IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) A % 1.0 I.I 1.25 ■iillllM IIIII25 2.2 ir 1^ IIII'IO IIIIIM U IIIIII.6 V] <^ /2 7] o 7 Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 o CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut canadien de microreproductions historiques Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques et bibliographiques The Institute has attempted to obtain the best original copy available for filming. Features of this copy which may be bibliographically unique, which may alter any of the images in the reproduction, or which may significantly change the usual method of filming, are checked below. Tn Coloured covers/ Couverture de couleur r~| Covers damaged/ D n n D Couverture endommagie CovGi-s restored and/or laminated/ Couverture restaur6e et/ou pellicul^e I I Cover title missing/ Le titre de couverture manque I I Coloured maps/ Cartes giographiqL ;s en couleur Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/ Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire) I I Coloured plates and/or illustrations/ Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur Bound with other material/ Relid avec d'autres documents Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion along interior margin/ Lareliure senie peut causer de I'ombre ou de la distortion le long de la marge intirieure Blank leaves added during restoration may appear within the text. Whenever possible, these have been omitted from filming/ II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajouties lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte, mais, lorsque cela dtait possible, ces pages n'ont pas 6td filmies. Additional comments:/ Commentaires supplimentaires: L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire qu'il lui a 6t6 possible de se procurer. Les details de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-dtre uniques du point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exigor une modification dans la mdthode normale de filmage sont indiquis ci-dessous. □ Coloured pages/ Pages de couleur □ Pages damaged/ Pages endommagdes I I Pages restored and/or laminated/ D Pages restaurdes et/ou pellicul^es Pages discoloured, stained or foxe( Pages ddcolor^es, tachetdes ou piqu^es Pages detached/ Pages ddtach^es Showthrough/ Transparence Quality of prir Qualiti indgale de I'impression Includes supplementary materia Comprend du materiel suppldmentuire Only edition available/ Seule ddition disponible I I Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ I I Pages detached/ I I Showthrough/ r~7| Quality of print varies/ I I Includes supplementary material/ I I Only edition available/ Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to ensure the best possible image/ Les pages totalement ou partiellement obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure. etc., ont 6t6 film6es d nouveau de fapon i obtenir la meilleure image possible. This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ Ce document est film6 au taux de reduction indiqu6 ci-dessous. 10X 14X 18X 22X 26X 30X y 12X 16X 20X 24X 28X 32X I aire details ues du t modifier gor une > filmage The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanks to the generosity of: Metropolitan Toronto Library Literature Department The images appearing here are the best quality possible considering the condition and legibility of the original copy and in keeping with the filming contract specifications. L'exemplaire film* fut reproduit grAce A la g6nArosit6 de: ■Metropolitan Toronto Library Literature Department Les images suivantes ont 6t6 reproduites avec le plus grand soih, compte tenu de la condition at de la nettet* de l'exemplaire film*, et en conformity avec les conditions du contrat de filmage. / j6es ire Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed beginning with the front cover and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impression. The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the symbol — ► (meaning "CON- TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"), whichever applies. IVIaps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les exemplaires originaux dont le couverture en papier est imprimie sont film6s an commenqant par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second plat, salon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont film6s en commengant par la premidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telie empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dRrnidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbols — ► signifie "A SUIVRE", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre film6s d des taux de reduction diffdrents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clich6, il est film6 d partir de Tangle supirieur gauche, de gauche d droite, el de haut en bas, en prenai^t le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. )y errata ed to mt me pelure, apon d 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 ' ''' Dili- : .IS'/' wtr A T?. ISAI'OSr 190 to 1^6 Yongre :*■ 'cnK ■■W .^jt-./iSr !!'* el!;. ■ iSlfc' ^o. - J» I Mik. ? JiUM»«' . • ««w~ 'V'V,i ra,i;|r' huk!': M:,"-^ m /^BbCi- s**- o--*; «?i ._ " SHE LAID HER DOLL, EMILY, ACROSS HER KNEES, AND PUT HER FACE DOWN UPON HER, AND HER ARMS AROUND HER, AND SAT THERE, NOT SAVING ONE WORD, NOT MAKING ONE ROUND." •MilMliadHMiiM SAEA CEEWE OR WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. ^N UPON HER, AND HEE i KING ONF ROUND." BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. TORONTO : T. EATON & CO., 190 YONGE STREET. '•'. crm mi mi >"y- .< ,.1- ■''4- LIST OF ILLUST RAT IONS. FROM DRAWINGS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH. "She laid her doll, Emily, across her knees, and put her face down upon her, and her arms around her, and sat there, not saying one word, not making one sound." Frontispiece. " She slowly advanced into the parlor, clutching her doll." "Eat it," said Sara, " and you will not he so hungry." " He was waiting for his Master to come out to the carriage, and Sara stopped and spoke a few words to him." . " The monkey seemed much interested in her remarks." . "He drew her small, dark head down upon his knee and stroked her hair." Page ^5 4f 47 " 6) 79 ^ I I » ' w SARA CREWE; OR, WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. IN the first place, Miss Minchin lived in London. Her home was a large, dull, tall one, in a la dull square, where all the houses were alike, and all the sparrows were alike, and where all the door-knockers made the same heavy sound, and on still days — and nearly all the days were still — seemed to resound through the entire row in which the knock was knocked. On Miss Minchin's door there was a brass plate. On the brass plate there was inscribed in black letters, MISS MINCHIN'S SELECT SEMINARY FOR YOUNC LADIES. Little Sara Crewe never went in or out of the house with-' out reading that door-plate and reflecting upon it. By the time she was twelve, she had decided that all her trouble arose because, in the first place, she was not " Select," and in I t 10 SARA CREWE; OR, the second, she was not a " Young Lady." When she was eight years old, she had been brought to Miss Minchin as a pupil, and left with her. Her papa had brought her all the way from India. Her mamma had died when she was a baby, and her papa had kept her with him as long as he could. And then, finding the hot climate was making her very deli- cate, he had brought her to England and left her with Miss Minchin, to be part of the Select Seminary for Young Ladies. Sara, who had always been a sharp little child, who remembered things, recollected hearing him say that he had not a relative in the world whom he knew of, and so he was obliged to place her at a boarding-school, and he had heard Miss Minchin's establishment spoken of very highly. The same day, he took Sara out and bought her a great many beau- tiful clothes — clothes so grand and rich that only a very young and inexperienced man would have bought them for a mite of a child who was to be brought up in a boarding-school. But the fact was that he was a rash, innocent young man, and very sad at the thought of parting with his little girl, who was all he had left to remind him of her beautiful mother, whom he had dearly loved. And he wished her to have every- thing the most fortunate little girl could have ; and so, when the polite saleswomen in the shops said, " Here is our very latest thing in hats, the plumes are exactly the same as those we sold to Lady Diana Sinclair yesterday," he immediately bought what was offered to him, and paid whatever was asked. The consequence was that Sara had a most extraordinary ward- Lm\ IVIfAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S, XI robe. Her dresses were silk and velvet and India cashmere, her hats and bonnets were covered with bows and plumes, her small undergarments were adorned with real lace, and she returned in the cab to Miss Minchin's with a doll almost as large as herself, dressed quite as grandly as herself, too. Then her papa gave Miss Minchin some money and went away, and for several days Sara would neither touch the doll, nor her breakfast, nor her dinner, nor her tea, and would do nothing but crouch in a small corner by the window and cry. She cried so much, indeed, that she made herself ill. She was a queer little child, with old-fashioned ways and strong feelings, and she had adored her papa, and could not be made to think that India and an interesting bungalow were not better for her than London and Miss Minchin's Select Seminary. The instant she had entered the house, she had begun promptly to hate iVIiss Minchin, and to think little of Miss Amelia Minchin, who was smooth and dumpy, and lisped, and was evidently afraid of her older sister. Miss Minchin was tall, and had large, cold, fishy eyes, and large, cold hands, which seemed fishy, too, because they were damp and made chills run down Sara's back when they touched her, as Miss Minchin pushed her hair off her forehead and said : " A most beautiful and promising little girl, Captain Crewe. She will be a favorite pupil ; quite a favorite pupil, I see." For the first year she was a favorite pupil ; at least she . I r \i S.^A\i CAV-'irA;.- ('A', was iiuliilv>»^d .i m'oat :\l more lh.ni was ^huh\ for her. And when l!ic Soloct vSc uiai went walking;, two hy \\\'o, she was always il(n:kod or i. pr j^raiidcsl clolhrs, ami I(mI hy the hand, at ih(^ hoai . ihc i;tMU<'«'l profession, hy Miss Minrhin horsoH'. And when {\\v parents of \\\y of the p»ipih; cnne. she was alwa)s dressed and caHetl inio the p mIot vvilh her doll ; ai\d she usvA to liear Miss Minehin say thai her f;ilher was a tlistini^nislicvl Indian ofTicer, and she would he heiress to a j^reat fortm\e. That her father had inheril<'d a j;reat deal of money, Sara had heard before; and also that some day it woidd he hers, anvl that he would not remain lon^r in the army, but would eome to li\M! in London. And every tmie a lell er came ihc li dd am 1 th ev were to li loped It would say he was ( oming :tl ive toei^ther ae"ain \^' Hut about the middle of th(; third year a letter came brinj^'- n< ecause he was no t a I )UsnK!ss man in*; viM'v different ntiws. himself, her papa had i»;iven his affairs into thrclty ( i)ii( I. SI \v was linn, and had a wird, inlcicsl in^', IiIIm lace, shoi'l hiack hair, aim viy lai;'/-, }^n"la( k lash(!H. " I am ihe n^diesl ( hild in th<* s( hool," she had said once, ;if(cr starin),^ al. IktscII in llw jdass lor soiik! ininiiles. IliiJ. JiH'rc; had lir lar^M' eyes I ze so III lie spirit iielle la(:( lll< f; W lid I ill she };row U|l on .hall ,(•( I This niorninj.^, howevr, in ihe li^Hil, fanall Mack frock, she; looked thinner and odder than ever, and her eyes werr lixed on MisH Minchin with a (jueer steadiness as she, slowly ad- vanced into the parlor, clntchin^^ lier doll. " i'lit your doll down!" said Miss Mirnhin. 'No," said the child, " I won't ptit her down; I want her with me. Sh insist on her ssible. re," she said ; -If, and make acher and said Miss Minchin nd make you ve no friends, ind no one to >usi(y, but the kinchin's, and SHE SLOWLY ADVANCED INTO THE PARLOR, CLUTCHING HER DOLL. WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MIN CHIN'S. 17 " Now listen to me," she went on, " and remember what I say. If you work hard and prepare to make yourself use- ful in a few years, I shall let you stay here. You are only a child, but you arc a sharp child, and you pick up things almost without being taught. You speak French very well,, and in a year or so .you can begin to help with the younger pupils. By the time you are fifteen you ought to be able to do that much at least." " I can speak French better than you, now,"" said Sara ; " I always spoke it with my papa in India." Which was not at all polite, but was painfully true ; because Miss Min- chin could not speak French at all, and, indeed, was not in the least a clever persrn. But she was a hard, grasping business woman ; and, after the first shock of disappoint- ment, had seen that at very little expense to herself she might prepare this clever, determined child to be very use- ful to her and save her the necessity of paying large sala- ries to teachers of languages. " Don't be impudent, or you will be punished," she said. " You will have to improve your manners if you expect to earn your bread. You are not a parlor boarder now. Re- member that if you don't please me, and I send you away, you have no home but the street. You can go now." Sara turned away. "Stay," commanded Miss Minchin, "don't you intend to thank me ? " Sara turned toward her. The nervous twitch was to be 2 I i I I 1 !. * i i8 5^i?