (to Husband)._ I think it is a lovely pattern. Don't you like it, Charley? _Husband._ Hem--well, I have seen prettier. But then, 't is just as you say, dear. _Wife._ O no, Charley. 'T is just as you say. I want to please you, dear. _Old Woman (to Clerk)._ Have you got any crash towelling? _Husband._ What's the price of this carpet? _Clerk._ Three dollars a yard. Here's another style (_unrolls another_) just brought in. (_Attends to Old Woman._) _Husband (speaking to Wife)._ Perhaps we'd better look at the other articles you wanted. (_They go to another part of the store, examining articles._) _Enter a spare, thin WOMAN, in plain dress and green veil._ _Clerk._ Can we sell you anything to-day? _Woman._ I was thinking of buying a carpet. _Clerk._ Step this way, ma'am. (_Shows them._) We have all styles, ma'am. _Woman._ I want one that will last. (_Examining it._) _Clerk (taking hold of it)._ Firm as iron, ma'am. We've sold five hundred pieces of that goods. If it don't wear, we'll agree to pay back the money. _Woman._ I want one that won't show dirt. _Clerk._ Warranted not to show dirt, ma'am. We warrant all our goods. _Woman._ Can it be turned? _Clerk._ Perfectly well, ma'am. 'Twill turn as long as there's a bit of it left. _Woman._ What do you ask? _Clerk._ Well, we have been selling that piece of goods for three fifty, but you may have it for three dollars. _Woman._ Couldn't you take less? _Clerk._ Couldn't take a cent less. Cost more by wholesale. _Woman._ I think I'll look further. (_Going._) _Clerk._ Well, now seeing it's the last piece, you may have it for two fifty. _Woman._ I wasn't expecting to give over two dollars a yard. (_Going._) _Clerk._ Now I'll tell you what I'll do. Say two and a quarter, and take it. _Woman._ I have decided not to go over two dollars. (_Going._) _Clerk (crossly)._ Well. You can have it for that. But we lose on it. In fact, we are selling now to keep the trade, nothing else. Twenty-five yards? I'll measure it directly. _Old Woman._ Have you got any cotton flannel? _Enter FASHIONABLE LADY._ _Clerk (all attention, bowing)._ Good morning, madam. Can we sell you anything to-day? _Fashionable Lady._ I am looking at carpets this morning. Have you anything new? _Clerk._ This way, madam. We have several new lots, just imported. (_Shows one._) _Fashionable Lady._ It must light up well, or it will never suit me. _Clerk._ Lights up beautifully, madam. _Fashionable Lady._ Is this real tapestry? _Clerk._ O, certainly, madam. We shouldn't think of showing you any other. _Fashionable Lady._ What's the price? _Clerk._ Well, this is a Persian pattern, and we can't offer it for less than six dollars. Mrs. Topothetree bought one off the same piece. _Fashionable Lady._ 'T is a lovely thing, and when a carpet suits me, the price is no objection. _Old Woman (coming forward)._ Have you got any remnants? I wanted to get a strip to lay down afore the fire. (_Speaking to Lady._) Goin' to give six dollars a yard for that? Guess you better larn how to make a rag carpet. Fust, take your old coats and trousers, and strip 'em up inter narrer strips, and jine the strips together, and wind all that up in great balls. That's your warp. Then take coarse yarn and color it all colors. That's your fillin'. Then hire your carpet wove, and that carpet'll last. _Enter POLICEMAN and a GENTLEMAN._ _Gentleman (pointing to Fashionable Lady)._ That is the person. _Policeman (placing his hand on her shoulder)._ This gentleman, madam, thinks you have--_borrowed_ a quantity of his lace goods. _Fashionable Lady (with air of astonishment)._ I? Impossible! Impossible, sir! _Gentleman._ I am sure of it. _Policeman._ Will you have the goodness, madam, to come with us? _Curtain drops, while all are gazing at each other in amazement._ * * * * * I procured a copy of the above charade for little Silas. There was a sociable, one evening, at his school, got up for the purpose of raising money to buy a melodeon, or a seraphine, I don't know which. I never do know which is a melodeon and which is a seraphine. I have an idea the first sounds more melodious. They wanted a charade to act, and I sent them this of William Henry's. Silas took the character of the fellow from the country. They liked the charade very much. The brake-man had the forward wheels of a baby carriage for his brakes. Of course only one of the wheels was seen, and he made a great ado turning it. At the end the cars ran off the track, and the curtain fell upon a general smash-up. * * * * * _William Henry to his Grandmother._ DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- The puddles bear in the morning and next thing the pond will, and I want to have my skates here all ready. 'Most all the boys have got all theirs already, waiting for it to freeze. They hang up on that beam in the sink-room chamber. Look under my trainer trousers that I had to play trainer in when I's a little chap, on that great wooden peg, and you'll find 'em hanging up under the trousers. And my sled too, for Dorry and I are going to have double-runner together soon as snow comes. It's down cellar. We went to be weighed, and the man said I was built of solid timber. Dorry he hid some great iron dumb-bells in his pockets for fun, and the man first he looked at Dorry and then at the figures, and then at his weights; he didn't know what to make of it. For I've grown so much faster that we're almost of a size. First of it Dorry kept a sober face, but pretty soon he began to laugh, and took the dumb-bells out, and then weighed over, and guess what we weighed? The fellers call us "Dorry & Co." because we keep together so much. When he goes anywhere he says "Come, Sweet William!" and when I go anywhere I say "Come, Old Dorrymas!" There's a flower named Sweet William. There isn't any fish named Dorrymas, but there's one named Gurrymas. We keep our goodies in the same box, and so we do our pencils and the rest of our traps. His bed is 'most close to mine, and the one that wakes up first pulls the other one's hair. One boy that comes here is a funny-looking chap, and wears cinnamon-colored clothes, all faded out. He isn't a very big feller. He has his clothes given to him. He comes days and goes home nights, for he lives in this town. He's got great eyes and a great mouth, and always looks as if he was just a-going to laugh. Sometimes when the boys go by him they make a noise, sniff, sniff, sniff, with their noses, making believe they smelt something spicy, like cinnamon. I hope you'll find my skates, and send 'em right off, for fear the pond might freeze over. They hang on that great wooden peg in the sink-room chamber, that sticks in where two beams come together, under my trainer trousers; you'll see the red stripes. Some of us have paid a quarter apiece to get a football, and shouldn't you think 't was real mean for anybody to back out, and then come to kick? One feller did. And he was one of the first ones to get it up too. "Let's get up a good one while we're about it," says he, "that won't kick right out." Dorry went to pick it out, and took his own money, and all the rest paid in their quarters, and what was over the price we took in peanuts. O, you ought to 've seen that bag of peanuts! Held about half a bushel. When he found the boys were talking about him he told somebody that when anybody said, "Let's get up something," it wasn't just the same as to say he'd pay part. But we say 't is. And we talked about it down to the Two Betseys' shop, and Lame Betsey said 't was mean doings enough, and The Other Betsey said, "Anybody that won't pay their part, I don't care _who_ they be." And I've seen him eating taffy three times and more, too, since then, and figs. And he comes and kicks sometimes, and when they offered some of the peanuts to him, to see if he'd take any, he took some. Now Spicey won't do that. We said he might kick, but he don't want to, not till he gets his quarter. He's going to earn it. If my skates don't hang up on that wooden peg, like enough Aunt Phebe's little Tommy's been fooling with 'em. Once he did, and they fell through that hole where a piece of the floor is broke out. You'd better look down that hole. I'm going to send home my Report next time. I couldn't get perfect every time. Dorry says if a feller did that, he'd know too much to come to school. But there's some that do. Not very many. Spicey did four days running. I could 'a got more perfects, only one time I didn't know how far to get, and another time I didn't hear what the question was he put out to me, and another time I didn't stop to think and answered wrong when I knew just as well as could be. And another time I missed in the rules. You better believe they are hard things to get. Bubby Short says he wishes they'd take out the rules and let us do our sums in peace, and so I say. And then one more time some people came to visit the school, and they looked right in my face, when the question came to me, and put me out. I shouldn't think visitors would look a feller right in the face, when he's trying to tell something. Dorry says that I blushed up as red as fire-coals. I guess a red-header blushes up redder than any other kind; don't you? I had some taken off my Deportment, because I laughed out loud. I didn't mean to, but I'm easy to laugh. But Dorry he can keep a sober face just when he wants to, and so can Bubby Short. I was laughing at Bubby Short. He was snapping apple-seeds at Old Wonder Boy's cheeks, and he couldn't tell who snapped 'em, for Bubby Short would be studying away, just as sober. At last one hit hard, and W. B. jumped and shook his fist at the wrong feller, and I felt a laugh coming, and puckered my mouth up, and twisted round, but first thing I knew, out it came, just as sudden, and that took off some. I shall keep the Report till next time, because this time I'm going to send mine and Dorry's photographs taken together. We both paid half. We got it taken in a saloon that travels about on wheels. 'T is stopping here now. Course we didn't expect to look very handsome. But the man says 't is wonderful what handsome pictures homely folks expect to make. Says he tells 'em he has to take what's before him. Dorry says he's sure we look very well for the first time taking. Says it needs practice to make a handsome picture. Please send it back soon because he wants to let his folks see it. Send it when you send the skates. Send the skates soon as you can, for fear the pond might freeze over. Aunt Phebe's little Tommy can have my old sharp-shooter for his own, if he wants it. Remember me to my sister. Your affectionate Grandson, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * As the photograph above mentioned had altogether too serious an expression, a younger one was used in drawing the picture for the frontispiece. Neither of the three do him justice, as neither of the three can give his merry laugh. * * * * * _Grandmother to William Henry._ MY DEAR BOY,-- Your father and all of us were very glad to see that photograph, for it seemed next thing to seeing you, you dear child. We couldn't bear to send it away so soon. I kept it on the mantel-piece, with my spectacles close by, so that when I went past it I could take a look. We sent word in to your aunt Phebe and in a few minutes little Tommy came running across and said his "muzzer said he must bwing Billy's Pokerdaff in, wight off." But I told him to tell his muzzer that Billy's Pokerdaff must be sent back very soon, and wasn't going out of my sight a minute while it stayed, and they must come in. And they did. We all think 't is a very natural picture, only too sober. You ought to try to look smiling at such times. I wish you'd had somebody to pull down your jacket, and see to your collar's being even. But Aunt Phebe says 't is a wonder you look as well as you do, with no woman to fix you. I should know Dorry's picture anywhere. Uncle Jacob wants to know what you were both so cross about? Says you look as if you'd go to fighting the minute you got up. Little Tommy is tickled enough with that sled, and keeps looking up in the sky to see when snow is coming down, and drags it about on the bare ground, if we don't watch him. I had almost a good mind to keep the skates at home. Boys are so venturesome. They always think there's no danger. I said to your father, "Now if anything should happen to Billy I should wish we'd never sent them." But he's always afraid I shall make a Miss Nancy of you. Now I don't want to do that. But there's reason in all things. And a boy needn't drown himself to keep from being a Miss Nancy. He thinks you've got sense enough not to skate on thin ice, and says the teachers won't allow you to skate if the pond isn't safe. But I don't have faith in any pond being safe. My dear boy, there's danger even if the thermometer is below zero. There may be spring-holes. Never was a boy got drowned yet skating, but what thought there was no danger. Do be careful. I know you would if you only knew how I keep awake nights worrying about you. Anybody would think that your uncle Jacob had more money than he knew how to spend. He went to the city last week, and brought Georgiana home a pair of light blue French kid boots. He won't tell the price. They are high-heeled, very narrow-soled, and come up high. He saw them in the window of one of the grand stores, and thought he'd just step in and buy them for Georgie. Never thought of their coming so high. I'm speaking of the price. Now Georgie doesn't go to parties, and where the child can wear them, going through thick and thin, is a puzzler. She might to meeting, if she could be lifted out of the wagon and set down in the broad aisle, but Lucy Maria says that won't do, because her meeting dress is cherry-color. Next summer I shall get her a light blue barege dress to match 'em, for the sake of pleasing her uncle Jacob. When he heard us talking about her not going anywhere to wear such fancy boots, he said then she should wear them over to his house. So twice he has sent a billet in the morning, inviting her to come and take tea, and at the bottom he writes, "Company expected to appear in blue boots." So I dress her up in her red dress, and the boots, and draw my plush moccasins over them, and pack her off. Uncle Jacob takes her things, and waits upon her to the table, and they have great fun out of it. My dear Billy, I have been thinking about that boy that wears cinnamon-colored clothes. I do really hope you won't be so cruel as to laugh at a boy on account of his clothes. What a boy is, don't depend upon what he wears on his back, but upon what he has inside of his head and his heart. When I was a little girl and went to school in the old school-house, the Committee used to come, sometimes, to visit the school. One of the Committee was the minister. He was a very fine old gentleman, and a great deal thought of by the whole town. He used to wear a ruffled shirt, and a watch with a bunch of seals, and carry a gold-headed cane. He had white hair, and a mild blue eye, and a pleasant smile, that I haven't forgotten yet, though 't was a great many years ago. After we'd read and spelt, and the writing-books and ciphering-books had been passed round, the teacher always asked him to address the school. And there was one thing he used to say, almost every time. And he said it in such a smiling, pleasant way, that I've remembered it ever since. He used to begin in this way. "I love little children. I love to come where they are. I love to hear them laugh, and shout. I love to watch them while they are at play. And because I love them so well, I don't want there should be anything bad about them. Just as when I watch a rosebud blooming;--I should be very sorry not to have it bloom out into a beautiful, perfect rose. And now, children, there are three words I want you all to remember. Only three. You can remember three words, can't you?" "Yes, sir," we would say. "Well, now, how long can you remember them?" he would ask,--"a week?" "Yes sir." "Two weeks?" "Yes, sir." "A month?" "Yes, sir." "A year?" "Guess so." "All your lives?" Then some would say, "Yes, sir," and some would say they guessed not, and some didn't believe they could, and some knew they couldn't. "Well, children," he would say at last, "now I will tell you what the three words are: Treat--everybody--well. Now what I want you to be surest to remember is 'everybody.' Everybody is a word that takes in a great many people, and a great many kinds of people,--takes in the washer-women and the old man that saws wood, and the colored folks that come round selling baskets, and the people that wear second-hand clothes, and the help in the kitchen,--takes in those we don't like and even the ones that have done us harm. 'Treat--_everybody_--well.' For you can afford to. A pleasant word don't cost anything to give, and is a very pleasant thing to take." The old gentleman used to look so smiling while he talked. And he followed out his own rule. For he was just as polite to the poor woman that came to clean their paint as he was to any fine lady. He wanted to make us feel ashamed of being impolite to people who couldn't wear good clothes. Children and grown people too, he said, were apt to treat the ones best that wore the best clothes. He'd seen children, and grown folks too, who would be all smiles and politeness to the company, and then be ugly and snappish to poor people they'd hired to work for them. A real lady or gentleman,--he used to end off with this,--"A real lady, and a real gentleman will--treat--everybody--well." And I will end off with this too. And don't you ever forget it. For that you may be, my dear boy, a true gentleman is the wish of Your loving Grandmother. P. S. Do be careful when you go a skating. If the ice is ever so thick, there may be spring-holes. Your father wants you to have a copy of that picture taken for us to keep, and sends this money to pay for it. I forgot to say that of course it is mean for a boy not to pay his part. And for a boy not to pay his debts is mean, and next kin to stealing. And the smaller the debts are the meaner it is. We are all waiting for your Report. * * * * * I did not think it at all strange that Uncle Jacob should buy the blue boots. It is just what I would like to do myself. I never go past one of those wonderful shoe-store windows, and look at the bright array of blue, yellow, and red, without wishing I had six little girls, with six little pairs of feet. For then I should have half a dozen excuses to go in and buy, and now I haven't one. Georgie's boots looked pretty, with the nice white stockings her grandmother knit. And I couldn't see any harm in her wearing a red dress with them. The red, white, and blue are the best colors in the world for me, and I'll never turn against them! "Three cheers for the Red, White, and Blue!" * * * * * _William Henry to his Grandmother._ MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- Excuse me for not writing before. Here is my Report. I haven't sniffed my nose up any at Spicey. I'll tell you why. Because I remember when I first came, and had a red head, and how bad 't was to be plagued all the time. But I tell you if he isn't a queer-looking chap! Don't talk any, hardly, but he's great for laughing. Bubby Short says his mouth laughs itself. But not out loud. Dorry says 't is a very wide smile. It comes easy to him, any way. He comes in laughing and goes out laughing. When you meet him he laughs, and when you speak to him he laughs. When he don't know the answer he laughs, and when he says right he laughs, and when you give him anything he laughs, and when he gives you anything he laughs. Though he don't have very much to give. But he can't say no. All the boys tried one day to see if they could make him say no. He had an apple, and they went up to him, one at once, and said, "Give me a taste." "Give me a taste," till 't was every bit tasted away. Then they tried him on slate-pencils,--his had bully points to them,--and he gave every one away, all but one old stump. But afterwards Mr. Augustus said 't was a shame, and the boys carried him back the pencils and said they'd done with 'em. Dorry says he's going to ask him for his nose some day, and then see what he'll do. I know. Laugh. You better believe he's a clever chap. And he won't kick. Dorry likes him for that. Not till he's paid his quarter. Mr. Augustus offered him the quarter, but he said, No, I thank you. "Why not?" Mr. Augustus asked him. He said he guessed he'd rather earn it. We expect the teacher heard about it, and guess