CHICAGO . 
 
 J4&V/ YOR^

 
 HOME SPUN YARNS 
 
 MARY ABBOT BAND. 
 
 I ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 CHICAGO AND NEW YORK. 
 
 BELFOED, OLAKKE & CO. 
 
 1889.
 
 ONTENTS. 
 
 THE PONY'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT ..... 7 
 OLD CROMBIE AND HIS BOYS .... 13 
 
 "THANK YOU TO LET MY DlNNER ALONE!" . . . IQ 
 
 His NATIVE SEA ....... 20 
 
 DANGER BEHIND! ....... V 23 
 
 SOMEBODY'S RELATIONS ...... 24 
 
 GRETCHEN'S TELEGRAPH . 28 
 
 A SLED LIKE OTHER BOYS ..... 35 
 
 "To WHIT! To WHIT! To WHO!" 36 
 
 THE STORY OF LOUISE . .... 40 
 
 CHARLIE GOING TO CHURCH FOR MAMMA . . . .49 
 
 CHARLIE PLAYING DOCTOR . . . . . . 51 
 
 CHARLIE ON HIS WAY TO HOE UNCLE'S CORN . . -52 
 
 THE GYPSY CAMP 53 
 
 PRAISE HIM A LITTLE -5^ 
 
 MEG'S DELAY ........ 65 
 
 A NIGHT IN A SCHOOLHOUSE .66 
 
 THE WISE GOOSE 74 
 
 LOST! A GOLD WATCH 79 
 
 "WHAT BECAME OF THEM?" 8 1 
 
 CHARLIE PLAYING HACKMAN 88 
 
 A BOARDING- SCHOOL STORY 89 
 
 THE METHODIST HORSE , 101 
 
 2071828
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAG* 
 
 PEARL . . . . . . . . . . 103 
 
 THE FIDDLER'S FARM . . . . . . .no 
 
 Miss MISCHIEF . . . . . . . . 113 
 
 LITTLE WINNIE . 1 1 7 
 
 FAITHFUL JANET .120 
 
 THE SPARROWS .124 
 
 BETTER THAN CANDY . . . . . . . 127 
 
 MANLY SPORTS .129 
 
 THE FAVORED ONE 131 
 
 "ABSOLVO TE" . . 142 
 
 THE SMALL MISSIONARY . . . . . 143 
 
 ONE OF THE FAMILY . . . . . . 147 
 
 WELCOME! . . 153 
 
 STUDIES IN NATURAL HISTORY 155 
 
 BESSIE'S FIRST PARTY 158 
 
 MINCE- PIE FOR SUPPER .161 
 
 THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER . . . . . .165 
 
 A SUMMER TEMPEST . . . . . . . .168 
 
 STOUT-HEARTED ........ 173 
 
 PLEASURES AKD PERILS . . . . . . .176 
 
 A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER 183 
 
 BETTER HAVE STAID AT HOME . . . . .185 
 
 A HERO 188 
 
 "I WONDER!" 191 
 
 Miss BLODGETT'S BIRD .199 
 
 "How NOW, GOMEZ?" . ... 203
 
 THE PONY'S CHRISTMAS 
 PRESENT. 
 
 ILLIONS of little white wings 
 were busy enough, the day before 
 Christmas, to make perfect 
 weather; and so, when morn- 
 ing came, 
 
 " Every pine and fir and hemlock 
 
 Wore ermine too dear for an earl ; 
 And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
 Was ridged inch deep in pearl." 
 
 Millions of little children were busv
 
 8 THE PONY'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT. 
 
 enough indoors, the day before Christmas, to make 
 perfect happiness for fathers and mothers, sisters and 
 brothers. Indeed, it would take Santa Claus himself 
 to know how very busy little snowflakes and little 
 fingers had been, to make this lovely morning what 
 it was. 
 
 In the big house on the hill, two small pairs of 
 hands had trimmed the chimney-piece with holly and 
 mistletoe, and hung the windows with wreaths and 
 crosses, all in hopes that their absent father would 
 return in season to see it, and wish them a merr) 
 Christmas. 
 
 It was lonely enough for little Guy and Elsie in the 
 big house. 
 
 Only servants to keep them company since their 
 old grandfather died ; for their mother was dead, and 
 their father had long been travelling in foreign lands. 
 
 They were not much better off before their grand- 
 father died. He was not an affectionate grandfather, 
 but an irritable old man, with moods of tenderness, it 
 is true, but so generally out of humor that the children 
 feared rather than loved him. It was said that he was 
 not always so unlovely ; that it was only since his 
 daughter Margery ran away from home, and married 
 against his wish her music-teacher, that he had be- 
 come so morose. He disowned her, and would never 
 look at the pleading letters she sent begging his 
 forgiveness.
 
 THE PONY'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT. 9 
 
 And so the years went by. The old Squire made 
 his will, leaving his property to his son on condition 
 that he forfeit it all if any was shared with his sister 
 or her children. Her husband had died in the early 
 years of their married life ; and at the time of his 
 death she had once more appealed to her father to 
 forgive her. She sent this last letter through her 
 brother, and received in return a sarcastic reply from 
 her father, that he would furnish her means to trans- 
 port her family to the village near the town of her 
 girlhood home, where she could establish herself upon 
 a small market-farm belonging to him, and raise vege- 
 tables, which would be purchased at " the great house," 
 as his residence was familiarly called. 
 
 Margery was as proud as her father, and her first 
 thought was to reject this humiliating offer ; but she 
 looked at her fatherless little children, and decided to 
 accept this only means in her power of supporting 
 them. 
 
 The early spring before the Christmas we are com- 
 ing to, therefore, saw ' her busy in her new work of 
 raising vegetables, which Carl, the oldest child, would 
 take to the kitchen-gate of his grandfather's mansion, 
 carrying back to his mother the market value of the 
 vegetables. 
 
 He was never asked to come into the house, and 
 never was sure that he had seen his grandfather. 
 Once he fancied he saw a worn old face with tearful
 
 io THE PONY'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT. 
 
 eyes at the parlor window ; but it was so quickly gone 
 that Carl was not sure that it was but a shadow, or 
 his own imagination. 
 
 For Carl was an imaginative boy. He did not 
 fancy the hard work and the poor cottage that were 
 his lot ; and often and often was dreaming of the rich 
 and comfortable home where his mother used to live. 
 The two motherless cousins who had come there to 
 stay were the subject also of Carl's envy and dreams. 
 They were forbidden to speak to the market-boy, but 
 many a smile had been exchanged by the merry 
 children. 
 
 Carl had strict orders from his mother never to 
 delay longer than was necessary for the kitchen-girl 
 to take in the vegetables and bring back the money in 
 return. During this little delay, Carl was accustomed 
 to wait under a fine old English elm, which stood in 
 the back yard. It had been struck by lightning years 
 ago ; but the sturdy tree had grown on in spite of it, 
 striving to hide its scars, like a proud heart scorning to 
 die of grief. Mrs. Margery told her children that she 
 could well remember, when a child, of hiding in the 
 deep crevice the lightning had burnt. Later on, she 
 could only put her doll in the fissure ; and, at last, 
 the deep crack served as a secret post-office for the 
 letters that passed between her and their poor papa. 
 
 This tree, then, was an object of great interest to 
 Carl as he waited for his money. Race, the pony,
 
 THE PONY'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT. II 
 
 liked it too. He had outgrown his early name of 
 " Race." The children thought " Standstill " would 
 be a more appropriate title now. Certainly he liked 
 nothing better, of a summer morning, than to stand 
 in the shade of the old elm, rubbing his head against 
 its rough trunk, --listening to its stories, Carl fancied. 
 
 This day before Christmas, when the snowflakes 
 were poised on the edges of the gray clouds ready to 
 take flight, Carl rode over the frozen ground with his 
 baskets of vegetables. He watched no longer for the 
 white-haired shadow at the parlor windows, for he 
 knew that his grandfather was dead. He knew, too, 
 of the will, showing the unforgiving spirit to the last; 
 and more closely guarded than ever did his young 
 cousins seem to be from their poor relation. 
 
 It was chilly waiting there in " the dull, hard bitter- 
 ness of cold." Race seemed to think so too ; and, 
 while Carl dismounted to adjust some part of the 
 harness, the capricious pony, true to his real name, 
 suddenly rubbed his head against the friendly elm, 
 then broke into a sharp gallop, leaving Carl to plod 
 home on foot. 
 
 Race could appreciate comfort as well as his dream- 
 ing master, and was glad to get into his cosey quarters, 
 a sort of shed opening directly from the little kitchen 
 where Mrs. Margery and her little ones were oftenest 
 to be found. There was a small window between this 
 kitchen and the pony's apartment ; and the children
 
 12 THE PONY'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT. 
 
 were fond of opening the shutters, and feeding their 
 pet with apples and lumps of sugar when they could 
 get them. 
 
 This stormy Christmas Eve, the mother, wishing to 
 gratify her children, had granted their request that 
 they might help deck their bit of a tree, although there 
 would then be no surprise for them in the morning. 
 The window-shutters were opened, and the muslin cur- 
 tain drawn back, that Race's brown eyes might peep in 
 and see the rosy Baldwin that the dear mother was 
 hanging on the tree for him. 
 
 It was little Meeta that first spied something flut- 
 tering from the pony's window, that lighted by her 
 mother. It was a stiff, folded paper, bearing the 
 marks of Race's teeth upon it. 
 
 Mrs. Margery picked it up, and turned whiter than 
 her widow's cap when she read " Last Will and Tes- 
 tament of Geoffrey Akerman." 
 
 It proved to be genuine. The old Squire, in his 
 last days, had written it, leaving his property to be 
 equally divided between his son Charles and his 
 daughter Margery ; and expressing the hope that the 
 children of said Charles and Margery might be brought 
 up together in the old homestead. 
 
 And that was why the old mansion was so bright on 
 Christmas night. Margery rejoiced, with tears in her 
 sweet blue eyes, as she welcomed her brother to their 
 old home ; while the children petted Race, in return for
 
 OLD CROMBIE AND HIS BOYS. 13 
 
 the Christmas present he had brought them, quite as 
 much as was good for him. 
 
 It was proved that the Squire had secreted his last 
 will in the old tree where his daughter used to hide her 
 love-letters. Race discovered the projecting end of the 
 document, pulled it out with his teeth, and ran off with' 
 it, as you have heard, causing a never-ending wonder 
 that the valuable paper had not been destroyed. 
 
 OLD CROMBIE AND HIS BOYS. 
 
 HAT brick house on the hill was Squire 
 Densel's, and the one half-way down the 
 hill was Capt. Clark's, and the two-story 
 white one opposite was Dr. Sweet's, and 
 then came Col. Emerson's ; but the pretty cottage just 
 across the river was " Old Crombie's." 
 
 Now, you must know that the Milburn people 
 greeted one another courteously ; and, if a man were 
 generally known as "Old Crombie," it was just because 
 he was " Old Crombie," and nothing else. 
 
 Old Crombie's boys were handsome fellows : they 
 could sing, they could dance, they could spell. That 
 was one of the accomplishments of Milburn thirty 
 years ago ; and the young man or \voman that led off 
 in a spelling-match wore a proud feather indeed.
 
 14 OLD CROMBIE AND HIS BOYS. 
 
 But, alas ! that was not all the Crombie boys could 
 and did do. As Obadiah Muckleworth, the village 
 sage and shoemaker, declared, he " was afeared the 
 Crombie boys were capable of going clean through the 
 Ten Commandments, and breaking every one of them." 
 
 It is certain that chickens, for miles around, trembled 
 on their roosts if they heard the light step of a Crom- 
 bie ; and it was not long before horses in their stalls 
 might tremble too, for the brightest and handsomest of 
 the Crombie boys became a horse-thief. 
 
 That was " Frisco," as he was called, because he 
 attempted to run away to California once. 
 
 " Frisco always was the slyest dog," said Old Crom- 
 bie, with a boastful air, instead of the shame that any 
 decent father would have had in such a son. " Tell 
 you, that chap never wanted for pin-money ; but, some- 
 how or other, my hens didn't seem to lay wuth a 
 cent, -- that's 'fore he dared to visit the neighbors' 
 roosts, mind ye! One Sunday, when I'd ben --no, I 
 guess I hadn't ben to church that day," said the wicked 
 old man, with an unpleasant smile, " Frisco he come 
 down the river road with his hands full of harebells. 
 'Sonny,' says I, 'look here! If you rob your father's 
 hens' nests any more, there'll be trouble in camp.' ' 
 
 "Why, father!" says he, "when I've been to the 
 trouble of getting ma some flowers, you come down on 
 me like that ! " 
 
 " * No, you young rascal ! ' says I. 'I come down on
 
 1 6 OLD CROMBIE AND HIS BOYS. 
 
 you like that /' and I just raised my cane, and gave a 
 smart tap or two on top of his cap. Down came a 
 stream of eggs, yolk, white, shell and all. ' You 
 hearn tell,' says I, 'of jugglers that could make an 
 omelet in your hat? Well, I'm one of 'em.' ' 
 
 This was Old Crombie's favorite story at the grog- 
 shop which he frequented ; but there was not a tippler 
 so degraded but looked with disgust at the old man, 
 with his white hair, his black, wicked eyes, and grin- 
 ning face. 
 