^ CREWE J OR, seen again in her face, and slie seemed to be trying to con- trol it. ''What for?" she said. " For my kindness to you," replied Miss Minchin, " For my kindness in giving you a home." Sara went two or three steps nearer to her. Her thin little chest was heaving up and down, and she spoke in a strange, unchildish voice. "You are not kind," she said. "You are not kind." And she turned again and went out of the room, leaving Miss Minchin staring after her strange, small figure in stony anger. The child walked up the staircase, holding tightly to her doll ; she meant to go to her bedroom, but at the door she was met by Miss Amelia. " You are not to go in there," she said. " That is not your room now." " Where is my room ? " asked Sara. " Ycu are to sleep in the attic next to the cook." Sara vvalked on. She mount^^.d two flights more, and reached the door of the attic room, opened it and went in, shutting it behind her. She stood against it and looked about her. The room was slanting-rooted and whitewashed ; there was a rusty grate, an iron bedstead, and some odd articles of furniture, sent up from better rooms below, where they had been used until they were considered to be worn out. Under the skylight in the roof, which showed nothing WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 19 trying to con- linchin, " For Her thin little e in a strange, » are not kind room, leaving figure in stony r tightly to her t the door she *' That is not look." Its more, and '. and went in, t and looked whitewashed ; id some odd below, where d to be worn 3wed nothing 'ftut an oblong piece of dull gray sky, there was a battered )ld red footstool. Sara went to it and sat down. She was a queer child, as have said before, and quite unlike other children. She seldom cried. She did not cry now. She laid her doll, lEmily, across her knees, and put her face down upon her, land her arms around her, and sat there, her little black head resting on the black crape, not saying one word, not making [one sound. From that day her life changed entirely. Sometimes I she used to feel as if it rnust be another life altogether, the life of some other child. She was a little drudge and outcast ; she was given her lessons at odd times and expected to learn without being taught ; she was sent on errandf> by Miss Minchin, Miss Amelia and the cook. Nobody took any notice of her except when they ordered her about. She was often kept busy all day and then sent into the deserted school-room with a pile of books to learn her lessons or practise at night. She had never been inti- mate with the other pupils, and soon she became so shabby that, taking her queer clothes together with her queer little ways, they began to look upon her as a being of another world than their own. The fact v/as that, as a rule, Miss Minchin's pupils were rather dull, matter-of-fact young peo- ple, accustomed to being rich and comfortable ; and Sara, with her elfish cleverness, her desolate life, and her odd I i 80 SAJ?A CREWE; OR, habit of fixing her eyes upon them and staring them out o(| countenance, was too much for them. " She always looks as if she was finding you out," said one girl, who was sly and given to making mischief. " I am," said Sara promptly, when she heard of it. " That's what l| look at them for. I like to know about people. I think j them over afterward." She never made any mischief herself or interfered with! any one. She talked very little, did as she was told, and thought a great deal. Nobody knew, and in fact nobody caredj whether she was unhappy or happy, unless, perhaps, it ^ was | Emily, who hved in the attic and slept on the iron bedstead' at night. Sara thought Emily understood her feelings, though she was only wax and had a habit of staring herself. Sara used to talk to her at night. " You are the only friend I have in the world," she would say to her. " Why don't you say something ? Why don't you speak ? Sometimes I am sure you could, if you would try. It ought to make you try, to know you are the only thing I have. If 1 were you, I should try. Why don't you try ? " It really was a very strange feeling she had about Emil). It arose from her being so desolate. She did not like to own to herself that her only friv^nd, her oifly companion, could feel and hear nothing. She wanted to believe, or to pretend to believe, that Emily understood and sympathized with her, that she heard her even though she did not speak in answer. WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. ai ;anng them out oP he used to put her in a chair sometimes and sit opposite to er on the old red footstool, and stare at her and think and retend about her until her own eyes would grow large with mething which was almost like fear, particularly at night, hen the garret was so still, when the only sound that was |o be heard was the occasional squeak and scurry of rats in he wainscot. There were rat-holes in the garret, and Sara etested rats, and was always glad Emily was with her when ,he heard their hateful squeak and rush and scratching. One f her " pretends " was that Emily was a kind of good witch nd could protect her. Poor little Sara ! everything was I' pretend " with her. She had a strong imagination ; there as almost more imagination than there was Sara, and her hole forlorn, uncared-for child-life was made up of imagine ngs. She imagined and pretended things until she almost be- ieved them, and she would scarcely have been surprised at any emarkable thing that could have happened. So she insisted o herself that Emily understood all about her troubles and as really her friend. "As to answering/' she used to say, " I don't answer very ften. I never answer when I can help it. When people re insulting you, there is nothing so good for them as not o say a word — just to look at them and think. Miss Min- hin turns pale with rage when I do it. Miss Amelia looks Tightened, so do the girls. They know you are stronger than they are, because you are strong enough to hold in your rage and they are not, and they say stupid things they wish I 22 SARA CREWE; OR, ' they hadn't said afterward. There's nothing so strong as] rage, except what makes you hold it in — that's stronger. It'sl a good thing not to answer your enemies. I scarcely evcrj do. Perhaps Emily is m.ore like me than I am like myself. Perhaps she would rather not answer her friends, even, She| keeps it all in her heart." But though she tried to satisfy herself with these argu-? ments, Sara did not find it easy. When, after a long, hard day, in which she had been sent here and there, sometimes! on long errands, through wind and cold and rain ; and, when; she came in wet and hungry, had been sent out again because| nobody chose to remember that she was only a child, and that her thin little legs might be tired, and her small body, clad in its forlorn, too small finery, all too short and too tight,' might be chilled ; when she had been given only harsh words | and cold, slighting looks for thanks ; when the cook had been vulgar and insolent ; when Miss Minchin had been in her | worst moods, and when she had seen the girls sneering at her among thems Ives and making fun of her poor, outgrown clothes — then Sara did not find Emily quite all that her sore, proud, desolate little heart needed as the doll sat in her little; old chair and stared. One of these nights, when she came up to the garret cold, hungry, tired, and with a tempest raging in her small breast, Emily's stare seemed so vacant, her sawdust legs and arms so limp and inexpressive, that Sara lost all control over her- 1 self. WHAT HAPPENED AT M/SS MINCHIN'S. 23 " I shall die presently ! " she said at first, Emily stared. " I can't bear this ! " said the poor child, trembling. " I know I shall die. I'm cold, I'm wet, I'm starving to death. I've walked a thousand miles to-day, and they have done nothing but scold me from morning until night. And be- cause I could not find that last thing they sent me for, they would not give me any supper. Some men laughed at me because my old shoes made me slip down in the mud. I'm covered with mud now. And they laughed ! Do you hear ! " She looked at the staring glass eyes and complacent wax face, and suddenly a sort of heart-broken rage seized lier. She lifted her little savage hand and knocked Emily off the chair, bursting into a passion of sobbing. " You are nothing but a doll ! " she cried. " Nothing but a doll — doll — doll ! You care for nothing. You are stuffed with sawdust. You never had a heart. Nothing could ever make you feel. You are a do// 1 " Emily lay upon the floor, with her legs ignominiously doubled up over 1 er head, and a new flat place on the end of her nose ; but she was still calm, even dignified. Sara hid her face on her arms and sobbed. Some rats in the wall began to fight and bite each other, and squeak and scramble.- But, as I have already intimated, Sara WcS not in the habit of crying. After a while she stopped, and when she stopped she looked at Emily, who seemed to be gazing at if H SARA CREWE; OR, her around the side of one ankle, and actually with a kind of glassy-eyed sympathy. Sara bent and picked her up. Re- morse overtook her. "You can't help being a doll," she said, with a resigned sigh, "any more than those girls downstairs can help not having any sense. We are not all alike. Perhaps you do your sawdust best." None of Miss Minchin's young ladies were very remark- able for being brilliant ; they were select, but some of them were very dull, and some of them were fond of applying them- selves to their lessons. Sara, who snatched her lessons at all sorts of untimely hours from tattered and discarded books, and who had a hungry craving for everything readable, was often severe upon them in her small mind. They had books they never read ; she had no books at all. If she had always had something to read, she would not have been so lonely. She liked romances and history and poetry ; she would read anything. There was a sentimental housemaid in the estab- lishment who bought the weekly penny papers, and subscribed to a circulating library, from which she got greasy volumes containing stories of marquises and dukes who invariably fell in love with orange-girls and gypsies and servant-maids, and made them the proud brides of coronets ; and Sara often did parts of this maid's work so that she might earn the privilege of reading these romantic histories. There was also a fat, dull pupil, whose name was Ermengarde St. John, who was one of her resources. Ermengarde had an intellectual father WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCIITN'S. 95 A\o, in his despairing desire to encourage his daughter, con- itantly sent her valuable and interesting books, which were a :ontinual source of grief to her. Sara had once actually found ler crying over a big package of them. "What is the matter with you?" she asked her, perhaps rather disdainfully. And it is just possible she would not have spoken to her, If she had not seen the books. The sight of books always rave Sara a hungry feeling, and she could not help drawing lear to them if only to read their titles. •' What is the matter with you ?'* she asked. " My papa has sent me some more books," answered [Ermengarde woefully, " and he expects me to read themf" " Don't you like reading?" said Sara. "I hate it!" replied Miss Ermengarde St. John. "And Ihe will ask me questions when he sees me : he will want to [know how much I remember; how would jv^?