he heard about that feller that wouldn't pay his part, and about his borrowing and not paying back, for one day he addressed the school about money, and he said no boy of spirit, or man either, would ever take money as a gift, long as he was able to earn. Course he didn't mean what your fathers give you, and Happy New Year's Day, and all that. And to borrow and not pay was mean as dirt, besides being wicked. He'd heard of people borrowing little at a time and making believe forget to pay, because they knew 't wouldn't be asked for. The feller I told you about--the one that kicks and don't pay--he owes Gapper Sky Blue for four seed-cakes. Mr. Augustus says that what makes it mean is, that he knows Gapper won't ask for two cents! Gapper let him have 'em for two cents, because he'd had 'em a good while and the edges of 'em were some crumbly. And he borrowed six cents from Dorry and knows Dorry won't say anything ever, and so he's trying to keep from paying. I guess his left ear burns sometimes! Gapper can't go round now, selling cakes, because he's lame, and has to go with two canes. But he keeps a pig, and he and little Rosy make tiptop molasses candy to sell in sticks, one-centers and two-centers, and sell 'em to the boys when they go up there to coast. I tell you if 't isn't bully coasting on that hill back of his house! We begin way up to the tip-top and go way down and then across a pond that isn't there only winters and then into a lane, a sort of downish lane, that goes ever so far. Bubby Short 'most got run over by a sleigh. He was going "knee-hacket" and didn't see where he was going to, and went like lightning right between the horses' legs, and didn't hurt him a bit. Last night when the moon shone the teachers let us go out, and they went too, and some of their wives and some girls. O, if we didn't have the fun! We had a great horse-sled, and we'd drag it way up to the top, and then pile in. Teachers and boys and women and girls, all together, and away we'd go. Once it 'most tipped over. O, I never did see anything scream so loud as girls can when they're scared? I wish 't would be winter longer than it is. We have a Debating Society. And the question we had last was, "Which is the best, Summer or Winter?" And we got so fast for talking, and kept interrupting so, the teacher told the Summers to go on one side and the Winters on the other, and then take turns firing at each other, one shot at a time. And Dorry was chosen Reporter to take notes, but I don't know as you can read them, he was in such a hurry. "In summer you can fly kites. "In winter you can skate. "In summer you have longer time to play. "In winter you have best fun coasting evenings. "In summer you can drive hoop and sail boats. "In winter you can snow-ball it and have darings. "In summer you can go in swimming, and play ball. "In winter you can coast and make snow-forts. "In summer you can go a fishing. "So you can in winter, with pickerel traps to catch pickerel and perch on the ponds, and on rivers. When the fish come up you can make a hole in the ice and set a light to draw 'em, and then take a jobber and job 'em as fast as you're a mind to. "In summer you can go take a sail. "In winter you can go take a sleigh-ride. "In summer you don't freeze to death. "In winter you don't get sunstruck. "In summer you see green trees and flowers and hear the birds sing. "In winter the snow falling looks pretty as green leaves, and so do the icicles on the branches, when the sun shines, and we can hear the sleigh-bells jingle. "In summer you have green peas and fruit, and huckleberries and other berries. "In winter you have molasses candy and pop-corn and mince-pies and preserves and a good many more roast turkeys, (another boy interrupting) and all kinds of everything put up air-tight!" (Teacher.) Order, order, gentlemen. One shot at a time. "In summer you have Independent Day, and that's the best day there is. For if it hadn't been for that, we should have to mind Queen Victoria. "In winter you have Thanksgiving Day and Forefather's Day and Christmas and Happy New-Year Day and the Twenty-second of February, and that's Washington's Birthday. And if it hadn't been for that we should have to mind Queen Victoria." When the time was up the teacher told all that had changed their minds to change their sides, and some of the Summers came over to ours, but the Winters all stayed. Then the teacher made some remarks, and said how glad we ought to be that there were different kinds of fun and beautiful things all the year round. Bubby Short says he's sure he's glad, for if a feller couldn't have fun what would he do? After we got out doors the summer ones that didn't go over hollered out to the other ones that did, "Ho! ho! Winter killed! Winter killed! 'Fore I'd be Winter killed! Frost bit! Frost bit! 'Fore I'd be Frost bit!" I should like to see my sister's blue boots. I am very careful when I go a skating. There isn't any spring-hole in our pond. I don't know where my handkerchiefs go to. Your affectionate Grandson, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. Don't keep awake. I'll look out. Bubby Short's folks write just so to him. And Dorry's. I wonder what makes everybody think boys want to be drowned? * * * * * The boys must have been much interested in that "Debating Society." When William Henry was at home he frequently started a question, and called upon all to take sides. * * * * * _Georgiana to William Henry._ MY DEAR BROTHER,-- Yesterday I went to Aunt Phebe's to eat supper, and had on my light blue boots Uncle Jacob brought me when he went away. He dragged me over because 't was snowing, for he said the party couldn't be put off because they had got all ready. But the party wasn't anybody but me, but he's all the time funning. Aunt Phebe's little Tommy he had some new rubber boots, but they didn't get there till after supper, and then 't was 'most his bedtime. But he got into the boots and walked all round with them after his nightgown was on, and the nightgown hung down all over the rubber boots. And when they wanted to put him in his crib he didn't want to take them off, so Uncle Jacob said better let the boots stay on till he got asleep, and then pull 'em off softly as she could. Then they put him in the crib and let the boots stick out one side, without any bed-clothes being put over them. But we guessed he dreamed about his boots, because soon as they pulled 'em a little bit, he reached down to the boots and held on. But when he got sound asleep then she pulled 'em off softly and stood 'em up in the corner. I carried my work with me, and 't was the handkerchief that is going to be put in this letter. Aunt Phebe thinks some of the stitches are quite nice. She says you must excuse that one in the corner, not where your name is, but next one to it. The snow-storm was so bad I stayed all night, and they made some corn-balls, and Uncle Jacob passed them round to me first, because I was the party, in the best waiter. And we had a good time seeing some little pigs that the old pig stepped on,--six little pigs, about as big as puppies, that had little tails, and she wouldn't take a mite of care of them. She won't let them get close up to her to keep warm, and keeps a stepping on 'em all the time, and broke one's leg. She's a horrid old pig, and Uncle Jacob was afraid they might freeze to death in the night, and Aunt Phebe found a basket, a quite large basket, and put some cotton-wool in it. Then put in the pigs. When 't was bedtime some bricks were put on the stove, and then he put the basket with the little pigs in it on top of the bricks, but put ashes on the fire first, so they could keep warm all night. And in the night they kept him awake, making little squealy noises, and he thought the fire would get hot and roast them, and once one climbed up over and tumbled down on to the floor and 'most killed himself so he died afterwards. And he says he feels very sleepy to-day, watching with the little pigs all night. For soon as 't was daylight, and before too, Tommy jumped out and cried to have his rubber boots took into bed with him, and then the roosters crowed so loud in the hen-house close to his bedroom window that he couldn't take a nap. He told me to send to you in my letter a question to talk about where you did about summer and winter. Why do roosters crow in the morning? Two of the little pigs were dead in the morning, beside that one that killed itself dropping down, and now two more are dead. She is keeping this last one in a warm place, for they don't dare to let it go into the pig-sty, for fear she would step on it or eat it up, for he says she's worse than a cannibal. But I don't know what that is. He says they kill men and eat them alive, but I guess he's funning. She dips a sponge in milk and lets that last little pig suck that sponge. Grandmother wants to know if little Rosy has got any good warm mittens. Wants to know if Mr. Sky Blue has. And you must count your handkerchiefs every week, she says. Little Tommy went out with his rubber boots, and waded way into such a deep snow-bank he couldn't get himself out, and when they lifted him up they lifted him right out of his rubber boots. Then he cried. Tommy's cut off a piece of his own hair. Your affectionate sister, GEORGIANA. * * * * * _William Henry to his Sister._ MY DEAR SISTER,-- You can tell Grandmother that Lame Betsey knit a pair for Gapper Sky Blue, blue ones with white spots, and little Rosy has got an old pair. You are a very good little girl to hem handkerchiefs. I think you hemmed that one very well. It came last night, and we looked for that long stitch to excuse it, and Dorry said it ought to be, for he guessed that was the stitch that saved nine. When the letter came, Dorry and Bubby Short and Old Wonder Boy and I were sitting together, studying. When I read about the pigs I tell you if they didn't laugh! And when that little piggy dropped out of the basket Bubby Short dropped down on the floor and laughed so loud we had to stop him. Dorry said, "Let's play have a Debating Society, and take Uncle Jacob's question." And we did. First Old Wonder Boy stood up. And he said they crowed in the morning to tell people 't was time to get up and to let everybody know they themselves were up and stirring about. Said he'd lain awake mornings, down in Jersey, and listened and heard 'em say just as plain as day. "I'm up and you ought to, too! And you ought to, too!" Then Bubby Short stood up and said he thought they were telling the other ones to keep in their own yards, and not be flying over where they didn't belong. Said he'd lain awake in the morning and heard 'em say, just as plain as day, "If you do, I'll give it to you! I'll give it to you oo oo oo!" But a little chap that had come to hear what was going on said 't was more likely they were daring each other to come on and fight. For he'd lain awake in the morning and listened and heard 'em say, "Come on if you dare, for I can whip you oo oo!" Then 't was my turn, and I stood up and said I guessed the best crower kept a crowing school, and was showing all the young ones how to scale up and down, same as the singing-master did. For I'd lain awake in the morning and heard first the old one crow, and then the little ones try to. And heard the old one say, just as plain as day, "Open your mouth wide and do as I do! Do as I do!" and then the young ones say, "Can't quite do so! Can't quite do so!" Dorry said he never was wide awake enough in the morning to hear what anybody said, but he'd always understood they were talking about the weather, and giving the hens their orders for the day, telling which to lay and which to set, and where the good places were to steal nests, and where there'd been anything planted they could scratch up again, and how to bring up their chickens, and to look out and not hatch ducks' eggs. The teacher opened the door then to see if we were all studying our lessons, so the Debating Society stopped. Should you like to hear about our going to take a great big sleigh-ride? The whole school went together in great big sleighs with four horses. We had flags flying, and I tell you if 't wasn't a bully go! We went ten miles. We went by a good many schoolhouses, where the boys were out, and they'd up and hurrah, and then we'd hurrah back again. And one lot of fellers, if they didn't let the snowballs fly at us! And we wanted our driver to stop, and let us give it to 'em good. But he wouldn't do it. One little chap hung his sled on behind and couldn't get it unhitched again, for some of our fellers kept hold, and we carried him off more than a mile. Then he began to cry. Then the teacher heard him, and had the sleigh stopped, and took him in and he went all the way with us. He lost his mittens trying to unhitch it, and his hands ached, but he made believe laugh, and we put him down in the bottom to warm 'em in the hay. We 'most ran over an old beggar-woman, in one place between two drifts, where there wasn't very much room to turn out. I guess she was deaf. We all stood up and shouted and bawled at her and the driver held 'em in tight. And just as their noses almost touched her she looked round, and then she was so scared she didn't know what to do, but just stood still to let herself be run over. But the driver hollered and made signs for her to stand close up to the drift, and then there'd be room enough. [Illustration] When I got home I found my bundle and the tin box rolled up in that new jacket, with all that good jelly in it. Old Wonder Boy peeped in and says he, "O, there's quite some jelly in there, isn't there?" He says down in Jersey they make nice quince-jelly out of apple-parings, and said 't was true, for he'd eaten some. Dorry said he knew that was common in Ireland, but never knew 't was done in this country. Dorry says you must keep us posted about the last of the piggies. Keep your pretty blue boots nice for Brother Billy to see, won't you? Thank you for hemming that pretty handkerchief. I've counted my handkerchiefs a good many times, but counting 'em don't make any difference. From your affectionate Brother, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * The course of true love it seems did not always ran smooth with Dorry and William Henry. * * * * * _William Henry to his Grandmother._ MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- This is only a short letter that I am going to write to you, because I don't feel like writing any. But when I don't write then you think I have the measles, else drowned in the pond, and I'll write a little, but I feel so sober I don't feel like writing very much. I suppose you will say,--what are you feeling so sober about? Well, seems if I didn't have any fun now, for Dorry and I we've got mad at each other. And he don't hardly speak to me, and I don't to him either; and if he don't want to be needn't, for I don't mean to be fooling round im, and trying to get him to, if he don't want to. Last night we all went out to coast, and the teachers and a good many ladies and girls, and we were going to see which was the champion sled. But something else happened first. The top of the hill was all bare, and before they all got there some of the fellers were scuffling together for fun, and Dorry and I we tried to take each other down. First of it 't was all in fun, but then it got more in earnest, and he hit me in the face so hard it made me mad, and I hit him and he got mad too. [Illustration] Then we began to coast, for the people had all got there. Dorry's and mine were the two swiftest ones, and we kept near each other, but his slewed round some, and he said I hit it with my foot he guessed, and then we had some words, and I don't know what we did both say; but now we keep away from each other, and it seems so funny I don't know what to do. The teacher asked me to go over to the stable to-day, for he lost a bunch of compositions and thought they might have dropped out of his pocket, when we went to take that sleigh-ride. And I was just going to say, "Come on, Old Dorrymas!" before I thought. But 't is the funniest in the morning. This morning I waked up early, and he was fast asleep, and I thought, Now you'll catch it, old fellow, and was just a going to pull his hair; but in a minute I remembered. Then I dressed myself and thought I would take a walk out. I went just as softly by his bed and stood still there a minute and set out to give a little pull, for I don't feel half so mad as I did the first of it, but was afraid he did. So I went out-doors and looked round. Went as far as the Two Betseys' Shop and was going by, but The Other Betsey stood at the door shaking a mat, and called to me, "Billy, where are you going to?" "Only looking round," I said. She told me to come in and warm me, and I thought I would go in just a minute or two. Lame Betsey was frying flapjacks in a spider, a little mite of a spider, for breakfast. She spread butter on one and made me take it to eat in a saucer, and I never tasted of a better flapjack. There was a cinnamon colored jacket hanging on the chair-back, and I said, "Why, that's Spicey's jacket!" "Who?" they cried out both together. Then I called him by his right name, Jim Mills. He's some relation to them, and his mother isn't well enough to mend all his clothes, so Lame Betsey does it for nothing. He earns money to pay for his schooling, and he wants to go to college, and they don't doubt he will. They said he was the best boy that ever was. His mother doesn't have anybody but him to do things for her, only his little sister about the size of my little sister. He makes the fires and cuts wood and splits kindling, and looks into the buttery to see when the things are empty, and never waits to be told. When they talked about him they both talked together, and Lame Betsey let one spiderful burn forgetting to turn 'em over time enough. When I was coming away they said, "Where's Dorry? I thought you two always kept together." For we did always go to buy things together. Then I told her a little, but not all about it. "O, make up! make up!" they said. "Make up and be friends again!" I'm willing to make up if he is. But I don't mean to be the first one to make up. From your affectionate Grandson, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * _William Henry to his Grandmother._ MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- I guess you'll think 't is funny, getting another letter again from me so soon, but I'm in a hurry to have my father send me some money to have my skates mended; ask him if he won't please to send me thirty-three cents, and we two have made up again and I thought you would like to know. It had been 'most three days, and we hadn't been anywhere together, or spoken hardly, and I hadn't looked him in the eye, or he me. Old Wonder Boy he wanted to keep round me all the time, and have double-runner together. He knew we two hadn't been such chums as we used to be, so he came up to me and said, "Billy, I think that Dorry's a mean sort of a chap, don't you?" "No, I don't," I said. "He don't know what 't is to be mean!" For I wasn't going to have him coming any Jersey over me! "O, you needn't be so spunky about it!" says he. "I ain't spunky!" says I. Then I went into the schoolroom, to study over my Latin Grammar before school began, and sat down amongst the boys that were all crowding round the stove. And I was studying away, and didn't mind 'em fooling round me, for I'd lost one mark day before, and didn't mean to lose any more, for you know what my father promised me, if my next Report improved much. And while I was sitting there, studying away, and drying my feet, for we'd been having darings, and W. B. he stumped me to jump on a place where 't was cracking, and I went in over tops of boots and wet my feet sopping wet. And I didn't notice at first, for I wasn't looking round much, but looking straight down on my Latin Grammar, and didn't notice that 'most all the boys had gone out. Only about half a dozen left, and one of 'em was Dorry, and he sat to the right of me, about a yard off, studying his lesson. Then another boy went out, and then another, and by and by every one of them was gone, and left us two sitting there. O, we sat just as still! I kept my head down, and we made believe think of nothing but just the lesson. First thing I knew he moved, and I looked up, and there was Dorry looking me right in the eye! And held out his hand--"How are you, Sweet William?" says he, and laughed some. Then I clapped my hand