 Frisco, as I have said, had bigger game than eggs 
 now; and he bore the unenviable name of being the 
 greatest horse-stealer in his native State. 
 
 A famous trotting mare was missing, and so was 
 Frisco. The keenest detectives in the State were on 
 the watch, but no clew could be found to either horse 
 or rider. 
 
 It was a surprise amounting to a shock, then, when, 
 on a Saturday night, as Obadiah Muckleworth and his 
 brother were at work finishing some promised job, 
 the shop-door swung open lightly, and Frisco entered. 
 His dark eyes had a hunted look ; and as he took the 
 only spare chair, and rested his foot against the shoe- 
 maker's bench, he looked as if he were at last in harbor. 
 
 " Where hail from now, Frisco ? " said the younger 
 Muckleworth, with a look half of terror and half 01 
 curiosity toward the young thief. 
 
 "Canada, just now," said young Frisco, tossing his
 
 OLD CROMBIE AND HIS BOYS. 17 
 
 hat upon the floor, " and my pouch here has the best 
 kind of lining ; but, rich as I am, I don't dare to buy a 
 pair of boots in the New-England States. My feet 
 are wet and sore; and --you are so good!-- 1 know 
 you'll cobble these old boots for me, if, indeed, they are 
 not past repair, and not tell of me." 
 
 " Something else is past repair, young man, and 
 that's yourself, I fear," said the younger Muckleworth, 
 with a short laugh. 
 
 Obadiah stood up, a blessed picture of justice and 
 mercy combined, 
 
 " Brother, never say a human soul is past repair so 
 long as there's a God of compassion above us. Young 
 Crombie, --I don't rightly know your Christian name, 
 but I'm sure it ain't ' Frisk-oh ! ' - 1 can repair that old 
 boot ; and, if you heed my advice, you need not be 
 ashamed to show your head and buy a new pair when- 
 ever you've the honest money to pay for 'em. 
 
 "Go -to your man that you've defrauded. Give back 
 your ill-gotten gold, and give yourself up to justice; 
 serve out your, sentence in state's prison ; then come 
 to me, and I'll adopt you. It's no use for you to try to 
 do right under the name of Crombie." 
 
 " You don't really mean what you say ! " exclaimed 
 the desperate young fellow, with the first tears that 
 had ever been seen in his brilliant eyes since his 
 babyhood. 
 
 " I mean just what I say," said the good man. " If
 
 iS OLD CROMBIE AND HIS BOYS. 
 
 my Willie-boy, that died when he was an innocent child, 
 had lived and gone astray, I am only doing as I would 
 wish him done by." 
 
 Old Crombie's son did as he was advised ; and, 
 strengthened by the kindness of the good shoemaker, 
 went through with all the humiliation that came from 
 giving himself up to justice. It was a rough plough- 
 share, but it prepared the ground for self-respect ; and 
 now Robert Muckleworth, the adopted son and suc- 
 cessor of Obadiah, owns a large shoe manufactory 
 where the little cobbler's shop once stood. He is 
 called " Mr. Muckleworth," but the rest of the family 
 in the house by the bridge are known as "Old Crombie 
 and his Boys " to the end of the chapter.
 
 THANK YOU '1O LET MY DINNER ALONE! 19 
 
 "THANK YOU TO LET MY DINNER ALONE!" 
 
 - - 
 
 ,HAT'S what the horse said to the pig ; and if 
 he said any thing more, nobody could under- 
 stand him, for his mouth was full, as you 
 see. 
 
 There are a great many hateful feelings, 
 anger, jealousy, greediness, and, for every 
 bad thought, there's an animal just like it ; the fox 
 for slyness, the wolf for cruelty, the pig for greedi- 
 ness, so that we may see what we are in danger of 
 becoming.
 
 20 HIS NATIVE SEA. 
 
 His NATIVE SEA. 
 
 ;HEN other boys spoke of their native land, 
 Ned Harpswell would say that he never 
 had any. That was because he was born 
 on board ship. So was his sister Dell. 
 Mrs. Harpswell did not wish to stay at home 
 alone with her children, but "followed the sea" as well 
 as her husband. 
 
 Think what a care it must have been, to bring up 
 these two young Harpswells, among all the dangers 
 and privations of a life on shipboard. 
 
 She was always planning and hoping for a home. 
 Her husband finally persuaded her to let him buy a 
 house, and she was to furnish it as she pleased ; " and 
 'twill make the time pass quick, Fanny," he said, " for 
 you to be getting ready for me." 
 
 But, for all his cheery words, Capt. Harpswell was 
 more homesick than anybody else, when he set sail 
 without his dear little family, to be gone for a long 
 year's Voyage. 
 
 Mrs. Harpswell took great pride in her new home,, 
 counting the days when her husband should r^tu/n.
 
 22 HIS NATIVE SEA. 
 
 But, oh, dear ! this is one of the true, sad stories that 
 does not come out as we would wish it. 
 
 " The Bonny Bird," Capt. Harpswell's vessel, re- 
 * turned, --but not the captain. 
 
 In the picture you see Mr. MacDonald,' the first 
 mate, telling the story which Ned has already heard 
 so many times. " It was a hurricane of a night ; and 
 the captain, who had been ill some days, was not fit 
 to come on deck, but come he would," said Mr. Mac- 
 Donald. "He was always one to be in the thick of 
 danger, when there was any. 
 
 "There came a blinding sheet of sleet and wind. 
 We hardly knew where we were, any of us ; but when 
 it had passed the captain was gone. There was such 
 a sea no boat could live in it, and we could not even 
 attempt to find him. He was just caught up in the 
 wings of the tempest, Ned, my boy. But there's One 
 that holds the winds in the hollow of his hand, my old 
 mother used to say, and we must believe he is safe in 
 God's hand." 
 
 Mrs. Harpswell tried to be brave, and make home 
 pleasant to her children ; but they could never become 
 quite used to the land. For years they would call the 
 cellar " down in the hole ; " up-stairs was " aloft," and 
 out of doors was " ashore." 
 
 If Ned were missing, he was sure to be swimming 
 or sailing, or else looking longingly at his " native sea." 
 
 Dell was quite as much of a sailor too ; and now that
 
 DANGER BEHIND! 
 
 years have gone by, and gentle Mrs. Harps well's life is 
 over here, Ned is a captain, and bright little Dell a cap- 
 tain's wife, " sailing the seas over." 
 
 DANGER BEHIND i 
 
 9 U 
 
 HIS young man owns a hobby-horse, and a father 
 
 and uncles 
 
 who are 
 willing to be 
 camels and ele- 
 phants at a min- 
 ute's notice ; but 
 all this is too 
 safe. 
 
 What Charlie 
 longs for is a 
 fiery, untamed 
 steed, like the 
 one in the pic- 
 ture. He is now 
 turning a sharp 
 corner, and in 
 less than a second 
 there'll be a call 
 for mother, and Charlie will have a bad headache.
 
 24 SOMEBODY'S RELATIONS. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S RELATIONS. 
 
 OW disgusting!" said I, when I came to 
 this picture. 
 
 "Why," said little Carrie, "/ think it's 
 the most interesting picture of all." 
 
 Lucky our tastes are not all alike, isn't" it ? How- 
 ever, monkeys and apes and baboons are very curious 
 and interesting creatures. 
 
 Some people --wise people too think they are a 
 sort of cousin to us. What do you think of that? 
 
 It is certain that the ape looks very much like us, 
 and, in one respect, is ahead of us. 
 
 Did you ever hear your mother say, " I wish I had 
 two pairs of hands"? Perhaps a monkey-mother said 
 that once, for she and the monkey-father and all the 
 children have each two pairs of hands. How quickly 
 they could dress for breakfast if they wanted to ! 
 
 They can and do walk on their hind hands, or feet ; 
 but their great toes are thumbs. Some monkeys have 
 another convenience in what is called a pre-hen-sile tail, 
 which means a tail that can hook on to any thing. 
 
 What a convenience that would be for boys in
 
 26 SOMEBODY'S RELATIONS. 
 
 cherry-time, and two pairs of hands to each boy! But 
 even they might not be satisfied, and would probably 
 long for more than one mouth apiece. 
 
 It was great fun to see ever so many little monkeys, 
 in their big cage, in Central Park, New York, chase 
 a solemn-looking monkey that had a piece of ginger- 
 bread. 
 
 They darted after him like so many streaks of light- 
 ning, and I thought he would lose his lunch; when 
 suddenly, he suspended himself from a hook in the top 
 of the cage, and there hung like an odd chandelier, 
 while he ate his gingerbread at his leisure. So you 
 see how useful a pre-hen-sile tail may be. 
 
 It is rather a sad little monkey that we see shivering 
 in his red jacket, and minding the hand-organ man be- 
 cause he doesn't dare to do any thing else ; but I am 
 told that when one of these little pets is comfortably 
 cared for in your house, he is seldom sad it is more 
 apt to be the people in the house that are sad. 
 
 Here is an old monkey story which you may have 
 heard. A parrot and a monkey were once pets in the 
 same home. The parrot was a very wicked parrot, 
 and used language that I should not wish to repeat. 
 The- monkey was a cruel little fellow ; and this parrot 
 and this monkey did not love one another as they 
 should, and it w r as never safe to leave them alone 
 together. 
 
 One Sunday, however, when the family were at
 
 28 GRETCHEN'S TELEGRAPH. 
 
 church, a door had been carelessly left open, and the 
 monkey made a call upon the parrot. 
 
 When the family returned, a naughty monkey was 
 hiding somewhere, a heap of bright feathers was scat- 
 tered about, and poor Polly, who had been picked as 
 bare as a Thanksgiving turkey, croaked, - 
 
 "We've had a ter-ri-ble time!" 
 
 I don't think of any more monkey stories to-day, but 
 this little anecdote shows that it is not well to have two 
 pairs of hands unless one can use them properly. 
 
 GRETCHEN'S TELEGRAPH. 
 
 HUMBLE home it was where golden-haired 
 Gretchen lived, but it was as happy as love 
 could make it. 
 
 When Christmas gathered the family about 
 the gay tree, there were father and mother, tall brother 
 Fritz, sister Hildegarde, joyous little Gretchen, and last, 
 but not least, lovely Catharine. 
 
 She was not a sister, but "a dearer one still," -so 
 Fritz thought. 
 
 She was a neighbor's niece, a cross old neighbor, 
 Herr Zimmermann. Orphan Catharine had come to
 
 30 GRETCHEN'S TELEGRAPH. 
 
 his keeping when she was nine years old ; and from 
 that time, if there were one thing she liked above an- 
 other, Herr Zimmermann was sure to forbid it ; and, if 
 there were one thing she disliked above another, he was 
 sure to command it. Because blue was her favorite 
 color, she must wear red. But, ah ! he could not make 
 her look any thing but lovely, whatever color he obliged 
 her to wear. 
 
 Gretchen's good mother pitied the solitary little 
 maiden with so dull a home, only this cross-grained 
 uncle and a deaf housekeeper ; and many were the 
 friendly greetings offered her across the hedge. 
 
 Herr Zimmermann, at first, was not disposed to 
 allow his niece to acquaint herself with these good 
 people; but at last he yielded, and there was always a 
 plate for Catharine at the table on every festive day. 
 
 When Fritz had finished his studies at Heidelberg, 
 and had begun to practise medicine sixty miles aw r ay, 
 Catharine seemed to care less to visit her friends. She 
 might often be seen under the trees of her uncle's lawn, 
 writing or meditating, with a sweet and pensive look. 
 
 Fritz came for a short visit ; and there was a joyful 
 merry-making, for it was his birthday, and twenty-five 
 little candles winked their bright eyes at the big cake 
 that the mother had baked for the occasion. 
 
 Catharine was asked to be there ; and how lovely 
 she looked when the gay evening was over, and Fritz 
 wrapped her red cloak around her, and they walked 
 slowly away under the lindens to her uncle's !
 
 GRETCHEN'S TELEGRAPH. 
 
 Fritz went back to his patients next morning, and 
 Catharine was not seen again at the home fireside for 
 many a long day. When Gretchen went to the Herr's 
 with an invitation for Catharine, the deaf housekeeper 
 shook her head. 
 
 " No matter if I can't hear you ! " she said snap- 
 pishly. " It makes no difference what you say. Our 
 young lady is to go to. your house never more, and you 
 need not be asking for her." 
 
 Gretchen often sorrowfully waited by the hedge, but 
 never saw Catharine alone again anywhere about the 
 garden or lawn unless she were walking with her uncle, 
 or with an oldish gentleman, older and uglier, if pos- 
 sible, than the Herr himself. 
 
 Matters were in this state when, one day, a stranger 
 from Fritz's new home called to see Gretchen. She 
 met him gladly, expecting news from her dear brother. 
 Nor was she mistaken. 
 