^ like to have to Iread all those ? " " I'd like it better than anything else in the world," said I Sara. Ermengarde wiped her eyes to look at such a prodigy. " Oh, gracious ! " she exclaimed, Sara returned the look with interest. A sudden plan I formed Itself in her sharp mind. " Look here !" she said. " If you'll lend me those books, I'll read them and tell you everything that's in them after- \ 26 SARA CREWE; OR, ward, and I'll tell it to you so that you will remember it. I know I can. The /. B C children always remember what l| tell them." "Oh, goodness !" said Ermengarde. " Do you think you' could?" " I know I could," answered Sara. "I like to read, and W always remember. I'll take care of the books, too ; they wills look just as new as they do now, when I give them back to] you." Ermengarde put her handkerchief in her pocket. " If you'll do that," she said, " and if you'll make me re-| member, I'll give you — I'll give you some money." " I don't want your money," said Sara. " I want your books J — I want them." And her eyes grew big and queer, and herj chest heaved once. "Take them, then," said Ermengarde ; "I wish I wanted I them, but I am not clever, and my father is, and he thinks 11 ought to be." Sara picked up the books and marched off with them. 1 But when she was at the door, she stopped and turned | around. "What are you going to tell your father?" she asked. "Oh," said Ermengarde, "he needn't know; he'll think I've read them." Sara looked down at the books ; her heart really began to beat fast. "I won't do it," she said rather slowly, " if you are going WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 27 11 remember it. I remember what I ' Do you think you | like to read, and l| oks, too ; they willi jive them back to| ;r pocket. ou'll make me re-| noney." I want your books .nd queer, and her "I wish I wanted' s, and he thinks I id off with them, pped and turned | ■ ? " she asked, know; he'll think 1 eart really began if you are going i to tell him lies about it — I don't like lies. Why can't you tell him I read them and then told you about them ? " " But he wants me to read them," said Ermengarde. " He wants you to know what is in them," said Sara ; " and if I can tell it to you in an easy way and make you remember, I should think he would like that.'' " He would like it better if I read them myself," replied Ermengarde. " He will like it, I dare say, if you learn anything in any way," said Sara. " I should, if I were your father." And though this was not a flattering way of stating the case, Ermengarde was obliged tc admit it was true, and, after a little more argument, gave in. And so she used afterward always to hand over her books to Sara, and Sara would carry them to her garret and devour them ; and after she had read each volume, she would return it and tell Ermengarde about it in a way of her own. She had a gift for making things in- teresting. Her imagination helped her to make everything rather like a story, and she managed this matter so well that Miss St. John gained more information from her books than she would have gained if she had read them three times over by her poor stupid little self. When Sara sat down by her and began to tell some story of travel or history, she made the travellers and historical people seem real ; and Ermen- garde used to sit and regard her dramatic gesticulations, her thin little flushed cheeks, and her shining, odd eyes with amazement. : 28 SARA CREWE; OR, " It sounds nicer than it seems in the book," she would say. " I never cared about Mary, Queen of Scots, before, and I always hated the French Revolution, but you make it seem like a story." " It is a story," Sara would answer. " They arc all stories. Everything is a story — everything in this world. You are a story — I am a story — Miss Minchin is a story. You can make a story out of anything." " I can't," said Ermcngarde. Sara stared at her a minute reflectively, " No," she said at last. " I suppose you couldn't. You are a little like Emily." -Who is Emily?" Sara recollected herself. She knew she was sometimes rather impolite in the candor of her remarks, and she did not want to be impolite to a girl who was not unkind — only stupid. Notwithstanding all her sharp little ways she had the sense to wish to be just to everybody. In the hours she spent alone, she used to argue out a great many curious questions with herself. One thing she had decided upon was, that a person who was clever ought to be clever enough not to be unjust or deliberately unkind to any one. Miss Minchin was unjust and cruel, Miss Amelia was unkind and spiteful, the cook was malicious and hasty-tempered — they all were stupid, and made her despise them, and she desired to be as unlike them as possible. So she would be as polite as she could to people who In the least deserved politeness. WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 29 she would say. "before, and I make it seem arc all stories, d. You are a You can make dn't. You are ^as sometimes id she did not — only stupid. had the sense urs she spent ous questions 1 was, that a Jg-h not to be Minchin was spiteful, the [ were stupid, ) be as unlike she could to " Emily is — a person — I know," she replied. " Do you li4s:e her ? " asked Ermengarde. ** Yes, I do," said Sara. Ermengarde examined her queer little face and figure again. She did look odd. She had on, that day, a faded blue plush skirt, v/hich barely covered her knees, a brown cloth sacque, and a pair of olive-green stockings which Miss Minchin had made her piece out with black ones, so that they would be long enough to be kept on. And yet Ermengarde was beginning slowly to admire her. Such a forlorn, thin, neglected little thing as that, who could read and read and remember and tell you things so that they did not tire you all out ! A child who could speak French, and who had learned German, no one knew how ! One could not help staring at her and feeling Interested, particularly one to whom the simplest lesson was a trouble and a woe. " Do you like me ? " said Ermengarde, finally, at the end of her scrutiny. Sara hesitated one second, then she answered : " I like you because you are not ill-natured — I like you for letting me read your books — I like you because you don't make spiteful fun of me for what I can't help. It's not your fault that " She pulled herself up quickly. She had been going to say, "that you are stupid." " That what ?" asked Ermengarde. "That you can't learn things quickly. If you can't, you 30 SARA CREWE; OR, can't. If I can, why, I can — that's all." She paused a min- ute, looking at the plump face before her, ahd then, rather slowly, one of her wise, old-fashioned thoughts came to hej-. " Perhaps," she "aid, " to be able to learn things quickly isn't everything. To be kind is worth a good deal to other people. If Miss Minchin knew everything on earth, which she doesn't, and if she was like what she is now, she'd still be a detestable thing, and everybody would hate her. Lots of clever people have done harm and been wicked. Look at Robespierre " She stopped again and examined her companion's coun- tenance. " Do you remember about him ? " she demanded. " I believe you've forgotten." " Well, I don't remember all of it," admitted Ermen- garde. " Well," said Sara, with courage and determination, " I'll tell ic to you over again." And she plunged once more into the gory records of the French Revolution, and told such stories of it, and made such vivid pictures of Its horrors, that Miss St. John v;as afraid to go to bed afterward, and hid her head under the blankets when she did go, and shivered until she fell asleep. But afterward she preserved lively recollections of the character of Robespierre, and did not even forget Marie Antoinette and the Princess de Lamballe. -' " You know they put her head on a pike and danced around WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 31 nitted Ermen- •mination, " I'll danced around lit," Sara had said ; " and she had beautiful blonde hair ; and ^hen I think of her, I never see her head on her body, »ut always on a pike, with those furious people dancing and lowling." Yes, it was true ; to this imaginative child everything ras a story ; and the more books she read, the more im- iginative she became. One of her chief entertainments was to sit in her garret, or walk about it, and ** suppose " things. >n a cold night, when she had not had enough to eat, she rould draw the red footstool up before the empty grate, and say in the most intense voice : ** Suppose there was a great, wide steel grate here, and great glowing fire — a glowing fire — with beds of red-hot :oal and lots of little dancing, flickering flames. Suppose there was a soft, deep rug, and this was a comfortable chair, ill cushions and crimson velvet ; and suppose I had a crimson relvet frock on, and a deep lace c>,llar, like a child in a picture ; md suppose all the rest of the room was furnished in lovely colors, and there were book-shelves full of books, which changed by magic as .soon as you had read them ; and sup- )0se there was a little table here, with a snow-white cover m it, and little silver dishes, and in one there was hot, hot )Oup, and in another a roast chicken, and in another some raspberry-jam tarts with criss-cross on them, and in another ;ome grapes ; and suppose Emily could speak, and we could sit and eat our supper, and then talk and read ; and then Suppose there was a soft, warm bed in the corner, and when m ..:. 32 SAJ^A CREWE; OR, we were tired we could go to sleep, and sleep as long as| we liked." Sometimes, after she had supposed things like these fori half an hour, she would feel almost warm, and would creep! into bed with Emily and fall asleep with a smile on her face, " What large, downy pillows ! " she would whisper. " What! white sheets and fleecy blankets ! " And she almost forgot] that her real pillows had scarcely any feathers in them at all, and smelled musty, and that her blankets and coverlid were| thin and full of holes. At another time she would "suppose" she was a pnn| cess, and then she would go about the house with an exi presslon on her face which was a source of great secret an- noyance to Miss Minchin, because it seemed as If the childl scarcely heard the spiteful, insulting things said to her, or, If she heard them, did not care for them at all. Sometimes, while she was in the midst of some harsh and cruel speech, Miss Minchin would find the odd, unchildlsh eyes fixed uponj her with something like a proud smile in them. At sucli| times she did not know that Sara was saying to herself : " You don't know that you are saying these things to al princess, and that If I chose I could wave my hand and order| you to execution. I only spare you because I am a princess,! and you are a poor, stupid, old, vulgar thing, and don't knoA^j any better." This used to please and amuse her more than anythlngj else ; and queer and fanciful as it was, she found comfort Inl WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 33 H 1(5 i sleep as long it, and it was net a bad thing for her. It really kept her from being made rude and malicious by the rudeness and malice of those about her. "A princess must be polite," she said to herself. And so when the servants, who took their tone from their mistress, were insolent and ordered her about, she would hold her head erect, and reply to them sometimes in a way which made them stare at her, it was so quaintly civil. " I am a princess in rags and tatters," she would think, "but I am a princess, inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth-of-gold ; it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it. There was Marie Antoinette : when she was in prison, and her throne was gone, and she had only a black gown on, and her hair was white, and they insulted her and called her the Widow Capet, — she was a great deal more like a queen then than when she was so gay and had everything grand. I like her best then. Those howling mobs of people did not frighten her. She was stronger than they were even when they cut her head off." Once when such thoughts were passing through her mind the look in her eyes so enraged Miss MInchin that she flew at Sara and boxed her ears. Sara awakened from her dream, started a little, and then broke into a laugh. " What are you laughing at, you bold, impudent child !" exclaimed Miss MInchin. 