on his shoulder, "Old Dorrymas, how are you?" says I. And so you see we got over it then, right away. Dorry says he wasn't asleep that morning, when I stood there, only making believe. Said he wished I'd pull, then he was going to pull too, and wouldn't that been a funny way to make up, pulling hair? He's had a letter from Tom Cush and he's got home, but is going away again, for he means to be a regular sailor and get to be captain of a great ship. He's coming here next week. I hope you won't forget that thirty-three. I'd just as lives have fifty, and that would come better in the letter, don't you believe it would? That photograph saloon has just gone by, and the boys are running down to the road to chase it. When Dorry and I sat there by the stove, it made me remember what Uncle Jacob said about our picture. Your affectionate Grandson, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * _William Henry to his Grandmother._ MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- The reason that I've kept so long without writing is because I've had to do so many things. We've been speaking dialogues and coasting and daring and snowballing, and then we've had to review and review and review, because 't is the last of the term, and he says he believes in reviews more than the first time we get it. I tell you, the ones that didn't get them the first time are bad off now. I wish now I'd begun at the first of it and got every one of mine perfect, then I should have easier times. The coast is wearing off some, and we carry water up and pour on it, and let it freeze, and throw snow on. Now 't is moonshiny nights, the teacher lets all the "perfects" go out to coast an hour. Sometimes I get out. And guess where Bubby Short and Dorry and I are going to-night! Now you can't guess, I know you can't. To a party! Now where do you suppose the party is to be? You can't guess that either. In this town. And not very far from this school-house. Somebody you've heard of. Two somebodies you've heard of. Now don't you know? The Two Betseys! Suppose you'll think 't is funny for them to have a party. But they're not a going to have it themselves. Now I'll tell you, and not make you guess any more. You know I told you Tom Cush was coming. He came to-day. He's grown just as tall and as fat and as black and has some small whiskers. I didn't know 'twas Tom Cush when I first looked at him. Bubby Short asked me what man that was talking with Dorry, and I said I didn't know, but afterwards we found out. He didn't know me either. Says I'm a staving great fellow. He gave Dorry a ruler made of twelve different kinds of wood, some light, some dark, brought from famous places. And gave Bubby Short and me a four-blader, white handled. He's got a fur cap and fur gloves, and is 'most as tall as Uncle Jacob. He told Dorry that he thought if he didn't come back here and see everybody, he should feel like a sneak all the rest of his life. We three went down to The Two Betseys' Shop with him, and when he saw it, he said, "Why, is that the same old shop? It don't look much bigger than a hen-house!" Says he could put about a thousand like it into one big church he saw away. Said he shouldn't dare to climb up into the apple-tree for fear he should break it down. Said he'd seen trees high as a liberty-pole. And when he saw where he used to creep through the rails he couldn't believe he ever did go through such a little place, and tried to, but couldn't do it. So he took a run and jumped over, and we after him, all but Bubby Short. We took down the top one for him. [Illustration] The Two Betseys didn't know him at first, not till we told them. Dorry said, "Here's a little boy wants to buy a stick of candy." Then Tom said he guessed he'd take the whole bottle full. And he took out a silver half a dollar, and threw it down, but wouldn't take any change back, and then treated us all, and a lot of little chaps that stood there staring. Lame Betsey said, "Wal, I never!" and The Other Betsey said, "Now did you ever? Now who'd believe 't was the same boy!" And Tom said he hoped 't wasn't exactly, for he didn't think much of that Tom Cush that used to be round here. Coming back he told us he was going to stay till in the evening, and have a supper at the Two Betseys', us four together, but not let them know till we got there. He's going to carry the things. We went to see Gapper Sky Blue, and Tom bought every bit of his molasses candy, and about all the seed-cakes. When I write another letter, then you'll know about the party. Your affectionate Grandson, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. Do you think my father would let me go to sea? * * * * * _William Henry to his Grandmother._ MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- We had it and they didn't know anything about it till we got there, and then they didn't know what we came for. Guess who was there besides us four! Gapper Sky Blue and little Rosy. Tom invited them. We left the bundles inside and walked in. Not to the shop, but to the room back, where they stay. They told us, "Do sit up to the fire, for 't is a proper cold day." They'd got their tea a warming in a little round tea-pot, a black one, and their dishes on a little round table, pulled up close to Lame Betsey; seemed just like my sister, when she has company, playing supper. The Other Betsey, she was holding a skein of yarn for Lame Betsey to wind, and said their yarn-winders were come apart. Dorry said, "Billy, let's you and I make some yarn-winders!" Now what do you think we made them out of? Out of ourselves! We stood back to back, with our elbows touching our sides, and our arms sticking out, and our thumbs sticking up. Then Dorry told her to put on her yarn, and we turned ourselves round, like yarn-winders. Pretty soon Gapper Sky Blue and Rosy came. Then we brought in the bundles and let 'em know what was up, and they didn't know what to say. All they could say was, "Wal, I never!" and "Now did you ever?" The Other Betsey said if they were having a party they must smart themselves up some. So she got out their other caps, with white ruffles, and put on her handkerchief with a bunch of flowers in the back corner, but put a black silk cape on Lame Betsey that had a muslin ruffle round it, or lace, or I don't know what, and a clean collar, that she worked herself, when she was a young lady, and a bow of ribbon, that she used to wear to parties, wide ribbon, striped, green and yellow, or pink, I can't tell, and both of 'em clean aprons, figured aprons,--calico, I think like enough,--with the creases all in 'em, and strings tied in front. I tell you if the Two Betseys didn't look tiptop! Then they unset that little round table, and we dragged out the great big one, that hadn't been used for seventeen years. The Other Betsey's grandfather had it, when he was first married. When 't isn't a table, 't is tipped up to make into a chair, and had more legs than a spider. Little Rosy helped set the table. She never went to a party before. O, but you ought to 've seen the plates! You know your pie-plates? Well, these were just like them. All white, with scalloped edges, blue scalloped edges. Only no bigger round than the top of your tin dipper. The knives and forks--two-prongers--had green handles. And the sugar-bowl and cream pitcher were dark blue. Tom brought a good deal of sugar, all in white lumps, and a can of milk. He bought pies and jumbles and turnovers and ginger-snaps and egg-crackers and cake and bread at the bake-house, and butter and cheese and Bologna sausage--I can't bear Bologna sausage--and some oranges, that he brought home from sea. And the sweetest jelly you ever saw! Don't know what 't is made of, but they call it guava jelly, and comes in little boxes. I believe I could eat twenty boxes of that kind of jelly, if I could get it. Dorry says he don't doubt they make it out of apple-parings down in Jersey. The Other Betsey stood up in a chair and took down her best china cups and saucers, that used to be her grandmother's, and hadn't been took down for a good many years, and wiped the dust off. Little mites of things, with pictures on them. We boys didn't drink tea, only Tom Cush; we had milk in mugs. Mine was a tall, slim one, not much bigger round than an inkstand, and had pine-trees on it, blue pine-trees. Dorry had a china one that was about as clear as glass, that Lame Betsey's brother brought home when he went captain, and Bubby Short's had "A gift of affection" on it. That was one her little niece used to drink out of that died afterwards, when she was very little. I tell you if that supper-table didn't look like a supper-table when 't was all ready! They set Lame Betsey at the head of the table, because she couldn't get up, and Dorry said the one at the head must never get up, for it wasn't polite. We took her right up in her chair to set her there. Then there was some fun quarrelling which should sit at her right hand, because that is a seat of honor. Tom said Gapper ought to, for he was the oldest. But he said it ought to be Tom, because he was the most like company. But at last she said 't wouldn't make any difference, because she was left-handed. The Other Betsey brought some twisted doughnuts out. Now I'll tell you how we sat. Lame Betsey at the head, and the Other Betsey at the other end; Gapper Sky Blue and Rosy and Bubby Short on the right side, and Tom and Dorry and I on the left. And if we didn't have a bully time! The Two Betseys and Gapper used to know each other, and to go to school together, and they told such funny stories, made us die a laughing, and when I get home you'll hear some. Then Gapper told Tom Cush that now he was a sailor he ought to spin us a yarn. When I come home I'll tell you the yarn Tom spun. 'T was all about an alligator he saw, and about going near it in a boat, and what the Arabs did, and what he did, and what the alligator did. Wait till I come, then you'll hear about it. Both Betseys kept putting down their knife and fork, and looking up at him, just as scared, and kept saying, "Wal, I never!" "Now did you ever!" Tom acted it all out. First he cleared a place for a river. Then he took a twisted doughnut for the alligator and a ginger-snap for a boat. I'll tell you about it sometime. Guess 't wasn't all true, for you can put anything you've a mind to in a yarn. He told us about the beautiful birds, and when I told him about one my sister used to have, he said he'd bring her home a Java sparrow. Then he told us about drinking "Hopshe!" I'll tell how, and I want all of you to try it. Now suppose Hannah Jane was the one to try it. First, she takes a tumbler of water in her hand, then you all say together, Hannah Jane and all, quite fast,-- "A blackbird sat on a swinging limb. He looked at me and I at him. Once so merrily,--Hopshe! Twice so merrily,--Hopshe! Thrice so merrily,--Hopshe!" Now I shall tell where the fun comes in. While all the rest say, "Once so merrily," Hannah Jane must drink one swallow quick enough to say the "Hopshe!" with them. Then another swallow while they say, "Twice so merrily," and another while they say, "Thrice so merrily," and be ready to say the "Hopshe" with them, every time. We tried it, and I tell you if the "Hopshe's" didn't come in all sorts of funny ways! The Two Betseys told about some funny tricks they used to try, to see who was going to be their beau. From your affectionate Grandson, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. I saw a dollar bill in Gapper Sky Blue's hand after Tom Cush bade him good by. Dorry says how do I know but 't was more than a dollar bill, and I don't. W. H. There was a good deal left for the Two Betseys to eat afterwards. I had a letter from Mr. Fry. * * * * * _William Henry to Aunt Phebe._ DEAR AUNT,-- There is going to be a dancing-school, and Dorry's mother wants him to go, and he says he guesses he shall, so he may know what to do when he goes to parties, and his cousin Arthur, that doesn't go to this school, says 't is bully when you've learned how. Please ask my grandmother if I may go if I want to. Dorry wants me to if he does, he says, and Bubby Short says he means to too, if we two do, if his mother'll let him. Dorry's mother says we shall get very good manners there, and learn how to walk into a room. I know how now to walk into a room, I told him, walk right in. But he says his mother means to _enter_ a room, and there's more to it than walking right in. He don't mean an empty room, but company and all that. I guess I should be scared to go, the first of it; I guess I should be bashful, but Dorry's cousin says you get over that when you're used to it. Good many fellers are going. Mr. Augustus, and Old Wonder Boy, and Mr. O'Shirk. Now I suppose you can't think who that is! Don't you know that one I wrote about, that kicked and didn't pay, and that wouldn't help water the course? The great boys picked out that name for him, Mr. O'Shirk. The O stands for owe, and Shirk stands for itself. I send home a map to my grandmother, I've just been making, and I tried hard as I could to do it right, and I hope she will excuse mistakes, for I never made one before. 'T is the United States. Old Wonder Boy says he should thought I'd stretched out "Yankee Land" a little bigger. He calls the New England States "Yankee Land." And he says they make a mighty poor show on the map. But Mr. Augustus told him the brains of the whole country were kept in a little place up top, same as in folks. So W. B. kept still till next time. Dorry said he'd heard of folks going out of the world into Jersey. If I go to dancing-school, I should like to have a bosom shirt, and quite a stylish bow. I think I'm big enough, don't you, for bosom shirts? I had perfect this forenoon in all. I've lost that pair of spotted mittens, and I don't know where, I'm sure. I know I put them in my pocket. My hands get just as numb now with cold! Seems as if things in my pockets got alive and jumped out. I was clapping 'em and blowing 'em this morning, and that good, tiptop Wedding Cake teacher told me to come in his house, and his wife found some old gloves of his. I never saw a better lady than she is. When she meets us she smiles and says, "How do you do, William Henry?" or Dorry, or whatever boy it is. And when W. B. was sick one day she took care of him. And she asks us to call and see her, and says she likes boys! Dorry says he's willing to wipe his feet till he wears a hole in the mat, before he goes in her house. For she don't keep eying your boots. Says he has seen women brush up a feller's mud right before his face and eyes. My hair grows darker colored now. And my freckles have 'most faded out the color of my face. I'm glad of it. From your affectionate Nephew, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * _Aunt Phebe to William Henry._ MY DEAR BILLY,-- We are very much pleased indeed with your map. Dear me, how the United States have altered since they were young, same as the rest of us! That western part used to be all Territory. You couldn't have done anything to please your grandmother better. She's hung it up in the front room, between Napoleon and the Mourning Piece, and thinks everything of it. Everybody that comes in she says, "Should you like to see the map my little grandson made,--my little Billy?" You'll always be her little Billy. She don't seem to think you are growing up so fast. Then she throws a shawl over her head, and trots across the entry and opens the shutters, and then she'll say, "Pretty good for a little boy." And tells which is Maine, and which is New York, and points out the little arrow and the printed capital letters. Folks admire fast as they can, for that room is cold as a barn, winters. The last one she took in was the minister. Your grandmother sets a sight o' store by you. She's proud of you, Billy, and you must always act so as to give her reason to be, and never bring her pride to shame. We are willing you should go. At first she was rather against it, though she says she always meant you should learn to take the steps when you got old enough, but she was afraid it might tend to making you light-headed, and to unsteady your mind. This was the other night when we were talking it over in your kitchen, sitting round the fire. Somehow we get in there about every evening. Does seem so good to see the blaze. Your father said if a boy had common sense he'd keep his balance anywhere, and if dancing-school could spoil a fellow, he wasn't worth spoiling, worth keeping, I mean. I said I thought it might tend to keep you from toeing in, and being clumsy in your motions. Your Uncle J. said he didn't think 't was worth while worrying about our Billy getting spoiled going to dancing-school, or anybody's Billy, without 't was some dandyfied coot. "Make the head right and the heart right," says he, "and let the feet go,--if they want to." So you see, Billy, we expect your head's right and your heart's right. Are they? The girls and I have turned to and cut and made you a couple of bosom shirts and three bows, for of course you will have to dress rather different, and think a little more about your looks. But not too much, Billy! Not too much! And don't for gracious sake ever get the notion that you're good-looking! Don't stick a breastpin in that shirt-bosom and go about with a strut! I don't know what I hadn't as soon see as see a vain young man. I do believe if I were to look out, and you should be coming up my front yard gravel path with a strut, or any sort of dandyfied airs, I should shut the door in your face. Much as I set by you, I really believe I should. Lor! what are good looks? What are you laying out to make of yourself? That's the question. Freckles are not so bad as vanity. Anybody'd think I was a minister's wife, the way I talk. But, Billy, you haven't got any mother, and I do think so much of you! 