 The young stranger reported Fritz quite well, and 
 sending hearty greetings to his family, and especially 
 to little sister Gretchen. " And here," added he, " is 
 this cage with a pigeon in it. The letter will tell you 
 what to do, little one." 
 
 The friendly stranger was in too great a hurry to see 
 the rest of the family; so, nodding good-by to the 
 pleased little face of Gretchen, he hastened for the 
 train, 
 
 " Dear little sister," Fritz wrote, " herein is a telegraph foi
 
 32 GRETCHEN'S TELEGRAPH. 
 
 you, or for me I should rather say. Go to the hedge to-night, 
 by the old stile, and you may find there a letter for me. Tie 
 this firmly, but without chafing the bird, to its neck or leg. 
 Feed her not at all (this will be hard for you ; but so, the more 
 surely, will she come back to me) ; keep her in the dark for 
 eight hours ; dip her feet in cool vinegar, then set her free, with 
 a prayer, my own little Gretchen. I can say no more ; but 
 you'll do this, and keep it all to yourself, my child, for you may 
 know you can trust BROTHER FRITZ." 
 
 Gretchen was perplexed. Not to tell Hildegarde, 
 nor even the dear mother ! Not to feed a homesick 
 bird, whose piteous cry made the child's tender heart 
 ache! But these stern orders were from dear brother 
 Fritz. So she hid the fluttering stranger in the dark 
 closet of her chamber, and set forth for the hedge to 
 search for the mysterious letter. 
 
 -Yes, it was there, almost hidden under the green. 
 She guarded it loyally, of course, tied it firmly around 
 the pigeon's neck, and at the earliest dawn she stole 
 out doors, and, not forgetting the little prayer Fritz had 
 begged, she set the messenger free. 
 
 And what happened next but an angry thump at the 
 cottage door ! No friendly hand asking admittance, but 
 Herr Zimmermann's stout cane. 
 
 Catharine was gone. She had taken the night ex- 
 press for Basle, it would seem : and from that centre of 
 railways no one might tell whither she had gone, unless, 
 indeed, his neighbors could inform him ; but they were 
 as much surprised as the Herr himself.
 
 GRETCHEN'S TELEGRAPH. 33 
 
 Little Gretchen by the door-step, feeding her spar- 
 rows, guessed not that the little secret, brother Fritz 
 had intrusted her with, had any thing to do with Catha- 
 rine's flight. But, if the pigeon could have read the 
 little note that he carried so quickly to Fritz, he would 
 have found something like this: 
 
 " I will meet you at Basle. Uncle cannot be more displeased 
 with me than he is already, for I have told him I will never 
 marry Herr Hoffman. 
 
 " I have found out that large property should have been mine, 
 of which uncle never meant to tell me ; that he has lost it in his 
 speculations, and hoped to have assistance from Herr Hoffman 
 if I would marry him, and that I will not, mein Fritz. 
 
 " I have drawn my money from the bank ; and, though I like 
 not this way of running off to be married, there seems no other 
 way for us. 
 
 " And so farewell, till you see the red cloak you so much hate 
 in the station at Basle." 
 
 The young doctor was at the station before the train 
 arrived, and was not long in finding the red cloak. In 
 less than half an hour from that time, Dr. Fritz and 
 Catharine were quietly married in the parsonage of a 
 good Lutheran minister; and morning saw them at 
 breakfast in Fritz's usual boarding-place, where they 
 would stay while furnishing their own little nest of a 
 home. 
 
 It was difficult for the doctor to leave his patients;
 
 34 GRETCHEN' S TELEGRAPH. 
 
 but they must meet the dear parents and sisters on the 
 next birthday, which happened to be Catharine's. 
 . The birthday loaf was a bride's cake, and trimmed 
 with orange-blossoms instead of candles. 
 
 " I did not know how lovely Catharine could be/ 
 said Gretchen, as she admired her new sister in the soft 
 white summer dress. 
 
 " She will never wear red again," Fritz replied ; " but 
 I never saw any thing that looked better to my eye 
 than a red cloak one rainy evening in the Basle 
 station." 
 
 " Ah," said the mother, " to think thou wouldst take 
 an innocent pair like the pigeon and our little Gretchen 
 1o bring about a runaway match!" 
 
 "This was an unusual case, thou knowest," said 
 Fritz; "and now that Herr Zimmermann is appeased, 
 and all are happy, let us try the bride's cake."
 
 A SLED LIKE OTHER BOYS. 
 
 35 
 
 A SLED LIKE OTHER BOYS. 
 
 T is of no use," said papa. " That boy can never 
 be made to behave in the house. He must have 
 a sled, play 
 freely out 
 doors, and work 
 off some of his 
 mischief." 
 
 Charlie's ten- 
 der-hearted moth- 
 er looked at the 
 dangerous play- 
 thing with doubt- 
 ful eyes. Charlie 
 thought it was 
 just a beauty, 
 red and blue, and 
 a golden bird to 
 match its name, 
 " Swallow." 
 
 Charlie was 
 warmly dressed, 
 cap, and ear-laps, ulster, red mittens, ~a.;. A leggings. 
 
 "And now, said his mother, ' ycu may go, Charlie,
 
 36 . "TO WHIT! TO WHIT! TO WHO!" 
 
 if you won't coast where it is steep, or icy, or where 
 there is any thing in the way." 
 
 Perhaps Charlie's ear-laps were too thick ; or he 
 may have thought -that a coast that wasn't icy or steep 
 was no fun at all, and that he would do as he pleased. 
 However that may be, Charlie did not steer straight. 
 Half-way down a steep, icy hill, was an ugly tree. As 
 Charlie and the " Swallow " came flying down at a fear- 
 ful speed, they struck against the tree. 
 
 The doctor came every day for a fortnight ; and, 
 while poor Charlie lay with his bandaged arm, he had 
 time for a good deal of thinking. 
 
 He has learned to ask older people what he may do, 
 and to heed what they may say to him. But he is as 
 full of fun as ever, this bonny, brown-eyed Charlie. 
 
 To -WHIT! To WHIT! To WHOP 
 
 HIS is the worst-looking owl I ever saw; 
 as unlike the lovely Christmas-card owls 
 that sit on evergreen trees, and wish you all 
 sorts of nice things, as a very cross Nellie 
 is unlike the same little girl when she is in good 
 humor. 
 
 Owls are not exactly cheerful birds ; but they are 
 generally well-disposed, and do not attack unless they
 
 38 "TO WHIT! TO WHIT! TO WHO!" 
 
 must do so to earn their living or to protect their little 
 owls. 
 
 Stuffed owls and Christmas-card owls are favorite 
 ornaments, and familiar to everybody ; but, though 
 there are forty varieties in our native land, I never 
 have happened to see but one live one. This was in a 
 barn belonging to a delightful old farmhouse where I 
 had been invited to a children's party. We had looked 
 at the albums and gilt-edged books on the parlor table, 
 played blind-man's-buff in the dining-room, had a candy- 
 pull in the kitchen ; and then, most charming of all, the 
 farmer's boy told us that there was a live owl in the 
 barn for us to see. 
 
 The homesick bird was perched upon a wagon-wheel, 
 and his yellow eyes were whirling around and around 
 much faster than the wagon-wheel ever whirled on its 
 most rapid journey. 
 
 A learned book tells me that "daylight bewilders 
 owls, and causes actual pain in the eye, which they 
 seek to relieve by frequent motion of the third eyelid 
 or nictitating membrane of the eye." 
 
 But we children did not know all that: it just 
 seemed very funny to see that solemn thing perched 
 on the wheel, and his yellow eyes whirling round like 
 the quickest kind of revolving lights. 
 
 Little birds know very well that light makes the owl 
 stupid ; and when they happen to catch an owl awake 
 by day, they tease him terribly. They know that he
 
 "TO WHIT! TO WHIT! TO WHO!" 39 
 
 can't catch them then, and they just improve their 
 chance to pay up old scores. 
 
 Rats don't love owls, but owls love rats. 
 
 How do you think it would do to tame an owl, and 
 keep him for a new kind of pussy-cat? He can hear so 
 very quick. You may know his feathers grow in cone 
 shape about his ears, forming a sort of ear-trumpet. 
 He could hear quicker than pussy ; he could see in the 
 dark as well as she ; he could fly much faster than she 
 can scamper : but, oh, if he should happen to talk out 
 loud in the night with his terrible voice, we would want 
 our quiet old Tabby back again !
 
 THE STORY OF LOUISE, 
 
 THE STORY OF LOUISE. 
 
 APT. BURR AGE was a rich old man, and 
 "peculiar." That is, he had a strong will, and 
 did not care whether other people approved of him or
 
 THE STORY OF LOUISE. 41. 
 
 not. He meant to do well by his sister's orphan chil- 
 dren. He gave them a home, and, in his opinion, the 
 best education to be had. 
 
 Dexter, the boy, was big and strong, and could win a 
 Greek prize or a foot-race with equal ease. 
 
 He exactly filled the programme that his uncle had 
 planned for him, and became just the well-furnished, 
 manly physician that he was designed to be. 
 
 Louise was a promising child also, one of those 
 bright little girls that are always pets at school ; that 
 appear best at exhibitions, children's concerts, and the 
 like, when their excitable little nerves would far better 
 be quieted in sleep. 
 
 Louise was the star in her school, and graduated 
 with all the honors ; but, just as she was receiving her 
 diploma, she fainted, and then, for years, was an eclipse 
 of her promise. 
 
 It was a fortunate thing that she had a doctor- 
 brother, -one so tender and strong as Dexter. But 
 he could not be always with her, as his patients were 
 awaiting his calls in a neighboring town. 
 
 And, when the doctor was away, Capt. Burrage in- 
 sisted that he should prescribe for his niece. 
 
 It did her no harm, but amused her, rather, when her 
 uncle sent up a tiny pair of scales with her dinner, and 
 insisted that she should weigh what she ate ; but an- 
 other notion of his was very trying. "You say," said 
 he, " that you can't walk, Louise, and that the fatigue of
 
 42 THE STORY OF LOUISE. 
 
 dressing unfits you for a drive. Now, air and exercise 
 you must have. I have arranged with Pat to play he 
 is a horse. Every morning he is to come to your door 
 with his arms folded behind^ him ; you are to take a 
 seat as if they were a side-saddle, and he shall trot 
 around the house three times at a gentle pace." - " Oh, 
 please let me ask Dexter if he thinks that is best ! " 
 pleaded poor Louise. 
 
 " I am your guardian," said her uncle ; " and / think 
 it best." 
 
 " But what will the neighbors think ? " exclaimed the 
 girl. 
 
 An unfortunate thing for her to say, for it made the 
 captain more determined than ever to carry out his pet 
 plan. 
 
 When Dexter came home, he noticed unfavorable 
 symptoms, and soon found they were occasioned by 
 the nervous distress brought about by this unusual 
 ride-out. " It is too funny, Dexter," said Louise hys- 
 terically. " Up the stairs comes Pat, and kneels at my 
 door. He has strict orders to act as a horse ; and I 
 must not say 'Good-morning,' but 'Get up, sir!' 
 
 " He stumps carefully down the stairs, and out the 
 door. I am picturesquely dressed with an old red 
 shawl thrown over my head, crossed in front, and tied 
 behind. My ' horse ' trots solemnly three times around 
 the house, while ' the Smiths, Browns, and Robinsons ' 
 appear at their windows. I shall be insane, Dexter, if 
 this thing is kept up much longer."
 
 THE STORY OF LOUISE. 
 
 43 
 
 " I'll attend to that," said the young doctor. 
 
 His first plan was to remove Louise to the seashore ; 
 but she was far too weak to bear the sight of strangers, 
 and the necessity of " dressing up." 
 
 " Besides," as she dolefully complained to her brother, 
 "it is dreadful to be 'an object I Dexter. I find the 
 most retired spot possible, and try to hide under my 
 sunshade, and ' bury myself in a book,' when I am pain-
 
 44 THE STORY OF LOUISE. 
 
 fully conscious that some little image is staring at me, 
 trying to guess whether I'm a ghost, or no." 
 
 " I'll attend to that" said the doctor again. " What 
 you must have, Lou, is change ; but you must get it 
 away from curious eyes." 
 
 " Bernard Knapp has a yacht, as perhaps you know. 
 
 "Well," continued Dexter, " he thinks of cruising 
 about for a fortnight, and has invited his uncle and 
 aunt, and will take their servants along. Now, they'd 
 like nothing better than to have you go with them. 
 You've been at their house so much, they are exactly 
 like 'own folks.' Fact, if I did not know that I am 
 your only brother, I might be jealous of Bernard." 
 
 Louise embarked as gladly as if the sails of the "Sea 
 Gull" were real wings to take her away from every 
 thing unpleasant. Her only regret was in leaving 
 Dexter. The doctor saw his feeble sister on board, 
 doubting, at the last minute, whether he were wise to 
 counsel this trip for one who had been for years an 
 invalid. " Be a brother to her, Bernard," he said 
 huskily. 
 
 " That I won't promise," replied Bernard gayly. Dex- 
 ter was satisfied, however, that Louise would have 
 excellent care, and reported favorably to their uncle. 
 
