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VnrN< i-A M 4p The Blue Baby And Other Stones BY THE SAME AUTHOR An Enchanted Garden. Illustrated by J. W. Henessey. Fcap. 8vo, Decorated Binding, is. «*The Children's Library." London : T. Fisher Unwin, Paternoster Square, E.C. ■^ I'VV DAR/.IXd IX iJi.LK. The Blue Baby and Other Stories By Mrs. Molesworth Author of "An Enchanted Garden," •♦ Carroti," etc. PICTURED BY MAUD C. FORSTER Toronto The Musson Book Company, Ltd. 1901 f M 'J , lAll rights reserved.} 880/b DEDICATION To Our Baby Cynthia Juliet Grant-Duff Ainslie Advent Sunday 1900 Vll Contents THE BtUB BABY THE MONKEY ON THE BARREL- ^ ORGAN • • - BENJy's FAIRY . **A BIT lonesome" . MI88-8ENT LETTERS A COW WITH NINE LIVES A REMARKABLE CHICKEN ir IX List of Illustrations A TINY DARLING IN BLUB . FrontUpUct *HBR S OOINO WIF TINY OBB>OBBS " 5 SHB WAS A QUBBR Lr.TLB PIGVIIB 3 1 8HB VBNTURiiD TO OIVB THB MONKBY A PBNNY . . pq BENJ^-'S FAIRY . . . gg "it's a bit lonbsomb sometimes" 73 ♦•1 WONDER IP IT IS THERE WHERB THAT HANSOM IS STANDING" . 85 THEY ALL BEGAN THANKING HIM . 90 BEAUTY MIGHT HAVE LANDED IN SOME OTHER LITTLE COVE . II3 "it's THB HOLLER TREE THB HOLLER WALNUT-TREE, MASTER ARTHUR . 121 XI I THE BLUE BABY I B s i THE BLUE BABV Part I IE thought her rather "spoilt" when we first noticed her, and perhaps we were right. She didn't mean it, though ; it was j« St her "way.'* It was at Wavcbeach— everybody nows the place under its real name, ut I prefer not to give that. We were not very old ourselves then— ^ar me, dear me, it is a long time ago ! How nice it was to be young— at least, fo It seems to look back upon, but there Jere troubles then too. We had had fome trying illnesses and long anxiety, nd one among us who did not get 3 1 -iti* S\ if 1h THE BLUE BABY better, and—you don't feel things like that any less severely because you are young. They sent some of us to Wavebeach for a change, and no doubt it did us good. There were days when it was difficult to believe it was all true ; days of such exquisite sunshine and seashine, such lovely fresh life that we almost cheated ourselves into forgetting. But it was not real forgetting, it could not be. No, the best times of all were the times of real remembering, of feeling down in the very bottom of our hearts that all the beauty and the sweetness of life here only mean something still better and more lasting— something that our dear one was ready for, that the troubles she too had known had made her ready for. ^ It was very soon after we came to Wavebeach that we first saw the Blue Baby. 4 trf hi f'\f : 1 ' (It ll'-li tWi f ; l^ 1 1, lii 1 3 > f ( ' ( ^. n t II i '4 : iff is' Si i THE BLUE BABY We were walking up and down the esplanade, or whatever it is they call it at Wavebeach— we had passed several little parties of children, some of whom we already knew by sight, when we heard a very shrill, very determined , little voice just behind us. ■ "Top, top, top to w««j/," it said. . " Her's going wif tiny gee-gees." ' And glancing round, there she was— the Blue Baby, giving her orders to the nurse who was pushing her perambulator, and evidently with no idea of not being obeyed. She did look so |.r;;tty— a real wax- doll of a child— with bright pale-golden hair all in a curly fluff, a face of lilies and roses, and blue, blue, oh such blue eyes, matching her little coat and hood and ribbons, which were all of a lovely sky-blue shade. The " tiny gee-gees " were a pair of goats in a little carriage, and the boy they belonged to, eager for a hire, stood 5 ni > -,1 : 1 i.ii. if) •., I: 1 4 M M 3 1 1 4 i . " .11 .f> ' i k i t 'ill I 'i •r J * » Mi 11 THE BLUE BABY erinm,^ beside the imperious young Jdy.msp,te of poor nurse's endeavomf to get past him and so to take her We feit sorry for her, and charmed ^ ^^ were by the baby's beauty we could not help murmuring- ^ " What a spoilt little nerson I " There were not many people about- « was early-_„d nurse, a pleasant. Z^^ ^'«»°"*-ftced young woman turned to us for the sympathy she mus have seen was ready for her. said with ""f "'"' ""'•^""■"d." she ^d wuh a glance at the goat-carriage cart, for her mamma said it wasn't to ^;2r %°'''"P='P*'^-'^"'her ^emselves. It's no good his following "'. '^^*''«7«°"'y tantalises the child." Our eldest" turned, and in a few ^ear words put the case befo« the boy He grmned again, but moved on. Not »-a» to the grin-the Blue Baby! 6 THE BLUE BABY though the ** moving on " took place as speedily, in the opposite direction from the goats of course, as nurse could manage. But Missie was furious. She stood up, or as nearly so as she could, for, her venerable age of three or there- abouts notwithstanding^ she was securely strapped in, and very necessarily toa— she stood up and scolded, as I have never heard a baby scold before or since. There were no tears nor any sign of them in the eyes, now sparkling as if there were blue flames inside them ; the little voice was as clear as a bell, but oh, how she scolded ! " You naughty old 'ooman, — naughty old 'ooman. Her'll tell mamma, her'U tell papay her will. And you'll be put in the corner for ebber always, ugly naughty nurse. And her'll zide with the tiny gee-gees away away, and nebber come back. I 'zink you'll be put in p'ison — naughty, naughty'' 7 II.,: ,1"'' i** \i ii 'i u m 'I ii .l/fi Ii 'Ji i I id I. f ■J I \h\i iWiS^ i\>> . i ■ ■Ji ir I >» t THE BLUE BABY ^Jhe^poor woman looked perfectly "Oil, Missie,"shesaM «^ u tiii we get hom . YoShav ''"""^ round us." ' "^ " "ave a crowd Mator makTr "^ '° ""' P^""- -.%;•■ S"^r°ini\?r°^r «»« not speak so loud/" "' ^^'^ The bJue eyes opened wide v. ""de. and stared up at h., ^ ordinary surprise, ml // '" ^''*"- f friendly 'but serltt'S'" down at her. who can sayrB^Hn"^ baby instinct inspired W w '. curp sense of dignity. I.^^J ww;^:^'t?^ro:/^'? THE BLUE BABY "How do?" she said. "Dood mornin*. Kite welJ, tank 'oo," and then, '* 'Do on, nursie," and our eldest realised that the audience was over, as the perambulator, with a grateful glance from its propellor, moved on. I don't know if our eldest felt small ; I had not the courage to inquire. But if ever she did, I feel pretty sure it was on that occasion. After that, we were always meeting the blue baby. That we had not done so before, was simply owing to the fact that she had only just arrived at Wave- beach — that morning was her debut on the esplanade. She was so clearly to be seen that you couldn't pass her without noticing her ; indeed, she could be per- ceived ever so far ofF. And she knew us again, oh dear yes, from the very first she knew us again. Perhaps our entirely black dresses had to do with it, but I strongly suspect she would have known us— our eldest, especially— how- 9 \ < 4. "' \U^y 1 •■ ■I ■ 'iff f THE BLUE BABY ever we had he»n j l-ays smikd. Then"^- "^ "■' tne way of si-nn,^; S°^ »nto «W when rC' I'St, '° -" 7 'Jway, most iaci "' ^""^ •Imost have imagin^lTT'"' ~"''' P*=ious because^he „^^ ' "^^ «*" °-«-meetL7irehTer'""^°'«« ^^Wfrne, she wouid give „.,„,,. «-e,:fl3':--°-eise. whose "done aw,y-way"M°. "'*'': °"'' '""^ h»nd uplifted aj;^ '"* *' ««'e 5'^eh':a^r„dt„tsS'''.f "away-wav for -ku "^* """e'nable, / way ,or ebber alwavs" ni «by knew much morp f I, f ~"'"* "bout the future Ih """^^P*"?!* frantic with excLm. ^ T ''"^ '^ ^^ - 'he distan^^S:^ " '"^ '^'^ ^ f°'ellusthat •.ewasr"'"*"°"S'' « was going a « ^^^^^^ THE BLUE BABY zidcy mf the tiny gcc-gecs. Dadda was tummin to took her." And sure enough that very afternoon, when we were driving past, we caught sight of the bright blue speck behind two goats, with a tall figure as well as nurse walking beside her. We felt more than half inclined to give up our drive for the sake of following her up and down and watching her delight. She was too fascinating. Never once did we hear or see her cry — though we knew she could scold. It was her royal condescension that charmed us most. I can see her now — little hand waving, little face aglow as she caught sight of us, and beaming all over with the pleasure she meant to give us. "You may kit me," she would say sometimes. But only on special occa- sions, such as our humble offerine or a small posy for her gracious accep- tance, or the day on which we told her II ?!'"'■ ^'l \Utl '■ i f I" * ■ 1 ■(' I A Ilk ' h i If 1 'Air ' 4 THE BLUE BABY we must say goodbye_we we« l„ • the next morning. " '""""8 "-; majeihfr'crc r ""'"■ »nd couJd onJv be ^. ^ f °'"' ^Y"' •* I don-tk„r"vy"V ■""""" "f ii.now, my sweet.*' 1 ftough in our hearts we HJH u was goodbye ««for ebb^^.Iw»\"^7^ Blue Babv— a U,t. i. J^ '° 'he asain , J '»''y she would never be '-g^onirthar"'''^''"'--'*^ --her';:\£„7gtr;^--' For we h;^ . ^ ^'^ woman. She :L':n^"^ir"'r "—■ B^by." I Lw^- I °''°"'"Blue Wher as'r„ 1;^;^-^ --ted to ^o-id have St 1''''' '°'»'''°'^ it queerness of oTfr-Z^''"''^ ^^^ 12 I» ^ THE BLUE BABY Part II It was years and years after. We were no longer " very young " none of us. And some were "away- way " : out in India, tea-planting or sheep-farming or far out in the world somewhere ; others, at home still, but in their own homes, busy and absorbed with the cares and interests that in one sense separate the members of a large family, in another, and that the deepest perhaps, draw them more together in sympathy for each other. Only "our eldest" and I were still together. And to her, I suppose, I, as the youngest, did still seem young. And one year, quite unexpectedly, some turn of the v/heel brought us two to Wavebeach again. We did not care much for the place ; we had no special reason for coming there — I don't quite remember why we did come. But all 13 , f ;H m I I I ii m 1 I ; 1 1 mi y -4-f THE BLUE BABY "»y. fifteen year, bS "' '^*'^'- found ourselv« *' "' °"« day -Joyed s.^tr:?'*? -^-e •--y, .re. il if , --• There ''ow it is so anH r** *o think "^way, ch..,^;.?" »"' ''"'^ they are o^-nr.i^'-'-S- tailing •^ch. and feforT,o„r ''''' " W"^- theBiueBaby ^'''«°''oundto "Dear little Blue Babv r •- r ; """ghty. sweet Blue b!k ^ ^ '^"^■ fe' wo- surprised Ni„;^-'^o«W X"" «w the blue s^t ' "''""^denly di't^nce and thlutV^'T^-g '" *^ ^-'«^i? Asoro7;2 'prt.!"«' »4 ^airy BJue Babi THE BLUE BABY "'Not grown up into a little girl,"* repeated our eldest. " My dear child, you are forgetting. It is fifteen year^ ago. Blue Baby must be a young lady, a " come out " young lady, most likely,* for she was three then." " Oh dear ! " I said, sadly. " Yes, I forgot." And soon after we went in. It was getting rather chilly. But the next morning it was bright and sunny again, and so, luckily for us. It continued during our short stay at the place. Wc were out-of-doors a great deal—generally on the esplanade, which suited us, as it was mild enough to sit down when we felt tired, and we got the sea-breezes and the sea-view, the only thing to view at Wavebeach,' as the country inland is not pretty, and further along the coast where it is more picturesque is too far to walk to often. So the esplanade did very well. The few days we were to stay passed quickly. It was the last morning but 15 :* •I ♦ I i, IM illlll } % 11 ,i . :-^ih '1 THE BLUE BABY the weathers; -^ -f-Wng, and bnght sky-blue, and at once If / «y^elf thinking of ou/bC bL^""' How absurd!" I exclaLed. -eT-^ljrr,;'""^^ o- -mories iust h,T V "^ -""J' ''''^ '^hat had el aT/o .