3 M\ 34 SARA CREWE J OR, ; f 1 It took Sara a few seconds to remember she was a prin- cess. Her cheeks were red and smarting from the blows she had received. " I was thinking," she said. " Beg my pardon immediately," said Miss Minchln. " I will beg your pardon for laughing, if it was rude," said Sara ; " but I won't beg your pardon for thinking." "What were you thinking?" demanded Miss Minchin. " How dare you think ? What were you thinking ? " This occurred in the school-room, and all the girls looked up from their books to listen. It always interested them when Miss Minchin flew at Sara, because Sara always said something queer, and never seemed in the least frightened. She was not in the least frightened now, though her boxed ears were scarlet, and her eyes were as bright as stars. ** I was thinking," she answered gravely and quite politely, " that you did not know what you were doing." " That I did not know what I was doing!" Miss Minchin fairly gasped. " Yes," said Sara, " and I was thinking what would hap- I pen, if I were a princess and you boxed my ears — what I | should do to you. And I was thinking that if I were one, you i would never dare to do it, whatever I said or did. And I I was thinking how surprised and frightened you would be if you suddenly found out " She had the imagined picture so clearly before her eyes, that she spoke in a manner which had an effect even on Miss WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS M INCH IN' S. 35 Minchln. It almost seemed for the moment to her narrow, unimaginative mind that there must be some real powfer behind this candid daring. " What ! " she exclaimed, " found out what ? " " That I really was a princess," said Sara, " and could do anything — anything I liked." " Go to your room," cried Miss Minchln breathlessly, "this instant. Leave the school-room. Attend to your les- sons, young ladies." Sara made a little bow. " Excuse me for laughing, if it was impolite," she said, and walked out of the room, leaving Miss Minchin in a rige and the girls whispering over their books. " I shouldn't be at all surprised If she did turn out to be something," said one of them. " Suppose she should ! " r !" Miss Minchin That very afternoon Sara had an opportunity of proving to herself whether she was really a princess or not. It was a dreadful afternoon. For several days it had rained con- tinuously, the streets were chilly and sloppy ; there was mud everywhere — sticky London mud — and over everything a pall of fog and drizzle. Of course there were several long and tiresome errands to be done, — there always were on days like this, — and Sara was sent out again and again, until her shabby clothes were damp through. The absurd old feathers on her forlorn hat were more draggled and absurd than ever, and her down-trodden shoes were so wet they could not hold any 36 SARA CREWE i OR, more water. Added to this, she had been deprived of her dinner, because Miss Minchin wished to punish her. She was very hungry. She was so cold and hungry and tired that her httle face had a pinched look, and now and then some kind-hearted person passing her in the crowded street glanced at her with sympathy. But she did not know that. She hurried on, trying to comfort herself in that queer way of hers by pretending and "supposing," — but really this time it was harder than she had ever found it, and once or twice she thought it almost made her more cold and hungry instead of less so. But she persevered obstinately. "Suppose I had dry clothes on," she thought. " Suppose I had good shoes and a long, thick coat and merino stockings and a whole umbrella. And suppose — suppose, just when I was near a baker's where they sold hot buns, I should find sixpence — which belonged to nobody. Suppose, if I did, I should go into the shop and buy six of the hottest buns, and should eat them all without stopping." Some very odd things happen in this world sometimes. It certainly was an odd thing which happened to Sara. She had to cross the street just as she was saying this to herself — the mud was dreadful — she almost had to wade. She picked her way as carefully as she could,, but she could not save herself much, only, in picking her way she had to look down at her feet and the mud, and in looking down — just as she reached the pavement — she saw something shining in the gutter. A piece of silver — a tiny piece trodden upon by WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S, 37 many feet, but still with spirit enough left to shine a little. Not quite a sixpence, but the next thing to it — a four-penny piece! In one second it was in her cold, little red and blue hand. " Oh ! " she gasped. " It is true ! " And then, if you will believe me, she looked straight be- fore her at the shop directly facing her. And it was a baker's, and a cheerful, stout, motherly woman, with rosy cheeks, was just putting into the window a tray of delicious hot buns, — large, plump, shiny buns, with currants in them. It almost made Sara feel faint for a few seconds — the shock and the sight of the buns and the delightful odors of warm bread floating up through the baker's cellar-window. She knew that she need not hesitate to use the little piece of money. It had evidently been lying in the mud for some time, and its owner was completely lost in the streams of pass- ing people who crowded and jostled each other all through the day. " But I'll go and ask the baker's woman if she has lost a piece of money," she said to herself, rather faintly. So she crossed the pavement and put her wet foot on the step of the shop ; and as she did so she saw something which made her stop. it was a little figure more forlorn than her own — a little figure which was not much more than a bundle of rags, from which small, bare, red and muddy feet peeped out — only because the rags with which the wearer was trying to cover 'w I' 38 SARA CREWE; OR, them were not lon^^ enough. Above the rags appeared a shock head of tangled hair and a dirty face, with big, hollow, hungry eyes. Sara knew they were hungry eyes the moment she saw them, and she felt a sudden sympathy. "This," she said to herself, with a little sigh, "is one of the Populace — and she is hungrier than I am." The child — this "one of the Populace" — stared up at Sara, and shuffled herself aside a little, so as to give her more room. She was used to being made to give room to every- body. She knew >that if a policeman chanced to sec her, he would tell her to " move on." Sara clutched her little four-penny piece, and hesitated a few seconds. Then she spoke to her. " Are you hungry ? " she asked. The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more. " Ain't I jist ! " she said, in a hoarse voice. "Jist ain't I !" " Haven't you had any dinner ? " said Sara. " No dinner," more hoarsely still and with more shuffling, "nor yet no bre'fast — nor yet no supper — nor nothin'." " Since when ? " asked Sara. " Dun'no. Never got nothin' to-day — nowhere. I've axed and axed." Just to look at her made Sara more hungry and faint. But those queer little thoughts were at work in her brain, and she was talking to herself though she was sick at heart. " If I'm a princess," she was saying — " if I'm a prin- IVJ/AT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCIflN'S. 39 iiomcnt she saw iigli, "is one of and hesitated a lowhere. I've cess — I When they were poor and driven from their thrones — they always shared — with the Populace — if they met one poorer and hungrier. They always shared. Buns are a penny each. If it had been sixpence! I could have eaten six. It won't be enough for either of us — but it will be better than nothing." " Wait a minute," she said to the beggar-child. She went into the shop. It was warm and smelled delightfully. The woman was just going to put more hot buns in the window. " If you please," said Sara, " have you lost fourpence — a silver fourpence ? " And she held the forlorn little piece of money out to her. The woman looked at it and at her — at her intense little face and draggled, once-fine clothes. "Bless us — no," she answered. "Did you find it?" " In the gutter," said Sara. " Keep it, then," said the woman. " It may have been there a week, and goodness knows who lost it. Yoii could never find out." " I know that," said Sara, "but I thought 'd ask you." " Not many would," said the woman, looking puzzled and interested and good-natured all at once. " Do you want to buy something ? " she added, as she saw Sara glance toward the buns. " Four buns, if you please," said Sara; "those at a pennv each." 4. i ad 40 SAI^A CREWE J OR, The woman went to the window and put some in a paper bag. Sara noticed that she put in six. " I said four, if you please," she explained. " I have only the fourpence." " I'll throw in two for make-weight," said the woman, with her o-ood-natured look. " I dare say you can eat them some time. Aren't you hungry ? " A mist rose before Sara's eyes. " Yes," she answered. " I am very hungry, and I am much obliged to you for your kindness, and," she was going to add, " there is a child outside who is hungrier than I am." But just at that moment two or three customers came in at once and each one seemed in a hurry, so she could only thank the woman again and go out. The child was still huddled up on the corner of the steps. She looked frightful in her wet and dirty rags. She was staring with a stupid look of suffering straight before her, and Sara saw her suddenly draw the back of her roughened, black hand across her eyes to rub away the tears which seamed to have surprised her by forcing their way from under her lids. She was muttering to herself. Sara opened the pap^r bag and took out one of the hot buns, which had already warmed her cold hands a little. " See/' she said, putting the bun on the ragged lap, "that is nice and hot. Eat it, and you will not be so hungry." The child started and stared up at her ; then she snatched >ome in a paper he woman, with eat them some g^ry, and I am she was going ier than I am." lers came in at )uld only thank tr of the steps, ags. She was ht before her, er roughened, e tears which ay from under t one of the old hands a mm I - -I iii: " EAT IT," SAID SARA, "AND YOU WILL NOT BE SO HUNGRY." WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 43 Up the bun and began to cram it into her mouth with great wolfish bites. " Oh, my ! Oh, my ! " Sara heard her say hoarsely, in wiw delight. " Oh, my / " Sara took out three more buns and put them down, " She is hungrier than I am," she said to herself. " She's starving." But her hand trembled when she put down the fourth bun. " I'm not starving," she said — and she put down the fifth. The little starving London savage was still snatching and devouring when she turned away. She was too ravenous to give any thanks, even if she had been taught politeness — which she had not. She was only a poor little wild animal. "Good-bye," said Sara. When she reached the other side of the street she looked back. The child had a bun in both hands, and had stopped in the middle of a bite to watch her. Sara gave her a little nod, and the child, after another stare, — a curious, long- ing stare, — jerked her shaggy head in response, and until Sara was out of sight she did not take another bite or even finish the one she had begun. At that moment the baker-woman glanced out of her shop-window. "Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "If that young 'un hasn't given her hurts to a beggar-child! It wasn't because she didn't want them, either — well, well, she looked hungry .)■'.■ 44 SARA CREWM; OR, enough. I'd give something to know what she did it for." She stood behind her window for a few moments and pondered. Then her curiosity got the better of her. She went to the door and spoke to the beggar-child. " Who gave you those buns ?" she asked her. The child nodded her head toward Sara's vanishing figure. " What did she say ? " inquired the woman. " Axed me if I was 'ungry," replied the hoarse voice. " What did you say ? " " Said I was jist ! " " And then she came in and got buns and came out and gave them to you, did she ? " The child nodded. "How many ?" " Five." The woman thought it over. " Left just one for herselt/' she said, in a low voice. " And she could have eaten the whole six — I saw it in her eyes." She looked after the little, draggled, far-away figure, and felt more disturbed in her usually comfortable mind than she had felt for many a day. " I wish she hadn't gone so quick," she said. " I'm blest if she shouldn't have had a dozen." Then she turned to the child. "Are you hungry, yet?" she asked. "I'm alius 'ungry," was the answer; "but 'tain't so bad as it was." WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 45 rse voice. :^ame out and ain't so bad " Come in here," said the woman, and she held open the shop-door. The child got up and shuffled in. To be invited into a warm place full of bread seemed an incredible thing. She did not know what was going to happen ; she did not care, even. " Get yourself v/arm," said the woman, pointing to a fire in a tiny back room. "And, look here, — when you're hard up for a bite of bread, you can come here and ask for it. I'm blest if I won't give it to you for that young un's sake." Sara found some comfort in her remaining bun. It was hot ; and it was a great deal better than nothing. She broke off small pieces and ate them slowly to make it last longer. *' Suppose it was a magic bun," she said, "and a bite was as much as a whole dinner. I should be over-eating myself if I went on like this." It was dark when she reached the square in which Miss Minchin's Select Seminary was situated ; the lamps were lighted, and in most of the windows gleams of light were to be seen. It always interested Sara to catch glimpses of the rooms before the shutters were closed. She liked to im- agine things about people who sat before the fires in the houses, or who bent over books at the tables. There was, for instance, the Large Family opposite. She called these people the Large Family — not because they were large, for indeed most of them were little, — but because there were so II 46 SARA CREWE J OR, ■ .11 W' ' ^'Mi. ! t ■'■■- • J I M ■J- i .'' ■■■■; 1 ii