 There never could have been a sweeter old lady than 
 Mrs. Knapp, nor a more fatherly person than Mr. 
 Knapp ; and their nephew was the nicest sort of com- 
 panion for a yachting trip.
 
 46 THE STORY OF LOUISE. 
 
 Louise felt entirely "at home." Her sensation of 
 escape from everybody Dexter alone excepted was 
 a delight. The sparkling sea-air brought her sleep that 
 bromide could never give, and an appetite that no other 
 tonics could create. 
 
 In short, Louise breathed health with every breath, 
 as she leaned over the vessel's side, sometimes alone, 
 sometimes accompanied by the young man that would 
 not consent to be a brother. 
 
 I wish there were a yacht for every Louise that has 
 been overdriven with study and worry and excitement. 
 
 This Louise went away looking like a lily : she 
 returned, her brother said, like a " tiger lily," tanned 
 and freckled, but well. 
 
 The happy voice sang again by the long-silent piano; 
 busy feet trotted up stairs and down, making her uncle's 
 mansion something less like a prison and more like a 
 home. 
 
 A few miles from the city is a picturesque little 
 place, "so English-y" the knowing ones that have 
 been " abroad " are pleased to say. , 
 
 Most of the homes there were designed by the now- 
 famous architect, Bernard Knapp. His own home is 
 there, looking as if it were sitting for its picture. Ber- 
 nard did not agree to be the brother of Louise ; but he 
 afterward promised to be her husband, and together 
 they have helped to make this lovely spot what it is.
 
 What do the birds say, I wonder, I wonder, 
 With their chitter and chatter ? It isn't all play. 
 
 Do they scold, do they fret, at some boggle or 
 
 blunder, 
 As we fret, as we scold, day after day ? 
 
 Do their hearts ever ache, I wonder, I wonder, 
 At anything else than the danger that comes 
 
 When some enemy threatens them over or under 
 The great leafy boughs of their great le^fy 
 homes ?
 
 THE STORY OF LOUISE. 
 
 A stranger, passing through the place one day, 
 paused to notice how like a painted picture was a 
 cartful of yellow straw against the blue September 
 sky, while dogwood vines and crimson sumach added 
 to the coloring. 
 
 " Wonder if Bernard Knapp designed this scene ? " 
 he said aloud. A little girl with a daisy-sweet face, 
 who chanced to be near, answered, " Bernard Knapp 
 designs most every thing." 
 
 It was the architect's own little girl that spoke. She 
 is seven years old, and can't read. Her parents are 
 trying the experiment of letting her grow up as much 
 like her namesake, " Clover," as possible, leaving books 
 for later years, " lest," as her father says, " there 
 should not be a yacht to restore her health when she is 
 twenty years old."
 
 CHARLIE GOING TO CHURCH FOR MAMMA. 49 
 
 CHARLIE GOING TO CHURCH FOR MAMMA. 
 
 BOY to be a Charlie must have merry 
 eyes, brown eyes are best for a Charlie; 
 and he must be roguish, but so winsome 
 that you can't help loving him. 
 This Charlie was born the first of April, a joke 
 to begin with; and a rather serious joke the young 
 parents found him to be. 
 
 They agreed that he should be brought up by rule. 
 A clock and a thermometer hung in the nursery, and 
 he was expected to be as exact and unfailing as they.
 
 50 CHARLIE GOING TO CHURCH FOR MAMMA. 
 
 And so, as a baby, he was ; but, as soon as the 
 "Charlie" in him began to show itself, clocks and 
 thermometers were of little use. 
 
 When he was three-and-a-half, it happened, one sum- 
 mer Sunday, that his mamma went to church, leaving 
 Charlie with Bridget. 
 
 What is the matter with Sunday afternoons in July? 
 People are so afraid that there is going to be a shower 
 that they stay at home, when there is never a drop of 
 rain; or else they go to church, and down comes a 
 shower-bath. Bridget was sleepy. Charlie minded 
 the wet no more than a robin ; and, waiting only till 
 Bridget's eyes were shut, he took an umbrella, trimmed 
 his hat with garden-flowers, and walked down to the 
 church. 
 
 A pause in the minister's sermon gave him a chance 
 to put in a word. 
 
 "Mamma!" his clear little voice called,"! b'ought 
 an umb'ella for oo, so oo won't spoil oor new d'ess." 
 
 The sexton hushed Master Charles ; and the next 
 moment a lady hurried, blushing, down the aisle, and 
 took Charlie and the umbrella home.
 
 CHARLIE PLAYING DOCTOR. 
 
 CHARLIE PLAYING DOCTOR. 
 
 r'AMMA was ill. The doctor left his hat and 
 cane and overcoat on the hat-tree, while he 
 
 gjSBIflL went up stairs. 
 
 ^'^fjp Charlie thought. he would be a doctor, just 
 for a few minutes'. All he needed was papa's old boots 
 in the down-stairs entry. 
 
 He was having the best of times, when Bridget 
 rushed in, and shook the little fellow quite out of his 
 boots. "A doctor is it yez are, bad luck to ye! and the 
 ra'al doctor mad enough to give yez a whole box of 
 pills at onct." 
 
 Charlie was sorry. He did not mean to trouble the 
 doctor.
 
 52 CHARLIE ON HIS WAY TO HOB UNCLES CORN. 
 
 CHARLIE ON HIS WAY TO HOE UNCLE'S CORN. 
 
 OT long after this, mamma and Charlie left their 
 city home for a little visit to an uncle farmer. 
 
 Charlie thought the daisies and chickens were 
 worth all the streets of Boston. 
 
 One morning he heard 
 his uncle say, that, after he 
 had gone to market, he 
 should hoe the corn. 
 
 Charlie thought it would 
 be a pleasant surprise to 
 his good uncle to find the 
 corn all hoed ; so, when 
 his mother supposed he 
 was feeding the chickens, 
 the little farmer had helped 
 himself to tools, and had 
 hoed the corn by the roots, 
 pulling down the stalks 
 and stamping upon them like a hungry cow. 
 
 That was indeed a " surprise " to the uncle, and an 
 unpleasant surprise for Charlie followed.
 
 THE GYPSY CAMP. 53 
 
 THE GYPSY CAMP. 
 
 ,fjCSNT it a pretty picture? And the reality is 
 ft prettier still, unless it should be near your 
 
 > melon-patch. 
 
 The gypsies are the handsomest of people ; or, hand- 
 some gypsies are handsomer than other handsome 
 people. They have fine figures, brilliant eyes, richest 
 complexions, and an air of mystery, the secret of which 
 no one has yet been able to solve. 
 
 There's not a queen that can wear velvets and dia- 
 monds so royally as a gypsy queen ; but nowadays 
 velvets and diamonds are not common in a gypsy camp, 
 and they put on their graceful airs with bright calicoes 
 and brass jewelry. 
 
 It is supposed that they came from India : the dic- 
 tionary says so. But there are learned guesses and 
 legends reaching away, way back of their wanderings 
 in India. 
 
 One story says that they were keepers of the inn in 
 Bethlehem, that would not admit Joseph and Mary 
 that Christmas Eve eighteen hundred and eighty-two 
 years ago ; and that for this, God doomed their race to 
 a wandering life forever.
 
 54 THE GYPSY CAMP. 
 
 It is true that they are not a Christian people : their 
 language has no word for God, immortality, or soul. 
 Their highest religion is, " Be true to your people, be 
 faithful to your husband, and never pay any debts 
 except those owing to your own kindred." 
 
 In 1 1 22 an Austrian monk describes them as " Ish- 
 maelites who go peddling through the wide world, hav- 
 ing neither house nor home, cheating the people with 
 their tricks, and deceiving mankind, but not openly." 
 
 They have at times been most cruelly treated, ban- 
 ished, outlawed, slain. In 1748 a law was made by a 
 Russian emperor, that every gypsy beyond the age of 
 eighteen should be hanged. 
 
 Maria Theresa did all in her power for their good. 
 She issued laws for the education of their children, 
 built streets for them in her cities, and gave them 
 tracts of land in the country. 
 
 But these humane measures did no lasting good ; 
 and up to this day it is said that a gypsy child who 
 has been rescued from its wild life, and brought up in 
 a civilized family, is sure to run away the first favor- 
 able chance to " the gypsies' free mountains, their 
 plains and woods, the sun, stars, and winds." 
 
 We may some day see them reformed ; but probably 
 next summer, in driving along a grassy road, you will 
 notice a pale blue smoke lazily curling above the blue- 
 berry bushes, and then you will come upon a brown- 
 legged boy, or a brilliant fortune-teller with a red shawl
 
 56 PRAISE HIM A LITTLE. 
 
 draped above her black braids. And, if you are foolish 
 enough to cross her palm with fifty cents, she may give 
 you the pleasing information that "you will quarrel 
 with your dark-haired friend, and marry your light- 
 haired one, and be followed to your grave by ten lovely 
 daughters." 
 
 PRAISE HIM A LITTLE. 
 
 BRIGHT-FACED boy, in a blue suit, ran up 
 the street on his way home from school. 
 
 " Shut that door easy, Ned ! " was the wel- 
 come that greeted him. " Now hang your hat up. 
 Don't go up-stairs two steps at a time, --you'll tear 
 the carpet to pieces." 
 
 The face which had been bright with some little 
 school-triumph, which he was eager "to tell mother," 
 clouded fast ; and it was a discouraged-looking boy that 
 slid down the banisters, regardless of his mother's 
 warning " Ned ! Ned ! you will break your neck ! " 
 
 " What shall I do with that boy, sister Annie ? " said 
 widow Reed mournfully, as he rushed past her into the 
 dining-room. 
 
 Now, the trouble was, that Ned's mother was in the 
 power of two cruel spirits which, it is said, torment 
 Americans more than other people. These are called 
 "Hurry" and "Worry."
 
 PRAISE HIM A LITTLE. 
 
 57 
 
 When Mrs. Reed's good husband was living, and 
 she had him to share her cares and supply every want,
 
 58 PRAISE HIM A LITTLE. 
 
 Ned had a patient and loving mother, and he was a 
 good boy. 
 
 Now all was changed. Mr. Reed's sudden death 
 was followed by the shocking news to his family that 
 they had been living beyond their means, and that 
 nothing was left but the house and furniture. 
 
 Mrs. Reed filled her house with boarders ; and then, 
 as if grief and poverty were not enough, " Hurry" and 
 "Worry" came too. How they had changed the gentle 
 little mother ! 
 
 " What shall I do with that boy ? " she repeated. 
 
 " Praise him a little" said her sister. 
 
 " There's nothing to praise him for, and no time to 
 praise him," moaned Mrs. Reed. 
 
 " Oh, cheer up, poor little woman ! " and good Annie 
 Fotheringay drew her sister into her arms, as she had 
 done many times in their earlier days. 
 
 " If only poor Edmund's property had not been lost 
 in that dreadful mine ! It seems that the dear fellow 
 hoped to surprise me some day with a big fortune; but 
 he had not counted on the fearful outlays in mining. 
 No wonder he broke down so suddenly." 
 
 "The stock is still in his name, or yours, now," 
 said Mrs. Fotheringay thoughtfully. 
 
 " I suppose so ; but the mine is given up for want of 
 capital to work it." 
 
 " Oh, well, Nellie ! don't think about it, then. You 
 have your house and your dear boy, and you are a 
 famous little landlady."
 
 PRAISE HIM A LITTLE. 59 
 
 " But the boarders find fault." 
 
 " Of course they do ! That's what boarders are for, 
 in part. And now I must start for home. Mayn't I 
 take Ned with me ? " 
 
 " But his school, Annie ! " 
 
 " There's more than one school for young folks, and 
 life on a farm isn't a bad one." 
 
 Mrs. Annie Fotheringay, too, was a widow. She 
 had turned a pretty little country-seat into a garden of 
 fruits and choice vegetables. There was a hot-house, 
 too, which was her pride, and furnished floral offerings 
 for great occasions for miles around. 
 
 It was sorely against her taste to torture her pinks 
 and rosebuds on wires, and form them into stiff funereal 
 wreaths ; but she had to harden her heart, and attend 
 strictly to business in this matter. 
 
 But close economy had not soured Mrs. Fotherin- 
 gay's bountiful nature. She was just the right kind of 
 aunt for Ned at this time. 
 
 She never scolded him ; but he found himself trying 
 to shut doors easy, because she said once that he was 
 so gentle in the house. He would not for the world 
 forget any of the errands she intrusted him with, not 
 because he feared a sharp reproof, but because it was 
 so pleasant to hear her " That's all right, Ned. I knew 
 you would attend to business." 
 
 He resolved that he would do errands as faithfully 
 when he returned home, and perhaps his mother would 
 be more like her old self again. '
 
 PRAISE HIM A LITTLE. 
 
 Meanwhile she had found that Ned, though often 
 the object of her fretting, was not always the cause of 
 it. It really seemed as if it would be a relief to have 
 some one about that she could have a right to scold. 
 