• ""^ ''" "°' « °-e own ' °°'""g "P. I "w that her IZT ^''' S'^'"e before them m a questioning way s7'''VV'' ^'"'' • " ^ =«ked. ^ne smiJed. of blL" It is'"'"-^''^ "''*'" "'^"-h ;7- ." '"^°"'"e towards US. Yes -'t .s just the baby's colour ■^!l forget-me-not blue." '=°'our-reai 1(5 THE BLUE BABY An (^dd, dreamy fading came over '^e. vVe both walked on without speakmg, and by degrees the blue speck took shape and size. It was— part of It— a large sky-blue knot or bow, of ribbon or silk, in front of a girl's hat, and there was more of the same colour below— about her neck— a shawl or soft scarf of some pretty stufF thrown round her, and this larger spot of colour must have been what had first caught my eyes m the sunshine. And as it came nearer we saw that the wearer was in a bath-chair. Scarcely an invalid surely .? The face that we gradually distinguished was too bright and sunny for that. She was talking eagerly and smilingly to some one walking beside her-a discreet- looking, middle-aged maid, with a rather anxious, though amiable expres- sion of face. And oh, how pretty her young charge was ! Without a word to each other. we m *';' I n. • I ■ . i ' • : ' 1 1 1 'I! ml "III! 17 -4- If ill ml I if li If i! H THE BLUE BABY slackened our steps, and, hardly knowing that we did so, came to a stand just as the bath-chair approached us. We could hear what the girl was saying. " Yes—yes— I cio remember, though ^ was only three. It was just here that She stopped short. Something in our way of standing or looking struck her. She glanced at us— then at her maid— and then at us again. It may have been an extraordinary thing to do, no doubt it was— but somehow I could not help it. I knew I was right. "Oh," I cried, with a little start forward, « are you— yes, you musf be, our Blue Baby," and at the same moment the nurse exclaimed— " Missie, missie, the ladies in black ! " Out came a white-gloved hand— out came the dimples we remembered of old— we nearly kissed her there and then. I8 i THE BLUE BABY " My ladies ! " she exclaimed. '♦ Yes, yes, I remember you. And you re- member me ! Fancy, I have never been here since ! Fow lovely of you to have known me again ! " " But— you are not ill .? " said Nina, when we had a little recovered our- selves. *'Oh no, only a sprained ankle. They sent me down here with nursie for sea-baths to strengthen it. * 111 ' — no —I'm never ill. But, dear ladies, when can I see you again .? To-day, I cannot, as my people want me to drive over to see friends at Covebay. But to- morrow .' *' " To-morrow .? " Alack and alas, we were leaving to-morrow, and by the first train. We told her so. " It is too bad," she said, with a touch of the old imperiousness — " too bad, and I only came yesterday. But we mustn't lose sight of each other again. Oh dear, what a naughty baby I was ! I 19 .a ■■M ■ S .1 f^ t ' 1 1 I .1. I If, : . I I i '-4 ' THE BLUE BABY must earn myself a better character. Oh dear, is that twelve, striking akeady > 1 must go for that stupid bath. Have you a card, dear Miss— Mrs ? " "Only *Miss,'" said Nina. "Our married ones ar- not here. Yes, here is our address." "And you are sometimes in London aren t you ? Here is mine,'' and she scribbled .ome lines on a scrap of paper she tore out of a dainty pocket-book, mmise, promise to come to see me. My father and mother would be delighted." So we parted-but, would you believe It, between us, we /ost the scrap of paper ? Nina was sure / had it, and I was sure she had it. And we had no further vision of blue, though we stayed out late in the afternoon on the chance ot her having returned from her drive and being again in her chair. The winter following that lovely autumn we spent out of England-it 20 ffj THE BLUE BABY was not till the nej.c April but one that we were settled at home again. And letters do miscarry when you are moving about. But very soon after our return there came one — " Why have you never written to me, or come to see me, dear ladies .? I have written to you twice. Will this reach you, I wonder.? I am going to be married. You must come," and en- closed was the invitation. Dear faithful Blue Baby! We could not go to the marriage, much as we wished. That was four years ago now. But we have been spending this season in London. To-day is my birthday. She found it out, and a tiny darling in blue has just trotted in to see me, with a great bunch of forget-me-nots and "lots of kisses from mamma" — our Blue Baby ! 21 5« ■ ' , t f '-ir II #• , r PL f 'I I '■; I. ■ ' ' I'! I !' ^^ ! .'' . i^^-, ; 1 Mi PWi ;»' i 's if THE MONKEY ON THE BARREL-ORGAN 'i J S; I t. [^' } fft t /' i-i* I I f : THE MONKEY ON THE BARREL-ORGAN Part I l'^ ■ ^ ; I AMMAS are very kind people and of course they always wani to make their little beys and girls happy and never to make them «»happy, unless any of the children have done wrong, and it is needful, for their own good, to find fault with them. But even the kindest of mammas may sometimes make a mistake. No one can quite see into anybody else's heart — even into a child's heart — and words may be said which trouble and 25 m iM } 1 'ii I . •■I • . :{!- rl «-i •|; I -■■- '] ■ if-, THE MONKEY ON distress those we love best without our meaning ,t in the very least Nel^'she' """k" ""'' «"' °'"«<1 Z l' _, *'" "'^ »''°ut six years old that Nella-except in holiday time- -- a good deal alone in the'nu^V And nurse was rather old-too old to be much of a companion to the hild that she could scarcely trust the liSe Nel a s father and mother were not very neh and they had several children so they had always plenty to do w "h tZ ;"r;, ^"'^ ""-• -ho had Jived with them so many years that she seemed almost like a relatio^. w^ 26 / 1 i THE BARREL-ORGAN very anxious to be saving and careful ; perhaps a little too anxious, Nella's mamma used to tell her sometimes. One of the ways in which the good old woman tried to save money was by doing a great deal of needlework at home. She made nearly everything that Nella wore, and some things that the elder girls wore too. But though her sewing was still very neat and firm, in spite of her eyesight beginning to fail a little, her ideas were rather old- fashioned, and she thought far rnore of frocks and jackets being *' useful and likely to wear well than of their being smart or pretty. So Lucy and Rachel and Moira, the three big ones, did not very much approve of home-made garments, and of late their mother had ordered their things at a dressmaker's, telling nurse that she had quite enough to do in making for Nella, and in mending for the others. And even for Nella, V ■f. ■ i: i ■ '* 't, f ■ ^ :' 1 : , ' is . ■ 1 11 f THE MONKEY ON mamma had given nurse a little hinf Jough she w„ very afraid Xi to nurse one day. '.che ic destructive child f ,he t,dl T " or spots her things." ^""^ ''"^ "No, indeed," said nu«e. "Mis, Nella ,s very careful-it's a pity ther^ not another youne ladv f. ^ 5 her foi. k ./. ^ ^y '° <=ome after her, for her things are nearly as good as new when I m forced to let hJrleaSem offjust by her growing out of them" Mamma smiled. I fancy she thou^h^ four girls and three boys we« In u without another after Nella "^^ " Well, then, let us give her some ^h.ng pretty for her best'winter fr^^: sne said. You can choose it the firlt time you go into Whiteford. " 28 THE BARREL-ORGAN For Nclla's mother knew nothing pleased nurse so much as to be trusted to do some shopping, and it was not often she had a chance of this, as White- ford, the nearest town, was some miles off. Nurse considered. "There's that blue skirt of Miss Moira's, that's too short for her, ma'am," she said. ** It's really very good — if I was to get something to go with it for a bodice — it's quite the fashion to have a variety, I'm told — it wouldn't cost much — I can wash the skirt beautiful ; merino washes like linen — and it's a nice bright blue." "All right," said mamma, pleased that nurse seemed to fall in with the idea. " Nella can stand some bright colour with her dark hair and eyes and pale face, poor little woman. I wish she had some more in her cheeks, like the other girls." For Nella's elder sisters were all strong and rosy-looking. 29 - ) :, -J n ■: THE MONKEY ON Skin, said nurse. " She mayn't have such red cheeks as som« children, but there s quite a look about her " Nurse never liked any one to think her baby «,as less to be admired than the others ! Some days passed. Nurse had been to Whiteford and came back very pleksed with her purchases. And she was even more busy than usual with scissors and needle and thimble for the rest of the week. . P"''»y/« Lucy's birthday, and in honour of it there was to be a little afternoon party. It was autumn-too cold for tea out-of-doors, but not for garden games. So the entertaimnent began outside, though the children were to have tea in the dining-room and hnish by indoor amusements. And though Nella was much younger than any of the guests. Lucy begged that she too might be at the birthday tea. 30 -I- • "■ ;j-. i: :;!. ,!■ '■ ( ' THE BARREL-ORGAN They were all in the garden — mamma too, as one or two other mammas had brought their little girls themselves, when Moira made a sudden exclamation. "Oh, mamma," she said, "do look at Nella." Mamma looked up. Nella was coming towards them across the lawn, and it must be aUowed she was a queer little figure. The bright blue skirt, made rather full and bunchy, was trimmed with two or three rows of black velvet, and so was a rather tight- fitting scarlet bodice fastened with gilt buttons. Nella's hair, which was short and dark, made her head look very small, and she wore a round black velvet cap which was the crowning eflTort of nurse's genius. "Good gracious!" exclaimed Lucy, growing rather red. ''Who has been dressing her like that .? " And mamma, though she laughed, felt vexed too. 31 t\>' : I ~i ?i THE MONKEY ON "It is old nurse," she explained to the lady beside her ; and as Nella stole up, feeling rather shy, she added half thoughtlessly to Lucy, -Really she does look exactly like a monkey on a barrel- organ ! " Mamma did not mean Nella to hear but Nella did hear. And all that after- noon ^ the words kept coming back to her, « like a monkey on a barrel-organ." She had never seen a monkey and she could not think what a barrel-organ meant, and for some reason which she could not have explained she did not uke to ask. But the puzzle in her mind made her seem very dull and silent. For she had a strange feeling that though mamma was just as kind and loving to her as ever--even more so, perhaps, for she felt sorry for her little girl-there was somethmg queer about her herself Now and then a smile passed between her sisters, and once she heard Rachel 32 i i i i i ■1 THE BARREL-ORGAN say to Lucy in a half-whisper something about its being "redly too bad," and "making us all ridiculous." What did it mean? Nurse had turned her round and round after she was dressed and toid her she did " look a smart little lady." And she had come out to the garden feeling very proud of her new clothes, though a little shy too. Anything new or strange always made Nella shy. But mamma had said nothing about her frock—no one had. Only those strange words, "a monkey on a barrel-organ," kept sounding in her ears. She might perhaps have asked nurse about it when she went up to bed, but as it happened, for once, nurse was not there, as she was downstairs helping with the little supper which was to end the party, and only a young under- servant came to undress her. Mamma had kissed her fondly when she said good-night, and Nella heard her say 33 D It- : '!'' i« if * 'i ( ! -I Ml THE MONKEY ON something to Rachel, who was looking rather cross, like " Yes, yes, see about it to-morrow. You must not interfere." And when to-morrow morning came, poor nurse was ill — that is to say she had one of her bad headaches, which often followed her having done too much. So Nella said nothing to any one about the puzzle in her innocent little mind. Part II Nurse's headache grew worse as the morning went on. Mamma came up- stairs to see her and told her that she really must lie down in a darkened room. " I am sure," she said, " the pain comes partly from straining your eyes, nurse. You must not do so much needlework." Poor nurse was suffering so, that she 34 THE BARREL-ORGAN had not the spirit to say, as she generally did, that she was quite sure she never made herself ill by too much work of any kind, and for once she gave in to taking a rest. "Nella, dear," said her mother, turning to the little girl, "you must try to amuse yourself this morning as best you can. Nurse may be better by this afternoon, or perhaps you can go a walk with your sisters after their lessons are over. But it would be a pity for you to stay indoors all the morning— it is such a nice mild day you can play about the garden, I think." "Yes, mamma," said Nella. "I'll do up my own garden. It's not very neat just now." She looked up half wistfully in her mother's face as she spoke. It was on the tip of her tongue to say " Mamma, why did you speak of me that funny way, and what is a barrel- organ ? " 35 '■% U > •' t ! ^■J!