'T would break my heart to see you grow up into one of those spick-and-span fellers, that are all made up of a bow and a scrape and a genteel smile! Though I don't think there's much danger, for common sense runs in the family. No need to go with muddy boots, though, or linty, or have your bow upside down. You've always been more inclined that way. Fact is, I want you should be just right. I haven't a minute's more time to write. Your Uncle J. has promised to finish this. * * * * * DEAR COUSIN BILLY,-- This is Lucy Maria writing. The blacksmith sent word he was waiting to sharpen the colt, and father had to go. He's glad of it, because he never likes to write letters. I'm glad you are going to dancing-school. Learn all the new steps you can, so as to show us how they're done. Hannah Jane's beau has just been here. He lives six miles off, close by where we went once to a clam-bake, when Dorry was here. Georgiana's great doll, Seraphine, is engaged to a young officer across the road. He was in the war, and draws a pension of a cent a week. The engagement isn't out yet, but the family have known it several days, and he has been invited to tea. He wore his best uniform. Seraphine is invited over there, and Georgie is making her a spangled dress to wear. The wedding is to come off next month. I do wish I could think of more news. Father is the best hand to write news, if you can only get him at it. Once when I was away, he wrote me a letter and told me what they had for dinner, and what everybody was doing, and how many kittens the cat had, and how much the calf weighed, and what Tommy said, and seemed 'most as if I'd been home and seen them. Be sure and write how you get along at dancing-school, and what the girls wear. Your affectionate Cousin, LUCY MARIA. * * * * * _William Henry to Aunt Phebe._ MY DEAR AUNT,-- Thank you for the bosom shirts and the ones that helped make them. They've come. I like them very much and the bows too. They're made right. I lent Bubby Short one bow. His box hadn't come. He kept running to the expressman's about every minute. We began to go last night. If we miss any questions to-day, we shall have to stay away next night. That's going to be the rule. O, you ought to 've seen Dorry and me at it with the soap and towels, getting ready! We scrubbed our faces real bright and shining, and he said he felt like a walking jack-o'-lantern. I bought some slippers and had to put some cotton-wool in both the toes of 'em to jam my heels out where they belonged to. I don't like to wear slippers. My bosom shirt sets bully, and I bought a linen-finish paper collar. I haven't got any breastpin. I don't think I'm good looking. Dorry doesn't either. I know he don't. That's girls' business. We had to buy some gloves, because his cousin said the girls wore white ones, and nice things, and 't wouldn't do if we didn't. Yellowish-brownish ones we got, so as to keep clean longer. But trying on they split in good many places, our fingers were so damp, washing 'em so long. Lame Betsey is going to sew the holes up. When we got there we didn't dare to go in, first of it, but stood peeking in the door, and by and by Old Wonder Boy gave me a shove and made me tumble in. I jumped up quick, but there was a great long row of girls, and they all went, "Tee hee hee! tee hee hee!" Then Mr. Tornero stamped and put us in the gentlemen's row. Then both rows had to stand up and take positions, and put one heel in the hollow of t' other foot, and then t' other heel in that one's hollow, and make bows and twist different ways. And right in front was a whole row of girls, all looking. But they made mistakes theirselves sometimes. First thing we learned the graces, and that is to bend way over sideways, with one hand up in the air, and the other 'most way down to the floor, then shift about on t' other tack, then come down on one knee, with one hand way behind, and the other one reached out ahead as if 't was picking up something a good ways off. We have to do these graces to make us limberer, so to dance easier. I tell you 't is mighty tittlish, keeping on one knee and the other toe, and reaching both ways, and looking up in the air. I did something funny. I'll tell you, but don't tell Grandmother. Of course 't was bad, I know 't was, made 'em all laugh, but I didn't think of their all pitching over. You see I was at one end of the row and W. B. was next, and we were fixed all as I said, kneeling down in that tittlish way, reaching out both ways, before and behind, and looking up, and I remembered how he shoved me into the room, and just gave him a little bit of a shove, and he pitched on to the next one, and he on to the next, and that one on to the next, and so that whole row went down, just like a row of bricks! Course everybody laughed, and Mr. Tornero did too, but he soon stamped us still again. And then just as they all got still again, I kept seeing how they all went down, and I shut up my mouth, but all of a sudden that laugh shut up inside made a funny sort of squelching sound, and he looked at me cross and stamped his foot again. Now I suppose he'll think I'm a bad one, just for that tumbling in and shoving that row down and then laughing when I was trying to keep in! He wants we should practise the graces between times, to limber us up. Dorry and I do them up in our room. Guess you'd laugh if you could see, when we do that first part, bending over sideways, one hand up and one down. I tried to draw us, but 't is a good deal harder drawing crooked boys than 't is straight ones, so 't isn't a very good picture. The boys that go keep practising in the entries and everywhere, and the other ones do it to make fun of us, so you keep seeing twisted boys everywhere. Bubby Short was kneeling down out doors across the yard, on one knee, and I thought he was taking aim at something, but he said he was doing the graces. I must study now. Bubby Short got punished a real funny way at school to-day. I'll tell you next time. I'm in a hurry to study now. Your affectionate Nephew, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. Dorry's just come in. He and Bubby Short and I bought "Seraphine" some wedding presents and he's done 'em up in cotton-wool, and they'll come to her in a pink envelope. Dorry sent that red-stoned ring and I sent the blue-stoned. We thought they'd do for a doll's bracelets. Bubby Short sends the artificial rosebud. He likes flowers,--he keeps a geranium. We bought the presents at the Two Betseys' Shop. They said they'd do for bracelets. Dorry says, "Don't mention the price, for 't isn't likely everybody can make such dear presents, and might hurt their feelings." We tried to make some poetry, but couldn't think of but two lines. When you're a gallant soldier's wife, May you be happy all your life! Dorry says that's enough, for she couldn't be any more than happy all her life. "Can too!" W. B. said. "Can be good!" "O, poh!" Bubby Short said; "she can't be happy without she's good, can she?" But I want to study my lesson now. W. H. Those bosom shirts are the best things I ever had. W. H. Although it would have been a vast sacrifice, I think I would have almost given my best pair of shoes for a chance of seeing Billy when dressed to go to the dancing-school. A boy in his first bosom shirt is such an amusing sight. You can easily pick one out in a crowd by his satisfied air, and stiff gait; by the setting back of the shoulders, and the throwing out of the chest,--as if that smooth, white, starched expanse did not set out enough of itself! Some have a way of looking up at gentlemen, as much as to say, _We_ wear bosom shirts! But of course those of us boys and men who have passed through this experience remember all about it. * * * * * _Lucy Maria to William Henry._ DEAR COUSIN,-- That famous wedding came off yesterday afternoon. There were fifteen invited. I do wish I had time to tell you all about it. Mother made a real wedding-cake. Georgie has hardly slept a wink for a week, I do believe, thinking about it. The young soldier wore his epaulets, having been made General the day before. The bride was dressed in pure white, of course, with a long veil, of course, too, and orange blossoms, real orange blossoms that I made myself. The presents were spread out on the baby-house table. Perhaps you don't know that Georgie has a baby-house. It is made of a sugar-box, set up on end papered with housepaper inside, and brown outside. It has a down below, an up stairs, and garret. I do wish I had time to tell you all about the wedding, but Matilda's a churning, and I promised to part the butter and work it over, if she would fetch it. I do wish you could hear her singing away,-- "Come, butter, come! come, butter, come! Peter stands at the gate, waiting for his buttered cake. Come, butter, come!" Besides the baby-house table, the presents were laid on the roof of the baby-house. There were sontags, shoes, hats and feathers, and all sorts of clothes, the rosebud, your jewelry, and more besides, also spoons, dishes, gridirons, vases and everything they could possibly want, to keep house with, even to flatirons and a cooking-stove. The hands of the happy couple were fastened together, and they stood up (there was a pile of books behind them). Then the trouble was, who should be the minister? At last we saw that funny Dicky Willis, your old crony, peeping in the window, and made him come in and be the minister. He was just the right one for it. He charged the bridegroom to give his wife everything she asked for, and keep her in dry kindlings, and let her have her own way, and always wipe his feet, and not smoke in the house, and never find fault; and charged her to sew on his buttons, and have plum-pudding often, and let him smoke in the house, and never want any new clothes, and always mind her husband, and let him bring in mud on his feet, and always have a smiling face, even if the baby-house was a burning down over their heads, and then pronounced them man and wife. I could fill up half a dozen sheets of paper, if I had time, but I'm afraid of that butter. Everybody shook hands with them, and kissed them, and the wedding-cake was passed round, and then the children played "Little Sally Waters, sitting in the sun, Crying and weeping for her lost one." In the midst of everything Tommy came in with Georgiana's atlas, and said he'd found "two kick-cases." He meant those two black hemispheres, that are pictured out in the beginning. Mother put a raisin in his mouth, and hushed him up. The happy couple have gone on a wedding tour to Susie Snow's grandmother's _country_ _seat_. It is expected that they will live half the time with Georgie, and half at the General's head-quarters. But their plans may be altered; this is a changing world, and a young couple can't always tell what's before them. I do wish you'd write how you get on at dancing-school, and what the great girls wear, about my age. O dear what an age it is! 'T is dreadful to think of! 'Most eighteen! Did you ever hear of anybody being so old? Now truly I'm 'most ashamed to own how old I am. Eighteen next month! Hush, don't tell! Keep it private! I do wish I could grow backwards, and grow back into a baby-house if 't were nothing but a sugar-box. I do long to cut my hair off and go in a long-sleeved tier, and I've a good mind to. We don't think you made a very good beginning. Guess your Mr.--I can't think of his name--thought there was need enough of your learning to enter a room. Mother's going to put a note in this letter. I've made her promise not to scold you, but she's got something particular to say. Father will too. I told him 't would be just what you would like, one of his letters. Matilda says the butter has sent word it's coming. Write soon. From your affectionate Cousin, LUCY MARIA. * * * * * I was very sorry not to be able to attend the wedding. My present was half a dozen holders. The woman with whom I board said I couldn't give a bride anything more useful. Her little daughter made them for me, at the rate of two cents apiece. They were an inch wide, and all had loops at the corners. * * * * * _A Note from Uncle Jacob._ HOW ARE YOU, YOUNG MAN? I am very glad you go to dancing-school. Boys, as a general thing, are too fond of study, and 't is a good plan to have some contrivance to take their minds off their books. I suppose you'd like to know what is going on here at home. Your grandmother sits by the fire knitting some mittens for you to lose, so be sure you do it. [She says, tell him to be sure when he goes to dancing-school to wear his overcoat.] Your aunt Phebe is making jelly tarts. Says I can't have any till meal-time. [Tell him to be sure and get cooled off some before he comes away.] Your grandmother can't help worrying about that dancing-school. Matilda is picking over raisins for the pies. She won't sit very close to me. Now Tommy has come in, crying with cold hands. Lucy Maria is soaking them in cold water. I don't doubt he'll get a tart. Yes, he has. First he cries, and then he takes a bite. [Tell him not to go and come in his slippers.] Aunt Phebe says, "Now there's William Henry growing up, you ought to give him some advice." But I tell her that a boy almost in his teens knows himself what's right and what's wrong. Now Georgiana has come in crying. Says she stepped her foot through a puddle of ice. Grandmother has set her up to dry her foot. Now she'll get a tart, I suppose! Yes she has. [Tell him to look right at the teacher's feet.] That's good advice if you expect to learn how. Now your aunt says I'm such a good boy to write letters she's going to give me this one that's burnt on the edge. [Tell him to brush his clothes and not go linty.] More good advice. I guess now I've got the tart I won't write any more. Of course we expect you to do just about right. If you neglect your studies and so waste your father's money, you'll be an ungrateful scamp. If you get into any contemptible mean ways, we shall be ashamed to own you. Do you mean to do anything or be anything now or ever? If you do, 't is time you were thinking about it. UNCLE JACOB. All between the brackets are messages from your grandmother. J. U. * * * * * _A Note from Aunt Phebe._ DEAR BILLY,-- When you get as far as choosing partners, there's a word I want to say to you, though, as you're a pretty good dispositioned boy, maybe there's no need; still you may not always think, so 'twill do no harm to say it. There are always some girls that don't dance quite so well, or don't look quite so well, or don't dress quite so well, or are not liked quite so well, or are not quite so much acquainted. Now I don't want you to all the time, but sometimes, say once in an evening, I want you to pick out one of these for your partner. I know 't isn't the way boys do. But you can. Suppose you don't have a good time that one dance. You weren't sent into the world to have a good time every minute of your life! How would you like to sit still all the evening? I've been spectator at such times, and I've seen how things go on! Why, if boys would be more thoughtful, every girl might have a good time, besides doing the boys good to think of something besides their own comfort. If I were you I wouldn't try to make fun, but try to learn, for though your father was willing you should go, and wants to do everything he can for you, he has to work hard for his money. Lucy Maria is waiting to hear how you get on. Your affectionate AUNT PHEBE. * * * * * _William Henry to Lucy Maria._ DEAR COUSIN,-- I was going to write to you before, how I was getting along, but have had to study very hard. We've been five times. The girls wear slippers and brown boots and other colors, and white dresses and blue and all kinds, and long ribbons, and a good many pretty girls go. If girls didn't go, I should like to go better. I mean till we know how, for I'd rather make mistakes when only boys were looking. And I make a good many, because he says I don't have time and tune. He says my feet come down sometimes right square athwart the time. So I watched the rest, and when they put their feet down, I did mine. But that was a stroke too late, he said. Said "time and tune waits for no man." I like to promenade, because a feller can go it some then. We learn all kinds of waltzes and redowas and polkas. I can polka with one that knows how. Whirling round makes me light-headed just as Grandmother said. But I get over it some. We are going to do the German at the last of it. The worst of it is cutting across the room to get your partners. He calls out when we're all standing up in two rows, "First gentleman take the first lady!" Now, supposing I'm first gentleman, I have to go way across to first lady with all of 'em looking, and fix my feet right way, one heel in the other hollow, and then make my bow, and then she has to make that kind of kneeling-down bow that girls do, and then we wait till all of 'em get across one by one. Then we take the step a little while, and then launch off round the hall, polking, or else get into quadrilles. And if we do we make graces to the partners and the corners. I like quadrilles best, because you can hop round some and have a good time, if you have a good partner. You can dance good deal better with a good partner. Last time I had that one the fellers call "real estate," because you can't move her she don't ever get ready to start, and when 't is time to turn stands still as a post. Dorry and I practise going across after partners, up in our room. You ought to 've seen us yesterday! Dorry was the lady. If he didn't look funny! He fixed the table-cloth off the entry table, to make it look like his mother's opera-cape, and fastened a great sponge on for a waterfall, and fizzled out his hair, and had a little tidy on top his head, and that red bow you sent me right in front of it. Then he stood out by the window, and kept looking at his opera-cape, and smoothing it down, and poking his hair, and holding his handkerchief, the way girls do, and kept whispering, or making believe, to Bubby Short, the way girls do. Then I went across and made my bow, and he made that kneeling-down bow, and then we tried to polka redowa, but our boots tripped us up, and we couldn't stand up, and laughed so we tumbled down, and didn't hear anybody coming till he knocked, and 't was the teacher, come to see what the matter was. Not Wedding Cake, but Old Brown Bread, and he said dancing mustn't be brought into our studies, and scolded more, but I saw his eyes laughing, looking at Dorry. One of the boys tumbled down stairs, doing the graces in the entry, too near the edge, and it's forbidden now. Some of the first-class fellers put up a notice one night in the entry, great printed letters. [Illustration: NO ADMITTANCE TO THE GRACES] That owl stands for Minerva. I couldn't make a very good one because I'm in such a hurry to do my examples. The goddess of wisdom used to be named Minerva. She was painted with an owl. I've been reading it in the Classical Dictionary. Dorry and Bubby Short and I have just been to the Two Betseys to get our gloves sewed up, and the Other Betsey said she used to dance like a top. Then she held her dress up with her thumbs and fingers, and took four different kinds of balances. Made us die a laughing, she hopped up and down so. Your affectionate Cousin, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S That TO isn't left out in the notice, it's my own mistake. * * * * * The remaining letters were probably written during his last term at the school. * * * * * _Matilda's Letter to William Henry._ DEAR COUSIN,-- Lucy Maria keeps telling me that I promised to write you a letter, but I wish I hadn't promised to write you one, because I don't like to write letters very well, for I can't think of anything to write. But Lucy Maria she likes to, and that would do just as well as for me to. But mother says I ought to often, so as to get me in the habit of it. I don't have very much time to write very long letters, for the girls are getting up a Fair, and I am helping do the old woman in her shoe, and gentlemen's pincushions, and presents for the arrow table, where the arrow swings round and points to your present, and so I don't get very much time between schools. For we have to write compositions every week now, and all the girls think the teacher is just as mean as he can be to make us. We want he should take off some of the compositions and put more on to our other lessons; but no. He thinks 't is the best thing we can do. He don't care about anything else, I believe. Susie Snow says she believes he's all made up of composition. Our next subject is "Economy" and we've got to put in time wasted, and health wasted, and money wasted. Susie Snow is going to put in hers that girls should never waste their time writing compositions. I wish I could think of some news to tell. Lucy Maria could get news in a sandy desert, I believe. But she don't have to go to school. Hannah Jane hasn't got home from Aunt Matilda's yet. The minister and his wife and all his children have been here to spend the day. They are very fond of jelly. Mother gave them that tall gilt tumbler full, that Cousin Joe brought home from sea, with gilt flowers on it. 'T is very pleasant weather. I wish you'd come back and hoe my flower-garden, the weeds are thick as spatters, and I don't have much time. The dog stepped on my sensitive plant. Some of my seeds haven't come up. Father says I better go down after them. That Root of Bliss I set out, good for the headache, that Cousin Joe brought home from the island of Sumatra, that's in the Mediterranean Sea, or else in the Indian Ocean, the hens scratched up four times, and I've brought it in the house and stuck it in a cigar-box. Father told me to shake pepper over it because 't was used to pepper at home, but I can't tell what he means and what he don't, he funs so. Our new cow hooks down rails and goes where she wants to. O Billy! now I can tell you some news. But 't is quite bad news. It happened two weeks ago. We all felt very sorry about it, and some of us cried. I couldn't help it. You know our cow that was named Reddie, the one we raised up from a bossy-calf with milk-porridge till 't was big enough to eat grass? Well, she got in the bog. We were just eating supper. Georgiana was eating supper at our house that night. Tommy hadn't got home from school, and we were all wondering where he was. Father said he didn't doubt he'd gone to find his turtle. He had a turtle that got loose and ran away. Mother was just saying he'd have to have cold dip toast for his supper, for she makes it a rule not to keep things about for him when he don't come straight home to his meals. He'd rather play than eat. 'T is only a little school he goes to. Not very far off. Five scholars, that's all. Little bits of ones. But I must tell about our cow. We began to hear a great screaming, and couldn't think what the matter was. 