i' many of them. There were eight children in the Large Family, and a stout, rosy mother, and a stout, rosy father, and a stout, rosy grandmamma, and any number of ser- vants. The eight children were always either being taken out to walk, or to ride in perambulators, by comfortable nurses; or they were going to dn 'e with their mamma; or they were flying to the door in the evening to kiss their papa and dance arcund him and drag off his overcoat and look for packages in the pockets of it ; or they were crowd- ing about the nursery windows and looking out and pushing each other and laughing, — in fact they were always doing something which seemed enjoyable and suited to the tastes of a large family. Sara was quite attached to them, and had given them all names out of books. She called them the Mont- morencys, when she did not call them the Large Family. The fat, fair baby with the lace cap was Ethelberta Beau- champ Montmorency ; the next baby was Violet Cholmondely Montmorency; the little boy who could just stagger, and who had such round legs, was Sydney Cecil Vivian Mont- morency ; and then came Lilian Evangeline, Guy Clarence, Maud Marian, Rosalind Gladys, Veronica Eustacia, and Claude Harold Hector. Next door to the Large Family lived the Maiden Lady, who had a companion, and two parrots, and a King Charles spaniel ; but Sara was not so very fond of her, because she did nothing in particular but talk to the parrots and drive out with the spaniel. The most interesting person of all lived WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 47 next door to Miss Minchin herself. Sara called him the Indian Gentleman. He was an elderly gentleman who was said to have lived in the East Indies, and to be immensely rich and to have something the matter with his liver, — in fact, it had been rumored that he had no liver at all, and was much inconvenienced by the fact. At any rate, he was very yellow and he did not look happy ; and when he went out to his carriage, he was almost always wrapped up in shawls and overcoats, as if he were cold. He had a native servant who looked even colder than himself, and he had a monkey who looked colder than the native servant. Sara had seen the monkey sitting on a table, in the sun, in the parlor window, and he always wore such a mournful expression that she sympathized with him deeply. " I dare say," she used sometimes to remark to herself, **he is thinking all the time of cocoanut trees and of swing- ing by his tail under a ^ropical sun. He might have had a family dependent on him too, poor thing ! " The native servant, whom she called the Lascar, looked mournful too, but he was evidently very faithful to his mas- ter. " Perhaps he saved his master's life In the Sepoy rebellion," she thought. " They look as if they might have had all sorts of adventures. I wish I could speak to the Lascar. I re- member a little Hindustani."^ And one day she actually did speak to him, and his start at the sound of his own language expressed a great deal SARA CREWE J OR, I I of surprise and delight. He was waiting for his master to come out to the carriage, and vSara, who was going on an errand as usual, stopped and spoke a few words. She had a special gift for languages and had remembered enough Hindustani to make herself understood by him. When his master came out, the Lascar spoke to him quickly, and the Indian Gentleman turned and looked at her curiously. And afterward the Lascar always greeted her with salaams of the most profound description. And occasionally they exchanged a few words. She learned that it was true that the Sahib was very rich — that he was ill — and also that he had no wife nor children, and that England did not agree with the monkey. " He must be as lonely as I am," thought Sara. "Being rich does not seem to make him happy." That evening, as she passed the windows, the Lascar was closing the shutters, and she caught a glimpse of the room inside. There was a bright fire glowing in the grate, and the Indian Gentleman was sitting before it, in a luxuri- ous chair. The room was richly furnished, and looked de- lightfully comfortable, but the Indian Gentleman sat with his head resting on his hand, and looked as lonely and unhappy as ever. ** Poor man !" said Sara ; " I wonder -whoXyotc are * suppos- ing'?" When she went into the house she met Miss Minchin in the hall. his master to going on an ds. She had lered enough I. When his ckly, and the •ioiisly. And ilaams of the ey exchanged lat the Sahib i had no wife •ee with the the Lascar mpse of the in the grate^ in a luxuri- d looked de- 1 sat with his ind unhappy are ' suppos- 5 Minchin in ■■■^yf-- ..... ^^'hf^:-^ •-J:.,V ,.;"^r>^;>V .•v*fti^^,v-.. ;-J ff^^ '■■'tj.i'i^f .( 'he was waiting for his master to come out to the CARRlXSP, AND SARA STOPPED AND SPOKE A FEW WORDS TO HIM." \ ,'".••, . . '•,'•!" IVJIAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 51 "Where have you wasted your time?" said Miss Min- chin. " You have been out for hours ! " " It was so wet and muddy," Sara answered. " It was hard to walk, because my shoes were so bad and slipped about so." "Make no excuses," said Miss Minchin, " and tell no false- hoods." Sara went downstairs to the kitchen. "Why didn't you stay all night? " said the cook. " Here are the things," said Sara, and laid her purchases on the table. The cook looked over them, grumbling. She was in a very bad temper indeed. " May I have something to eat ? " Sara asked rather faintly. " Tea's over and done with," was the answer. " Did you expect me to keep it hot for you ? " Sara was silent a second. " I had no dinner," she said, and her voice was quite low. She made it low, because she was afraid it would tremble. " There's some bread in the pantry," said the cook. " That's all you'll get at this time of day." Sara went and found the bread. It was old and hard and dry. The cook was in too bad a humor to give her anything to eat with it. She had just been scolded by Miss Minchin, and it was always safe and easy to vent her bwn spite on Sara. p SARA CREWE J OR, I 'It; Really it was hard for the child to climb the three long flights of stairs leading to her garret. She often found them long and steep when she was tired, but to-night it seemed as if she would never reach the top. Several times a lump rose in her throat and she was obliged to stop to rest. " I can't pretend anything more to-night," she said wearily to herself. " I'm sure I can't. I'll eat my bread and drink some water and then go to sleep, and perhaps a dream will come and pretend for me. I wonder what dreams are." Yes, when she reached the top landing there were tears in her eyes, and she did not feel like a princess — only like a tired, hungry, lonely, lonely child. "If my papa had lived," she said, " they would not have treated me like this. If my papa had lived, he would have taken care of me." Then she turned the handle and opened the garret- door. Can you imagine it — can you believe it ? I find it hard to believe it myself. And Sara found it impossible ; for the first few moments she thought something strange had hap- pened to her eyes — to her mind — that the dream had come before she had had time to fall asleep. " Oh ! " she exclaimed breathlessly. " Oh ! It isn't true ! I know, I know it isn't true ! " And she slipped into the room and closed the door and locked it, and stood with her back against ^t, staring straight before her. Do you wonder? In the grate, which had been empty iVHAT HAPPENED AT Af/SS MINCHIN'S. 53 and rusty and cold when she left it, but which now was black- ened and polished up quite respectably, there was a glowing, blazing fire. On the hob was a little brass kettle, hissing and boiling ; spread r on the floor was i warm, thick rug ; before the fire was a fok. jig-chair, unfolded and with cushions on it ; by the chair was a small folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white cloth, and upon it w( ^ e spread small covered dishes, a cup and saucer, and a tea-pot ; on the bed were new, warm coverings, a curious wadded silk robe, and some books. The little, cold, miserable room seemed changed into Fairyland. It was actually warm and glowing. " It is bewitched !" said Sara. " Or / am bewitched. I only think I see it all ; but if I can only keep on thinking it, I don't care — I don't care — if I can only keep it up ! " She was afraid to move, for fear it would melt away. She stood with her back aganist the door and looked and looked. But soon she began to feel warm, and then she moved for- ward. " A fire that I only thoitght I saw surely wouldn't feel warm," she said. "It feels real — real." She went to it and knelt before it. She touched the chair, the table ; she lifted the cover of one of the dishes. There was something hot and savory in it — something deli- cious. The tea-pot had tea in it, ready for the boiling water from the little kettle ; one plate had toast on it, another, muffins. "It is real," said Sara. " The fire is real enough to warm II ;H 54 SARA CREWE; OR, me ; I can sit in the chair ; the things are real enough to eat. »» It was like a fairy story come true — it was heavenly. She went to the bed and touched the blankets and the wrap. They were real too. She opened one book, and on the title- page was written in a strange hand, " The little girl in the attic." Suddenly — was it a strange thing for her to do ? — Sara put her face down on the queer, foreign-looking quilted robe and burst into tears. " I don't know who it is," she said, •* but somebody cares about me a little — somebody is my friend." Somehow that thought warmed her more than the fire. She had never had a friend since those happy, luxurious days when she had had everything ; and those days had seemed such a long way off — so far away as to be only like dreams — during these last years at Miss Minchin's. She really cried more at this strange thought of having a friend — even though an unknown one — than she had cried over many of her worst troubles. But these tears seemed different from the others, for when she had wiped them away they did not seem to leave her eyes and her heart hot and smarting. And then imagine, if you can, what the rest of the even- ing was like. The delicious comfort of taking off the damp clothes and putting on the soft, warm, quilted robe before the glowing fire — of slipping her cold feet into the luscious WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 55 little wool-lined slippers she found near her chair. And then the hot tea and savory dishes, the cushioned chair and the books ! It was just like Sara, that, once having found the things real, she should give herself up to the enjoyment of them to the very utmost. She had lived such a life of imagining, and had found her pleasure so long in improbabilities, that she was quite equal to accepting any wonderful thing that hap- pened. After she was quite warm and had eaten her supper and enjoyed herself for an hour or so, it had almost ceased to be surprising to her that such magical surroundings should be hers. As to finding out who had done all this, she knew that it was out of the question. She did not know a human soul by whom it could seem in the least degree probable that it could have been done. " There is nobody," she said to herself, " nobody." She discussed the matter with Emily, it is true, but more because it was delightful to talk about it than with a view to making any discoveries. ** But we have a friend, Emily," she said ; " we have a friend." Sara could not even imagine a being charming enough to fill her grand ideal of her mysterious benefactor. If she tried to make in her mind a picture of him or her, it ended by being something glittering and strange — not at all like a real person, but bearing resemblance to a sort of Eastern magician, with long robes and a wand. And when she fell 56 SARA CREWE J OR, ;l asleep, beneath the soft white blanket, she dreamed all night of this magnificent personage, and talked to him in Hindu- stani, and made salaams to him. Upon one thing she was determined. She would not speak to any one of her good fortune — it should be hi^r own secret ; in fact, she was rather inclined to think that il Miss Minchin knew, she would take her treasures from her or in some way spoil her pleasure. So, when she went down the next morning, sY? shut her door very tight and did her best to look as if nothing unusual had occurred. And yet this was rather hard, because she could not help remembering, every now and then, with a sort of start, and her heart would beat quickly every time she repeated to herself, " I have a friend ! " It was a friend who evidently meant to continue to be kind, for when she went to her garret the next night — and she opened the door, it must be confessed, with rather an ex- cited feeling — she found that the same hands had been again at work, and had done even more than before. The fire and the supper were again there, and beside them a number of