 She found herself so irritable one morning that she 
 had hard work to bear with the fault-finding of her 
 most profitable boarder, one Capt. Lessard. He was 
 one of those ferret-like mortals who must know the 
 " whys and wherefores " of every thing, and often an- 
 noy others by their inquisitiveness. 
 
 On this occasion he had criticised the breakfast in a 
 most trying way : she hurried through that meal, went 
 to her room, and, turning the leaves of her little Bible, 
 read or prayed Agur's prayer, " Remove far from me 
 poverty and riches." 
 
 " I can't bear poverty," she moaned. 
 
 Knock ! knock ! at her door. 
 
 It was Joan, the kitchen-girl, with a telegram. The 
 yellow envelope eclipsed all lesser worries as Mrs. 
 Reed read, - 
 
 "Ned has fallen broken his arm injured internally 
 come. A. FOTHERINGAY." 
 
 Leaving boarders with her servants, Mrs. Reed took 
 the next train to Witham, where Mrs. Fotheringay 
 lived. 
 
 Such a sweet little place! In the midst of her 
 anxiety, Mrs. Reed was glad that her boy had been in
 
 62 PRAISE HIM A LITTLE. 
 
 so much beauty this May weather. The garden was 
 gay with hyacinths, while thousands of snow-white 
 blossoms, upheld by the fruit-trees, made a garden in 
 the air much fairer than that on the earth. 
 
 Parting the vines that drooped over the old-fashioned 
 knocker, she was about to raise it, when the door 
 opened, and bright Mrs. Fotheringay appeared, loaded 
 with garden-tools. 
 
 "Nellie!" she exclaimed, " didn't you get a second 
 telegram? I sent another after that first scare. My 
 own doctor was out of town when Ned had his fall ; 
 and, in my fright, I sent for a travelling humbug stop- 
 ping at the village hotel ; and he told me what I tele- 
 graphed you. 
 
 " Soon after this ' doctor ' left, Neddie recovered from 
 the shock the fall had given him ; and, for a boy who 
 was said to have a broken arm, he seemed very lively. 
 In fact, dear Nell, he is not hurt in the least; and here 
 he comes from the village where he took the second 
 despatch." 
 
 Ned was glad to see his mother, and thought she 
 seemed as she did in the glad old days. 
 
 Now that her alarm for her boy had taken wing, she 
 talked over some lesser troubles with her good sister 
 among others, the fault-finding of Capt. Lessard. 
 
 " It may be," said Mrs. Fotheringay, in her cheerful 
 way, " that Capt. Lessard may prove a valuable ac- 
 quaintance."
 
 PRAISE HIM A LITTLE. 63 
 
 " I dare say," assented Mrs. Reed, feeling that she 
 could thankfully put up with any annoyance, now that 
 her boy was safe. " You are always right, Annie. 
 You were right about Ned. Your way 'to praise 
 him a little ' - has made his better qualities blossom 
 like your hyacinths." 
 
 " Try it yourself, then," said her sister frankly, " or 
 let me try it a while longer." 
 
 Mrs. Reed felt that she could not spare Ned at this 
 time, when she was longing to make up for her past 
 fault-finding. 
 
 She returned home with him that afternoon, reaching 
 the house as the boarders were coming down to tea. 
 
 "Mrs. Reed!" said Capt. Lessard eagerly, as she 
 met him at the foot of the stairs. "Boy all right? 
 That's good ! Boys have as many lives as a cat, espe- 
 cially when they fall out of a tree. And now, madam, 
 if you'll let Ned pass on, 1 want to ask you one ques- 
 tion. What was the name of the mine your husband 
 was interested in ? " 
 
 " It was called ' The Comfort,' " said she briefly. 
 
 "Well, madam, I am prepared to offer you sixty 
 thousand dollars for your interest in that mine ; or^ I 
 will make some other arrangement by which you may 
 share equally with me the liabilities and the profits." 
 
 Mrs. Reed, in turn, asked a question or two, and 
 learned, beyond doubt, that the ore-veins which flowed 
 through the surrounding country in New Mexico un-
 
 64 PRAISE HIM A LITTLE. 
 
 doubtedly enriched "The Comfort." Wealthy specu- 
 lators were eager to develop it, and considered the large 
 share Mrs. Reed owned easily obtained at the price 
 which they paid Capt. Lessard for Mrs. Reed's interest. 
 In her own home, then, when the new year came, was 
 the widow, free from boarders, independent, happiest in 
 this, that she had learned to manage her boy following 
 her good sister's simple rule, "Praise him a little"
 
 66 A NIGHT IN A SCHOOLHOUSti. 
 
 A NIGHT IN A SCHOOLHOUSE. 
 
 T was a September day ; and in the nooning 
 teacher went with Sase, Rebecca, and me, 
 way up to the glen for harebells. She was 
 just the loveliest teacher, Miss Belcher was, 
 not a bit prim and schoolma'am-y, but as graceful as 
 a lily, and always dressed so charmingly that it was a 
 delight to see her. 
 
 The schoolhouse was ever so far from our homes, - 
 it wasn't a public school at all, and was generally 
 called "The Institution." Well, as I was saying, it 
 was a good way from our homes, over a mile ; and we 
 used to carry our dinners, and have the nicest times at 
 the noonings that ever were, especially when teacher 
 staid too. That Tuesday, I don't believe there ever 
 was such a day! out-doors looked like a splendid oil 
 painting. Over the distant woods hung a delicious 
 mist ; and nothing could have been softer than the 
 summer-like air, though it was past "the middle of 
 September. 
 
 As we were returning with our spoils, --we had 
 found mountain laurel, Indian pipes, and, rarest of all,
 
 A NIGHT IN A SCHOOLHOUSE. 
 
 67 
 
 a humming-bird's nest, the mist suddenly lost its 
 gay colors as if a fire shone behind it, and became as 
 gray as if that fire had burned to ashes. 
 
 Miss Belcher shivered in her muslin spencer ; and we 
 
 were glad when we were in the schoolhouse, and a fire 
 shook the old box-stove, and made almost as loud a 
 roar as the wind outside. 
 
 For a rough wind had sprung up, and, in less than
 
 68 A NIGHT IN A SCHOOLHOUSE. 
 
 half an hour, had chased every summer thing out of 
 sight. You would never think it was the same world 
 that it had looked in the glen when we girls were run- 
 ning about bareheaded. And it rained, oh, how it 
 rained! and grew so dark. Miss Belcher was so 
 frightened, the lessons went anyhow; and when she 
 asked Mahala Russ, the red-headed girl that always 
 was stupid, to write a simple sentence on the black- 
 board for the class to parse, Mahala wrote " spiders 
 bight," and Miss Belcher never noticed the mistake. 
 
 Long before four o'clock, the fathers and brothers 
 and rubbers and wraps began to come. Rebecca had 
 two brothers and a father, and I had five brothers and 
 a father ; so we were sure our turn would come. As 
 for Sase, too, supposing Mr. Bates, her father, did not 
 come, so much the better, for she could go home with 
 me. The Bates family and ours were like brothers 
 and sisters ; and there was a standing agreement, that 
 if Sase or I failed to appear at our own ? ^per-table, it 
 was safe to conclude that we were together at the 
 supper-table of the other house, and need not be 
 expected home that night. 
 
 One after another of the girls was sent for, and then 
 teacher's turn came. She did not like to leave us three 
 alone, but her cousin was in a hurry ; so, after making 
 sure that the fire was nearly out, she kissed us good-by, 
 giving the key in charge of the last one that should go. 
 
 Sase and I felt a bit forsaken ; but Rebecca was
 
 A NIGHT IN A SCHOOLHOUSE. 69 
 
 such a jolly girl there was no such thing as staying 
 gloomy. " I should like nothing better," she declared, 
 "than to stay here all night. Wouldn't it be cosey? 
 Got any thing left for supper?" Our dinner-baskets 
 were found to have a few biscuits. "We'll toast them," 
 she decided promptly, " and have baked apples for des- 
 sert." Flinging a shawl over her head, she dashed 
 into the yard, and gathered up an apronful of apples 
 which the wind had blown over the fence from Dr. 
 Town's adjacent orchard. 
 
 " There are plenty of lights/' she said, as she glanced 
 around at the tin reflectors on the walls, before which 
 were candles all ready for Professor Dunton's weekly 
 writing-school the following evening. " Lots of wood, 
 too, to keep up the fire ; and now for the beds." 
 
 By this time Sase and I had fairly entered into the 
 spirit of camping out. There were old-fashioned mov- 
 able desks. We placed them side by side till we had a 
 bedstead large enough, then placed lexicons for pillows, 
 and our light wraps for coverlids. 
 
 Just as our housekeeping was in this promising 
 state, the apples, propped on slate-pencils, slowly roast- 
 ing over the embers, Rebecca's brother Ned drove up. 
 He earnestly besought us to ride home with them, but 
 we knew it would take him so far out of his way that 
 we did not wish to trouble him ; besides, of course 
 some one would come for us. It wasn't so late as it 
 looked, to be sure, Ned said. The storm made it so 
 dark.
 
 70 A NIGHT IN A SCHOOLHOUSE. 
 
 And dark enough it did seem when we had watched 
 our jolly friend out of sight, and come back to our 
 housekeeping. The apples had taken advantage of 
 our absence. One had pitched into the coals, and the 
 rest were scorched. It was really too dark to see 
 when you stepped outside the circle of light that came 
 from the stove-door. 
 
 We lighted a few candles. How the rain poured ! 
 It was dripping through the roof in places. All at 
 once, some drops falling on a candle, it gave a sullen 
 sputter and went out. 
 
 " Lucky that isn't our only candle," said Sase. How 
 far away from everybody we seemed ! There was in- 
 deed no house very near us ; "The Institution " being 
 built in state on grounds of its own, well walled and 
 shaded. The nearest dwelling was a small cottage 
 where the Widow Rugby lived. She was one of those 
 indispensable characters that can serve in almost any 
 capacity, sewing, house-cleaning, or nursing. Mrs. 
 Rugby was always, as she expressed it, "able an' 
 willinY' But then she was a famous gossip, and our 
 mothers often reminded us to be very careful what we 
 said before Mrs. Rugby. 
 
 We school-girls disliked her ; for she used to peep 
 through the walls of the school-grounds, and report to 
 our parents if we ate green apples. 
 
 It was a comfort, to-night, to see the light from her 
 cottage window ; for it was the only twinkle of life,
 
 A NIGHT IN A SCHOOLHOUSE. 71 
 
 and not a carriage-wheel had rolled by since Ned and 
 Rebecca rode away. 
 
 We were not sleepy. In fact, Sarah declared she 
 could hear every thing that was happening for ten 
 miles around. The sound of our own voices at last 
 echoed in a frightful way ; and we just sat with hands 
 close clasped in silence, only stirring occasionally, like 
 brave lighthouse-keepers, to snuff our candles with a 
 hair-pin. 
 
 At last the deep clang of the nine-o'clock bell smote 
 our hearts with despair. That meant the knell of all 
 life in our little village for the night. The postmaster 
 would turn his key, and go home. Lights would fade 
 in lower stories to twinkle in upper stories, and then 
 go out altogether. Standing by a window as we 
 trimmed our candles, Sase whispered, in utter despair, 
 " Widow Rugby has gone up-stairs." 
 
 Like shipwrecked mariners we watched that one little 
 ray of hope in her window, expecting momentarily to 
 see it go out. But no, it burned cheerily there. 
 
 In a few minutes a light shone in another window 
 from a different side of the cottage. "That's 'Lijah's 
 'Lijah Rugby's room," said Sase. This new star soon 
 set to re-appear down-stairs ; and now a flickering beam 
 of promise moved along the street, and came nearer 
 nearer to our prison. 
 
 Shortly before this, Widow Rugby had retired to her 
 chamber. 'Lijah, her grown-up son, had sought his 

 
 72 A NIGHT IN A SCHOOLHOUSE. 
 
 bed an hour before. "Readin 5 allers made him sleepy," 
 he declared, " and there was nothin' else to do a rainy 
 night." His slumbers were, however, disturbed by his 
 mother's shrill voice. It was her custom to see all that 
 could be seen from her window just before going to 
 bed, to satisfy herself that her little world was right for 
 the night, as she bore the concerns of the neighborhood 
 on her mind, " and could tell," so she said, " by the out- 
 side looks of a house, what was happening inside, be it 
 birth, death, or marriage." 
 
 "'Lijah! 'Lijah!" she called. "I thought this was 
 Tuesday night!" 
 
 " Well, well, what if it is ? " was the sleepy response. 
 
 "Then, what's the Institution lighted up fer?" 
 
 " Dunno." 
 
 " Do you suppose Dunton hed the writin'-school to- 
 night instead of Wednesday ? " 
 
 " Dunno." 
 
 " An' if he hed, would there be anybody to it ? " 
 
 " Dunno, and don't care." 
 
 " O 'Lijah ! 'Lijah ! What was we put into this 
 mortal world for?" 
 
 " To go to sleep, for one thing," was the disrespectful 
 reply. 
 