'T was Tommy. And next thing he came running through the yard, crying and hollering both together, "Father! Father! Cow! Reddie!" Much as he could do to speak. Father knew in a minute what 't was, for he knew she was pastured close to the bog, and he ran and we all ran, and Mr. Snow and some other men that found it out came with us. O poor cow! She was in more than half way up, and making dreadful moaning noises, and shook her head and tried to stir, but every stir made her go deeper in. Men and boys waded in, but they couldn't do anything. "Rails! rails!" they all called out, and we pulled them out of the fences and they tried to prise her up with them, but the bog was so soft she sank in so they couldn't do anything with her. Much as they could do to keep up themselves. Mr. Snow was prising with a rotten rail, and it broke, and he went down in the wet. Old Mr. Slade, that goes with two canes, came there bareheaded and sat down on the bank. He told them to go get some boards. There weren't any, any nearer than Mr. John Slade's new house, and that was too far off, and father said 't was too late, for she was in, then, up to the top of her back. 'Most all the women and girls came away then, for we couldn't bear to stay any longer to see her suffer. She kept her nose pointed up high as she could, and her eyes looked very mournful. In the morning father told me I should never see Reddie again. They got her up, but not soon enough. She's buried now, under the poplar-tree, in that field we bought of Mr. Snow. She was a good, gentle cow, and seemed to know us. Mother says she seemed like one of the family. Georgiana about spoiled her new boots in the bog. Our new cow isn't the best breed, but she's part best. The cream is considerable yellow, but not very. She gives about eight or nine quarts. Milk has risen a cent. Mother declares she will not measure her milk in that new kind of quart, that don't hold much over a pint. Lucy Maria and all of us are trying to have mother go get her picture taken. But she says she can't screw her courage up, and can't take the time. Your father says he wants to see her good clever face in a picture. Too bad blue eyes take light. But she might be taken looking down, Lucy Maria says, mending Tommy's trousers, that would be natural. He's always making barn-doors in his trousers, he's such a climbing fellow. L. M. and I have most earned money enough, and father's going to make up the rest, and we are going to hire a cheap piano, that Mr. Fry told us about, and I'm going to be a music teacher, I guess. I'm going to begin next month. I shall take of Miss Ashley. I shall have to walk a mile. O goody! goody! dum, dum, dum! Sha' n't I be glad! But Susie Snow says I shall sing another tune after I've taken a little while. Father says if I begin to take I must go through. Says I must promise to practise two hours a day. I'd just as soon promise that as not. 'T is just what I like. Only think, I shall have a piano in this very house. Seems if I couldn't believe it! I can play for you to dance. Wish I knew how to dance. Susie Snow has come after me to go take a walk. Now, William Henry, you must answer this letter just as immediately as possible. From your affectionate Cousin, MATILDA. P. S. Cousin Joe has sent me a smelling-bottle, a little gilt one he brought home, that's got ninety-four different smells in it. Mother is writing you a note. She says you can't dance on her carpet. Father says he's sorry he didn't learn the graces, and means to when you come again. We can dance in the barn. Tommy has just come in. He says he knows his B A C's. He's a funny boy. He means A B C's. But he always gets the horse before the cart. One day we tried to make conundrums, and Georgiana made this,--see if you can answer it: Which is best, to have plum-cake for supper and only have a little mite of a piece, or cookies, and have as many as you want? Georgiana's kitty has just jumped over the fence. She's after my morning-glories again. Just as fast as I fasten 'em up, she goes to playing with the strings and claws 'em down again. Lucy Maria drew a picture of her doing it. M. * * * * * _A Note from Dorry._ DEAR WILLIAM HENRY'S GRANDMOTHER,-- William Henry wants I should tell you not to be scared when you see another boy's handwriting on the back of this letter, and not to think he's got cold, or got anything else, like measles, or anything of that kind, and not to feel worried about his not writing for so long, for he is all right except the first joint of his forefinger. He crooked that joint, or else uncrooked it, playing base ball. 'T was a heavy ball and he took it whole on that joint, and 't is so stiff he can't handle a penholder. He thinks you will all wonder why he doesn't write, and worry about his getting sick or something, but he never felt better. Appetite very good. He has received his cousin Matilda's letter, and will answer it when he can. He wants to know what she'd think if she had to write poetry for composition. Our teacher told us we must each write one verse about June. I put three of them in for you to see, but don't put our names. "O I love the verdant June, When the birds are all in tune, When the rowers go out to row, When the mowers go out to mow, O, sweetly smells the fragrant hay, As we ride on the load and stow it away." "In June we can sail In the gentle gale, On the waters blue, And catch cod-fish That make a good dish, And mackerel too." "In June the summer skies are clear, And soon green apples do appear. And though they're hard and sour, we know That every day they'll better grow. This teaches us that boys, also, Every day should better grow." P. S. He wants I should tell you 't is tied up in a rag all right and don't hinder his studying. Says he wishes his cousin Lucy Maria would write him one of her kind of letters, that she knows how to write, and tell what they are all doing and what they talk about, and when his finger is well he will answer all the letters they will write to him. Very respectfully, BILLY'S FRIEND, DORRY. * * * * * _Aunt Phebe's Note._ MY DEAR BILLY,-- Grandmother worries about that finger. Do ask Dorry to write again, or else take the penholder in your middle one, though we mistrust that's damaged, or you'd have written before this. I've had my picture taken and send you one to keep. Look at it often, and if you've done anything wrong, think it shakes its head at you! Little wrong things, or big ones, all the same. For little wrongs are more dangerous, because we think they're of no account. But they show what's in a person, same as a little pattern of goods tells what the whole piece is. Show me half an inch of cotton and I'll tell you what color the whole spool is. I'd no idea of having my picture taken. I was right in the heart of baking, when your Uncle J. drove up and said he'd harnessed up on purpose. 'T was all a contrived plan between him and the girls. I saw them smiling together when Mattie brought out my black alpaca. I thought the girls seemed mighty ready to take hold and finish up the baking. But he got caught in his own trap, for Lucy Maria went with us, to make sure my collar and things looked fit to be taken, and she set her foot down we shouldn't leave the saloon till he'd had his, for she was going to have a locket with us both inside, and I had to be done over small. What an operation it is to have your picture taken! If we could only take ether and be carried through! He put my head in a clamp, and crossed my hands, and pinned up a black rag for me to look at, and told me to look easy and natural, and smile a very little! I'm sure I tried to, but your Uncle J. says 't is a very melancholy face, and Lucy Maria says the cheek-bones cast a shadow! Your father says the worst of it is, it does look like me! I think it's too bad to make fun of it, after all I passed through! Your Uncle J. took things easy and joked with the man, and was laughing when the cover was taken off and didn't dare to unlaugh, he says, so he came out all right, with a laughing face, as he always is. The girls want we should be taken large and hang up, side by side, in two oval frames, over the mantel-piece. But their father says he sha' n't be hung up alive, if he can help himself. It isn't likely I shall write to you again very soon. Cousin Joe and his accordion are coming, and he'll bring his sisters, and the young folks about here know them, and I expect there'll be nothing but frolicking. Then there'll be some of your Uncle J.'s folks after that, so you see we'll be all in a hubbub and I shall have to be the very hub of the hubbub, I suppose. Lucy Maria says, "Tell William Henry to send us a charade, or something to amuse the company with." Write when you can. With a great deal of love, your affectionate AUNT PHEBE. P. S. Take good care of your finger. A finger-joint would be a great loss. I think cold water is as good as anything. Grandmother wishes you had some of her carrot salve. Let us hear from you in some way. Grandmother wants to know if the Two Betseys don't make carrot salve. * * * * * I must add here that Lucy Maria was not the girl to give up those pictures in "two oval frames." For by perseverance, and partly with my assistance, the thing was secretly managed, and managed so well that Uncle Jacob actually carried them out home himself, in a bundle to Lucy Maria, without knowing it! And they now hang in triumph over the fireplace in the "girls' chamber." * * * * * _Lucy Maria to William Henry._ DEAR BILLY,-- 'T is a pity about that forefinger. Pray get it well enough to handle a pen, 't is so long since you've written. So you want home matters reported. Eatable matters of course will be most interesting. Milk and butter, plenty. Gingerbread (plain), ditto. Gingerbread (fancy), scarce. Cookies, quiet. Plum-cake, in demand. Snaps, lively. Brown-bread, firm. White-bread (sliced), dull. Biscuits (hot), brisk. Custard, unsteady. Preserves not in the market. What do we do, and what do we talk about? Why, we talk about our cousin William Henry, and what we do can't be told within the bounds of one letter. Think of seven cows' milk to churn into butter, besides a cheese now and then, and besides working for the extra hands we hire this time o' year! I should have written to you before, when we first heard of your accident, if I could have got the time. Hannah Jane is away, and we've let Mattie go with Susie Snow to Grandma Snow's again for a few days. Grandma Snow likes to have Mattie come with Susie, for 't is rather a still, dull place. So you must think we are quite lonesome here now, and we are, especially mother. Father tells her she'd better advertise for a companion. I've a good mind to advertise to be a companion. What do companions do? The old lady might be cross, or the old gentleman, but that wouldn't hurt me, so long as I kept clever myself. Don't doubt I'd get fun out of it some way. There's fun in about everything I think. I've been trying to get father and mother to go to Aunt Lucy's and stay all night. But father thinks there wouldn't be anybody to shut the barn-door, and mother thinks there wouldn't be anybody to do anything, though I've promised to scald the pans, and do up the starched things, and keep Tommy out of the sugar-bowl. He takes a lump every chance he can get. Takes after his father. Father puts sugar on sweetened puddings, if mother isn't looking! We've made some verses to plague Tommy, and when Mattie gets her piano, they're going to be set to music. SONG. A SWEET TOMMY. As turns the needle to the pole, So Tommy to the sugar-bowl. Tra la la, tra la la! Sweet, sweet Tommy! Tommy always takes a toll Going by the sugar-bowl. Tra la la, tra la la! Sweet, sweet Tommy! Were Tommy blind as any mole, He'd always find the sugar-bowl. Tra la la, tra la la! Sweet, sweet Tommy! He's a funny talking fellow. We took him into town last night, to see the illumination. This morning we heard him and Frankie Snow telling Benny Joyce about it. Father and I were listening behind the blinds. Made father's eyes twinkle. Don't you know how they twinkle when he's tickled? "You didn't see the _rumination_ and we did!" we heard Tommy say. "Rumination? What's a rumination?" asked Benny. "O hoo! hoo!" cried Tommy. "Denno what a rumination is!" "Why," said Frankie, "don't you know the _publicans_? Wal, that's it." "O poh!" said Benny. "Publicans and sinners! I knew they's coming!" "And soldiers!" said Frankie. "O my! All a marching together!" "O poh!" said Benny. "I see 'em go by. Paint-pots on their heads, and brushes _in_ 'em! I wasn't goin' to chase!" "Guess nobody wouldn't let ye?" said Frankie. "Didn't either!" cried Tommy, "didn't have paint-pots!" "Did!" said Benny. "Guess my great brother knows!" "Guess we know," said Frankie, "when we went!" "And the town was all _celebrated_," said Tommy. And the houses all _gloomed_ up! And horses! O my! "O poh!" said Benny. "When I grow up, I'm goin' to have a span!" If mother does go, she'll take Tommy, for she wouldn't sleep a wink away from him over night. Father pretends he'd go if he had a handsome span. Says he hasn't got a horse in the barn good enough to take mother out riding. When Mammy Sarah was here washing, she told him how he could get a good span. You know he's always joking about taking summer boarders. Says Mammy Sarah, "Now 't is a wonder to me you don't do it, for summer boarders is as good as a gold-mine. Money runs right out of their pockets, and all you have to do is to catch it." She says we could make enough out of a couple of them, in a month's time, to buy a handsome span, and she isn't sure but the harness. I think we begin to be a little in earnest about summer boarders. For we have rooms enough, in both houses together, and milk and vegetables, and mother's a splendid cook. Mammy Sarah says, "They ain't diffikilt, and after they've been in the country couple of weeks, they don't eat so very much more than other folks." Father says he wants to take them more for the entertainment than the money. He wants rich ones, but not the sensible kind, that know money isn't the only thing worth having. Says what he wants is that silly, stuck-up kind, that put on airs, and make fools of themselves, they'd be so amusing! Thinks the best sort for our use would be specimens that went up quite sudden from poor to rich, like balloons, all filled with gas. I believe there'd be lots of fun to be made out of them. I've seen one or two. Gracious! You'd think they weren't born on the same planet with poor folks. Mother'd rather have the really well-informed, sensible kind, that we may learn something from them. A couple of each would be just the thing. How do you like mother's picture? We don't feel at all satisfied with it. If she could only be taken at home! Then she'd look natural. Father says the world is going ahead so fast, he believes the time will come when every family will have its own picture-machine, much as it has its own frying-pan. Then when folks have on their best expressions, why, clap it right before them. Then they'll look homish. Says what he wants is to have mother's face when she's just made a batch of uncommon light biscuits, or when Tommy's said something smart. Won't there be funny pictures when we can hold up a machine before anybody any minute, like a frying-pan, and catch faces glad, or mad, or sad, or any way? I made believe take Tommy's and then showed them to him on a piece of paper. Guess I'll put them in the letter. They'll do to amuse you. I draw an hour or so every day. First, I have to make my hour. Sometimes I have to make more. For I will read a little, if the world stops because of it. But about the faces. First one is when he was crying because he couldn't have sugar on his potatoes. Next one is when he was spunky at Frankie Snow for bursting his little red balloon. The pleased-looking face is when father brought him home a little ship all rigged, and the laughing one is when the cow put her head in the window. We tell him we'll have them framed and hung up so he can see just how he looks. Mother says 't is all very well to laugh at Tommy, but she guesses some older ones' pictures wouldn't always look smiling and pleasant, take them the year through! [Illustration] As soon as your finger is itself again do write, for we miss your letters. We expect to have gay times here this summer. Company coming, but we sha' n't make company of them. Except to have splendid times. What shall we do evenings? If you go anywhere where there is anything going on, do write us about it, so we can go on the same way. When are you coming? Write me a good long letter when you can. Your affectionate Cousin, LUCY MARIA. Your father is going to write you a letter. Quite wonderful for him. O William Henry, you don't know how much I think of your father, and what a good man he is! I guess you'd better write to your grandmother before you do me; she's so pleased to have you write to her. Father wants to know when that ball hit you if you _bawled_. * * * * * Lucy Maria's "picture-taker" made a great deal of fun for them, and possibly did some good. She constructed a queer long-handled affair, and, at the most unexpected moments, this would be thrust before the faces of different members of the family, more especially Tommy, Matilda, or Georgiana, and their "pictures" would be sure to appear to them soon after, "glad, or mad, or sad, or any way." And the plan of "summer boarders" also furnished entertainment. The talk on this subject was quite amusing, particularly when it touched the subject of "advertising." Lucy Maria suggested this ending:-- "None but the silly, or the really well-informed need apply." But Mr. Carver thought such a notice would fail of bringing a single boarder. For silly people did not know they were silly, and the really well-informed were the very last ones to think themselves so. * * * * * _William Henry to Aunt Phebe._ DEAR AUNT PHEBE,-- I thank you for taking your time to write to me, when you have so much work to do. My forefinger has about recovered the use of itself. The middle one did go lame a spell, but now 't is very well, I thank you. Mrs. Wedding Cake did them up for me. I think she's a very kind woman. Dorry says he'd put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes, or lay down his life, if she wanted him to, or anything else, for the only woman he knows that will smile on boys' mud and on boys' noise. Ten of us went on an excursion with the teacher, half-price, to Boston, and had a long ride in the cars, over forty miles. We went everywhere, and saw lots of things. Went into the Natural History building. You can go in for nothing. You stand on the floor, at the bottom and look way up to the top. All round inside are galleries running round, with alcoves letting out of them, where they keep all sorts of unknown beasts and birds and bugs and snakes. Some of those great birds are regular smashers! 