other things which so altered the look of the garret that Sara quite lost her breath. A piece of bright, strange, heavy cloth covered the battered mantel, and on it some ornaments had been placed. All the bare, ugly things which could be cov- ered with draperies had been concealed and made to look quite pretty. Some odd materials in rich colors had been fastened against the walls with sharp, fine tacks — so sharp that WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHINS. 57 they could be pressed into the wood without hammering. Some brilliant fans were pinned up, and there were several large cushions. A long, old wooden box was covered with a rug, and some cushions lay on it, so that it wore quite the air of a sofa. Sara simply sat down, and looked, and looked again. " It is exactly like something fairy come true," she said ; '• there isn't the least difference. I feel as if I might wish for anything — diamonds and bags of gold — and they would ap- pear ! That couldn't be any stranger than this. Is this my garret ? Am I the same cold, ragged, damp Sara ? And to think how I used to pretend, and pretend, and wish there were fairies ! The one thing I always wanted was to see a fairy story come true. I am living in a fairy story ! I feel as if I might be a fairy myself, and be able to turn things into anything else ! " It was like a fairy story, and, what was best of all, it con- tinued. Almost every day something new was done to the garret. Some new comfort or ornament appeared in it when Sara opened her door at night, until actually, in a short time, it was a bright little room, full of all sorts of odd and luxurious things. And the magician had taken care that the child should not be hungry, and that she should have as many books as she could read. vVhen she left the room in the morning, the remains of her supper were on the table, and when she returned in the evening, the magician had removed them, and left another nice little meal. Downstairs Miss « 1 ■ ,u lilll 58 SARA CREWE J OR, Minchin was as cruel and insulting as ever, Miss Amelia was as peevish, and the servants were as vulgar. 3ara was sent on errands, and scolded, and driven hither and thither, but somehow it seemed as if she could bear it all. The de- lightful sense of romance and mystery lifted her above the. cook's temper and malice. The comfort she enjoyed and could always look forward to was making her stronger. If she came home from her errands wet and tired, she knew she would soon be warm, after she had climbed the stairs. In a few weeks she began to look less thin. A little color came into her cheeks, and her eyes did not seem much too bior for her face. o It was just when this was beginning to be so apparent that Miss Minchin sometimes stared at her questioningly, that another wonderful thing happened. A man came to the door and left several parcels. All were addressed (in large letters) to "the little girl in the attic." Sara herself was sent to open the door, and she took them in. She lai . the two largest parcels down on the hall-table and was looking at the address, when Miss Minchin came down the stairs. " Take the things upstairs to the young lady to whom they belong," she said. " Don't stand there staring at them." " They belong to me," answered Sara, quietly. "To you!" exclaimed Miss Minchin. "What do you mean ? " " I don't know where they came from," said Sara, " but they're addressed to me." WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 59 i'^s Amelia 3ara was nd thither, The de- above the. jo^ed and onger. If she knew the stairs, ittle color much too apparent stioningly, ime to the 1 (in large f was sent . the two :ing at the vhom they hem." > It do you )ara, "but Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at them with an excited expression. " What is in them ? " she demanded. " I don't know," said Sara. " Open them !" she demanded, still more excitedly. Sara did as she was told. They contained pretty and comfortable clothing, — clothing of different kinds ; shoes and stockings and gloves, a warm coat, and even an umbrella On the pocket of the coat was pinned a paper on which was written, " To be worn every day — will be replaced by others when necessary." Miss Minchin was quite agitated. This was an incident which suggested strange things to her sordid mind. Could it be that she had made a mistake after all, and that the child so neglected and so unkindly treated by her had some powerful friend in the background ? It would not be very pleasant if there should be such a friend, and he or she should learn all the truth about the thin, shabby clothes, the scant food, the hard work. She felt queer indeed and uncertain, and she gave a side-glance at Sara. " Well," she said, in a voice such as she had never used since the day the child lost her father — "well, some one is very kind to you. As you have the things and are to have new ones when they are worn out, you may as well go and put them on and look respectable ; and after you are dressed, you may come downstairs and learn your le.sons in the school-room." i^ iiu," she or after rsue the >f Sara's enough. . it paid, a brief lis opin- tain that )rd, and dream, WHAT HAP I' EN ED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 77 when one night the Indian Gentleman saw that she sat a long time with her cheek on her hand looking at the fire. "What are you 'supposing,' Sara?" he asked. Sara looked up with a bright color on her cheeks. " I was, • supposing,' '' she said ; " I was remembei. ig Lhat hungry day, and a child I saw." " But there were a great many hungry days," s^id the In- dian Gentleman, with a rather sad tone in his voice. ** Which hungry day was it ? " ** I forgot you didn't know," said Sara. " It was the day I found the things in my garret." And then she told him the story of the bun-shop, and the fourpence, and the child who was hungrier than herself ; and somehow as she told it, though she told it very simply in- deed, the Indian Gentleman found it necessary to shade his eyes with his hand and look down at the floor. "And I was * supposing' a kind of plan," said Sara, when she had finished ; " I was thinking I would like to do something." "What is it?" said her guardian in a low tone. "You may do anything you like to do. Princess." " I was wondering," said Sara, — " you know you say 1 have a great deal of money — and I -was wondering if I could go and see the bun-woman and tell her that if, when hungry children — particularly on those dreadful days — come and sit on the steps or look in at the window, she would just call them in and give them something to eat, she might send the bills to me and I would pay them — could I do that ? " ill! 78 SAHA CREWE; OR, " You shall do it to-morrow morning," said the Indian Gentleman. '* Thank you," said Sara; "you see I know what it is to be hungry, and it is very hard when one can't ^v^n pretend it away." " Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indian Gentleman. " Yes, it must be. Try to forget it. Come and sit on this foot- stool near my knee, and only remember you are a prin- cess." " Yes," said Sara, "and I can give buns and bread to the Populace." And she went and sat on the stool, and the In- dian Gentleman (he used to like her to call him that, too, sometimes, — in fact very often) drew her jmall, dark head down upon his knee and stroked her hair. The next morning a carriage drew up before the door of the bakers shop, and a gentleman and a little girl got out, — oddly enough, just as the bun-woman was putting a tray of smoking hot buns into the window. When Sara entered the shop the woman turned and looked at her and, leaving the buns, came and stood behind the counter. For a moment she looked at Sara very hard indeed, and then her good- natured face lighted up. " I'm that sure I remember you, miss," she said. " And yet " " Yes," said Sara, " once you gave me six buns for four- pence, and " "And you gave five of 'em to a beggar-child," said the w^^ \ ^^\i IN, ** HE DREW HE DREW HER SMALL DARK HEAD DOWN UPON HIS KNEE AND STROKED HER HAIR. IVHA woman. "!' out at first, people that r of it many a rosier and be "I am b happier, and me. '• Me, mis miss ! Wha And then listened to it " Why, b "Yes, miss, i ing woman, n count, and th excuse me, I away since tl An* how wet you give awc The Ind smiled a littk was hungrier " She Wc time she's t wet, and fell insides." . WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS iM IN CHIN'S. 81 woman. "I've always rememberer' it I couldn't make it out at first. I beg pardon, sir, but there's not many young people that notices a hungry face in that way, and I've thought of it many a time. Excuse the ' ! erty, miss, but you look rosier and better than you did that day." " I am better, thank you," said Sara, " and — and I am happier, and I have come to ask you to do something for me. '* Me, miss ! " exclaimed the woman, " why, bless you, yes, miss ! What can I do ? " And then Sara made her little proposal, and the woman listened to it with an astonished face. " Why, bless me ! " she said, when she had heard it all. "Yes, miss, it'll be a pleasure to me to do it. I am a work- ing woman, myself, and can't afford to do much on my own ac- count, and there's l ights of trouble on every side ; but if you'll excuse me, I'm bounu to say I've given many a bit of bread away since that wet afternoon, just along o' thinkin' of you. An' how wet an' cold you was, an' how you looked, — an' yet you give away your hot buns as if you was a princess." The Indian Gentleman smiled involuntarily, and Sara smiled a little too. " She looked so hungry," she said. '* She was hungrier than I was." " She was starving," said the woman. " Many's the time she's told me of it since — how she sat there in the wet, and felt as if a wolf was a-tearing at her poor young insides." . . . , , iiii 82 SARA CREWE J OR, **0h, have you seen her since then?" exclaimed Sara. *' Do you know where she is ?" " I know ! " said the woman. " Why, she's in that there back room now, miss, an' has been for a month, an' a de- cent, well-meaning girl she's going to turn out, an' such a help to me in the day shop, an' in the kitchen, as you'd scarce believe, knowing how she's lived." She stepped to the door of the little back parlor and spoive ; and the next minute a girl came out and followed her behind the counter. And actually it was the beggar-child, clean and neatly clothed, and kicking as if she had not been hungry for a long time. ^Jhe looked shy, but she had a nice face, now that shi was no longer a savage ; and the wild look had gone from her eyes. And she knew Sara in an instant, and stood and looked at her as if she couid never look enough. " You sf^e," said the woman, " I told her to come here when she was hungry, and when she'd come I'd give her odd jobs to do. an' I found she was willing, an' somehow I got to like her ; an' the end of it was I've given her a place an' a home, an' she helps me, an' behaves as well, an' is as thank- ful as a girl can be. Her name's Anne — she has no otiier." The two children stood and looked at each other a few moments. In Sara's eyes a new thought was growing. " I'm glad you have such a good home," she said. " Per- haps Mrs. Brown will let you give the buns and bread to the children — perhaps you would like to do it — because you know what it is to be hungry, too." ''Ye And the girl and looi into the WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 83 "Yes, miss," said the girl. And somehow Sara felt as if she understood her, thpugh the girl said nothing more, and only stood still and looked, and looi ^d after her as she went out oi the shop and got into the carriat{e and drove away. IHE END. I \i. ■A A I An One volun Mr. Bei he really wc which he cc procure or n has made z inventing ai SUM] Kite Tij Fishing — I to Stock, Aquarium rine Aquai Dredge, 1 made Bot Boats— H — How t( Hunting . Dogs — I Snow Hoi — Wintei How to Shows — atrical C of tt kind "It is t practical Ai: of things, 1)1 theinventiv place of the Prt/ace. "Each to the boys of ipind and "The exercFsed t and an emh •!^ :/lTTR ACTIVE 'BOOKS FOTi THE YOUNG. A NENA/ EDITION AT REDUCED PRICE. THE American Boy^s H anby BeoK OR, WHAT TO DO AND HOW TO DO IT. BY DANIEL C. BEARD. One volume, octavo, fully Illustrated by the Author. ^2.00, Mr. Beard's book is the first to tell the active, inventive and practical American boy the ihings^\^ he really wants to know; the thousand things he wants to do, and the ten thousand ways t«j, which he can do them, with the helps and ingenious contrivances which every boy can either ^ procure or make. The author divides the book among the sports of the Tour seasons ; and he has made an almost exhaustive collection of the cleverest modern devices, besides himself inventing an immense number of capital and practical ideas. SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. Kite Time — V/ar Kites— Novel Modes of Fishing — Home-made Fishing Tackle — How to Stock, Make and Keep a Fresh-Water Aquarium— How to Stock and Keep a Ma- rine Aquarium— Knots, Bends and Hitches- Dredge, Tangle and Trawl Fishing— Home- made Boats— How to Rig and Sail Small Boats— How to Camp Out Without a Tent — How to Rear Wild Birds — Home-made Hunting Apparatus — Traps and Trapping — Dogs — Practical Taxidermy for Boys — Snow H ouses and Statuary — Winged Skaters — Winter Fishing — Indoor Amusements — How to Make a Magic Lantern — Pu pet Shows — Home-made Masquerade and 'I'he- atrical Costumes — With many other subjects of a kindred nature. T«E:AMERICAN©dTS |;[iANDy:B00K BY LCBearcLi ! Ncw%rlc -.]