 " 'Lijah Tinkham Rugby, them lights mean some- 
 thin' ; an' it ain't writin'-school ! But if you're afraid 
 to go an' see, I'll " 
 
 " I'd like to see something I was afraid of," said the
 
 A NIGHT IN A SCHOOLHOUSE. 73 
 
 tremendous fellow, landing on the floor with a bound 
 that made the cottage tremble. 
 
 And it was 'Lijah's lantern that we saw bobbing 
 hopefully along the street toward us ; and, though we 
 had not a day ago poked fun at him, we welcomed him 
 as an angel of light, 
 
 He made every thing safe at the Institution for the 
 night, then hung his lantern around his neck, and, tak- 
 ing us in his arms, he wrapped his big cloak around us, 
 and strode through the torrent to his mother's cottage. 
 
 " I'll never hate Widow Rugby again, as long as I 
 live," I whispered Sase in deepest penitence, as we 
 were left alone for a minute in the cosiest of kitchens. 
 Shall I ever forget that open fire, with the ginger-tea 
 brewing on the hob, the comforting odor of toast, the 
 warm flannel night-gowns airing for us, while Widow 
 Rugby, never happier, told us delicious tales of danger 
 and rescue, all " coming out " beautifully, even if she 
 had to make them up for the occasion, as we very well 
 knew ? 
 
 I suppose Sase's reception at home, next morning, 
 was much like mine. 
 
 " Good-morning, Polly dear. All well at the Bates's?" 
 
 " Why didn't somebody come for me ? " I asked. 
 
 "Your father passed Mr. Bates with his team. 
 Father was riding too. He said, 'I'll get your daugh- 
 ter. Excuse me, I'm in a hurry,' or at least that was 
 what father thought he said."
 
 74 THE WISE GOOSE. 
 
 What Mr. Bates did say was, "Will you get my 
 daughter? Excuse me, I'm in a hurry." 
 
 " Mrs. Rugby will tell you about it, mother ! " I ex- 
 claimed, too indignant at the way in which we had been 
 neglected to say more. 
 
 And Mrs. Rugby told the story with such additions 
 and illustrations that this unvarnished tale bears little 
 resemblance to her version of it. 
 
 THE WISE GOOSE. 
 
 OMEHOW or other, geese are made fun of, 
 though they saved Rome, and nobody knows 
 how many croupy children since, though they 
 give their feathers for pillows, and their lives 
 for our Christmas dinners. 
 There was once a goose, or perhaps I would better 
 say, there was once a boy, and he fed some geese. 
 
 He also did a few other things. He was a poor boy, 
 nephew of a couple that kept a place called " The 
 Woodland Retreat," half-way between Milburn and 
 Stokerstown. It was really a dreadful place, though it 
 might look cosey enough as you drove by, but it was a 
 pitfall *of ruin; and the swinging sign, "Entertainment 
 for Man and Beast," might have read, " Entertainment 
 for Beasts"
 
 76 THE WISE GOOSE. 
 
 It was little enough like men that its patrons be- 
 haved after partaking of the " entertainment " there. 
 
 How poor Dick hated the whole thing ! He was a 
 rough but noble-looking young fellow, with fine hopes 
 that nobody had guessed of some day being a scholar, 
 and giving little Jerry, his orphan brother, a different 
 home from the carousing " Retreat." 
 
 How to do this was not yet clear to poor Dick. For 
 the present, he was boy of all work, --now in the 
 kitchen, now in the bar, now at the forge, now and 
 what he best liked caring for the cows or chickens 
 or geese. 
 
 It was a lovely day, --midsummer. Sand sparkled 
 hot in the country roads ; but the pure, bright air was 
 neither too warm nor too cool. Swallows curvetted 
 hither and thither ; and, despite the dust, there was 
 much riding past the Woodland Retreat. It was yet 
 hardly late enough for the people to pass, that didn't 
 pass, but stopped for entertainment. 
 
 Dick was busy working the curved handle of the 
 bellows of the forge ; for, however unsteady his uncle 
 made the feet of men, he was renowned for sending 
 off horses safely shod. 
 
 Just at this time, a certain mother goose was con- 
 ducting her family home from the pond. 
 
 Very much disgusted was she with them because, 
 being chickens, they declined to swim, though urged 
 by both precept and example.
 
 THE WISE GOOSE. 7-7 
 
 This was probably why she was feeling irritable, and 
 insisted that her trying brood should cross the road 
 just as a high-spirited horse came trotting along. 
 
 This horse had just passed the open door of the 
 shop where Dick was at work in the heat. 
 
 It was a pretty sight, the judge's daughter, Miss 
 Ethel, in her dark-blue riding-habit, her lovely golden 
 hair dancing like sunbeams, her firm little hands guid- 
 ing the black horse she rode. 
 
 Behind her followed her young brother Sam, on a 
 less spirited nag. Both the judge's children were at 
 home on a vacation, and the sight of them set Dick 
 a-dream-ing over the schooling that he so longed to 
 have. 
 
 A very short dream, when, - 
 
 " Squaw-k ! squaw-k ! " from mother goose. 
 
 Dick's uncle remarked that that goose was not a 
 wise bird (using different language from what you or 
 I would use to express the same idea), and started for 
 the rescue with hammer in hand. But Dick's swift 
 feet outran him ; and Dick's strong hands grasped the 
 bridle, and stopped the horse, as the last little yellow 
 chick scooted after its noisy stepmother. 
 
 For some minutes the eyes of the black horse were 
 like the forge-fire, with sparks flashing out of them, 
 while the frightened creature's breath came in quick 
 gasps. 
 
 He calmed at last, with those strong hands holding
 
 ;8 THE WISE GOOSE. 
 
 him in, and the soft hands of his mistress patting him 
 gently, and saying, 
 
 " Why, Jupiter ! what a goose you are ! " 
 
 But mother goose was not so much of a goose after 
 all. In fact, it must have been a contrived plan of hers 
 to frighten the judge's horse, and let Dick save sweet 
 Miss Ethel. 
 
 Of course the judge would do something handsome 
 for the brave boy. 
 
 And so Dick left the groggery in the woods, and 
 went to a boys' school in Milburn ; and, in due time, 
 the little brother went too, and both became good 
 scholars and temperance men. 
 
 Mother goose couldn't teach her chickens to swim ; 
 but she was a wise goose, you see, for all that.
 
 LOST! A GOLD WATCH. 
 
 79 
 
 LOST! A GOLD WATCH. 
 
 stopped under the linden-tree in 
 front of Parson Blaikie's windows to read that 
 notice ; and everybody that knew the parson said, 
 " What a shame ! " for the parson's gold hunting-wacch 
 seemed a part of himself. Years ago, when he was a
 
 8o LOST! A GOLD WATCH. 
 
 long-haired Bovvdoin student, teaching in his vacations 
 to pay his way, this watch had been given him by a 
 class of young ladies ; and he delighted to tell of his 
 surprise when it was handed him as a farewell token 
 by the youngest and prettiest of the class. 
 
 But nothing was too precious for grandpa's pet ! 
 Babykins' mamma had gone to the city; and when 
 babykins waked, frightened and inclined to cry, grand- 
 pa charmed him with the wonderful hunting-watch, 
 showed him the way it opened, the whirling wheels, 
 the jewels inside that kept their precious eyes open day 
 and night. 
 
 But soon the round little face was ploughed with 
 frowns, and tears brimmed over the brown eyes. 
 
 Babykins must have the watch himself. 
 
 The tears \von grandpa. 
 
 Babykins held the precious toy. 
 
 Tears again. 
 
 Babykins must take it on the door-step. 
 
 What a grandpa! But then, he meant to watch him 
 every minute ; only leave his pet a second while he 
 found the daily paper : then two happy mortals, grand- 
 pa and babykins, could enjoy out-doors and the watch 
 tog'ether. 
 
 Back came grandpa almost before you could say 
 " Jack Robinson," - but the watch was gone. 
 
 Baby's two words were " mamma " and " Deddie " 
 (meaning brother Edward), so he.ould give no account 
 of the lost property.
 
 WHAT BECAME OF THEM? 8 1 
 
 Grandpa searched, everybody in the house searched, 
 policemen searched, a notice was written for the tree in 
 front of the house, and a few hours later was printed in 
 all the evening papers. 
 
 But grandpa's watch never, never came back. 
 
 That good old watch! It had never failed to tell 
 grandpa when it was time for church, and for funerals 
 and weddings. It faithfully pointed to early bedtime 
 and early rising, and was in every way such a well- 
 brought-up gold watch. 
 
 To think it should fall into the hands of thieves ! 
 
 But I suppose it did. We never knew. There's no 
 " coming out '' to this story. Babykins can't tell, and 
 he's the only one in our house that knows. 
 
 WHAT BECAME OF THEM? 
 
 HERE was never a king that was more of a 
 monarch than Willis Fay of Fay & Co. 
 
 His manufactories made a little kingdom by 
 itself. There was a chapel, a schoolhouse, a grocery, 
 and twoscore cottages, all supported by Fay & Co. 
 
 And, if Willis F'ay was king, Mrs. Fay was queen, 
 a mother as well as queen, looking well after the inter- 
 ests of the little colony. 
 
 Late in life a son was born to them ; and then the
 
 82 WHAT BECAME OF THEM? 
 
 care of outside families was given up in a measure, 
 while her attention centred upon this lovely boy. 
 
 When he was about two years old, his mother was 
 aware that he was becoming more and more selfish 
 every day of his life. His father saw it too. 
 
 "I have a plan," said Airs. Fay, at supper, one even- 
 ing. "Willie will just be spoiled if he goes on in this 
 way. What would you say if I should go into Boston 
 to-morrow, and visit some orphan-home, and find a 
 little girl to adopt ? If Willie could have a sister to 
 grow up with him, I think it would be the best thing 
 we could do for him." 
 
 Mr. Fay looked sober. "I don't know, mother. It's 
 going to be a risky enterprise. But I agree with you, 
 something must be done ; and this may be the best 
 thing." 
 
 Little Willie was pacified all day by comforting 
 promises from his nurse, that mamma had gone to 
 Boston to buy him a sister. At five o'clock, sure 
 enough, the new sister came. She was a bright little 
 thing, with brown eyes like Willie's own, a sweet 
 saucy mouth, and a crown of wilful black curls. 
 
 "And so this is the sister that is going to tame 
 Willie!" exclaimed Mr. Fay, as the restless midget 
 dashed across the room, and snatched an apple from the 
 hand of the astonished boy. "Why didn't you pick out 
 one of these meek-looking little girls, Sarah Jane ? " 
 
 "To tell the truth," said Mrs. Fay laughing, " this
 
 WHAT BECAME OF THEM? , < 83 
 
 one attracted me because she is the very image of 
 Will. Don't you say so ? " 
 
 She stood the two little " blackberries," as Mr. Fay 
 called them, against the wall, and a bright little pair 
 indeed they were. 
 
 The little girl was one of a family of three children 
 left at the home for adoption. Mr. and Mrs. Fay gave 
 the child their name and the christened name of Aster, 
 which was duly bestowed upon her at the Fay Chapel 
 on Michaelmas Day. 
 
 The altar was trimmed with Michaelmas daisies, 
 while stars wrought out of the different varieties 
 white, lavender, or purple --hung in the Gothic win- 
 dows. And a star among all was the little Aster, with 
 her shining eyes, and a wreath of the white flowers 
 whose name she bore resting on her black curls. 
 
 Years went by, increasing the love and interest for 
 the child so heartily adopted. 
 
 By the time she was seventeen, the little colony of 
 Fay's Mills was known as Fayville. A wonderful 
 mineral-spring had been discovered in the vicinity ; a 
 rustic park was laid out, and city visitors thronged the 
 place in pleasant summer weather. Up to this time, 
 Aster had always believed she was Willie's own sister. 
 It had been the desire of the Fays to bring her up as 
 their own child, and to keep from her her real name. 
 
 Somehow a suspicion of the truth had come to Aster 
 by the careless remark of an outsider, and she at once 
 asked her mother if it could be possible.
 
 84 WHAT BECAME OF THEM? 
 
 " Why, mother ! " she cried, " what an absurd story, 
 when I am ' Fay all over,' as I've often heard you say ; 
 arid some people even take me to be Willie's twin 
 sister! " 
 
 Mrs. Fay could not avoid a direct answer. So, quite 
 as heart-broken as Aster herself, she admitted that she 
 was not her own child. 
 
 " Then I must find out where I do belong ! " ex- 
 claimed the hasty girl ; and she at once started off with 
 the intention of searching through the different Chil- 
 dren's Homes in Boston, to find some clew to her par- 
 ents ; for Mrs. Fay would tell her no more, only begged 
 her to still be their own dear child. 
 
 Aster's mind wavered as soon as she left the house ; 
 and she strolled into the little park, and idly watched a 
 young couple that had just come in the half-hour boat 
 that plied between Fayville and the railroad-station 
 below. 
 
 It was evident that this couple were strangers to one 
 another by their indifferent air. The young lady ap- 
 peared quite as sad as Aster herself ; and, after strolling 
 about in an uncertain way for a while, finally seated 
 herself on the rustic bench where Aster was meditating. 
 The young man also seemed in " a brown study," as he 
 leaned against a fence near the mill-pond, apparently 
 too much interested in his own thoughts to notice 
 anybody. 
 