'Most dazzles your eyes to look at their feathers, they're such bright red! I'd just give a guess how tall they were, but don't believe I'd come within a foot or two. Also butterflies of every kind, besides skeletons of monkeys and children and minerals and all kinds of grasses and seeds, and nuts there such as you never cracked or thought of! They are there because they are seeds, not because they are nuts. And there's a cast of a great ugly monster, big as several elephants, that used to walk round the earth before any men lived in it. If he wasn't a ripper! Could leave his hind feet on the ground and put his fore paws up in the trees and eat the tops off! They call him a Megotharium! I hope he's spelt right, though he ought not to expect it, and I don't know as it makes much difference, seeing he lived thousands of years before the flood, and lucky he did, Dorry says, for the old ark couldn't have floated with many of that sort aboard. He wasn't named till long after he was dead and buried. Patient waiter is no loser, Dorry says, for he's got more name than the ones that live now, and is taken more notice of. We saw a cannon-ball on the side of Brattle Street Church, where 't was fired in the Revolution, and we went to the top of the State House. Made our knees ache going up so many steps, but it pays. For you can look all over the harbor, and all round the country, and see the white towns, and steeples, for miles and miles. Boston was built on three hills and the State House is on one of them. I can't write any more, now. W. B. has left school, because his father got a place for him in New York. His father thought he was old enough to begin. He's a good deal older than I am. From your affectionate Nephew, WILLIAM HENRY. [Illustration] How do you like this picture of that great Mego--I won't try to spell him again--eating off the tree-tops? The leaves on the trees then were different from the ones we have now. Dorry made the leaves, and I made the creature. * * * * * _A Letter to William Henry from his Father._ MY DEAR SON,-- Perhaps you have thought that because I am rather a silent man, and do not very often write you a letter, that I have not very much feeling and do not take interest in you. But no one knows how closely I am watching my boy as Time is bringing him up from boyhood to manhood. Sometimes your grandmother worries about your being where there may be bad boys; but I tell her that among so many there must be both good and bad, and if you choose the bad you show very poor judgment. I think if a boy picks out bad companions it shows there is something bad in himself. She says I ought to keep giving you good advice, now you are just starting in life, and charge you to be honest and truthful and so forth. I tell her that would be something as it would be if you were just starting on a pleasant journey, and I should say, "Now, William Henry, don't put out your own eyes at the beginning, or cut the cords of your legs!" Do you see what I mean? A boy that is _not_ honest and truthful puts out his own eyes and cripples himself at the very beginning. There is a good deal said about arriving at honor and distinction. I don't want you to think about _arriving_ at honor. I want you to take honor to start with. And as for distinction, a man, in the long run, is never distinguished for anything but what he really is. So make up your mind just what you want to pass for, and be it. For you will pass for what you are, not what you try to appear. Go into the woods and see how easily you can tell one tree from another. You see oak leaves on one, and you know that is oak all the way through. You see pine needles on another, and you know that is pine all the way through. A pine-tree may want to look like an oak, and try to look like an oak, and think it does look like an oak, as it can't see itself. But nobody is cheated. So a rascally fellow may want to appear fair and honest, and try to appear fair and honest, and think he does appear fair and honest, as he can't see himself. But, in the long run, nobody is cheated. For you can read a man's character about as easy as you can the leaves on the trees. Sometimes I sit down in a grocery store and hear the neighbors talked about, and 't is curious to find how well everybody is known. It seems as if every man walked round, labelled, as you may say, same as preserve jars are labelled, currant, quince, &c. Only he don't know what his label is. Just as likely as not a man may think his label is Quince Marmelade, when 't is only Pickled String Beans! Just so with boys. Grown folks notice boys a great deal, though when I was a boy, I never knew they did. The little affairs of play-time and school-time, and their home-ways are all talked over, and by the time a boy is twelve years old, it is pretty well known what sort of a man he will make. Now don't mistake my meaning. I don't want you to be true because people will know it if you are not, but because it is right and noble to be so. I want you to be able to respect yourself. Never do anything that you like yourself any the less for doing. A boy of your age is old enough to be looking ahead some, to see what he is aiming at. I don't suppose you want to drift, like the sea-weed, that lodges wherever the waves toss it up! Set up your mark, and a good high one. And be sure and remember that, as a general thing, there is no such thing as luck. If a man seems to be a lucky merchant, or lawyer, or anything else, 't is because he has the talent, the industry, the determined will, that make him so. People see the luck, but they don't always see the "taking pains" that's behind it. I remember you wrote us a letter once, and spoke of a nice house, with nice things inside, that you meant to have by "trying hard enough." There's a good deal in that. We've got to try hard, and try long, and try often, and try again, and keep trying. That house never'll come down to you. You've got to climb up to it, step by step. I don't know as I have anything to say about the folly of riches. On the contrary, I think 't is a very good plan to have money enough to buy books and other things worth having. I don't see why a man can't be getting knowledge and growing better, at the same time he is growing richer. Some poor folks have a prejudice against rich folks. I haven't any. Rich people have follies, but poor people copy them if they can. That is to say, we often see poor people making as big fools of themselves as they can, with the means they have. Money won't hurt you, Billy, so long as you keep common sense and a true heart. We are all watching you and thinking of you, here at home. If you _should_ go wrong 't would be a sad blow for both families. Perhaps I ought to tell you how I feel towards you, and how, ever since your mother's death, my heart has been bound up in you and Georgie. You would then know what a crushing thing it would be to me if you were found wanting in principle. But I am not very good, either at talking or writing, so do remember, dear boy, that even when I don't say a word, I'm thinking about you and loving you always. God bless you! From your affectionate FATHER. W. B., it seems, from his own account, set sail on the great sea of commerce with flying colors, and favorable winds,--probably the Trade-winds. * * * * * _Old Wonder Boy to William Henry._ DEAR FRIEND,-- I like my place, and think it is a very excellent one. It is "Veazey & Summ's." When you get a place it is my advice that you should procure one in New York, as New York is greatly superior to Boston. Boston is a one-horse place. I wouldn't be seen riding in that slow coach. Washington Street could be put whole into Broadway, and not know it was there hardly, for you could travel both sides and all round it. Our store is a very excellent store. Some consider it greatly superior to Stewart's. All our clerks dress in very superior style and go in very good society, and so I learn to use very good language. We keep boys to do the errands, and porters. All the stylish people do their trading here. The young ladies like to trade with me very much. The New York ladies are greatly superior to any other ladies. The firm think a great deal of me, so I expect to be promoted quite fast. I am learning to smoke. I have got a very handsome pipe. The head clerk thinks it has got a very superior finish to it. We two are quite thick. How are all the fellers? Write soon. Remember me to all inquiring friends, and excuse handwriting. Your friend, WALTER BRIESDEN. * * * * * _William Henry to Matilda._ DEAR COUSIN,-- Now I'm going to answer your letter, and then I sha' n't have to think about it any longer. I was sorry to hear about poor Reddie. But if it had been Tommy, then it would have been a great deal worse. Think of that. Dorry and I have been wishing 'most a week about something, and now I'll tell you what 't is about. About a party. 'T is going to be at Colonel Grey's. He lives in a large light-colored brick house, with a piazza round it, and a fountain, and bronze dogs, and everything lovely. It is Maud Grey's birthday party. Sixteen years old. Old and young are going to be invited, because her little sister's birthday comes next day to hers. Now sometimes when there's a party some of the biggest of our fellows get invited, because there are not very many young gentlemen in town, and they are glad to take some from the school. But we two never have yet. But Dorry thinks we stand a better chance now, for we've been to dancing-school, and will do to fill up sets with. Maud Grey didn't go as a scholar, but she went spectator sometimes, and took my partner's place once, when her string of beads broke. Dorry was in the same set. I never polkaed better in my life, for she took me round and made me keep time whether I wanted to or not, but I told Dorry I felt just like a little boy that had been lifted over a puddle. He's afraid she won't remember us, but I guess I'm afraid she will, and then won't invite such a bad dancer. We two thought we'd walk by the house, just for fun, and make ourselves look tall. So we held up our chins, and swung two little canes we'd cut, going along, for small chaps are plenty enough, but young gentlemen go off to college, or stores, soon's they're of any size. The blinds were all shut up, but Dorry said there was hope if the slats were turned the right way. Blind slats here move all ways. Yesterday, in school-time, I saw a colored man coming towards the school-house, and thought 't was Cicero, the one that works for Colonel Grey, coming with the invitations, and made a loud "hem!" for Dorry to look up, and a hiss, to mean Cicero, and pointed out doors. 't wasn't very loud, but that one we call Brown Bread, that has eyes in the back of his head, and ears all over him, and smells rat where there isn't any, and wears slippers, so you can't hear him, even if 'tis still enough to drop a pin,--I thought he was over the other side of the room, tending to his own affairs, but all of a sudden he was standing just back of me, and I had to lose a recess just for that. And 't wasn't Cicero after all, but the one that comes after the leavings.--(Somebody knocks.) _Afternoon._--Hurrah! We're going! The one that knocked at the door was Spicey, with our invitations. When I come home I'll bring them home to show. They came through the post-office. We expect they all came to the professor, with orders to pick out the ten tallest ones, for they are directed in his writing. I never went to such a party, and shouldn't know how to behave, if 't wasn't for Dorry. First thing you do is to go up and speak to the lady of the house and the lady of the party. I mean after you've been up stairs, and looked in the looking-glass and smoothed down your hair. Mine always comes up again. I've tried water and I've tried oil, and I've tried beef-marrow, but 't is bound to come up. Dorry says I ought to put it in a net. Don't you remember that time I had my head shaved off close, and how it looked like an orange? I'm glad 't isn't so red as it was. 'T is considerable dark now. When you come down you walk up to the lady of the house and say "How do you do?" and shake hands, and when you go home you have to bid her good-night, and say you've had a very pleasant time, and shake hands again. Not shove out your fist, as if you were shoving a croquet-ball, but slow, with the fingers about straight, and not speak it out blunt, as if you were singing out "good-night!" to the fellers, but quite softly and smiling. Dorry's been showing me beforehand. Bubby Short stood up in the floor, and had the bedspread tied round him with a cod-line, for a trail, and shavings for curls. He was the lady of the house and we walked up to him, and said, "How do you do, Mrs. Grey?" and so forth. Dorry drew this picture of us. He draws better than I do. I will write about the party. [Illustration] From your Cousin, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * _William Henry to his Grandmother._ MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-- Now if you will be a good little grandmother, and promise never to worry any more, then I'll tell you about that party. We had to wear white gloves. I'll begin at the outside. The piazzas had colored lights hanging round them, and there were colored lights hung in the trees and the gateways. 'T was a foggy night, and those colored lights lighted up the fog all around, so when you came towards the place it looked just like a great bright spot in the midst of darkness. There was a tall lady, standing in the middle of the room, with a splendid dress on, dragging way behind her, and I went right up to her, and just got my foot the way Mr. Tornero told us, and the palm of my hand right, when Dorry jerked me back by my jacket and said she wasn't the right one. You see we got belated, going back after our clean pocket-handkerchiefs, and hurried so that Dorry fell down and muddied his trousers' knees, but lucky 't was close to the Two Betseys' shop, for we went in there and got sponged up, but we had to wait for 'em to dry. Lame Betsey said she used to take care of Maud Grey when she was a little scrap, and she wanted to make her a birthday present. So they both hunted round, to see if they had anything. In the desk they found a little thin book, a funny-looking old blue-covered book, "Advice to a Young Lady," that was given to Lame Betsey when she was young. The title was on the blue cover. 'T was a funny-looking thing and it smelt snuffy. She asked me to give it to Maud, after she'd written her name in it. I tell you now Lame Betsey makes quite good letters! I didn't want to take the book, but I did, for both Betseys are clever women. [Illustration] All this was the reason we got belated, and Mrs. Grey had got mixed up with the other people, but we found her and did the right thing by her. And Maud too. I don't think any of you would believe that I could behave so well! so polite I mean. Course I didn't feel bashful any! O no! They had four pieces, and they played as if they knew how. I didn't dance at the first of it. Didn't dare to. 'T was too light there. The carpets were covered with white. Then chandeliers, and lamps, and wax candles, and flowers everywhere they could be, set up in vases,--one lady called vases, varzes,--and hanging-baskets. I never was in such a beautiful place. The ladies sang at the piano, and the young gentlemen turned their leaves over. O you ought to 've heard 'em when the tunes went up, up, up! Enough to make you catch your breath! Seemed as if it could never get down again. I don't like that kind. But Dorry said 'twas opera style and nobody was to blame but me, if I didn't like it. Now John Brown's Body, I like that, and when they all sang that, I joined right in, same as any of them. For I knew I knew that tune. But first one looked round at me, and then another looked round at me, as if something was the matter. I thought I saw 'em smiling. Then I kept still. But I didn't know I was singing wrong. O, I do wish I knew what this singing is! Seems easy enough. Now when the tune goes up loud, I go up loud, and when that goes down low, I go down low. But Dorry says it isn't singing. Says 'tis discord. But I can't tell discord from any other cord, and he says the harder I try, the worse noise I make. I do wish I could roar out that Glory Hallelujah! for I feel the tune inside of me, but it never comes out right. Dorry laughs when I set out to sing. He says I chase the tune up and down all the way through, and never hit it! Now, if 't is right inside, why can't it come out right? I don't see! We went into a large room to eat refreshments, and I wish Aunt Phebe could see the things we had. And taste of them too. I saved the frosting off my cake for Tommy. 'T is wrapped up in a paper in my trunk. 'T is different from your frosting, good deal harder. I had a sort of funny time in that room. Somebody had to hit my elbow when I was passing custard to a girl, and joggled over a mess of it on to her white dress and my trousers. I whipped out my pocket-handkerchief to sop it up, and whipped out that little blue book. Somebody picked it up, and one young man, that had been cutting up all the evening, Maud Grey's cousin, he got hold of it and read her name and called out to her to come get her present, and made a good deal of fun about it, and began to read it loud. She wanted to know who brought it, and somebody told her I was the one. I began to grow red as fire, but all of a sudden I thought, Now, Billy, what's the use? So I said very plain, "Miss Grey, Lame Betsey sent you that book." She didn't laugh very much, only smiled and asked me to tell Lame Betsey she was glad that she remembered her. Guess she thought I looked bashful, for afterwards she asked me if I wouldn't try a polka with her. I don't think she's very proud, for when I was looking at a painted vase, she came and told me how it was done, for all I wasn't much acquainted with her. She talked to me as easy and sociable as if she'd been Lucy Maria. A company of us got together in one of the rooms and ate our ice-creams there, and while we were eating them, we beheaded words. Lucy Maria must read this letter, for she'll want to know how. When you behead a word you take off the first letter. It's fun, when you get beheading them fast. The spelling mustn't be changed. Dorry made some of these. I didn't. I couldn't think fast enough. Behead an article of dress, and you leave a farming tool. Shoe--hoe. I'll put the rest of the answers at the bottom, so as to give all of you a chance to guess what they are. 1. Behead what leads men to fight, and you leave the cause of much misery, sin, and death. 2. Behead what young ladies are said to be fond of, and you leave a young lady. 3. Behead what comes nearest the hand, and you leave what comes nearest the heart. 4. Behead something sweet, and it leaves an address to the sweet. 5. Behead part of a coach, and you leave part of yourself. Behead that, and you leave a fish. 6. Behead a rogue, and you leave a musician. 7. Behead an old-fashioned occupation, and you leave what prevents many a parting. 8. Behead a part of ladies' apparel, and you leave what is higher than the king. 9. Behead what always comes hard, and you leave what makes things go easy. 10. Behead a weapon, and you leave a fruit. Behead that, and you leave part of the body. 1. Drum, rum. 2. Glass, lass. 3. Glove, love. 4. Molasses, O Lasses! 5. Wheel, heel, eel. 6. Sharper, harper. 7. Spin, pin. 8. Lace, ace. 9. Toil, oil. 10. Spear, pear, ear. Sometimes they make them in rhyme. Behead what is born in the fire, And lives but a moment or so,-- For it can't live long you know,-- And you leave what all admire. Where grass so green doth grow, And trees in many a row. Behead this last, and you leave in its place What once preserved the human race. Spark, park, ark. Behead a musical term so sweet, And you leave what runs without any feet. Behead again, and, sad to tell, You leave what is sick and never gets well. To what is left add the letter D, And you have a lawyer of high degree. Trill, rill, ill, "LL D." I've got something a good deal funnier to tell, but I'm going to write all about that in Lucy Maria's letter. I guess she'll be very glad when she gets that letter, for 'twill tell her how to do something very funny. I will send her the story of it too, so she won't have to make up anything herself. Don't you think I had a pretty good time? I hope my sister is well, and hope you all are. Lucy Maria must read this letter. She could make those beheadings quicker'n lightning. I am well. Don't believe I shall ever be sick. From your affectionate Grandson, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. I've been to a lecture on good health. The man said there were two parts to the air, a good part and a poison part, and every time we breathe we keep in the good part, and breathe out the poison part. So if a room were sealed up, air-tight, a man living in it would soon die, for he would use up all the good part and leave the poison part. So we ought to always let fresh air in, that hasn't been breathed. He says in a crowded room, if there is no fresh air coming in, we have to use over what other folks have breathed, whether they are sick or well. W. H. * * * * * What with our young friend's frequent visits to the Two Betseys, his attendance at the dancing-school, and going to parties and to lectures, it would seem as though his time was not wholly taken up with his studies. Among William Henry's letters to Lucy Maria I find the following one about the Dwarf, and with it, in Lucy Maria's handwriting, I find a copy of the Narrative alluded to. * * * * * _William Henry to Lucy Maria._ DEAR COUSIN,-- I guess you will want to know how this was done, that I'm going to write about, so I will tell you about it, then you will know how to make one out of Tommy, but I guess a bigger boy would be better. It doesn't make much difference about the size, if he can keep a sober face while somebody tells a story about him, and do the things he's told to. I couldn't guess how 't was done till Bubby Short told me. Bubby Short was the dwarf. He was invited on purpose, because he is up to all kinds of fun, and can act dialogues, be an old man, or old woman, or anything you want him to. I will tell you exactly how 't was done, so you will know. And I will send you the Narrative to copy. But you can't keep it very long. It was given to Bubby Short. The showman was Maud Grey's cousin. He was dressed in a turban, with long robes, and he had black rings made round his eyes, and his face was tatooed with a lead-pencil. Course he made up the story and made the pictures to it too. But he pretended he got them in the dwarf's country, that was named "Empskutia." I thought maybe you'd like to read it, then if you made one you could think of something to say. 