^ » i Ui\ 4 -«j t I 'fi THE MONKEY ON For she thought she knew what a monkey was like, as she had seen pictures of monkeys. But just as she was beginning to speak, her mother, who was busy and hurried, said quickly — " What is it, dear ? I must not stay just now. Be a good little girl this morning, and if nurse is not better by the afternoon we must think of some- thing to amuse you. Run off now and get your hat and jacket." So the chance was lost. Nella's " own garden " was in a piece of half wild ground near the gate, though it could not be seen by passers- by, as the shrubs grew thickly between it and the drive. It suited her very well, for as no one came there unless she invited them she could carry out her own fancies in her garden without being told that she " really must keep it tidy." And besides this, it was close to the wall, which was not a high one, and Nella's 36 THE BARREL-ORGAN brother Mark had made steps in it for her by loosening two or three bricks, so that she could easily climb up it and look over at anything passing on the road, if she got tired of gardening. This was very pleasant, and she could always hear when any cart or carriage or drove of cattle or anything interesting was coming along, in time to get up to her watch tower, as Mark called it. This morning she gardened away for some time very industriously, not think- ing very much of anything but what she was doing, though these strange words that she had overheard were still as fresh as ever in her m'nd. Suddenly she caught the sound of something unusual in the road — children's voices, laughing and shouting, though still at some distance, and mixed with them another voice, gruff and strange, came gradually to be distin- guished. Evidently there was some excitement going on, and as Nclla was 37 y i' r^ \'i 'li i I I THE MONKEY ON getting rather tired of her gardening, she thought it a good time to climb up and see what it was all about. But for some minutes she could see nothing but a group in the middle of the road, slowly moving towards where she was, while the cries and little shrieks of laughter and the queer grufF voice were still to be heard. Now I must explain that what happened was not merely a curious " coincidence," as it is called— in other words a « fitting-in " sort of chance. The words which had so struck Nella, " like a mc key on a barrel-organ," had been put ito her mother's head by having mcj an organ-man and a monkey that very morning when she had driven to White/ord with Lucy, and as it was rather an out-of-the-way part of the country, such travellers in the road were rare, and therefore all the more noticed. And now the organ-grinder, a poor Savoyard with a rough voice and black- 38 ( THE BARREL-ORGAN bearded face — though if you had looked at him closely you would have seen that his eyes were kind and sad — which made him seem fierce and strange, had made his way along the high-road past the village near which was Nella's home. He and the monkey had spent the night in the outhouse of a very poor little inn in the outskirts of the town, and now the Savoyard's intention was to stroll onwards till he came to a railway station some miles further off. He was thinking to himself that there was not *^uch to be picked up in these solitary country places, and that he would do better to keep more to the large towns, where, too, he sometimes met a fellow- countryman, or at least now and then some passer-by who understood his language. But though a penny or two was all he had got in his long walk that day, he was too good-natured to drive away the children that had followed him out of 39 ' • »] i I ill I I, * • i? ife 4 \ t i- ) ? i; THE MONKEY ON the village, and as it was Saturday, a holiday, there were a lot of them. He was pleased for poor Jacko— or w'latever he called his monkey— to be admired ; it kept up the little creature's spirits, and the shrieks and laughing Nella heard came from his ordering the monkey in his gruff voice from time to time to jump on to some boy's shoulder, or catch hold of some little girl's apron. When he came within a nearer distance of Nella's home, he caught sight— for his black eyes were very keen— of a small figure on the wall, and said to himself that here there would be more chance of some gains, so he stopped short and uncovered his organ and prepared to « pipe up " for the young lady s benefit, while he let out Jacko's chain to the end, ready to send him up to her if she seemed to wish it. But poor Nella ! She scarcely noticed the man at first— 40 k : THE BARREL-ORGAN all her attention was taken up by the monkey — and by the monkey's clothes. She knew at once that he was a monkey ; that very morning, though no one knew it, she had peeped at the picture of one, in her coloured book of animals, and she saw the likeness. We all know the queer mixture of the comical with something strangely sad about these poor little beasts — caricatures of human beings. But all Nella felt when she saw the small brown wizened-up face, the queer sharp eyes, the low forehead, was a sort of terror. Above nil, when her eyes fell on the scarlet jacket trimmed with black, and the bright blue ski; ^^ ornamented in the same way — on tae _.;ilt buttons and round velvet cap, she could scarcely keep back a scream. Was this what mamma meant ? Was she, Nella, like this dreadful little creature .? She forgot all about the " barrel- 41 M; id ]l i ;i l^gpr-' I THE MONKEY ON organ," though up till now she had had some confused idea in her head of a barrel ^^ cask -roiling along the ground with a monkey sitting on it • she did not even ht\ frightened of thJ black-whiskered and bearded man— all she saw, all she thought of was the monkey ! She must have made some sort of exclamation without knowing it, for the man looked up with a smile. He thought she was calling to the monkey, and he gave him a sort of lift or fling callmg out something in his gruff strange voice which meant « Up, Jacko —climb up." And Jacko, trained by kindness to perfect obedience, in another moment ^ scrambling up the wall towards Nella. She saw him coming-for an instant she was too stupefied to move, or even to scream. Then-when he was almost upon her— with a loud cry, she turned, 43 If THE BARREL-ORGAN and not looking where she was going, caring for nothing except to get away, she half jumped, half flung herself oflF * the wall. 111 Part III Nella did not hurt herself much by her fall. At first she thought she had not hurt herself at all. She felt giddy and stupid for a moment, but only for a moment. For almost instantly after the shock came back the terror of the monkey, and she sprang up and set off running, without thinking of where she was going or of anything except the little brown-faced beastie in the blue skirt and scarlet jacket. She need not have been afraid of his following her. His chain was far too short to allow of his coming over the wall, and his master had no wish to let him out of his sight. As soon as he — the 43 H THE MONKEY ON organ-man— saw that the little girl had disappeared, he gave a tug to the chain, which made obedient Jacko at once hop back to his seat on the barrel-organ, and with a sigh or grunt of disappointment, the pair set off again on the weary journey along the road. And one by one the village children dfopped off. They had no halfpence to give, or at least they had given all they had, and it was not very amusing to follow the monkey and his master now that there was no sign of any more funny tricks being played. But silly little Nella ran and ran, till she was so completely out of breath that she was forced to stop. And even when she did so, her first glance was over her shoulder to see if Jacko was in pursuit No-there was nothing to be seen, so she ventured to sit down on a tree- stump standing near. And then she began to feel sore and stiff, for she was bruised in a good many places, though 44 i THE BARREI--ORGAN luckily not on her head. She looked round her as she sat rubbing her poor elbows and knees — she did not know where she was. The place looked strange to her, though it was only another part of the wood into which the shrubberies of her father's grounds ran on one side. But she was a very little girl, remember, barely six years old, and she had been sadly upset since the day before. It was no wonder that her mind and ideas were confused and quite out of reason. Afterwards — when she had grown up to be a big girl, she looked back to this time and tried to explain to herself what she had thought and feared. But she could never get it quite clear. There was some misty dread in her mind that if she could see herself she would find that she had turned into a monkey, or that if she was again dressed in her blue and red dress she would become one. Mamma must have had 45 iMj u fr.'i ■jifi i ! f ■ THE MONKEY ON something in her head to make her say those words And she hod looked at her differently from usual-the truth Jemg that her mother had felt sorry S ^y poor old nurse's want of taste. Nella but I mj^lf cannot help thinking that he must have known «„,, or evefoj; M. t ^^^-'^^'^ »nd boys and And w! '""*'* '"'^ fr°6» °^ birds And besides all these confused id«^ LnrmL^r-'^-o^POorJ^^ WownX-th^l.'^-X^^j once caught hold of her. she wouWhaS not^toT"''"'^'!'^''^""'" 'he dared ^k to th . """' '''' ""^'l »<>' go h^ve found her way there. Where to go she d.d not know. I am not sure thit 46 THE BARREL-ORGAN she tried to think. Her only idea was where not to go. So ofF she set again, though not as fast as before, for she was tired now, as well as sore and stifF. On she went, running, though slowly, in a half-blind way, though not crying, and every now and then coming to a standstill for a few minutes, and some- times sitting down to rest. I don't know what she was thinking about— I asked her once, long after, if she expected to come to Red Riding Hood's cottage or the White Cat's Castle, but she smiled and said she could not remember. And after running a good long way she must have sat down to r t again and leant her head against a tree, for this was how she was seen by the first people that passed that way— fast asleep ! She was at the edge of the wood by this time— not the high-road, but on a side which was skirted by a lane, and this lane led to the parsonage. 47 't ■^ !iJ ■M \ \ * \\A r; t. THE MONKEY ON And the people who found her were the vicar and his daughter Violet, a girl of about twelve, a friend of Nella's sisters. They had been talking to some one in the lane— who that was I will tell you directly — when Violet caught sight through the branches of the small figure at the foot of an old tree, and darted forward to see what it was — some village child who had hurt itself she thought at first. But in a moment her cry " Papa, it's Nella— poor little Nella Raymond— and she looks so white and strange," brought her father to her side, across the dry ditch. And the third person in the lane — perhaps I should say the third and fourth persons — followed, wondering what the young lady was saying — and they were none other than Jacko and his master ! They had found their way to the vicarage, the front of which faced the high-road, and there they had been 48 |s« THE BARREL-ORGAN kindly treated, as the vicar could speak to the organ-man in his own language and heard his pitiful story, and saw for himself that there was no harm in the poor fellow, fierce as he looked. And now he had been directing him by a short cut to the town where he could travel on by the railway. So aJmost the first thing Nella's eyes saw when Violet's cry awoke her was tne monkey ! How she screamed, poor little girl ! Ihey had hard work to pacify her. And only when the kind vicar took her up m his arms himself and let her hold on to him tight did she leave ofl^ shaking and shivering. ° J/, thought-till afterwards, when the whole ridiculous but pitifiil little that the child was simply frightened of the monkey, never having seen one l^fore And knowing how bad it is to leave httle people with unexplained and 49 E 1 ,■* il I- i ••^v|'1 ri'-W I M ni M i l li THE MONKEY ON foolish fears in their fancies, he talked to her very gently, and told