 Presently the strange young lady inquired, " Can you 
 tell me where Miss Fay lives ? "
 
 86 WHAT BECAME OF THEM? 
 
 " I suppose I am the person you mean," said Aster 
 sadly ; " but I have just found out that that name does 
 not belong to me." 
 
 " I came here to make some inquiries about Miss 
 Aster Fay," continued the stranger ; " but I think I 
 would better see Mrs. Willis Fay." 
 
 Aster went with her to the dear home. As the 
 young ladies were entering the door, a voice caused 
 them to look around. 
 
 " Beg pardon," said the stranger Aster had noticed in 
 the park, " I wish to see Mrs. Fay, if I do not intrude." 
 
 The good lady was soon at the door. 
 
 " I should be happy to introduce you to my mother, 
 Mrs. Fay I mean, if I knew your names," said Aster. 
 
 "Miss Brooks,-- Helen Brooks," said the young 
 lady. 
 
 " Brooks ! My name is Brooks ! " exclaimed the 
 young man. 
 
 " Brooks -- Brooks " -repeated Mrs. Fay in a dazed 
 manner. 
 
 " Yes, Brooks, Brooks," mimicked Aster, " but don't 
 ' flow on forever ! ' If there is any way out of this 
 puzzle, I should be glad to know it." 
 
 Mrs. Fay seated the young people, and told them 
 this little story : - 
 
 " Fifteen years ago, a young widow with three little 
 children believed herself to be incurably ill. She had a 
 little property, but no near relatives. Having confi-
 
 WHAT BECAME OF THEM? 87 
 
 dence in a certain home for orphans, she committed her 
 children to its management. 
 
 " She willed her property to the asylum; but it never 
 received it, for the very good reason that the lady did 
 not die. She submitted to a surgical operation in the 
 hospital where she had expected to spend her few re- 
 maining days ; and not only was her life spared, but 
 she became quite well, and, naturally, wanted her chil- 
 dren again. The older daughter she recovered ; the 
 son she could not find ; the youngest child," said poor 
 Mrs. Fay, speaking with great difficulty, "was so much 
 loved by her adopted parents that they could not give 
 her up ; and her mother, feeling it would be for the 
 child's advantage to remain with these selfish people, 
 consented to let her do so." 
 
 Young Mr. Brooks told a chapter in this same story 
 which we cannot have time to hear, and Miss Brooks 
 told another chapter. Suffice it to say, they proved 
 without doubt that Aster was their sister. She felt 
 that it would be best for her to go back with them to 
 her own mother, and she soon became very fond of 
 them all : but her heart was somewhere else ; and, by 
 the time she was twenty years old, the little chapel at 
 Fayville again shone with Michaelmas daisies, and 
 good Mrs. Fay received Aster as daughter-in-law, re- 
 joicing in the pretty new home across the street, where 
 Mr. and Mrs. Willie Fay began their housekeeping. 
 
 \
 
 88 
 
 CHARLIE PLAYING HACKMAN. 
 
 CHARLIE PLAYING HACKMAN. 
 
 
 'HARLIE'S journey gave him many new ideas; 
 and one was a wish to be a hackman. 
 
 To be a hackman, one must have a hack and 
 horses : it is also a good plan to have passengers 
 smd trunks. Charlie could only find a trunk, and he 
 
 began " being hackman " with that. It was only a 
 dolly's trunk, but big enough to hold mamma's watch,
 
 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 89 
 
 and the treasures in her upper drawer. Then he trotted 
 down the street. Seeing a door invitingly open, he 
 went in, astonished the people in the parlor by saying, 
 "Trunk for you, ma'am!" and then rushed away, a 
 remarkable hackman, not to collect his pay! The 
 people in this strange house were honest people, and, 
 after a good deal of trouble, found where the trunk 
 belonged. 
 
 Charlie promised never to be a hackman again. 
 
 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 
 
 parlor at Grove Seminary was crowded with 
 p young ladies just arrived, and waiting to have 
 their rooms assigned them. Some were old 
 scholars, and were sure of their location : many 
 were new-comers, alone, or with their parents. 
 
 Occasionally a door would open, and the preceptor's 
 voice would call two names. It was a study to see the 
 first looks exchanged by the owners of these names, 
 strangers to each other in many instances, but now to 
 assume the familiar relation of " chum." 
 
 "Miss Adams! Miss Gonsalez ! " called the impor- 
 tant voice. 
 
 A rather prim-looking young lady rose modestly. 
 At the same time, a dark and graceful girl, airily
 
 9 o 
 
 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 
 
 dressed in India muslin, rose in an opposite corner, 
 and, accompanied by an anxious-looking lady in 
 widow's dress, went in the direction of the voice. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Wessen ! " said the widow, with an 
 approving glance at Miss Adams, as that young lady 
 received the key for number 47. " May I accompany 
 my niece to her room ? "
 
 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 91 
 
 "Certainly, madam!" said Mr. Wessen ; and "By 
 all means, ma'am ! " echoed Miss Adams politely. 
 
 Miss Adams led the way with the ease of an old 
 scholar, as she was ; and, opening the door of " 47," 
 she said, " Here is our sanctum, Miss Gonsalez. -How 
 do you like it?" 
 
 " I like it, and I like you ! " said the dark-eyed girl 
 impulsively, placing a slight hand on her room-mate's 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Pardon me, M*Tss Adams, if I say the same," said 
 the elder lady. " % My niece has never been away from 
 me. I wrote Mr. Wessen to place her, if possible, 
 with --well, in short, with just such a young lady as 
 you appear to be. Do, I beg you, influence her to be 
 a real New-England Puritan maiden." 
 
 " I can't help being half Spanish, auntie," said the 
 pretty girl. 
 
 " I know it ! I know it ! " said the lady with a sigh. 
 
 Miss Gonsalez seemed relieved when her aunt had 
 bidden her good-by, and had taken the evening train 
 for Portland. 
 
 " What is your first name, please ? " she asked her 
 room-mate as soon as they were alone. "June? What 
 a lovely name! Because you were born in June, I sup- 
 pose. But if you don't laugh and play some I shall 
 call you November." 
 
 Sedate as June Adams was, she was charmed with 
 her gay little room-mate, and thoroughly enjoyed see- 
 ing her unpack her pretty dresses.
 
 92 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 
 
 "You have every thing nice imaginable, Miss Gon- 
 salez," said June at last. 
 
 "Call me Inez. Yes, I suppose so, except jewelry. 
 It is a notion of auntie's that a school-girl should not 
 wear it. I've loads that are to be mine when I come 
 of age, but I have not even seen them yet. Auntie 
 won't allow the plainest little brooch. Why, even you 
 have a pin and a watch, I declare ! and two or three 
 rings. Any thing else ? " 
 
 " Bracelets, but I don't care for them ; and ear-rings, 
 but I never wear them ; and - - perhaps- you would like 
 to see it a necklace that was my mother's." 
 
 June unlocked her treasure-box, and held up a gold 
 chain formed of heavy links. Hanging from it was a 
 locket set in pale, clear stones of yellow topaz. 
 
 It was a sparkling affair, and Inez' eyes danced like 
 the jewels. 
 
 " Could I try it on, one little minute ? " she whis- 
 pered in deep delight. 
 
 " I don't wonder you like jewelry : it seems made 
 for you," said June, noticing how the eyes of the Span- 
 ish girl lighted up till it were hard to tell which jewels 
 sparkled brightest. 
 
 A tap at the door interrupted the young ladies. Mr. 
 Wessen stood there, two queer-looking girls beside 
 him. 
 
 "Miss Adams," said the preceptor, "will you make 
 these young ladies happy for half an hour while their
 
 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY, 93 
 
 room is being made ready? We were not expecting 
 them to-day. They are a wee bit homesick." 
 
 Georgia and Lucy Troop were the new-comers, and 
 they looked more than " a wee bit homesick." Doubt- 
 less they felt that they were out of place and out of 
 fashion. Their home was in a remote part of the 
 British Provinces ; and, though they had silks, furs, 
 and jewelry in plenty, every thing was out of date. 
 
 June, with her usual kindness, made the strangers 
 welcome ; though she did not fancy them, and was glad 
 when their room was ready for them. Hardly were 
 they gone when the supper-bell rang, and from every 
 room there was a sound of departing feet. 
 
 As June was turning her key, her new acquaintance, 
 Georgia Troop, asked to borrow it. " Our key is lost," 
 she explained ; "and Mr. Wessen says we may borrow 
 yours, if you please, as it fits our lock, till he can get a 
 new one for us. I will hand it to you directly.'' 
 
 Inez pouted in a most disdainful way. 
 
 " I wouldn't let her have it if I were you," she whis- 
 pered. It was at least ten minutes before Georgia 
 came into the dining-room. She laid the key beside 
 Miss Adams's plate as she passed on to the seat as- 
 signed her, and every one noticed how awkward and 
 ill at ease she appeared. 
 
 " She has taken time to rummage all over our room," 
 whispered Inez to June in much displeasure. 
 
 Inez took the key, and went to "47 " alone, as June
 
 94 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 
 
 was demanded elsewhere. Inez fancied she saw many 
 things displaced; but one thing was certain, June's 
 necklace was nowhere to be found. June was dis- 
 tressed at the loss. Every place in the room was 
 searched with no success. Then, most unwillingly, 
 she told Mr. Wessen about it. He delegated a lady 
 teacher to examine particularly every inch of number 
 47, and to forbid Miss Gonsalez to leave the room. 
 June and Inez were indignant at this, and swore eternal 
 friendship when their persons and their belongings had 
 been searched and no necklace was found. Then Miss 
 Troop and her sister were " delivered over to the cus- 
 tom-house officers'," as June expressed it. Nothing 
 was found there ; but suspicion rested upon the unpop- 
 ular strangers, and they were " severely let alone " for 
 the entire term. 
 
 Miss Adams and Miss Gonsalez, however, were the 
 pets of the seminary. June's goodness, as well as her 
 good looks, made her attractive ; while " the little Span- 
 ish beauty," as Inez was called, was always in demand. 
 
 The last night of the term the young ladies gave a 
 farewell entertainment, inviting the teachers and a few 
 approved acquaintances from Grove Village. As lively 
 Inez declared, " it was to be a masquerade without the 
 masks." 
 
 June was to be " Priscilla Alden." Inez was to take 
 the part of her namesake in the ballad 
 
 " Oh ! saw ye not fair Inez ? "
 
 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 95 
 
 The Troop girls were not asked to assume any char- 
 acter. Inez wrote a beseeching letter to her aunt ; 
 and, in return, there came a valuable package contain- 
 ing a rich dress, Spanish lace over yellow satin, and 
 one set of the jewelry that Inez had so often longed 
 to see. 
 
 " O June!" she said in delight, as she raised the 
 cotton that hid the -glittering beauties, " here is a com- 
 plete set of yellow topaz, ear-rings, brooch, bracelets, 
 - and, oh, how much the necklace is like yours ! " 
 
 " The very same thing, I should say ! " exclaimed 
 June. 
 
 " Indeed it is not! " flashed Inez. "Take back your 
 \vords this minute, or you shall not see my mother's 
 picture in this locket ! " 
 
 "My mother's picture, you mean," said June. "Do 
 you think I don't remember every bit of that necklace ? 
 I should know it in Spain ! " 
 
 " I defy you to prove it is your mother's necklace ! " 
 cried the indignant Inez. 
 
 " Wear it to-night," said June calmly, " if it is any 
 satisfaction to you ; but before the evening is over, it 
 will be decided where the necklace belongs." 
 
 Not another word was exchanged between the room- 
 mates. 
 
 Very sweet and prim June looked as " Priscilla Al- 
 den," that evening; and very brilliant was Inez in her 
 lace and topaz.
 
 96 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 
 
 The first of the evening passed gayly, and " the un- 
 masked masquerade " was a success. Later, there was 
 confusion and whispering among the girls. A strange 
 gentleman with a military air was seen to pass through 
 the hall to Mr. Wessen's private sitting-room. " Pris- 
 cilla " was summoned to leave her flax ; " Fair Inez " 
 was called also, and then the Troop girls. 
 
 "You say, Miss Adams," said the detective, after 
 requiring of her the facts regarding the necklace, " that 
 the locket contains your mother's picture ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " My mother's picture/' corrected Inez haughtily. 
 
 " Speak when you are spoken to, Miss Gonsalez," 
 said the preceptor sternly. 
 
 Inez pressed the spring of the locket : it flew open, 
 revealing a young Spanish face enough like Inez, in its 
 proud beauty, to be her mother. 
 
 " Allow me to take that locket one moment," said 
 June. 
 
 Inez refused ; but, Mr. Wessen insisting, she un- 
 clasped the necklace and gave it up. 
 
 June -pressed a secret spring in the reverse side, and 
 there was an old-fashioned miniature of a young gentle- 
 man. " This was my father," said she. " The necklace 
 and locket were his wedding-present to my mother. 
 The miniature which Inez has taken out was painted 
 after her marriage. Here are their names, and the 
 date when the necklace was given."
 