> Charles ^/.j -Scribner^^f ^/SonsW % '^ii "It is the memory of the longing that used to p- iss myself and my boy friends of a few years ago for a real practical American boy's book that has induced me to jifer this volume. Of course such a book cannot, in the nature of things, be exhaustive, nor is it, indeed, desirable that it should be. Its use and principal purpose are to stimuhite the inventive faculties in boys, to bring them face to face with practical emergencies when no book can supply the place of their own common sense and the exercise of personal intelligence and ingenuity." — From the Author' J' Preface. " E^ch particular department is minutely illustrated, and the whole is a complete treasury, invaluable not only to the boys themselves, but to parents and guardians wno have at heart their happiness and healthful development of mind and muscle." — Pittsburgh Telegraph. ''The boy who has learned to play all the games and mike all the toys of which it '-aches, has unconsciously exercFsed the inventive faculty that is in him, has acquired skill with his hands, and has i.ecome a good mechanic and an embryo inventor withoHt knowing it." — Milwaukee Evening W isconsin. dIT TRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG. THE MAKING OF THE GREAT WEST. 1512-1853. BY SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE. With 14^ Illustrations and Maps. One voluiue, 121110, »i.75 Mr. Drake's volume is similar in purpose to his other popular work, " The Making of New England," and like that, presents in a clear and attractive form, most likely to hold the attention of the young readers for whom the book was written, as well as to interest adults, suggestive phases of historical research often overlooked. After discussing in detail and by topics the original explorations of the Spaniards, the Frennh, and the English, the author traces the development of America as a nation by conquest, annexation, and by explorniion. The volume is admirably arranged, is popular ui style, and .' . ■ .!iy illustrated. " The author's aim in these books is that they shall occupy a place between the larger and lesser histories of the lands and the periods of vhich they treat, and that each topic therein shall be treated as a unit, and worked out to a clcitr understanding of its objects and results before passing 10 another topic. In the furtherance of this method each •abject has its own descriptive notes, maps, plans, and illustrations, the whole contributing to a thorough though ^»/idensed knowledge of the subject iu ha.nA,"—Tke New York Mail and Expreti, BY THE SAME AUTHOR. THE MAKING OF NEW ENGLAND. 1580-1643. With 148 Illustration'- ar.-^' Map^. _ One volume, zxiuot v't'^ 1^* •♦I have read 'The Making of Ncv/ .^.iglit'.'',' urri like it exceedingly. The matter is well chosen and well arranged. I particularly like the presentation of the v;uious minor settle- ments between the coming of the Pilgrims and the great Massachusetts Emigration — a matter of which many people are almost ignorant. The picture of early colonial life is clear and excellent." — Fhancis Parkman. " The book seems to me admirably adapted for its purpose, and tells the T'.ory of our fathers' migration and settlement in the most lucid way," — Prof. H. B. Adams, Jokm Hopkint Univertity, FIRST CHURCH OF BOSTON. J^7 A STi With a S In this boo! diaeval romanc Story of Siegf ri young people narrative the le the romantic ai a form most a their elders as beauty, reveali In perfect hara Th With a\ " Mr, Baldv vividly that his 1 "The story I with keeninterel details. There i Roland have nod our American y| — Thf Boston l\ THE A. ,^»!SJ «M ./ITTRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOTi THE YOUNG. A STORY OF THE GOLDEN AGE, BY JAMES BALDWIN. With a Series of Superb Full-page Illustrations by Howard Pyle. One volume, square izhuo, 41I2.0O0 In this book the author turns from the Northern myths and Me- diaeval romances which engaged his attention, respectively, in "The Story of Siegfried" and "The Story of Roland," and seeks to interest young people in the Homeric poems by weaving into a continuous narrative the legends relating to the causes of the Trojan War. Thus the romantic and stirring events which led to that War are set forth in a form most attractive to young people, and of no little interest to their elders as well. Mr. Pyle's illustrations are of extraordinary beauty, revealing grace, spirit, and vigor in the drawing, and being In perfect harmony with the antique flavor of the story. 1 1 li! M I THE STORY OF SIEGFRIED. BY JAMES BALDWIN. With a Series of Illustrations by Howard Pyle, One volume, square 121U0, 4it2.oo. "To wise p.irents who strive, as all parents should do, to regulate and supervise their children's reading, this book is most earnestly commended. Would there were more of its type and excellence. It has our most hearty approval and recommendation in every way, not only for beauty of illustration, which is of the highest order, but for the fascinating manner in which the old Norse legend is told." — The Churchman. " No more delightful readmg for the young can be imagined than that provided in this interesting book."— TA^ Boston Saturday Evening izetie. THE STORY OF ROLAND. BY JAMES BALDWIN. With a Series of Illustrations by R. B. Birch. One volume, square aamo, 4JI2.00. " Mr. Baldwin enjoys his task and puts it before 'ms readers so crisply and vividly that his boys' book is good meat for men." — TAe Ne7u York Times. "The story is told in the simple language of the old legends and will be read with keen interest by youth whoenjoy the romance of history without its wearisome details. There is no modern language in which the exploits of Charlemagne and Roland have not been told. Prof. Baldwin here presents them for the first time to our American youth in a form which is sure to entertain and instruct his readers." — The Boston Herald. THE ABOVE THREE VOLUMES IN A BOX. ffi.oo- I:! d^TTRACTiyE 'BOOKS FOTi THE YOUNG. The American Girl^s Handy Book HOW TO AMUSE YOURSELF AND OTHERS. BY LINA AND ADELIA B. BEARD. With nearly ^oo Illustrations by the Authors. One volume, square 8vo, 4[kj.oo. Full of information upon the thousand and one things that interest every girl, this volume forms a notable companion to the book for boys by Daniel C. Beard, brother of the present authors, published last year. Everything that girls want to know about their sports, games, and winter afternoon and evening work, is told clearly and simply in this helpful and entertaining volume. Beginning with April Fool's Day, the authors take their readers through the circuit of the year, dwelling upon the sports, games, etc.. appropriate to each season and to all the holidays, and fumishiiig welcome instruction regarding the many little accomplish" ents that girls like to I>ecome proficient in. The volume is fully and handsomely illustrated from drawings by the authors, whose designs are in the best sense illus- y HnW trt "^""BM^f^ trative of the text. Amuse Yourself and Others The:AMERI6AN:GiR •HandyjBoo*^ lS BY LinaBeard and Adelia BiBear^/ N eWYo rk Charles ScribnerS *" Sons SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. First of April — Wild Flowers and Their Preservation — The Walking Club — Easter- Egg Gaines — How to Make a Lawn -Tennis Net — May- Day Sports — Midsummer- Eve Games and Sports— Sea-side Cottage Deco- tiair.xk- — A Girl's Fourth of July — An Impres- sion; Album — Picnics, Burgoos, and Corn- R' as^^ — Botany as applied to Art — Quiet Games for Hot Weather — How to Make a Hammock — Corn-Husk and Flower Dolls — How to Make Fans — All Hallow Eve — Na- ture's Fall Decorations and how to Use Them — Nutting Parties — How to Draw, Paint in Oil-coiorS; and Model in Clay and Wax — China Painting- Christmas Festivities, and Home- made Christmas Gifts — Amusements and Games for the Holidays. FROM THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. One of our objects is to impn^ss upon the minds of the girls the fact that they all possess talent and ability to «chieve mc-e than they suppose possible, and we would encourage a belief in the remark made by a famous French- man : " When you Americans undertake anything you never stop to ascertain if it be possible^ you simply do '/. " We desire also to help awaken the inveiitive faculty, usually unrultivated in girls, and, by giving detailed methods of new work and amusemem, to put them on the '■oad which ihey can travel and explore alone. We k low well the feeling of hopelessness wtt'ch accompanie* vague directio.is, and, lo make our explanations plain and lucid, we have ourselves, with very few exceptions, made all of the articles, played the games, and solved the problems described. The materials employed in the construction of the various articles are within easy reach of all, and the outlay, i« most cases, little or rothing. tHEei Witl One TOlunK "The little o and the kindred s Fashioned Fairy ' metamorphosed p the stories which in different scenes but still the same Emmet has given pages accord well BRl m-. OK llkj.oo. volume present es, and rtaining ircuit of loliHays, s like to ully and by the nse illus* 'S. id Their -Easter- i -Tennis ner-Eve re Deco- Impres- d Corn- t— Quiet Make a Dolls— ive — Na- se Them Paint in c — China d Home- ats and d ability to Dus French - ydo't.'" led methods jcplanations , and solved le outlay,!* ATTRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG. The 0l2l>FASHI0NEB fAIRY BOOK BY MRS. BURTON HARRISON. With many Qtiaint Ilhistratiotis by Miss Rosina Emmet. One TOlume^ square i6niO) _ . . . - $i*a5* " The little ones, who so willingly go back with us to 'Jack the Giant-Killer,' 'Blue-beard,' and the kindred stories of our childhood, will gladly welcome Mrs. Burton Harrison's ' Old- Fashioned Fairy Tales,' where the giant, the dwarf, the fairy, the wicked princess, the ogre, the metamorphosed prince, and all the heroes of that line come into play and action. As they read the stories which compose this book they will meet with all the familiar actors of the fairy world, in different scenes indeed, and with new deeds of daring, witchcraft, or charming benevolence, but still the same characters of the old-fashioned fairy lore. The graceful pencil of Miss Rosina Emmet has given a pictorial interest to the book, and the many pictures scattered through its pages accord well with the good old-fashioned character of the tales." — Frank R. Stockton. BRIG=A = BRAG STORIES. BY MRS. BURTON HARRISON. Illustrated and Cover designed by Walter Zrane. One volume, i^mo, f a.oo. Spicimtn Il/usiratioH^ Rtduied. "When the little boy for whose jenefit the various articles of bric-i-brac m his father's drawing-room relate stories appropriate to their several native coun- tries, exclaims, at the conclusion of one of hem, 'I almost think there can't be a hetter one than that!' the reader, of whatever age, will probably feel inclined to agree with him. Upon the whole, it is to be wished that every boy and grl in America, or anywhere else, might become intimatelv acquainted with the contents of this book. There is more virtue in one of these stories than in the entire library of modern juvenile literature."— /«/»a» Hawthorne. "Few volumes will receive a warmer welcome from children. . . . It is praise enough for Mr. Crane's illustrations to say that they harmonize with the stories. We confess to have been beguiled by the book into a forgetfulness of time, cares, and pretty much everything for two con- secutive \io\xx^."— Christian Intelligencer. \ ^TTRACTiyE 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG. CHILDREN'S STORIES OF AMERICAN PROGRESS. ^^^' HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT. With twelve full-page Illustritions from Drawings by J, Stetple Davis. One volume, i2mo, ...... . . . . , $1.50. ^TTRA PlDVENI Miss Wrifiht in dealing with the remote .-ind partially legend- ary episodes oi the earlier his- tory of our coun- try in her C/n7- dren's Stories in AtHerican His- tory displayed a remarkable tal- ent for vivid and picturesque iiai ration, which in- sures. or her new volume a cordial reception. "■ The Storits of American Pro£Tessconta\n a series of pic- tures of events of the first half of the present century, and the scope of the hook comprehends all the prominent steps by which we have reached our present position both as regards extent nf cuntry and industrial prosperity. They inclu'le an account of the first Ste.