her that poor Jacko would never hurt her, any more than the organ-man himself, so that by degrees her terror left her, and she ventured to give the monkey a penny, which Violet*s father found in his pocket. But all the same she was very glad when the two went off, the Savoyard grinning with gratitude and showing his white teeth through his bushy mous- tache and beard, while Jacko grinned too and lifted his velvet cap in fare- well. Her kind friends took Nella home with them, the little girl clinging tightly still to the vicar's hand, and on the way she tried to tell all that had happened. Violet una. stood pretty well, because she had been at the party the day before and had seen the funny dress Nella had worn. And between her and her father, 50 5 •; •1 * THE BARREL-ORGAN and mother, who came out to meet them, and was very, very kind too, poor Nella gradually became more like herself again. They sent at once to her home, to say that she was safe with them, and as soon as she could get to the vicarage Mrs. Raymond herself came to fetch her. " My poor darling," she said, as she put her arms round Nella, and kissed her fondly. '♦ You must promise me never to get fancies like that into your mind without telling me, so that I can prevent you being frightened. My poor little Nella." And Nelia felt quite happy. But what became of the blue and scarlet dress she never knew— and how her mamma managed not to hurt nurse's feelings about it does not much matter. Any way, Nella never saw it again, and the next time a wandering organ-grinder with a monkey passed that way, she 5' ^; I ' ' w ; V til I V * i; '■4 -*" THE MONKEY behaved like a sensible kind little girl to the poor things. She did not even mind when mamma now and then called her with a smile. ** My own little monkf.y ! " r 52 ? .i •ii BENJY'S FAIRY I If MJli ^ i: r ♦ ^i 11 :! i < BENjrS FAIRY ENJY was only five years old. But you would be surprised if I were to tell you how many useful things he could do already, though he was so young. He did not think himself so young ; he thought he was nearly grown up, for you see he did seem big compared with Lizzie, who was only two, and still bigger com- pared with baby brother Fred, who had not had one birthday yet, and could not of course be expected to do anything but laugh and crow when he was pleased, and cry when he was not. He did not often cry, for he was a 55 if, ■ ! ■ ^ i\ I t ( I • um : I If ^1 »jfn i.! 1 i ^ 115 i BENJY'S FAIRY good-tempered baby, and besides that, he had so many people to take care of him and be good to him. Mother first of aJI, and father when he was at home, and Benjy himself. Benjy was very kind and gentle to both baby Fred and Lizzie, and they loved him dearly. Benjy *s home was half-way up a hill —a little cottage perched by itself with a tiny bit of garden all on a slope, and one or two fields all on a slope too. Benjy 's father was away at work all day, and though mother was not away she worked very hard at home. For besides the three children she had several other — no, I cannot say people — what can I say ?— to take care of. I will tell you who they were and then you can settle. They were Ruddy the cow, and Billy the pony, and a whole lot of cocks and hens, not to speak of a beautiful, big tom-cat, who was never called anything but "Pussy." Mother used to drive to market once 56 > ; ' i BENJY'S FAIRY a week with fresh eggs to sell, and sometimes fresh butter and now and then vegetables and even a little fruit. Mother was very clever about all country things, nearly as clever as father, who was gardener at Holly Lodge, to old Miss Needham. Billy was very useful for drawing the cart, and besides the work he did for Benjy's father and mother, he was very often hired out by the neighbours, and in the summer-time when visitors came to the village at the foot of the hill he was hired to take little boys and girls about in a pair of panniers. Billy was very gentle but just a little stupid, for he was getting old. He spent his life at home in the fields behind the cottage, and sometimes he would stroll further, climbing up the hillside for the sake of a little company perhaps, as there were often other ponies grazing there, and a good many sheep, too, scattered about. 57 ; 1 1 w » i. ■ I-: ••fl ■■ I BENJY'S FAIRY One of the things Bcnjy was useful in was fetching Billy home in the evening, for it would not have done to let him stay out all night, and there was a nice little shed in the corner of the field nearest the house, where he was quite cosy and warm. Generally Billy was very good about coming home; he knew Benjy's call quite well. But one evening a naughty fit came over him. I must teJl you about it. It was in the autumn, and up among the hills the afternoons get quickly chilly at that time of year The sun goes to bed early— or at least he seems to do so, for the hills hide him from v^ew. Benjy came in from school one day about four o'clock, feeling rather cold and quite ready for his tea. He had been at school-the infant school— for nearly a year now. Mother was stand- ing at the door looking out for him 58 i\ BENJY'S FAIRY ••Benjy love," she said, "put down your books and fetch old Billy in, there's a good boy. I can't see him, he must have gone round the clifF corner, and there are some strange ponies grazing there. He might stray away, for he is getting so blind." Off set Benjy, hoping to bring the old pony home in five minutes. Yes, there he was~Benjy soon caught sight of him— and a little further off were the other ponies mother had spoken of. " Billy, good Billy, come home, good Billy," said the little boy. Billy heard him and stood quite still till Benjy was close to him, then, naughty old Billy, off he trotted, stop- ping again just as if he wanted to tease Benjy, kicking up his heels and starting away again whenever the child drew near. And this he did several times — the other ponies enjoying the fun and scam- 59 1 I !I V H 11 ■■^msf^ittia- '" '.) BENJY'S FAIRY pmng about too. I am afraid they had been putting mischief into the old fellow's head. Poor Benjy ! he soon grew very tired, for he was a tiny boy after all, and very hot, for he was rather fat and his legs were short. _^ "Oh, Billy," he called out at last, you re a werry naughty pony. 1 dunno what to do," and it was ^1 he could manage not to cry. Down below on the broad, level road leadmg to the village a girl was pass- ■ng-a pretty girl with a nice cloak tnmmed with fur, and a scarlet feather m her smart little hat. She heard the child's voice and stood still to hsten and to look. It did not take long for her to see what was the matter. She was tall and strong but nimble too. Up the hill- side she climbed, her footfall making no sound on the short thymy grass- then quick as thought she got between 60 ( I I I fi lil.N(\ s I AIKV. f i ii5aa BENJY'S FAIRY the strange ponies and Billy, startling Benjy by her sudden appearance— " ril « shoo • him to you," she said, and so she did. I don't know if Biily felt ashamed of himself when this pretty lady appeared, or how it was. But any way, between her " shooing " and Benjy's coaxing the pony soon found himself in his own field, and trotted into his shed as good as gold. Benjy stood looking at the lady. Then he remembered his "manners" and tugged off his cap. "Zank you," he said gravely. •' All right," said the girl. " I hope your pony won't be so naughty again." And in a minute she was down tht hillside and hastening along the road with her quick, firm step. "Poor little chap," she thought, "what a nice rosy face he had, and what good manners ! He must have a careful mother." But Benjy's thoughts would have 6i \ n ! It I) i Jii BENJYS FAIRY made her smile. He was very quiet aJl tea-time, so that his mother at last asked him what he was thinking about. "Mother," he said, «'does fairies have red feathers in their hats .? And curly hair like Lizzie's, and does they speak werry kind ? " What had put such fancies into his head .? thought mother. And she made him tell her the story. Then she smilec? and kissed his chubby face. " She was a good fairy to my boy, whoever she was," she said. "And I think the true fairies are those that do kind things to others— whether they are dressed in fine clothes or not." I am not sure that Benjy qui/e under- stood what mother meant. But he was pleased that she understood him, and he felt quite sure that his pretty lady must have been a real fairy. And he keeps hoping that some day he will see her again. Perhaps he will ! 62 iti ••f- "A BIT LONESOME i> > i ; f 1 -«.' MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 1.0 MAS |5jO |3j« 14.0 1^ 22 III 1-8 A yiPPLIED IM/IGE Inc 1653 Eost Moin Street Rochester, New York 14609 (716) 482 -0300 -Phone (716) 288- 5989 - Fox USA I- i:i "A BIT LONESOME" " The gift without the giver were bare" ^M so glad," said Miss Dorothea Hil- yard one morn- ing when she had read a letter which was lying waiting for her at her place at the breakfast-table, " I really am thankfuir *'What about?" asked her mother, looking up from her own letters. ** I am always pleased to hear good news." "Oh, it's only about old Winnett," was the reply. « He's been chosen for the almshouses, so I can put him off my mamma, he is one of Auntie the people 65 gives U \ \ :i i- If' •If, «*• ■i: ii 11 ! i !•■ ■ I »*A BIT LONESOME" me a shilling a week for. ! shall be very glad of his shilling for poor Mrs. Bridges ; she needs it very badly, and she is so nice. Jt's quite a pleasure to go to see her ; she is so superior to my other poor people. I don't need to cudgel my brains for things to talk to her about." " Yes, she is a very nice woman, and very intelligent," said Dorothea's mother, "and I am glad that you will now be able to help her regularly, as Auntie leaves you free to choose her pensioners. But poor old ^^'innett — you must still go to see him sometimes, even though he will not require any help now." ** Oh well, yes — sometimes — I sup- pose," said Dorothea. But she did not speak eagerly. " I am certdnly very glad not to have to go often. He is such a stupid, dull old man, and I don't believe he cared the least to see me except to get his- money. You don't know how tired and bored I got after sitting a quarter of an hour with him. 66 li "A BIT LOxNESOME" And if I read aloud to him I don't believe he understood, or cared to listen." *• One can never tell," said Mrs. Hil- yard. "It takes a great deal of love and patience to get to understand some people — those who have never learnt to express what they feel." "Feei;' repeated Dorothea rather scornfully. "Lots of them have no feelings. Winnett feels nothing except anxiety to get enough food and firing, and he's got that now, thank goodness. It meant a shilling a week to him— that was all." " Perhaps so, but perhaps nof" replied her mother gently. And no more was saiu on the subject. Miss Dorothea H , ^d was what children would consider "grown-up.'* She was sixteen, and she was very quick and clever, and had a bright, decided way of talking which made her seem older than she was. She was a really good girl, and she meant to be very unselfish. 67 ! i ■■i n it :; .A (m in ' . i f v»* "A BIT LONESOME" She was industrious too, really never idle, so that she managed to find time for a little regular work among the poor in the small town near which she and her parents lived, as well as for her own lessons and studies, and for helping her ■ mother at home. She was an only child, and the most precious thing in the world to her father and mother, so perhaps she was scarcely to be blamed if she was just a tiny bit spoilt, and a little wanting in sympathy and patience with others. Her mother saw her faults, and often thought over the best way of correcting them. It was not very easy to do so, as there was almost never anything badly done that Dorothea took in hand, and faults of feeling are not so easy to point out as those of word and deed. " Time and experience will be her best teachers perhaps," thought Mrs.Hilyard, who was so gentle herself, that Dorothea often told her she was too good for this selfish world. 