'T was only meant for the little ones, he said, but we all liked to hear it. No matter if it was nonsense, we didn't care. Now, I'll begin. First, they had a table, with a long table-cloth on it that touched the floor. It must touch the floor, so as to hide the _real_ feet of the one that's going to be the dwarf. When Bubby Short was all ready he sat down to the table, same as if he'd been doing his examples or eating his dinner,--sat facing the company and waited for the curtain to rise. Course you have to have a curtain. The table-cloth covered the lower part of him. His own hands and arms were turned into feet and legs for the dwarf. I'll tell you how. The arms had little trousers on them, and the hands were put into nice little button-boots, so they looked like legs and feet. He was all stuffed out above his waist, and had on a stiff shirt bosom, and breastpin, and necktie, and false whiskers, and a wig made of black curled hair, and a tasselled cap, with a gilt band round it. He crooked his arms at the elbows and laid them flat on the table, with the button-boots towards the curtain, so when the curtain went up it looked like a little dwarf sitting down, facing the company. Now I must tell you where the dwarf's arms and hands came from. For you know that Bubby Short's arms and hands were made into legs and feet for the dwarf. Now to make arms, he had on a little coat, with the sleeves of it stuffed out to look like arms, and then a stuffed pair of white cotton gloves was sewed on to the sleeves, to look like hands, and these gloves were pinned together by the fingers in front of his waist so as to look like clasped hands. The showman asked him to do different things. Asked him to try to stand up. Then Bubby Short began to get up, very slow, as if 't was tough work to do it, and let his arms straighten themselves down, and looked just as if there was a little short fellow standing on the table. I thought like enough you'd like to know how, so as to make one some time, out of Tommy or some bigger boy that knows how to whistle. The showman made his dwarf whistle a funny tune, and told us 't was an air of his native country. Then made him step out the tune with his little button-boots, and it seemed just like a little dancing dwarf. The showman said that was the national dance of his country. I guess Uncle Jacob would like to see one. I guess his eyes would twinkle. When the curtain went up you ought to 've heard the folks roar! Some of them thought 't was real. When the company asked him if he could move his arms, he shook his head, no. Then the showman said he could make him do it, by whispering a charm in his ear. So he went close up and whispered, and took out the pin that pinned the gloves, in a secret way, and then the arms dropped apart. All the way he could move his arms was by shaking his body, and then only a little. The showman said the fearful accident that stopped his growth lost him the use of his arms, though he could dance and whistle and make a bow [_here he made him make a bow_], and could scratch his ear with his boot [_here he scratched his ear with the button-boot-toe_], but his brain was strong as anybody's. Then afterwards he told how much he knew. But you can read about it in the Narrative. He made him crook his knees sideways. He could do this easy enough, for 't was only the elbows bending outwards. Then he made him sit down again. I don't believe any of you ever saw anything so funny. The showman kept a very sober face all the time, and 'most made us believe every word of his story was true, and at the end he spoke very loud and acted it out, like an orator. Your affectionate Cousin, WILLIAM HENRY. P. S. Will you please send back the picture of that creature we sent you once? We want to do something with it. I put in the Narrative some of the things the audience did. NARRATIVE. MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS,-- Hyladdu Alizamrald, the unfortunate gentleman now before you, was born in the country of Empskutia, on the borders of the great unknown region of Phlezzogripotamia, which lies beyond the sources of the river Phlezzra. He was the only child of a nobleman, whose wealth was unbounded, and whose power was immense. The day of his birth was made a day of rejoicing throughout the city. Not only were fountains of wine set flowing, that none might go athirst (for the Empskutians are driest when they're happiest), but living fountains of milk also, that every child might, on that happy day, drink its fill of the pure infantine fluid. It is perhaps needless to remark that these last were cows, driven in from the surrounding plains. Hyladdu was an infant of great promise, and bade fair to become the pride of his native land, instead of being--of being--pardon my emotion. [_Showman puts handkerchief to his eyes. Hyladdu wipes away a tear with his boot-toe._] Yes, gentlemen and ladies [_calmer_], at his birth there seemed to be no reason why Hyladdu's head should not rise as far towards the clouds as will yours, my smiling young friends before me. Briefly, he was not born a dwarf. Shall I relate how this sweet flower of promise was nipped in the bud? [_The audience cry, "Yes! yes!" Hyladdu takes his handkerchief in both boots and wipes his eyes._] Listen, then. When Hyladdu had reached the age of eighty-one days--eighty-one being the third multiple of three--his parents, according to the custom of the country, summoned to the cradle of the young child a Thulsk. The Thulski are a tall, mysterious race of prophets, known only in Empskutia, who attain to an unknown age. Many of them cannot even remember their own boyhood. These prophets are reverenced by all the people. As year after year is added to their life, they grow thin, dark, and shrivelled, like mummies. The skin is dry and hangs loose about the bones. The hair is long and white, and every year adds to its length and its whiteness, while the eyes seem blacker and more piercing. They wear very high black caps, square, and carry in the hand a peculiar flower, a snow-white flower, having five petals, which grows in secret places, and which, even if found, no other person ever dare to pluck, lest its peculiar smell should work a charm upon them. None but the Thulski themselves know when and where the Thulski die. If they have graves they are unknown graves, though it is a common belief in the country that the mysterious white-petalled flower blooms only in their burial-places. During life they live apart from all others, seldom speaking, even when mingled in the busy crowd. The order of the Thulski is kept up in this way. Their chief, clad in long dark robes, wanders silently the streets, and when, among the children at play, he discovers one who has some peculiar mark about him,--the nature of this mark is unknown,--he beckons, and the child follows him. Must follow him. For that silent beckoning joins him to their order. He is from that moment a Thulsk, and has no wish to escape. Now, although to be a Thulsk is to be certain of long life, yet no mother desires this fate for her child, but, on the contrary, children are warned against them, and have among themselves a secret sign, a rapid motion of the fingers, which means "scatter!" And if, when they are at play, the white-haired prophet is seen, though even at a great distance, this sign is rapidly made, and the little flock disappears so instantly, one would suppose the earth had swallowed them. You will see, before my melancholy story is finished, what all this has to do with Hyladdu's misfortune. As I was saying, when he had attained the age of eighty-one days,--eighty-one being the third multiple of three,--his parents, according to the custom of the Empskutians, summoned one of these prophets to the cradle of their child, that his fortunes might be foretold. The weird, shrivelled old Thulsk, with his flowing white hair, wrapped his dark robes about him, and sat silently at the low cradle, gazing upon the sleeping child. At length he arose, with a look of sorrow, and would have departed without uttering a single word. "Speak! speak!" cried the father. "Ah, do not speak!" murmured the mother; for she perceived that the prophet foresaw evil. "Yet speak, yes, speak!" she cried. "Let us know the worst, that we may prepare ourselves." The prophet then made a reply, of which these five words are a translation:-- "Sorrow cometh sufficiently soon. Wait!" But, on being very earnestly entreated, he disclosed that before the beautiful infant attained his sixth year--six being the double of three--he would sustain injuries from a fall, by which either his mind or his body would be blighted. Which, it was not given him to say. He added that it grieved him to still further disclose that he himself would be in some way connected with the child's misfortune, though in what way even his prophetic vision could not foresee. Now it may readily be supposed that the parents spared no pains to ward off from their child this unknown danger. The upper windows were immediately fastened down, fresh air being secured by means of hinges on each square of glass. As soon as he could walk sentinels were placed at every flight of stairs, and to keep him out of the cellar, a neighboring wine-merchant was invited to store his goods there, so that wine-butts took up every inch of room, from floor to ceiling. Ladders and movable steps he was not allowed the sight of, and as it seems as natural for boys to climb trees as to breathe the air around them, every tree in the grounds was protected by sharp iron teeth. The longing which every boy has to climb is called the climbing instinct. In Hyladdu the climbing instinct was nipped in the bud,--smothered, crushed, kept under. He was forbidden to swing on gates, taught to avoid fence-posts, lamp-posts, and flag-staffs, and to look upon hills as summits of danger. Of shinning, he knew but the name. And that the very idea of climbing might be kept from his mind, all climbing plants were rooted out from the grounds; not even a morning-glory was allowed to run up a string! By these means the anxious parents hoped to prevent what the Thulsk had foretold, from coming to pass. "For," said they, "if he never goes up, he can never fall down." But mark now how all these precautions were the very means of making the prophecy prove true. For, had he only been taught to climb, and had been accustomed to high places, that sad accident might not have taken place and the blighted individual before you might now have been one of the flowers of his country! [_Emotion._] Pardon me, friends. Tears come unbidden. [_Showman holds handkerchief to his eyes. Dwarf ditto, with boots._] Imagine now the dear child, grown a beautiful boy of five summers,--a boy of beaming blue eyes, and a rosy cheek! of flaxen curls and a graceful motion! The idol of his parents, the joy of his friends! Sweet in disposition, of tender feelings, quick to learn, truthful, affectionate, gentle in his manners, winning in his ways, no wonder that he was so well beloved! It was only one short week before his sixth birthday, and his friends were trembling with joy, that the fatal time had so nearly passed, when the calamity which had so long hung over him like a cloud descended upon him like a thunderbolt! In other words, he lacked but a week of six, and all were rejoicing that the danger was nearly passed, when the event happened. Hyladdu, being, like most boys, of a playful turn of mind, was sometimes permitted to join in the games of other children, in front of his father's mansion, attended always by a faithful servant. On this particular day they were amusing themselves by playing with some silver-coated marbles, a box of which had been presented to Hyladdu by his grandmother, who was one of the court ladies. A very pretty group they were. The children of that country, like their fathers, were dressed in long white robes, with bright sashes. On their heads they wore caps of blue or scarlet, which turned up with points before, behind, and at each side. On each point a little silver bell was hung, that the servants might have less difficulty in following them about. Their shoes were pointed at the toes. Among those silver marbles was an "alley" of great beauty, glistening with rubies, and inlaid with pearl. This alley never was played for in earnest. [_Here the dwarf beckons to the showman, and whispers in his ear._] He informs me that the laws forbade playing in earnest. I will now finish as rapidly as possible. In the course of the game, this precious "alley" rolled a long distance, until it came to a brick in the pavement, which was set slanting, or had become so by a sinking of the ground underneath. This brick gave the "alley" a turn sideways to the left, and it rolled at last through a crack in the garden fence, and hid itself in the grass. The servant, in great haste, darted through the gate in search of it. Meanwhile, slowly down the street, though at a distance, a Thulsk was approaching. It was the same who had nearly six years before sat by Hyladdu's cradle. He walked silently on, his eyes cast down, his hands clasped, holding between them the five-petalled flower. One of the boys, perceiving him, made the sign of warning. Instantly they scattered, like a flock of pigeons, leaving their little silver-belled caps on the ground. Hyladdu, seeing the cellar open, would have hidden himself there, but no space was left between the wine-butts. A much larger boy seized his hand and pulled him into a strange house, and then, in his fright, dragged him through long passage-ways, and up seven flights of stairs; for the Empskutians build their houses to an immense height. Here they sat down to breathe awhile, and Hyladdu begged the boy to go for the faithful servant, that he might lead him home. Now no sooner was the boy gone than Hyladdu began to look about him, and presently he discovered a slender staircase going still higher. Having climbed seven flights with help, he felt no fear in attempting the eighth alone. This slender staircase conducted him to the roof of the building. [_Emotion and handkerchief._] Excuse my emotion. But when I think what might have happened, if something else had not happened to prevent, when I think that he might have fallen from that immense height, to be dashed in pieces beneath, I--I--But I will let my story take its course. And now let me tell you that the people of Empskutia were very fond of the beautiful. The streets were adorned with ornamental trees, and over the roofs of the houses were trained flowering vines, which ran to the highest peak of cupola or chimney, and, blooming sweetly there, filled the whole air with fragrance. It was the custom of the people to place stout iron hooks along the eaves of their dwellings, from which were suspended immense flower-pots of various beautiful designs. In these pots the flowering vines took root and from thence not only climbed the roof, but trailed gracefully down, thus giving the city a festive appearance, like a never-ending gala-day. When Hyladdu looked out from the top of that last eighth flight, the long-smothered instinct of climbing burst out like a hidden fire. It would not be restrained. Ah, now will be seen the folly of crushing that instinct. Had he only have been accustomed to dizzy heights, made familiar with danger, how different might have been his fate! [_Emotion._] The instinct of climbing, as I said, was now strong upon him! No sooner did he perceive that there was still a height to gain than he resolved to gain that height. Nothing less would satisfy him than sitting astride the ridgepole, where a pair of bright-feathered birds had built their nest, and were then feeding their young. He ventured out, made his way cautiously up, holding on by the vines. Ah, could his parents have seen him then! He arrived at the top, and there, seated on that lofty pinnacle, surrounded by beautiful flowers, he gazed on the scene below, and enjoyed a new happiness. For the first time in his life he looked down from a height! for the first time in his life he gazed abroad over a wide extended country! Such pleasure he had never known, and the faithful servant, anxiously searching, might have found him there, still enjoying it, but for a pretty little bluebird, that flew suddenly down and startled him, while he was gazing at some object far away. This little bird came flying through the air, and alighted for an instant on the child's head, thinking perhaps to make its nest in the soft curls, or it might have thought his rosy lips were cherries. The suddenness with which it came startled Hyladdu. He trembled, he lost his hold, slipped, then caught by a vine, it gave way, he slipped again, but, having no skill in climbing, slipped lower and lower, and would have fallen from the roof and been dashed in pieces, but for that custom which was mentioned just now, of suspending large flower-pots from the eaves. It happened that his course lay directly towards one of these iron hooks. He dropped, therefore, into the immense flower-pot beneath, where he lay as secure as a babe in its cradle! From this frightful position he was at length rescued by one of the hook and ladder company of that city, and placed in his mother's arms. His own arms were nearly paralyzed by his frantic efforts to cling to some support, so that ever afterwards he could move them but very slightly, as you perceive. [_Dwarf moves his arms slightly, by shaking his body._] And though the child's life was spared, yet the terrible fright had the effect of stopping his growth! Yes, my young friends, Hyladdu never grew more, except in wisdom! The innocent cause of all this, the poor sorrowing grandmother, died of remorse! And now my story becomes a more pleasing one to tell. Although the child's body remained dwarfed in size, yet his heart grew in goodness, and his mind grew in knowledge, and he was beloved and respected by all. Debarred earthly mountains, he mounted the heights of learning. The climbing instinct, which his body could not satisfy, was developed in his mind. He craved books, he craved whole libraries. Teacher after teacher came, all exhausting upon him their treasures of knowledge. Music and drawing, studied scientifically, were his amusements. He mastered astronomy, mineralogy, algebra, conchology, trigonometry, physiology, engineering, metaphysics, technology, geology, phrenology, also foreign languages unnumbered, with all the literature belonging to each. [_Sensation in the audience._] And when at last the storehouses of wisdom seemed exhausted, a report reached him of a great country beyond the seas, called the United States of America, in whose excellent schools there remains something yet to learn! [_Applause from the audience._] He studied the written language of that country, read its history, and resolved to seek its shores. For he longed to behold the land of the Revolutionary War; to read the Declaration of Independence, and to stand upon the grave of Old John Brown! [_Applause._] He had heard of Bunker's Hill. Travellers said that upon whomsoever rested the shadow of its monument, that person possessed forever after the unflinching bravery of those who bled and perished there! [_Cheers._] He had heard of Plymouth Rock [_Cheers_], and been told that his foot once planted firmly upon it, he would feel springing up within him all the heroism, the self-sacrifice, and the everlasting perseverance of the glorious Pilgrim Fathers! [_Prolonged cheering._] I have now, my young friends, told you, very briefly, the history of this remarkable character. His age is thirty-four years. He is of a cheerful disposition, having long ago resolved to look his misfortune steadily in the face and make the best of it. In books, where are treasures stored up by the scholars of all past time, he finds a never-ending pleasure. Though dwarfed in stature, he is resolved to make a man of himself, and will fight it out on that line if it takes all summer. For he early adopted for his motto, these beautiful lines of Dr. Watts,-- "Were I so tall as to reach