-»m- boat, the Railroad, and the Teltgraph, as well as of the purchase of Florida, the War of 1812, and the discovery of Gold. It will be found that no event of importance has been omitted and any child fond of story telling will gain from these two books an amount of knowledge which may far exceed that which is usually acquired from the rigid instruction of the School-room " CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN HISTORY. BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT. JVit/t twelve full-page Illustrations from Drawings by J. Steeple Davis. 01 One volume, quart Young.RlCHi In this book, unci rtist, Mr. Pyle has gi omplete and consecu iorest. There is som le boll outlaw. Hi lion, his love of faii unterpirt in the fol Lrn One volume, lamo, $1.50. " To the teacher or parent endeavoring to convey to her pupil's understanding the fact that there is some- thing worth remembering about America before the battle of Bunker Hill, the Children's Stories will prove a boon. Sketches of the Mound Builders, of De Soto, of Columbus, Cortes, Pocahontas and Pizarro, so clearly and charmingly told as these, will surely rivet the atte;'''Oii of a little leader even when there is a book of fairy tales to fo low." — Mrs. Burton Harrison. " Mr. Pyle has| is own fresh, sim^ ould have done. ESS. ^TTRACTiyE 'BOOKS FO% THE YOUNG. $i.50.| tiss Wripiht ealing with, remote and ially legeiul- episodes of earlier his- of ourcoiin- iii her C/til- ^s Stories in erican His- ' displayed a arkable tal- f or vivid and uresque n:it on, vhichin- es.orhernew Jme a cordial eption. The Stories American ogressconl^\n tre merry DVENtaRES OF R0BIN HOOB. Of Great Renown in Nottinghamshire. WRIITEN AND II-LUSTRATED BY HOWARD PYLE. he volume J quarto, full embossed leather, ,4.^0; cloth. ^).oo. eries of 1 Vbung.KlCHARD»PARTINGTON'Comcfh-to-reek-y^erry.RoBlN'HooDi pic- es of events the first lialf the present itury, and the pc of the book iprehends all prominent ps by which have reached r present e first Steam- ;he discovery ■y telling will ired from the ORY. In this book, undoubtedly the most original and elaborate ever produced by an American rtist, Mr. Pyle has gathered irom the old ballads and legends, and told with pencil and pen, ihe omplete and consecutive story of Robin Hood and his merry men in their haunts in Sherwood orest. There is something thoroughly English and home-bred in these episodes in the life of \e boll outlaw. His sunny, open-air nr.ture, his matchless skill at archery, his generous dispo- ition, his love of fair play, and his ever-present courtesy to women, form a picture that has no Dunterp-'.rt in the folk-lore of any other people. $1.50. ere is some- vill prove a I clearly and if fairy tales " Mr. Pyle has taken the most characteristic of these old ballads, and has turned them into is own fresh, simple, idiomatic prose, and has illustrated them as no other man in America ould have done." — New York Mail "•■ "^ jfjliMipi-Mff, -..i, .PWA^.VV.*"" A ■■^ ^^-ince, King, THE BOY'S KING ARTHUR. Being Sir Thomas Mallory's History of King Arthur AND His Knights of the Round Table. THE BOY'S FROISSART. Being Sir John Froissart's Chronicles of Adventure, Battle, and Custom in England, France, Spain, Etc. THE BOY'S PERCY. m^':, THE 'll^' KNIGHTLY LEGENDS OF WALES; OR, THE BOY'S MABINOGION. "Amid all the strange and fanciful scenery of these stories, character and the ideals of chnracter remain aJ simplest and purest. The romantic hstory transpires in the healthy atmosphere of the open air on the green ?L „ , •, l jJ beneath the open sky. * * * The figures of Right, Truth, Justice, Honor^ Purity, Courage, Reverence for H " A fresh, breezy, still are always in the background ; and the grand passion inspired by the book is for strength to do well and nobt^**"" of the continent mi the world."— The Independent. \ " If the young readerf *' It is quite the beau ideal of a book for a present to an intelligent boy or girl." — Baltimore Gaatite. |d he will be hard to pie ^ d^r TRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG. WHITE COCKADES, LRIn incident of the "forty-five. BY EDWARD IREM/EUS STEVENSON. iy One volume, lamio, #i.ou. iiiM^Mr ^<^'^>''" A Scotch story of the Second Rebellion of the Jacobites, replete with exciting incidents, and told in a manner remarkable for its freshness and vigor. A refugee, who is supposed to be a young Jaco- bite nobleman, but who turns out to be something very different, is the hero of some strange adventures in the house of an honest Highland Jacobite, where he has secured shelter from his pursuers. » A'vivid and faithful picture is given of the conflicts between the King's soldiers and the rebell ous Highlanders, which, with the narrow escape of the disguised refugee, and oiher stirring incidents, make up a tale that every boy will heartily enjoy. One is carried irresistibly to the con- clusion of the rom.ince by the art of the author, the nervous energy of whose narrative is in the happiest accord with the rapid action anf* dramatic arrangement of the story. A U^EIV ^ND CHEAPER EDITION. MY KALULU. |:ince, King, and Slave. A Story of Central Africa. BY HENRY M. STANLEY. -^^i One volume, izmo, Mrltlt many illustrations, 4^1.50. Mr. Stanley's African romance for boys is based upon knowledge acquired during his journey in search of Dr. Livingstone, which began in 1871 and ended in 1872. It is a fascinating story of strange scenes, incidents, and adventures among the tribes of Central Africa, and of encounters with the wild animals that make their home there. One feat- ure of the book is its vivid description of the evils of the Slave trade. The popularity of ihe story was great, and as it has been out of print, the publishers have issued a new and cheaper edition, which will no doubt meet with the same hearty reception accorded to the first. ter remain ai iverence for 1 " A fresh, breezy, stirring story for youths, interesting in itself and full of information regarding life in the veil and noblief'or of the continent in which its scenes are laid,*' — TAe New York Times. " If the young reader is fond of strange adventures, he will find enough in this volume to delight him all winter, 'a%*tt€, d ho will be hard to please who is not charmed by its graphic pages."— 7** Boston Journal. \ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 ■so "'"^^ IIIIIM IIIM 1= 1.6 V] <^ /2 ^ °m C 'VWJ, ^4 o / / /A Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 .^fi3' fA ~:^n:>!': 'V,.-'Vr "•"^Tl"''' '*'*I'' "-.-■ r^ ^TTRACTiyE 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG. SreDBARB^S BOOKS FOR BOYS DAB KINZER. a Sioo'o/aGr.win^Boy. SALTILLO BOYS. THE QUARTET, a se.ueno "m j^inzer." AMONG THE LAKES WINTER PUN. BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD. Five 'volumes, i2tno, In a box, Sold separately, price per volume, #5.00. 1. 00. " William O. Stoddard has written capital books for boys. His ' Dab Kinzer,' and * The Quartet,' are amo thebest specimens of 'Juveniles' produced anywhere. In his latest volume, ' Winter Fun,' Mr. Stoddard giv free rein to his remarkable gift of story telling for boys. It is a connected tale of winter life in the country, which a party of bright lads extract their fun from hunting rabbits, trapping bears, snow balling, coasting, skatln making maple sugar, and leading a semi-wild life in the woods and fields part of the time. They are good bo too, and neglect none of their home duties while furnishing the materials for this entertaining book. Healthf works of this kind cannot be too freely distributed among the little men of America as a counterpoi;* to tl pernicious literature too often provided for them." — y our nal 0/ Commerce. A NEW AND REVISED EDITION OF THE ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY er W ONBERS. THE WONDERS OF MAN AND NATURE, Intelligence of Aninnals — Mountain Adventures — Bodily Strength and Skill — Wonderful Escapei —Thunder and Lightning— Adventures on the Great Hunting Grounds — Wonders of the Humai Body— The Sublime in Nature. THE WONDERS OF SCIENCE, Vvu.^ders of Heat — Wonders of the Heavens — Wonders of Optics — The Sun —Wonders o Acoustics — Wonders of Water — Wonders of the Moon — Meteors, Aerolites, Storms, and Atmos- pheric Phenomena. THE WONDERS OF ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY. Egypt 3,300 Years Ago — Wonders of Sculpture — Wonders of Glass Making — Wonders of Bur»j pean Art — Wonders of Pompeii — Wonders of Architecture — The Wonders of Italian Art— Thw Wonders of Bneraving. ^ Twenty-four volumes, containing over a Thousand Valuable Illustrations^ \ lEacb Set, 8 volumes, In a Box, - #8.00. < Each volume, i2mo, complete in itself. Sold separately at $1.00 per volumcj JiTTRA A NEIV JULES (( JU 9 vols., 8vo, Price, per set, i Michael Strogoff; the Czar A Floating City i Runners Hector Servadac. Oick Sands A Journey to the C YS 5. 5*oo. I.OO. are amo ddard giv country ng, skatin good bo Hcalthf oi»« to tl ■\ ATTRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOTi THE YOUNG. A NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION IN THREE PARTS. JULES VERNE'S GREATEST WORK. " THE EXPLORATION OF THE WORLD." " M. Verne's scheme in this work is to tell fully how man has mad* acquaintance with the world in which he lives, to combine into a single work in three volumes the wonderful stories of al' the great explorers, navigators, and travellers, who have sought out, cue after another, the once uttermost parts of the earth." — The New York Evening Post. Tbo tliree vols, lit a, set, $7.50; slnsly, II2.50. FAMOUS TRAVELS AND TRAVELLERS. With over 100 full-page Illustrations, Maps, etc., 8vo, $2.50 THE GREAT NAVIGATORS OF THE XVIUTH CENTURY. With 96 full-page Illustrations and Nineteen Maps,8vo, $2.50 TSE GREAT EXPLORERS OF THE XIXTH CENTURY. With over 100 full-page Illus'ns, Fac-similes, etc., 8vo, $2.50 ?s " The Prince of Story Tellers:"— Inv. London Times. JULES VERNE'S STORIES. UNIFORM ILLUSTRATED EDITION. 9 vols., 8vo, extra clotli, with over 750 full-paKe Illustrations. Price, per set, in a box, ......... 41x7.50* Sold also In separate volumes. il Bscapei le Hutnai onders oi id AttnoB- rY, t of Euro4 Art— Tb« tions. i T volumw' - ... { Michael Strogoff; or, The Courier of the Czar $2.00 A Floating City and the Blockade Runners 2.00 Hector Seryadac a.oo Oick Sands 2.00 A Journey to the Cs^ntre of the Earth. 2 00 From the Earth to the Moon Direct in Ninety-seven Hours, Twenty Minutes ; and a Journey Around it $2.00 The Steam House 2.00 The Giant Raft 2.00 The Mysterious Island 2.50 ii ■I i .-. .-.■■/:..-^>jjMU-i-^.a«,-.»::^^^^^. diiiytaiui ATTRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOTi THE YOUNG. THE BOY'S LIBRARY OF PLUCK AND ACTION. Pour volumes, izmo, lu a box. Illustrated, Sold separately, vtrlce per volume. 4I5.00 I.50 A JOLLY Fellowship. BY FRANK R, STOCKTON. HANS BRINKER; OR, the; sii^ve^r skaters. A Story of Life in Holland. BY MRS. MARY MAPES DODGE. THE Boy Emigrants. BY NOAH BROOKS. Phaeton Rogers. BY ROSSITER JOHNSON. In the ** Boy's Library 0/ Pluck and Action," ihe Assign was to bring together the repre- sentative and most popular books of four of the best known writers for young people. The volumes are beautifully illustrated and uniformly bound in a most attractive orm. Illustrated library of travel BY BAYARD TAYLOR. Per set, six volumes, X2mo, #6.00. Eiacli wltli many illustratlous. Sold separately, per volu««te, - - II1.25. JAPAN IN OUR DAY. TRAVELS IN ARABIA. TRAVELS IN SOUTH AFRICA. CENTRAL ASIA. THE LAKE REGION OF CENTRAL AFRICA. SIAM, THE LAND OF THE WHITE ELEPHANT. Each volume is complete in itself, and contains, first, a brief preliminary sketch of the country to which it is devoted ; next, such an outline of previous explorations as maybe necessary to explain what has been achieved by later ones ; and finally, a condensation of one or more of the most important narratives of recent travel, accompanied with illustrations of the scenery, architecture, and life of the races, drawn only from the most authentic sources. "Authenticated accounts of countries, peoples, modes of living and being, cm 'isities in natural history, and personal adventure in travels and explorations, suggest a rich fund of solid instruction combined with delightful entertainment. The editorship by one of the most observant and well-travelled men of modern times, at once secures the high character of the ' Library ' in every particular,"—. TA* Sunday School Timet. { ■«■• ■p- mss^ae f^i^^^^^^mm^i^&^m^^^ ■ ■: i. m ^■%- t*^fXi, ' . ^' ■■ * ,- ■ tv ■'<-■. '"■-.■ ■ ; vV • ■ i r?. ..'^, N^S6 *^T. EATON & CO. [•""'•^■ffir'"'- jjt^gag^^ w' V190 to 196 Yoitie Sti^eetj > SXKBNBIKa TBKOTOMt.TO : 10 tpjiaj^ Queen Street, TOROKtO tfifiiip^'^ i-i (--^ r r itita'.'-ihiTrir "j"-ii'ii'"i' r "ig s !