68 "A BIT LONESOME" Once a week Miss Dorothea set off tor Market Boville, where lived the six or seven poor families she was allowed to visit. It was rather a long walk, and in hot weather especially a tiring one. But hot or cold, rain or snow, it was very seldom the girl missed going. She was strong and well and not easily daunted. She used generally to walk there alone, as it was a perfectly safe country road, and then very often her mother would drive in to fetch her in the little pony carriage. Two days after the one that had brought the news of old Winnett's election to one of the Boville almshouses, came the afternoon for Dorothea's usual visit to the town. She r t off in good spirits, and in good spirits her mother found her three hours later when they met at the post-office, where Mrs. Hilyard often called for the afternoon letters. " I've had such a nice day," said 69 I I! I f' ( ;t m 111 i 1 r I r i ■fi It '1, t • "A BIT LONESOME" Dorothea as she sprang into the carriage. *• Mrs. Bridges is so delighted about the shilling a week. It's quite touching. And oh, mother, she has begun her lace work again now she is better, and she says she would be so pleased to teach me how to do it. So I'm going to get a lace pillow, and if I give myself half an hour extra every Thursday, Mrs. Bridges says with that amount of teach- ing and with practising at home, I'll soon learn." *' It would be very nice indeed," said Mrs. Hilyard, "only don't undertake too much, my dear. Did you go to see old Winnett } " *' No, of course not," said Dorothea, rather crossly. "He'll scarcely be settled yet — ^he only moved the day before yesterday. Besides, why should I .? It's ever so far round to the alms- houses, and he has everything he needs now. I daresay I'll go to see him some day or other." 70 "A BIT LONESOME" But for the next few weeks her Thursday afternoons were very fully taken up. The lace work was very interesting and half an hour seemed no time at it. It was all Dorothea could do to get her other visits paid before the hour at which she had to meet her mother, and more than once she said to herself what a good thing it was that that tiresome old Winnett was no longer one of her people. And if something — heart or conscience.? — gave a tiny twinge when she thought this, she would not own to herself that she felt it. One Thursday, however — more than a mc ith after she had begun the lace lessons — a disappointment met Dorothea when she got to Mrs. Bridges'. She had made it the last of her visits, so as to have only a short way to go when her time was up. And now Mrs. Bridges was ill, "JO bad with her head," said the neighbour who opened the door, that she thought Miss had better not see her, 71 hi: 1 1 04 m itm ■t » ;' "A BIT LONESOME" as talking made her worse. Dorothea had seen these headaches, and knew it was true, so she turned away at once, leaving a kind message. " Now \ lat shall I do? *' she thought. "Three-quarters of an hour, good, till mamma comes." ' She looked up and How.? tne street — there was a glimpse of the old church spire at the far end — and the almshouses were near the church. "Oh dear," thought Dorothea, "I may as well go to see old Winnett. It will please mamma." Five minutes' quick walking brought her to the almshouses — neat and pretty little dwellings, quite after Dorothea's own heart. Which was Winnett's.? She knocked at one door rnd asked. A very respectable, rather forbidding old dame opened. Yes, the old — person she was inquiring for lived at the end. Evi- dently this lady thought herself a long way above old Winnett ! Dorothea was 72 ? i II H I "j 1( vt I !il HI u Ml n ti IM i|; ITS A BIT I.ONKSOMK SOMKTIMES." il I, «5 '4. I •*A BIT LONESOME" smiling to herself at the idea, when her former pensioner opened his door. His face, which had been dull and rather sad, lighted up joyfully. "Oh Miss, oh Miss Hilyard, so you've come at last ! " he exclaimed. Rather surprised, Dorothea ans»»«-red kindly, and stepping in, began to praise his nice little home. Nothing satisfied the old man till he had shown her into every corner, with the greatest pride. " It is nice — quite charming,** she said warmly, "and you really wan' for nothing now, do you ? '* They were sitting in the kitchen by this time. Old Winnett did not at once answer. Then he said — *' Yes, Miss, Tve a deal to be thankful for. I've all I need in plenty, thank God. But — " — he stopped again — "it's — it's a bit lonesome sometimes," and Dorothea, looking up, saw to her astonishment that there were tears in his eyes. 73 Jill ^n 4i- H\ I "A BIT LONESOME" "Fm — I'm so sorry," she swd very gently. " All strangers about, you see. Miss. And — I did look for you on a Thursday, when I was in the old place. And them tales as you read to me — many a time I've sat thinking them over to myself." **rm so glad," said Dorothea now. " So glad you liked them, and liked me coming. " I — I didn't think you cared about it," she was going on to say, but catching the faded old blue eyes looking at her with an expression of afFection she could not mistake, she changed her sentence. The other would have hurt him. **I have been rather extra busy lately, but I shall be sure to come now, every Thursday, as I used to do," she went on. "Thank you. Miss — thank you kindly. You've been so good to me— a-bringing the money so regular. But I shouldn't like you to think it was only that." And Dorothea felt as she walked away that she had learnt a lesson. 74 II MISS-SENT LETTERS !! I'll ^1 1V 1 '< 1 MISS-SENT LETTERS Part I : ( IK ARRY," said his mother, putting her head in at the schoolroom door. It was holidays, and the boys were at home, spend- ing a good deal of their time in the schoolroom with their sisters. For it was winter — and not freezing. There was no skating and nothingi-much to tempt one out of doors. . " Harry, there is a letter on the hall table addressed to Mrs. Merchiston at 23, Hexford Place, instead of Hex- ford Crescent. I know who Mrs. Merchiston is, though we have never 77 1 ! ■I"' k i H MISS-SENT LETTERS called on each other. And her letters have been left here by the postman before this, by mistake. I suppose, strictly speaking, one should give this letter back *o him, but it looks like a foreign one, and I know she has sons abroad. So put on your cap and run < round with it at once to Hexford Crescent. It is only friendly to do so." " Ye — es," said Harry. He was deep in a story-book— a book of thrilling adventures, one of his Christmas presents. " Ye— es, mother." " Do you hear what I say ? " said his mother doubtfully. "I want you to take that letter at once to 23, Hexford Crescent." " I hear," said Harry, « 23, Hexford Crescent— same number as this. All right, mamma." It sounded all right, so his mother, who was in a hurry, hastened off, feeling that she had done her duty. But Harry, plunged into his book 78 MISS-SENT LETTERS again as soon as he had roused himself enough to answer his mother satis- factorily, thought no more of the letter and his promise. He might have remembered in passing through the hall had the letter still been visible there. But, unfortunately, the newspaper had been thrown down on top of it, and in lifting the newspaper the thm letter got shoved aside. And for the rest of the day there it lay— as well hidden as if it had been done on purpose, just behind the small gong- stand, which stood far back on the table. Harry's mother did not come home to luncheon that day. She was very busy. Christmas is always a busy time for everybody, especially for those who thmk of others as well as themselves and their own families. And Mrs. Lock- hart was one of these. She was very tired when she got home that afternoon, and It was already dark. Still as she passed the haU-table the miss-sent letter 79 * *, ij -\ I!' I f 1 i \\ MISS-SENT LETTERS came back to her mind. Something she had heard that day made her think of it more than once. No, it was not there. Harry had taken it to its proper desti- nation, no doubt. The children were due at a juvenile party that evening. They were already dressing to go when Mrs. Lockhart came in. She went upstairs to her own room to rest a little before dinner, as she did not want her husband and grcwn-up son and daughter to say she was "too tired." And Harry and Dick were late as usual. She heard Conny begging them to be quick, the carriage was waiting — so she only opened her door to call out, "Good evening, my dears. I hope yoa will enjoy your- selves," as the four rushed downstairs, and a moment after the sound of a carriage door shutting sharply and the wheels rolling away told her they were off. She was very tired that evening — 80 It: if MISS-SENT LETTERS " ^'' ^^'•^d," I am afraid. And they all begged her to go to bed early-Isabel promising to see that the younger ones were all right when they came back from their party. So it was not till the next morning at breakfast that Mrs. Lockhart saw utry again She turned to him, after hearing all about the party the evening before With a smile. * "One of my poor people toH me a little story yesterday, Harry, which made me think of you and the effort it cost you to look up from your book when I gave you that letter to take to Its proper destination." Harry started. "That letter, mamma," he repeated mechanically, « the letter I .'♦ and he looked up very confusedly, growing very red. ® '' Yes, of course," said his mother, the letter for Mrs. Merchiston in Hexford Crescent. You took it at 8i u i. ;i II , i I I i I 1 MISS-SENT LETTERS once, did you not? I looked for it when I came in, just in ca:i you had forgotten, but it was not on the taMe.** In her secret heart she began to fear that Harry had not taken it " at once," and that the knowledge of this was making him ashamed. But she never dreamt of the truth — that he had not taken it at all. ** Oh, mamma ! " exclaimed the boy, starting up. "I'm dreadfully, ternbly sorry. But I quite forgot about it. I'll run with it now this very moment and explain that it was my fault." " Oh, Harry ! " said Mrs. Lockhart, reproachfully. But Harry was already out in the hall. Only to return the next moment, however, with a still more distressed face — the letter was not to be seen ! He had searched " everywhere " — quick work his ** searching everywhere" must have been — but it was nowhere to be found — it had disappeared ! MISS-SENT LETTERS Then came a ringing of bells and inquiries of the servants as to whether any of them knew anything about the letter, hopes being at first expressed that the footman might have given it back to the postman, or that the butler might hav. "sent it round" to Hexford Crescent. But no — nobody had done anything with it, nobody even had seen it except the girl who had been cleaning the steps the day before when the post- man left the early morning letters, and had taken them from him instead of his dropping them into the box. She was rather a quick girl, and she did re- member a thin envelope which had a strange name on it. And then Mrs. Lockhart herself had seen the letter. Its having been there was no dream. Where had it gone .? Then came a triumphant cry from Conny. " I've found it ; here behind the gong- stand— the little gong-stand on the 83 M I 1 . 1 ■'! H .! 