the pole, Or grasp the ocean in my span, I should be measured by my soul. The mind's the standard of the man." [_Applause._ (_Curtain falls._) I once heard the above narrative repeated by Joe in a truly theatrical manner. On the same occasion I also saw the picture of the "creature" to which William Henry refers in his postscript to the Dwarf Letter. Uncle Jacob hailed me one day as I was coming from my office, and after driving close to the curbstone, informed me that Cousin Joe and his accordion had arrived, both in good health and spirits. Also, that Billy's school had met with a very sudden vacation, caused either by flues, or furnaces, or both, having something the matter with them, and the young rascal would be at home that evening, and I must come without fail. "Of course you know," said he, "'tis a pretty hard thing for Billy having to give up his studies, so he's coming home to his friends. Nothing like being among friends when you're in trouble?" Now this was by no means a remarkable event. Only a boy coming home for a few days to see his folks. Still, an occasion which worked Grandmother up to the pitch of putting on her best cap should not be passed over in silence. I went out to the Farm that evening, and on arriving found Cousin Joe, and the accordion, and Aunt Phebe's family, with a few relatives whom I had never met before, all assembled at Grandmother's. They had made up a fire in the "Franklin fireplace." This "Franklin fireplace" was a sort of iron framework, projecting from the chimney into the room. The top was flat, with brass balls on the corners. It had iron sides, which "flared out," and a rounded iron hearth of its own, about an inch above the brick hearth, and shining brass andirons. No one could wish for a brighter room, I thought, for there was the light from the fire, the light from the "lights," and the light from all those smiling faces! An inviting supper-table was set out, covered dishes were "keeping warm" on the hearth and "frame," and everything was ready and waiting for William Henry. Mr. Carver had gone to the station, and they were expected back every moment. Georgiana was very busy over a skein of blue sewing-silk. She informed me that that was the first whole skein of sewing-silk she ever had in all her life, and that it came from a bundle of all colors, which Cousin Joe gave to Hannah Jane. It brought trouble with it, as it is said all earthly possessions do, and snarled at all her attempts to coax it on to a spool. Tommy, sober as a judge, was holding it for her to wind. He sat in a little chair, with his legs crossed. His mother said he was very particular to cross his legs, so as to seem more like a man. Lucy Maria had just persuaded Grandmother to put on her best, double stringed, white-ribboned cap, in honor of William Henry. It was the very one he brought her so long ago, but was still as good as new, having very seldom seen the light of day, or of evening, since it first came home in the bandbox. She had also been coaxed into her second-best dress, and then into the rocking-chair. Lucy Maria tied her cap under the chin, with the narrow strings, and smoothed down the wide ones. "You have no idea, Grandmother," said she. "You haven't the faintest idea how well you look!" "'T is too dressy for me," said Grandmother. "It don't feel natural on my head." "Now I should think," said Uncle Jacob, "that a cap would feel more natural on anybody's head than anywhere!" "It looks natural," said Lucy Maria, "I'm sure it does. Looks as if it grew there!" "And only think how 't will please Billy!" said Aunt. Phebe. [Illustration] The "_Map of the United States_" had been brought out of the front room, and placed over the mantel-piece. And Lucy Maria, for fun, she said, and to pay a delicate compliment to the artist, had fastened a few sprays of upland cranberry around it. And, also, for fun, she pinned up near it a little picture, which I had quite a laugh over, and which, she said, was the renowned Megotharium, in the act of feeding drawn by the famous artist, William Henry, assisted by his brother artist, Dorry. The picture, she added, was not an _original_, but merely a copy done by a female. A photograph of these two artists, sitting side by side, was exhibited, underneath the picture. Cousin Joe said that _creature_ beat all his going to sea. This young tailor, by the way, must have made a jolly shipmate. He was full of his jokes and his tricks. Tried to twirl Tommy round, by rubbing him between his two hands, as one does a top, telling him that was the way the Hottentots did to take the mischief out of boys! Aunt Phebe said she thought if the Hottentots knew any way of taking the mischief out of boys, and were out of work, they might find employment in this country. Tommy begged to play "one tune," and was allowed to. Cousin Joe declared that "that accordion was played every wave of the way across the Atlantic," either by himself or by one of the sailors, and that sometimes the mermaids sang to its music! Asked Tommy if he would like to bear the tune the mermaids sang? Tommy said he should rather wait till after supper. This was the way in which, company being present, the young chap let it be known that he was hungry. Grandmother wondered, then, why they didn't come, and went to look out of the window, putting up both hands, to keep the light of the room from her eyes; then opened the outside door, to listen for the whistle; then went to look at the kitchen clock; then came back, saying it was a good deal past the time, and what could be the matter? She little knew who was behind, following her on tiptoe into the room. William Henry himself! He was creeping in at the sink room door, just as she turned to come back from looking at the clock, and followed softly behind. She didn't notice how very smiling we all looked. Billy shook his finger at us, to hush us. "I hope there hasn't anything happened to the cars," said she. "I hope so too!" shouted Billy. And, by a miraculous jump, he planted himself, square foot, in front of his grandmother, who, of course, walked straight into his arms! Then everybody shouted, and clapped, and shook hands, and kissed. The cap got twisted about, and as if there were not confusion enough, Cousin Joe began to caper about, and to play on his accordion tunes that were never played before! Such a splendid fellow as Billy was! Such a hearty, laughing, breezy fellow, with his thick head of hair, "not so red as it was," and his honest, good-natured face! I didn't wonder they were all so glad to see him. "Welcome home, shipmate!" shouted Cousin Joe. "Welcome home! How long'll you be in port?" And worked away at Billy's hand as if he'd been pumping out ship. "'Most a week," said Billy. "Mind my forefinger." "Don't take long to stay at home a week," said Cousin Joe, tossing up his accordion. "That's so," said Uncle Jacob. "Come, let's be doing something!" "That means, let's be eating something," said Aunt Phebe. "Come, girls, put everything on the table! Billy, how tall and spruce you do look! Poor Grandmother, she's losing her little Billy!" "But what's her loss is his gain!" said Uncle Jacob. "I speak to sit next the frosted cake. Where's Tommy?" Tommy came in, tugging Billy's carpet-bag, which he found in the kitchen, hoping, no doubt, there were goodies inside for him. We had a delightful "supper-time," Grandmother, of course, piling Billy's plate with everything good. "I see," said Mr. Carver, "that whatever boys eat at home grandmothers expect will agree with them!" The happy "young rascal" meanwhile bore the separation from his studies with amazing fortitude! Told no end of funny stories about the boys, and about parties, and about the Two Betseys. And twice, during supper, he exclaimed, "I do hope nothing has happened to those cars. They were such good cars!" My visits to the farm were always delightful, but during that supper-time, and during that evening, I grudged every moment as it flew away. Uncle Jacob was in high glee, and insisted on being taught "the graces," and on having his wife taught "the graces." Then Lucy Maria "set her foot down" that every one should stand in the row, and Billy should be Mr. Tornero. And, being a girl of resolution, she coaxed every one into line, except Grandmother, who said her rheumatism should do her some service then, if never before. "The graces" were then taught, and learned, amid shouts of laughter, Cousin Joe playing for us, and I'll venture to say that had Mr. Tornero been present, he would have been astonished at our steps, and also at the music! Afterwards we had the dwarf shown off, Cousin Joe being the showman. He declared after looking over the "Narrative," that Empskutia was a place well known to him, and that he had often sailed up the "river Phlezzra," to trade with the natives. Lucy Maria dressed him in a large-figured red and green bedspread, pinned on to look like a loose robe, with flowing sleeves, and girded about the waist with cords and tassels taken from Aunt Phebe's parlor curtains. He wore an immense lace collar, and a turban made of a white muslin handkerchief (one that was Grandmother's mother's) and besprinkled with artificial flowers. His face was tattooed with a lead-pencil, and dark circles drawn around his eyes. He held in his hand a slender rod, or wand. The dwarf was a young cousin of William Henry's (not Tommy), and he did his part well, whistling, bowing, dancing, sneezing, rising, sitting, with a perfectly sober face. The showman then read the "Narrative," adding thereto such ridiculous incidents, and such comical remarks, that the audience were convulsed with laughter, and the face of the dwarf twitched alarmingly. These twitchings, he (the showman) said, were not unusual, and were the effects of the sad occurrence then being narrated. The closing portions of the story were declaimed in a powerful voice. He "acted out" the "pole" and the "span," and at the third line, "I must be measured by my _soul_," laid his hand upon his heart in the most impressive manner, and remained in that position till the curtain fell. After this "John Brown" was sung, and William Henry was permitted to roar out that "Glory Hallelujah" as loudly as he pleased. * * * * * The following letter must have been written some time after William Henry met with the _affliction_ which was so touchingly alluded to by Uncle Jacob, as above related, and which that wretched youth felt could only be endured in the bosom of his family! In the interval it appears that he had been removed from the Crooked Pond School, and that Dorry had left also, to finish preparing himself for college in some higher seminary of learning. * * * * * _William Henry's Letter after leaving School._ DEAR DORRY,-- I didn't know I was going to come away from school so soon after you did, but there was a new High School begun in our town about a mile and a half off, and my father thought I could learn there, and learn to farm it some too. But I don't think much of farming it. Course 't is fun to see things grow, after you've planted the seeds, and then watched 'em all the way up. My grandmother says my father likes his corn so well, that he pities it in a dry time, and when a gale blows it down he pities it as much as if he'd been blown down himself. Weeds are enough to make a feller mad, coming up fast as you kill 'em and sucking all the goodness out of the ground that don't belong to them. Suppose they think 't is as much theirs as anybody's. I suppose you are studying away for college. I don't know whether I wish I could go or not. I guess my head wouldn't hold all 't would have to be put into it before I went, and in all that four years too! Now I want to know if a feller can remember all that? I mean remember the beginning after all the other has been piled top of it? I don't know what I shall be yet. For there is something bad about everything, Grandmother says, and I believe it. Now I don't want to be a farmer, because 't is hard work and poor pay,--in these parts. I guess I should like to go to Kansas. But there are the Indians after your scalp, and fever and ague, and grasshoppers, and potato-bugs, and bean-bugs, and army-worms to eat up everything, and droughts to dry up everything, and floods to wash it away, and hurricanes to blow it down, and Uncle Jacob says if a man comes through all these alive, with a few grains of corn, the man that wants to buy 'em is a hundred miles off! But my father says, what is a man good for that don't dare to go to sail without 't is on a mill-pond! For smooth water can't make a sailor. And if a man is scared of lions, how will he get through the woods. So I don't know yet what I shall be. What should you, if you did n' go to college? Go into a store? I tell you, Dorry, that if I was a dry-goods clerk, fenced in behind a counter, I do believe I should ache to jump over and _put_ for somewhere and go to doing something. But my father says you can't always tell a man by what his business is. For you've got to allow for head work. And because he sells shoe-strings, 't is no sign he hasn't got anything in his head but shoe-strings; and because a man drives nails, 't is no sign he hasn't got anything but nails in his head. "Now suppose," says he, "that a man sells dry goods all day, can't he have some thoughts stowed away in his brains that he got out of books, or got up himself? And when he's walking along home and back, and evenings, can't he out with 'em and be thinking 'em over?" I s'pose 't isn't time for me to have thoughts yet, s'pose they'll be dropping along in a year or two, "or three at the most," as Lord Lovell said. One thing I mean to have, and that is a good house with all the fixings, and money to spend, and money to give away if I want to. So whatever I get started on, I mean to pitch in and shove up my sleeves, and go at it. Father says I must be thinking the matter over, and not make my mind up right off. They say going to sea is a dog's life. I should like to go long enough to see what Spain looks like, and China, and other places. Maybe I shall learn a trade. Now, for instance, a carpenter's. That don't seem much of a trade. Mostly pounding. But they say if you keep on, and are smart at it, why, you get to taking houses, and then you are not a carpenter any longer, but a "builder," and money comes in. I'm going to let her rest a spell. Though I'm so old I can't help looking ahead some sometimes, to see where I'm coming out. Didn't you feel homesick any when you were coming away from school? I did,--"quite some," as W. B. used to say. I went round to all the places, and paddled in the pond, and lay down on the grass to take one more drink out of the brook, and climbed up in the Elm, and ran up and down our stairs much as half a dozen times, without stopping, for I thought I never should again. I whittled a great sliver off the base-ball field fence to fetch away; didn't we use to have good times there? Bubby Short gave me his pocket-book, and I gave him mine. They had about equal, inside. I went to bid Gapper good-by, day before I came off, and gave Rosy my little penknife. Then I went to bid the two Betseys good-by, and they wiped their eyes, and seemed about as if they'd been my grandmothers, and said I _must_ come to eat supper with them that afternoon. So I went. Me all alone! Had a funny kind of a time. We sat at that round, three-legged stand, and I'll tell you what we had. Bannock and butter, sausages, flapjacks, and scalloped cakes. All set on in saucers, for there wasn't much room. They had about supper enough for forty. For they said they knew their appetites were nothing to judge a hungry boy by, and I must eat a good deal and not go by them, and kept handing things to me, and every once in a while they'd say, "Now don't be scared of it, there's more in the buttery?" George! Dorry, I wish you could have seen that punkin-pie they had! 'T was kept in a chair, a little ways off. I don't see what 't was baked in. The Other Betsey said that was just such a kind of a pie as her mother used to make. I out with my ruler, and asked if I might measure it. 'T was about two feet across, and about four inches thick. She said she thought 't was a good time to make one, when they were going to have company. When I took my piece I had to hold my plate in my hand, for there wasn't room on the stand. They wished you'd been there, and so did I, and so would you, if you'd seen that pie. They didn't take down their best dishes, that we had that other time, but called me one of the family and used the poor ones. I had to look out about lifting up the spoon-holder, because the bottom had been off, once, and mind which sugar-bowl handle I took hold of, for one side it was glued on. But everything held. I can't bear tea, but they said 't was very warming and resting, and I'd better. I guess they put in about six spoonfuls of sugar! They wanted to know all about you, and said you were a smart fellow. They wanted me to take some little thing out of the store, to remember them by. So I looked and looked to find something that didn't cost very much, and at last I pitched upon a pocket-comb. The Other Betsey put on her glasses and scratched a B. on it, and said it could stand for the two of 'em. But I told her she better make two B.'s, for that would seem more like the Two Betseys, and she did. Lame Betsey said one B. ought to go lame, and the Other Betsey said she guessed they both would, for she had poor eyesight, and her hand shook, and nothing but a darning-needle to scratch with. If I do break the comb I shall keep the handle, for I think the Two Betseys are tip-top. I wish they could come and see my grandmother. Wouldn't the three of 'em have a good time! Send a feller a letter once in a while, can't ye? Say, now, you Dorry, don't get too knowing to write to a feller? Your friend, WILLIAM HENRY. * * * * * At this point the correspondence properly closes. As a faithful editor, I have endeavored to let it tell its own story, but must frankly acknowledge that at times, the pleasant memories recalled by these Letters have tempted me, too far, perhaps, beyond editorial bounds. This fault I freely confess, hoping to be as freely forgiven. Were it known how much I have left unsaid, while longing to say it, I should receive not only forgiveness but praise. In closing, I cannot do better than to add to the collection an extract from a letter written to Mr. Carver by the Principal of the Crooked Pond School. It seems that William Henry's new teacher proposed his taking up Latin, and that Mr. Carver being somewhat undecided about the matter, wrote to the Principal of the Crooked School, asking his opinion. The Principal's reply, in as far as it discusses the Latin question, would scarcely be in order here. But the closing portion will, I know, be read with pleasure by all who have taken an interest in William Henry. He speaks of him thus:-- * * * * * .... Allow me, sir, in concluding, to congratulate you on the many good qualities of your son. He is one of the boys that I feel sure of. We regret exceedingly his leaving us, and I assure you that he carries with him the best wishes of all here,--teachers, pupils, and townspeople. I shall watch his course with deep interest. A boy of his manly bearing, kind disposition, and high moral principle will surely win his way to all hearts, as he has done to ours. With regard to his studies, though not, perhaps, a remarkably brilliant scholar, he has, on the whole, done well. For the first few months, it is true, we rather despaired of awakening an interest. He was too fond of play, too unwilling to come under our pretty strict discipline. Observing how heartily he entered into all games, and that he excelled in them, it occurred to us, that if the same ambition and pluck shown on the playground could be aroused in the schoolroom, our object would be gained. This, by various means, we have tried to accomplish, and I am happy to add, with good success. Your son, sir, is a boy to be proud of. Very truly yours, ---- ---- * * * * * It so happened that I called at the Farm the very day on which this reply was received, and just as Grandmother had finished reading it. As I entered the room she looked up, and without speaking handed me the letter. Tears stood in her eyes, and I saw that something had touched her deeply. "Any bad news?" I asked. "No," she answered, in a tremulous voice. "But to think of that schoolmaster's finding out what was in that child!" Cambridge: Printed by Welch, Bigelow, and Company.