1 ■1 !. i;j . !:,„i if/ '..1 iti: < I • I MISS-SENT LETTERS table," and she ran forward, waving the letter in her hand. Mrs. Lockhart took it quickly and held it out to Harry. **Run with it at once," she said. " And — do not merely ring and drop it into the box, but wait till the door is opened and explain to Mrs. Merchiston's servant why it has been delayed." She looked grave and spoke seriously. She had two reasons for her last charge to Harry. She knew he would feel ashamed at having to tell of his own carelessness, and she hoped thit would be good for him. And she had a strange presentiment that the letter was of great importance — she felt anxious to hear something about it. So, though the rest of the party thought all was right now that the letter was found, Mrs. Lockhart herself seertied anxious and uneasy 84 *■ i. ? • • ! . ■ I : i ■: lii • WONDKK IF IT IS THKKK. WHKHK l H VI HANSOM IS STANDIN,;.. MISS-SENT LETTERS i Part II Harry ran aJi the way to Hexford Crescent. For though he did not at all like what he had to do, he was in the main a good, conscientious boy, and he knew he should feel very sorry if his forgetfulness aad done any harm. Besides, if one has a disagreeable task to do It is a very good plan to do it quickly and get it over. He got to Mrs. Merchiston's in two minutes, for it was quite near. Being a crescent there was only one side-fhe numbers went straight on-^d and even together— so some little way before he reached the actual house, Harry knew pretty well whereabouts it was. " Dear me," he said to himself, « I wonder if it is there where that hansom IS standing, with luggage on ? They must be going away," and he hastened H»s steps, though he was already running. ^1 ri I i' ' i if-: rfJl m m ■ t '1 'I ' I MISS-SENT LETTERS Something of his mother's presentiment seemed to come into him, and he felt a strange nervous anxiety which, joined to the running, made his heart beat faster than he almost ever remembered it beat- iing before. Yes — the cab was standing in front of " 23." He had no need to ring — at least not for the purpose of having the door opened, for it was standing as wide open as it could be, and there were rolls of travelling rugs and bags just inside, waiting to be carried out. But for a moment or two nobody was to be seen, and after an instant's hesita- tion, Harry rang the bell. Before it had left off sounding, a little girl ran out from a room at the end of the passage. That she was a little lady was to be seen at once, even though she came forward to the door to see who was there. " Oh," she said, as soon as she was near enough to distinguish Harry plainly, 86 MISS-SENT LETTERS "I thought it was the postman again, perhaps," and her voice sounded very disappointed. And then, looking at her, Harry saw that her eyes were sadly red and swollen, she had evidently been cry- ing terribly. He felt very sorry for her. She was a little younger than Harry — about twelve or thirteen he thought, and she was a very pretty child, though just now rather disfigured by her tears. " I am not the postman," said Harry, ** but," and he tried to smile. He felt so sorry for her and yet so shy, " I have brought you a letter, sil the same," and he held it out. The little girl took it from him, at first in an indifferent way — she thought it was a note, and she knew no note could bring good news — ^but when she caught sight of the thin envelope and foreign stamp, she gave a shriek. "Oh, oh!" she cried, "it*s from Cairo. Wait — wait there a moment," she called back to Harry, who had begun 8r If H ■ i i MISS-SENT LETTERS to explain the whole thing, as she rushed off— upstairs, so fast that she almost seemed to fly. « Mamma, mamma," she panted out, and Harry's ears, sharpened by excitement, caught the words, "it's the letter— perhaps you needn't go— perhaps Phil's " but then she must have run into some room, for Harry heard no more. He stood there for some time — it seemed a long time to him. And why he waited, he scarcely knew, except that the little girl had told him to do so, and also, I think, because, feeling his con- science far from clear about the letter, he was really very anxious to know what was the matter, and if possibly he had, without knowing iC, been the bearer of good news. Once or twice he turned and looked down the steps undecidedly. What was the good of waiting any longer .? Most likely the little girl had forgotten all about him. But just as he was making up his mind 88 MISS-SENT LETTERS to go, he heard a rush down the stairs, and in another moment the little girl, her fair hair streaming behind her, her eyes, though still swollen and red of course, yet sparkling and joyous, came flying towards him. "Oh, please come in," she said. " Please ^me up to the drawing-room for a minute. Mamma wants to sec you — to ask you about the letter and to thank you for bringing it. I suppose it went to your house by mistake, for it's got Hexford Place on, instead of Hexford Crescent. You see, Phil couldn't write himself, though he's so much better. Oh it's such good news — you don't know ! If only it had come yesterday — but any way it's come time enough to stop mamma going." , And so chattering, quite beside herself with delight, little Gladys Merchiston hurried upstairs again, followed more slowly by Harry, whose feelings were very mixed, as you can fancy. 89 ;4 m 1, •' i M t ^ t MISS-SENT LETTERS He was thankful to hear that he had brought good news, very ashamed to think that but for his carelessness these ^oor things might have had it yesterday, and very curious indeed to know more — who was Phil and what was the matter with him, and where was the little girl's mother going, and why ? He found himself in the drawing- room before he had half finished thinking over these questions. And then came back the shame and pain of learning all the sorrow his carelessness had caused, and still worse of having to explain that instead of deserving thanks he really had to ask for forgiveness. There were three ladies in the room — one in black whom Gladys called " Mamma," and two other girls older than his first acquaintance. And before he could stop them they all began thanking him, and Mrs. Merchiston hastened to explain that the letter was from a brother officer of her secord son, 90 lin j:,! ill a V ■' * •.' MISS-SENT LETTERS Philip, who was very ill at Cairo. They had known he was ill, but the friend had promised to write by the next mail, by which time he hoped the worst of the attack would be over. "And the letter was due at latest yesterday morning," Mrs. Merchiston went on. ** I was terribly anxious when it did not come then, but waited for the later posts. When nothing came up to the last post, I made up my mind to go down to Southampton, where my eldest son is — he is a clergyman — and to arrange ^th him about starting for Cairo. I could bear the suspense no longer. But the girls persuaded me to wait till this morning in hopes of the letter coming. There was none, as you know, and I was just leaving when you came like a good angel. For the news is excellent. Philip is going on very welly and hopes to be home in a month. You are Master Lockhart, are you not .? I know your kind mother a little — my 91 } 'r ■J, 'i. '■ tl in n ii MISS-SENT LETTERS letters have gone to your house once o twice before. Hexford Place is so mucl better known than our little Crescent.' For the houses where the Lockhart lived were much larger and grander thar the Merchistons*. « Poor Phil's frienc must have thought we lived there. Ii was like Mrs. Lockhart to send it ai once— you will tell her all it has saved us." Harry murmured something — then he grew very red and resolved to get it over. Big boy as he was, the tears were not far ofF before he had blurted it alJ out. But how kind they were ! They were too happy and thankful to blame him. And I think that he got more and more sorry, the kinder they grew. He went home rather more slowly than he had come, though quickly still, he was eager to tell his mother all about it. She kissed him when he had finished, 92 -1^ MISS-SENT LETTERS saying gently, *♦ I am sure it will make you more thoughtful, my boy. And I shall be very pleased for you to go again and see the Merchistons, as they so kindly asked you. I do hope the son will soon be quite well. Harry was leaving the room when he turned back again. " What was it you were gomg to tell us, mamma, at breakfast this morning — a little story that reminded you of the letter, you said .? " *' Oh, yes," his mother replied. " I will tell it you at tea-time. It was about another miss-sent letter." ^ Part III Harry Lockh art's mother had not a bad memory ; she never forgot any promise she had made. So when the hildren were all at tea in the school- 93 \ ■It i : 'I II 1 ! MISS-SENT LETTERS room that afternoon, the door opene and " mamma " appeared. Up jumped the boys— there was rush between Dick and Harry as t( which would get a chair for the welcome visitor first, and Conny, who was pour ing out tea, begged her mother to hav( " one cup of ours, even if you do hav( it afterwards in the drawing-room." And t: m Mrs. Lockhart told hei little story. " You remember Mrs. Dear, Conny,' she said, " one of the old women I go to see. I took you there with me once, I think .? " **Oh yes, mamma, I remember her quite well. She lives in one of those great model buildings, as they are called, doesn't she ? And her room was so clean and nice and she herself such an old dear. I remember saying how well her name suited her." " Yes—it does," replied Mrs. Lock- hart. "She is a very dear, good old 94 MISS-SENT LETTERS woman, and I am sure you will think so more than ever after you have heard my story. Last week when I went to see her as usual, I found her looking rather worried. " * What is the matter, Mrs. Dear .? * I said. • No bad news, I hope .? * for I saw that she iiad a letter in her hand, and I know that letters are a great event in her life. She has only one living relation, at least only one near enough to write to her. " * Oh no, my lady, thank you kindly for asking, all the same,' she said— Do you remember, Conny, that Mrs. Dear always says « My lady * .?— ' oh, no, my lady, IVe very good news of brother and his fam'ly, thank you. No, it's no trouble of my own that's rather on my mind to-day. It's about this letter,' and she held it out to me to look at, saying as she did so, « Now ma'am, how would you read that address .? ' " I glanced at it. 95 ■h^I n It MISS-SENT LETTERS *•• Mrs. M. Dear, No. 6, D. Block, Charters* Buildings, East Whittington Street*— ♦* I said. •* Mrs. Dear seemed pleased. " * There now — that*s just as I said, though I'm not much of a scholard like you, my lady. But will you please look at it again — you'll see it isn't really meant for me. This is No. 6, sure enough, but it isn*t " D ** Block — and the «' Mrs.*' isn't " Mrs." at all, but " Miss.** No, I've took it to my neighbour Mrs. Grimby, and her son, as is high up at school, says it's " Miss M. Dean,** not " Dear," at all.' " I looked at it more closely. Yes, I saw she was right. It was evidently •Miss M. Dean.* " * But you mustn't mind about it, Mrs. Dear,' I said, for I saw that the letter was open, and I thought she was 96 MISS-SENT LETTERS vexing herself on that account, • no one could blame you for having opened it.' " She looked up quite innocently : such an idea had never occurred to her. ♦• * Oh no, my lady, it's not that, I'm troubling after,' she said. • It's fearing the poor things will be so put about at not getting the letter,' and then she went on to tell me what it was about. For the Grimby boy had read it out to her ; I by herself, poor dear, I don't think she ■ could have made much sense of it. It was a letter from a lady to engage a girl or young woman as nurse— the lady said she had had a good account of her, but that the nurse must answer at once, as there was another person applying for the situation, who would suit very well also, and who could come immediately. • So,' said the letter, ♦ if I do not hear from you at once, I shall engage the other, as I cannot run the risk of losing her.' ^ 97 n i>■■ i it ,f1 i P MISS-SENT LETTERS " I agreed with Mrs. Dear that it was a pity. «' ' But why don't you give it back to the postman and tell him to take it to the right place ? ' I said. " My old woman shook her head. "♦I misdoubt me the poor thing wouldn't get it in time if I did that. The postmen don't trouble overmuch about letters for the Buildings, and even if he did his best, it'd take a deal of time to ax at all the Blocks for Miss Dean. No, I'm right down worried- like about it. If I could go round myself, now.' "'No, indeed, Mrs. Dear,' I said, *you mustn't think of such a thing. It's raining hard and it's very cold— and you with your rheumatism.' And then as it was getting late and I had to hurry home, I left her. And I thought no more about it — "Till yesterday — and then when I went to see Mrs. Dear, I found her in 98 i1 m MISS-SENT LETTKRn bed. She had had a sharpis » pttack of rheumatism, but she assured r.'' ^> was much better, and I must say she seemed in very good spirits — very cheery indeed. " * But how did you catch cold ? ' I asked her. ' When I saw you last week you were very well.' "The poor old body looked very guilty. Then at last it came out. " * I can't deceive you, my lady,' she said, 'and that's the truth of it. I didn't do as you told me, and you must forgive me. After you had gone that day I just sat worriting and worrit- ing about that poor girl and the letter. And at last — it wasn't raining so bad by then— I could bear it no longer. And I puts on my pattens and my cloak and I takes my umbrella and ofr I goes. I made pretty near the round of the Buildings, I can tell you, my lady, afore I found 'em, but I wasn't goin' to be beaten. I'm like that, my lady, once 99 -^^SiMttUtMSH ! i i li! it i i MISS-SENT LETTERS I'm started on a thing. And I did find 'em— Deanses, I mean. They've not been long here, and such respectable people, my lady. Father's dead and this Mary's the eldest girl, and so keen to get a good place. She'd been cryin', my lady, she had indeed, at no letter comin', as she'd been hopin' for all day. And they was that pleased and obleeged ! Roomatics or no roomatics, says I to myself, I'm glad I done it. Only, my lady, I'd have been still gladder for you not to find me laid up, for I did catch cold that day, I'm afraid. But you must forgive me and not think me ungrateful. I'll be up and about as hearty as ever in a day or two, no fear. And Mrs. Dean's so good to me— never a morning but what she looks in to see how I'm a gettin' on. I've not felt so friendly-like with no once since I come to London— and that's nigh upon forty years ago, for it's goin' on for twenty since my good husband died. It is that, my lady.' lOO MISS-SENT LETTERS " So you see, childA^n, I could under- stand why poor old Dear was in such good spirits in spite of her rheumatism. She had the reward of a good conscience — and she has also what one doesn't always get in this world, the warm gratitude of those she befriended." The children had listened with interest. And when his mother left off speaking Harry looked up with a rather comical smile. •* I think I've got a rew ^ certainly didn't deserve, mamma. . . I'm sure Mrs. Merchiston wants me to be great friends with them all, and 1 can see they're awfully nice. She said I must go to see Captain Philip Merchi ton as soon as ever he arrives, and tell him all about the miss-sent letter." i3 lOI -■ <■ Ill S hn! hi {■i i! i'f: A COW WITH NINE LIVES :' a A COW WITH NINE LIVES CO ^ with nine lives!" I hear somebody say. " That must be a mistake. You must mean 'a cat with nine lives' — no one ever speaks of a cow in that way." No, my dear children, it is not a mistake. If you have never heard a cow spoken of in that way before, I think you will agree with me, when you have heard the adventures of Farmer Crosby's " Beauty," that the saying may be very well applied to her. Farmer Crosby has a farm on the west coast of England. It is not a very large farm, but the situation is 105 m I* :; tn : A COW WITH NINE LIVES beautiful. And though very near the sea it is not bare or desolate-looking as land on the coast often is. On the contrary there are rich meadows and lovely trees, and it is never very cold at Cliff End, as the farm is called. Nor could it have a better name, for a good part of it is in a corner as it were, just where the clifFs do end, though on the other side the fields slope down gently to the shore, almost on to the sands. So that you can sit on the grass under shady trees and hear the little waves lapping in all at the same time, which does not often happen. Cliff End farmhouse is large and old ant! straggling — and the Crosbys have no children. So there are more rooms than the farmer and his wife require, and in summer they are sometimes glad to have two or three lodgers — "quiet people and not too difficult to please about their food," Mrs. Crosby says. fVe have been there several times, so I io6 A con^' with nine lives suppose the good woman finds us quiet people. As for being easily pleased with our food at ClifF End, / think it would be very difficult indeed to be ^/jpleased I When you have any quan- tity of first-rate milk, and cream if you like— excellent butter, home-made bread, fresh eggs, and home-cured bacon and ham — not to speak of chickens and ducks and fruit and vegetables in their season — and all neatly served, *vith every care to make you comfortable — don't you think it would be very difficult not to be pleased? Farmer Crosby does not keep a large number of cows, but those he has are very " choice." He likes to have a steady supply of milk and butter all the year round — enough for a few families who always deal with him, and for his own home use. His cows are made great pets of, and I must say they are pretty creatures. " Beauty," whom this little story is about, well deserves her 107 ■ »■ H • ^1 fl: i -: A COW WITH NINE LIVES name. So you can understand that it was a real sorrow to the farmer and his kind \vife, as well as a considerable loss of money, when a sad accident happened to four of their favourites. It came about in this way. The fields up at the top of the cliffs are very good pasture, and till the accident I am going to tell vou of happened, nothinj I'ad ever gone wrong with the animals put to graze in them. They seemed to know by instinct that they must not go too near the edge of the precipice, for a precipice it really was. So nobody had any fear about it, and one summer when we were staying there, we never felt at all anxious about the pretty covvs, when, in passing through the " high fields '* as they were called, or sometimes when looking up from the shore below, we caught sight of their smooth, silky-looking sides, as they munched away at the nice juicy grass in great content. io8 A COW WITH NINE LIVES But one morning we were all startled very early — we were not quite dressed, and Mrs. Crosby's little maid was just beginning to lay the breakfast-table, so it could not have been eight o'clock — by hearing some one rushing into the yard and then into the kitchen, calling loudly for the farmer. What was the matter ? If it had been in the night wc should probably have thought that the hay- stacks had caught fire, but somehow in the daytime, especially early in the morning, oiv loughts do not turn to •• fire " so quickly. And almost before we had time to wonder what it could be, we heard the explanation, as, dreading some trouble for our good friends, we hurried downstairs. Mrs. Crosby was standing still in the midst of her "dishing up" our ham and eggs and toast, looking very white — the farmer had just dashed out of the kitchen. 109 I you vt A COW WITH NINE IJVES " It's the cows, Miss," she said, wiping her eyes. "The four best we have- Beauty and those other three always admired so." ** But what has happened to them .' " we asked. ♦* They've gone, Miss — ^gone out of the high fields, and nowhere to be seen. But there's marks of trampling — just at the edge — the cliff side of the field, you know, Miss, and the men's afraid they've fallen over. Something may- have startled them, you see. Miss, in the night and set them running, not rightly knowing where they were going, poor things. And there's none of them there, and — and " ** Could they possibly have been stolen ? " we asked. Mrs. Crosby shook her head. **0h dear no — such a thing could never happen. It's the cliffs, Miss, I'm thinking so of." And the clififs it was. no been A COW WITH NINE LIVES Almost before we had finished speak- ing, one of the men was seen hastening back. He looked very downcast. The farmer had sent him to break the news to Mrs. Crosby. The cows had fallen over the cliffs. One was lying there, just below the place where the trampled grass had been noticed, quite dead. She had been killed on the spot. And not far from her were two others, not dead, nor even, wonderful to say, badly hurt. They were going to bring them home at once, and this man was to fetch the cow doctor. And the fourth .? She was not to be seen anywhere — she had just disappeared ! They were afraid, the farmer and his men, that she had fallen over some distance further on, right into the sea, not into the little cove where the three others had been found. If so, she was surely drowned, and, sad to say, this •* she " was the flower of the flock, pretty Beauty ! Ill . I \A\ A COW WITH NINE LIVES How poor Mrs. Crosby cried ! At first she had been rather glad that Beauty was not one of the three that had been found, as she hoped perhaps the favourite cow would turn up all right, having strayed off in another direction. But the day passed and there came no news of her, showing that there were no grounds for this hope, as all the neighbours had heard of the misfortune and would have been sure to find her. And night came ; and another day and another night and the Crosbys became convinced that Beauty was drowned. It was a heavy loss — two fine cows. No farmer would think it a trifle, and Mr. Crosby is not a rich man. He tried to be glad that two were saved and getting over their injuries, but his wife could not feel glad of anything. It was not only the money loss sliC cared about — it was even worse than that, she said — just the thought of her 112 f < I * i,. ! f. BKAUTY MIC.HT HAVK I,AM»F.I) IN SOMK OTHKK LITTLE COVP:. A COW WITH NINE LIVES Beauty having come to so sad an end. I cannot say exactly how many days had gone by — certainly nearly, if not quite, a week—when an idea struck the farmer's wife. She spoke of it to her husband, and though he did not think it much good, he was so sorry for her, that he agreed to try what she asked. This was to get a boat and row right along the coast at the foot of the clifFs, keeping as close to shore as possible. Mrs. Crosby had a faint hope that Beauty might have landed in some other little cove, out of reach of the waves. No—that was not what had hap- pened. It was something still more wonderful. They found her standing, or lying, I don't know which, just inside a small cave, with the sea rippling up to the very opening— how she had got there, who can say ? But there, as a fact, she was, and nearly starved, poor beastie— she could not have had any- 113 I I ;k i I A COW WITH NINE LIVES thing to eat all those days— but other- wise none the v.*orse. It was no joke, I can tell you, to get her out— they had to tie ropes round her and draw her into the boat. "Never seed such a job in my lire, said the farmer. But it was managed at last, and Beauty brought home in triumph. Luckily Mrs. Crosby had made the men take some hay in the boat, and her husband told us that the way the poor creature ate it up was " a sight to be seen." Beauty is alive and well now. We hope to see her again next year. And do you not think I may call her - a cow with nine lives " ? AU the same I am quite sure she will never again be put to graze in the high fields at Cliff End Farm. 114 A REMARKABLE CHICKEN A REMARKABLE CHICKEN Part I HE boys were always being talked to about birds* - nesting. It was very necessary, one year especially, for they were in the worst stage of the egg-collecting mania, and they had caught it badly. "Stamps'* were nothing to it. And as they com- plained to their father one day, not without reason, what was the good of teaching them to take an interest in " natural history," and all " that sort of thing,*' if they were not allowed to follow it up " practically "—" practically " of course meaning just then, egg collecting ! 117 !• i! A REMARKABLE CHICKEN " Well," said father, " keep to a rule about it. Never take more than one egg from a nest— or at most two, if there are several. And never, on any account, take all." They promised, and they kept their promise. After a time the temptation was not so great, for the number of birds in England is, after all, limited— especially in any one part of the country. And once they had two or three eggs of each kind they felt fairly satisfied— for to do them justice, they were not "extra" mischievous boys— they did not actually enjoy mischief for its own sake only. There were still one or two melancholy vacancies in the neatly divided egg cabinet— perhaps the most conspicuous of all was the rather larger compartment labelled " owls' eggs," all ready for the occupants that had not yet come. And one day a great excitement arose in the boy world of the old rectory. Arthur nudged Myles and whispered to him, ii8 A REMARKABLE CHICKEN just as the servants were filing in to prayers, and Myles grew very red and looked as if he were going to choke all breakfast-time with keeping something in. Mother thought it must be fear of father's lecturing Arthur and him in the study about the whispering almost in prayers-time, for mother always fancied that Myles, a perfect whirligig of a boy, never still for half an instant if he could help it, was " nervous.** But she changed her mind and felt her pity misplaced when she caught sight of him button-holeing Robin and pouring out a torrent of delightful news concerning some marvellous discovery or other that had come to Arthur's ears. And for the rest of the morning — it was so-called Easter holidays just then, not one of the trio was to be seen or heard of. fVe^ however, may know what they were about. The secret was an owl's nest ! *'It's in the old walnut-tree at the 119 ifi ;! A RF MARK ABLE CHICKEN corner where the footpath runs into the wood. You know," said Arthur. " Who told you ? Was it BiU .? " Yes, of course it was Bill — the in- evitable boy always to be found in one capacity or another about a country house where there are boys of a different class. Either he is the gardener's son, or^the coachman's nephew, or possibly only " odd boy," whose mother is a most respectable widow in the village. But whatever his home or his family, wherever there are "Arthurs," and "Myleses," and "Robins," there is sure to be " Billy" — faithfullest of followers, ready for any- thing, possessed of really miraculous in- formation as to the whereabouts and " howabouts " of bird and beast and fish — nay more, a perfect mine of informa- tion about adders and slow-worms, wasps and wild bees. It was Bill who ..-d found the owl's nest — Bill who was, in his own funny way, just as excited about it as the boys. 120 1 .3^B' 'ITS THK HOI.I.KR TRKK-THK HOI.I.Kk WALNUT IKKK, MASTKR ARTHUR. A REMARKABLE CHICKEN ** It's the holler tree — the holler walnut-tree, Master Arthur," he re- peated. ** I've thought it for a good bit, but last night I was surer than ever. And this morning I watched till I saw her with my own eyes." Now I am not a naturalist, and here comes a hitch in my (true) story. I do not know if, when an owl is hatching her eggs, she ever leaves the nest at all .? Or, supposing she does, is it during the day-time, contrary to her ordinary habits, or at dusk, or still later ? I cannot tell, and as I have no Arthur or Myles, or still better. Bill, at hand to ask the hour of the wise lady's constitutional, I will frankly own that I do not know how it came to pass that the boys I am writing about were able to rob the nest in the old walnut- tree without mamma owl's interference. Was she out, or did they frighten her away ? I do not know — I can only tell the fact — they found the nest and in it three eggs ! 121 I! A REMARKABLE CHICKEN How delighted they were, I need not say. Then came other considerations — father's conditions recurred uncomfort- ably to their memory. " Must we only take one ? " said Myles, dolefully. " Oh, I say, we might surely take two," said Robin, **just think of the time we've been waiting to find an owl's nest we could get at. Don't you think we might take two, Arthur ? " ** I'd like to take three," said Arthur, " that'd be one each — or any way a reserve in case of accidents." For accidents do happen in egg-blowing, as everybody knows. ** What do you think," he went on, ** do you suppose an owl's nest counts, the same as thrushes, and blackbirds, and those father is so particular about ? Owls don't sing — they only hoot — they're not much good. I say, why shouldn't we take all three ? " ' 122 A REMARKABLE CHICKEN Myles hesitated. He was tender- hearted. " I suppose," he said slowly, " I sup- pose, all the same, they've got feelins — mother-owls, any way." Arthur and Robin said nothing, but just then I think they did wish that, whether owls had them or not, Myles hadn't « feelins." Suddenly — as often happened — came Bill to the rescue. '* I have it," he cried, ** just you wait up there 'arf a minute. Master Arthur," and in less time than it takes to tell he had run off and was back again, carrying something carefully in his cap. The " something " was two small hen's eggs. "They're my very own," he said. "I've two bantams you know, as was gave me, and mother sells the eggs for me, but it don't matter for two." {This Bill lived somewhere close at hand.) " Put 'em in the old owl's nest, Master 123 A REMARKABLE CHICKEN Arthur," he went on— "she'll find no difference, for all they say owls is so wise — and then you can take the three." No sooner said than done. Off walked the boys in triumph, each with an owl's egg. " But supposing she hatches the hen's eggs," said Arthur suddenly, "what'll happen then, Bill ? " " Chickens, I suppose," said Bill with a grin. '* But there's no fear of that. It'd be agin' nature." His young masters were not so clear about that — hens hatched ducks' eggs, as everybody knows. But Bill couldn't see the force of the argument. *• It'll be an experiment," said Arthur. " We must come in a day or two and look what's happened." 124 A REMARKABLE CHICKEN Part II A GOOD many days passed, however, before any one of the four— even Bill — thought of climbing up into the old walnut-tree again to see what was happening in the owl's nest. To tell the truth they forgot all about it. Arthur and his brothers placed two of the precious enjgs in the compartment which had so long been awaiting them, and, as, wonderful to say, none of the three treasures had met with any accident in the process of blowing, the boys then opened negotiations with a schoolfellow at a distance as to the third and last. The schoolfellow was suffering from the same mania as his three friends, and had met with disappointment, as they had done, about obtaining an owl's egg or eggs, and he was greatly delighted at the chance of a "swop." But so 125 ,1 i A REMARKABLE CHICKEN important a piece of business is not to be settled all at once or lightly. Several letters had to be written on both sides before the exact terms of exchange were decided upon, and I am sorry to have to confess that I have quite forgotten what the boys at last agreed to accept in exchange for poor Mrs. Owl's last egg. It was another egg, or eggs — that is all I know, and it came by parcel post and was luckily not broken. So the owl's egg had to be sent back in like manner, carefully swathed in cotton-wool and tissue-paper and packed in a small box. And all this letter writing and egg packing took a great deal of time and thought — so much so indeed that after it was over, I think Arthur, Myles and Robin felt for a day or two just a little tired of the labours of a collector, and looked about for other worlds to conquer in the shape of a hitherto unexplored pond which Bill recommended to their notice as "sartin sure" to contain fish doubtless waiting to be caught, 126 A REMARKABLE CHICKEN But either the fish were cleverer than Bill gave them credit for being, or something was wrong with the boys' rods, or there were no fish to catch — anyway the attempt was a failure. And the boys were feeling rather flat, when one morning, to their great delight, a message came in to them from Bill to say would the young gentlemen come out to speak to him as soon as they could — he wanted to show them some- thing " very pertickler indeed ? '* Out they all trooped. " What is it, Bill ? " they shouted all three at once. But Bill had his own way of telling a story, and though he was grinning from ear to car, he was not going to be hurried. He began his tale by a question. " YouVe never bin for to have a look in the owl's nest in the walnut-tree, Master Arthur ? " he said. He always addressed his remarks to Arthur in the 127 A REMARKABLE CHICKEN first place, as the eldest, though they were really meant for all three. Arthur shook his head, so did Myles, and so did Robin. "No," they replied, "we forgot all about it. Didn't you, Bill ? It's ever so long ago — the eggs we put in must be quite addled and bad by now." ** Let me see," added Arthur, " it must be three or four weeks ago, isn't it ? " "About that," said Bill, "and you're quite right, sir, I'd forgot all about it. 'Twas only last night as ever was, mother says to me, * wasn't you going to set that there little Bantam hen of yours. Bill ? I've always meant to ask you, but it slipped my memory.* I said as how the little hen hadn't been layin' so well — ^last week she didn't lay at all, but what mother said set me thinking of the day I put the two eggs in the owl's nest — I had been meaning to get four or five to set the hen on, but when I took the two and she started 128 lii i A REMARKABLE CHICKEN layin' so unreg'lar I didn't think of it again. But this mornin' as I were a comin' along to my work I thought I'd have a look at the holler tree, and — " here he stopped and began grinning ag^n. "Well," said Arthur, "hurry up— can't you ? What did you see ? " " Best see for yourself, sir," said Bill, turning as he spoke to lead the way. Again I am at a loss to tell you how they got rid of Mrs. Mother Owl. I do not know if they frightened her off the nest, or if at that hour of the day she was usually not at home. I will ask Arthur the next time I see him. But I can tell you with perfect certainty what met the boys' astonished eyes as one after the other they climbed up to look. There — carefully seated, or lying, by itself in its foster mother's nursery, was a Bantam chicken, about ten days old quite as flourishing and well-cared for 129 K \, A REMARKABLE CHICKEN as if it had been in its proper place in a hen-house or under a coop I A chicken hatched and fed by an owl ! No wonder Bill grinned over such a curiosity. The hatching was not the most remarkable part of it-the marvel was what had it been fed upon ? For owlets, as everybody knows, are very different from chickens-Mo', Me owls, 1 mean, are fed upon mice, msects, and in a general way what we call «» animal food." Did the small bantam take to this nourishment, or did its foster-mother show herself worthy ot her name for wisdom by discovering that her nursling was of a ^^''^^^''Z from her own, and feeding it with the food natural to it ? This no one can ever tell— as neither chickens nor owls can speak or under- stand human language, however clever they may be in those of clucking and hooting. 130 A REMARKABLE CHICKEN And another marvel, almost greater than that of the food, soon struck the boys. "How in the world," said Arthur, "has the creature managed not to fall out and kill itself ? For chickens begin trotting about immediately ? " This was a poser — to which there could be no reply. But it made the boys sure — and very pleased they were to feel so — ^that " in common humanity'* the chicken must no longer be left in its present position — living " on the edge of a precipice," as Robin, who secretly prided himself on his poetical way of speaking, expressed it. So little Miss Bantam was carefully carried ofF to the poultry-yard and there giv *\ over to the motherly care of an exj: ienced hen, who had just hatched a nice little party of six or seven chickiens, and there she grew and prospered and became one of the "lions" of the Vicarage. No visitors 131 A REMARKABLE CHICKEN ever come there without being asked if they would not like to see the Bantam hen who was hatched and brought up for the first week or two of her life by an owl ! She has hatched several broods of chickens herself since then. I wonder if she ever tells her children the story of her early adventures ? As for poor mother owl, whc seems on the whole to have come off the worst, having been twice robbed of her young- lings, I am happy to tell you that she took her loss philosophically, and is at the present moment alive and hearty- having successfully hatched her own eggs and brought up her owlets year by year without misadventure. For father put his foot down about her. The nest in the hollow walnut- tree was never again to be despoiled. TOWW BROTBXRS, THE CRMHAM PRB88, W0«WO AW) LOHDOH. Vt