 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 
 
 97 
 
 Plainly to be seen in Old-English text, within the 
 cover of the locket, was the inscription " Thomas 
 Adams and Lovice Gray, 1837." 
 
 " Miss Gonsalez' aunt," said Mr. Wessen, "informed 
 me of her niece's besetting sin of stealing ; but hoped
 
 98 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 
 
 that, with the influence of such a room-mate as Miss 
 Adams, she might be restrained from taking what did 
 not belong to her. A sad feature of this case is, that 
 Miss Gonsalez has allowed suspicion to rest upon two 
 homesick girls, who have been virtually ostracized the 
 entire term. Now, I can say once more,'' said Mr. 
 Wessen, warmly addressing Georgia and Lucy, " what 
 I have told you again and again, that I believe in 
 you, and that justice will have her rights at last." 
 
 It was a sad sight to see poor Mrs. Roberts the next 
 day, when she came for Inez. The theft was bad 
 enough, but the meanness of putting it upon two 
 unhappy girls doubled the crime. 
 
 Mrs. Roberts would not allow her niece to return 
 home with her, nor would Mr. Wessen permit her to 
 stay in the seminary. A boarding-place was found at 
 a quiet sea-side village, with Inez' former nurse. 
 
 The change from being admired to being shunned 
 humbled the proud girl. At first she was defiant, but 
 better feelings sprung up. She asked forgiveness of 
 all she had injured, and honestly tried to live right. 
 
 Hull, the quiet place where Inez boarded, is a famous 
 resort for butterflies. I don't mean the " butterflies of 
 fashion," so called, but the real butterflies, flowers on 
 wings that flutter above the wild geranium and golden- 
 rod. 
 
 One August morning, as Inez, accompanied by her 
 nurse and her little cousin Bertie Roberts, was in quest
 
 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 
 
 99 
 
 I 
 
 
 of these butterflies, she saw a young lady approaching. 
 The stranger advanced with the eagerness of an old
 
 100 A BOARDING-SCHOOL STORY. 
 
 acquaintance. Inez did not recognize the graceful 
 young lady till she had fairly offered her hand. 
 
 " Why, Georgia Troop ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 A year at Grove had improved Miss Troop won- 
 derfully. Inez was improved also, though she was 
 never again the light-hearted girl of old. 
 
 When the fall term began at Grove, and the young 
 ladies gathered in the old parlor to hear their names 
 and the number of their rooms as usual, Mr. Wessen 
 announced, "Miss Troop! Miss Gonsalez! number 47." 
 
 June Adams had graduated. Lucy Troop was dead. 
 Other changes made almost a new place of the Grove 
 a year ago. But there was no such unpleasant exhi- 
 bition of vanity, theft, and deceit. Inez was respected, 
 having proved her penitence and reformation.
 
 THE METHODIST HORSE. 
 
 101 
 
 THE METHODIST HORSE. 
 
 'EARS ago there was a neat little village, 
 that looked for all the world as if it might 
 be packed in a box and sold for a Christmas 
 present. 
 
 There was one street, and trees enough to 
 make a prim row along it, and houses enough to be 
 shaded by the trees, and just one church. 
 
 By and by somebody built a great mill ; and then 
 houses big and small were put up here and there, and 
 soon a good Methodist minister held services in dif- 
 ferent houses.
 
 102 THE METHODIST HORSE. 
 
 Now, there were three little children who had always 
 lived in " Their Village," as they called it, and thought 
 it was a wrong thing to have any change. 
 
 The Methodist minister was a very kind man, fond 
 of children, always spoke to them, and often had some- 
 thing good in his pockets for them. You may know, 
 then, that he was surprised one day, when he was about 
 to harness his horse and start for the next village, 
 where he was to preach. 
 
 He was just slipping the bridle over the horse's 
 head, when a wild shout was heard ; and on rushed a 
 terrible army of three children armed with cornstalks. 
 " The Methodist horse ! The Methodist horse ! " was 
 their war-cry ; and, sure that they were doing a good 
 thing to drive the new religion out of town, they did 
 not stop till- the frightened horse was far enough away 
 to lead his master a long chase, and prevent his keeping 
 his appointment. 
 
 I've seen older people act the same way, but these 
 poor children didn't know any better.
 
 PEARL. 103 
 
 PEARL. 
 
 ISHERMAN JOE'S wife Rachel was wiping 
 the dish-pan. The blue plates, which half an 
 hour before had served the crisp fried potatoes 
 and perch, were in their places on the shelves, as well 
 as the tea-cups and saucers. The bit of a room was 
 bright and warm, and the good wife was the kind of 
 woman that makes any room seem comfortable. 
 
 Fisherman Joe's boat was hauled up for the night. 
 But, to Rachel's disappointment, he rose from the table 
 and put on his tarpaulin suit. 
 
 "The sea is powerful uneasy sence the storm, Rachel. 
 The tide is bringing in drift-wood; and I've a mind to 
 go down to the beach, the moon is so bright, and get a 
 mess." 
 
 " All right, Joe," replied Rachel cheerily. " Hold on 
 a minute, and I'll go with you." 
 
 Joe hesitated a moment. 
 
 " Well, well, Rachel, I suppose you'll say I've taken 
 leave of my senses : but I had a curus dream last 
 night, an' I ruther you'd stay at home, and have the fire 
 bright an' the tea-kittle a-singin', an' things sort o' 
 cosey, agin I come back."
 
 104 PEARL. 
 
 Rachel looked alarmed. She had a great respect for 
 dreams herself. 
 
 "Why, Joseph ! Tell me, man. If there's harm com- 
 ing to you, I must go too." 
 
 " It was a good dream. Never you fret ; and don't 
 ask me what it was, for I won't tell you." 
 
 With this rough but kindly meant reply Joe has- 
 tened toward the beach, to which the incoming tide 
 brought its arms full of driftwood and seaweed rich 
 with shells. 
 
 Fisherman Joe made a fine picture as he stood there, 
 looking as anxiously as if he were expecting his ship 
 to come in. His ship ! Why, the poor man owned 
 only the smallest of fishing-boats, and his little un- 
 painted cottage with its three rooms. 
 
 A wild storm had raged all along the coast two days 
 before. On this third day the sun had come out ; but, 
 as Joe said, " It hadn't cleared off good natur'd : the 
 wind had kinder backed 'round, and we should catch it 
 agin, sartain!" The moon shone but fitfully. Ragged 
 white clouds covered it partially, looking like the rag- 
 ged white waves below. 
 
 As Joe stood watching the fluttering foam, a some- 
 thing that fluttered, yet was not foam, caught his eye. 
 He darted forward, aimed the grappling-iron swiftly 
 but carefully, --brought in his prize. His dream had 
 come true. He held in his arms a little child. 
 
 " She's dead, Joe ! dead as a door-nail ! " said the
 
 106 PEARL, 
 
 fishermen he met. But he only smiled, as if he were 
 sure she would be brought to life again, supposing she 
 were dead. 
 
 " It is just as I dream't, Rachel ! " he cried, as he 
 pushed open the cottage door, and placed the frozen- 
 looking little form, all dripping with the sea-water, in 
 his wife's arms. 
 
 She was greatly relieved to find that the dream did 
 not mean that her husband was to be drowned ; but 
 she said nothing of that, only hastened to restore the 
 child. Her husband helped, with a hand as firm and 
 gentle as a physician's ; and great was the joy of the 
 worthy couple when the child's blue eyes opened, and 
 she swallowed the warm milk that Rachel offered. 
 
 " I dream't I should find her," said Joe ; " and I 
 dream't that her parents were drowned, and that we 
 should never find a clew to them." 
 
 " I want her," sighed Rachel, giving a motherly hug 
 to the little thing ; " but you know how it runs in all 
 the tales : these 'almost-dead darlings that are washed 
 ashore are oft-times adopted by poor folks like our- 
 selves. Then, when they've become a part of your 
 very heart, up turns a lord or lady, and the poor man's 
 darling goes back to her own parents." 
 
 " Of course," said Joe, " 'twouldn't be right to keep 
 her ef 'twarit right ; but it's my jedgement that her 
 parents --be they lord and lady, or poor folks like our- 
 selves --have been drownded, and that our prayer for a 
 child is answered in this way. I dreamt it, Rachel."
 
 io8 
 
 PEARL. 
 
 "Then, what shall we name her, Joe?" she said. 
 "What is the best thing that comes out of the sea? '' 
 
 " Out of the sea ? / don't know nothin' better than 
 mackerel." 
 
 " Mackerel ! Goodness, Joe ! What a name would 
 ' Mackerel Nelson ' be for a child ! " 
 
 " Oh, you want a name for her ! Is that it ? How's 
 Pearl? That comes out of the sea." 
 
 So " Pearl " she was named. There was no clew to
 
 PEARL. 109 
 
 her original name. The simple white nightdress she 
 wore was not marked. 
 
 " There's only one thing sartain," said Joe, as he 
 smoothed her flaxen hair: "she can't be an Injun." 
 
 She came up like a flower in the humble little home 
 to which she had so strangely drifted. Whether in the 
 cottage with her pets around her, or playing on the 
 beach among the boats, she was just the sweet little 
 pet that the warm-hearted couple had long craved. It 
 was because their own little girl had died that they had 
 such tender feelings. 
 
 Their other child a rough, wayward boy --had 
 run away to sea years before. They never knew what 
 became of him ; but in heaven, I think it will be a glad 
 surprise to find that their little Pearl was their son's 
 child. He and his Norwegian wife were on their way 
 to the little fishing-village when they were wrecked. 
 But the waves which covered them bore their darling 
 to be the comfort of her grandparents.
 
 iio THE FIDDLER'S FARM. 
 
 THE FIDDLER'S FARM. 
 
 RANDPA and I were riding along the river- 
 road. It was June, and a thunder-storm was 
 beginning to scowl in the west. Grandpa was 
 just urging old Fan into a trot, when we came 
 upon what I called " such a pretty scene." Close 
 by the fence, all among the daisies and mown grass, 
 with a big dog for pillow and guardian, slept the 
 sweetest little boy, while an umbrella shaded his fair 
 head from the sun. Near by, two women and a farm- 
 hand were making hay with all speed, trying to get 
 ahead of the shower evidently. 
 
 " Hold on, please ! " I whispered to grandpa. " Just 
 look half a minute. Isn't that a pretty scene ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it ! " said grandpa, frowning. " That's 
 a kind of women's rights I don't care to see." 
 
 With that, he chirruped to Fan, snapped his whip 
 sharply in the air, --he never would touch a lash to 
 the faithful old horse, and we whisked out of sight 
 of the hay-field "quicker than you could say Jack 
 Robinson." 
 
 " Well, now, grandpa ! " said I. " Who would ever 
 think you were so far behind the times ? "
 
 H2 THE FIDDLER'S FARM. 
 
 " Oh, women are welcome to get in the hay, if it 
 pleases them ; but to think that Mary Ann Parmenter 
 should have to come to it ! Mary Ann was the belle 
 of Farmington, and the daughter of the richest man 
 there. 
 
 " It wasn't the old man's ducats that- the young fel- 
 lows cared so much for ; but any mother's son of them 
 would have walked from Aroostook to Kittery Point 
 for a smile from pretty Mary Ann. And she must 
 needs take up with that worthless Ira Dolliver! Every- 
 body knew that he was a nobody ; but then, he could 
 sing and dance and fiddle, and the girls were all be- 
 witched about him. He started- a singing-school in 
 Farmington, it was there that Mary Ann met him; 
 and, although he couldn't finish out the term because 
 he was so deep in debt that he didn't dare show his 
 head in the village, Mary Ann had a thousand excuses 
 for him ; and everybody was so surprised when it was 
 known that she had married the fiddler! 
 
 " Her father was too angry to see her ever again ; but 
 he had some compassion on her, gave her that small 
 farm in the outskirts that we just passed, threw it in 
 her face, you might say. 
 
 " For a short time Mary Ann was as happy a bride 
 as you could wish to see ; but Ira soon showed his real 
 colors, lazy, selfish, and drunken, he did not care how 
 things went at home. He could fiddle and sing to 
 other girls miles away.
 
 MISS MISCHIEF. 113 
 
 " Mary Ann is a young woman, but she is gaunt with 
 worry, and aged with man's work. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! it's lovely-looking enough to see the child 
 and the dog among the flowers, and the maid and mis- 
 tress raking up the hay ; but, knowing the facts in the 
 case, don't ask me to say ' it's a pretty scene.' ' 
 
 Miss MISCHIEF. 
 
 ^T 
 
 HAT was what Kittie Goodenow was called when 
 she was a child, and I am sorry to say she de- 
 served the same name when she was fifteen years 
 old. At that time she was a pupil in Miss Lee's 
 boarding-school for young ladies. She was very pretty, 
 with her soft hazel eyes, and hair to match, rippling, 
 without the aid of bandoline or crimping-pins, over 
 her fair forehead, and gathered in a graceful knot. 
 
 " She's a particularly guileless-looking girl, is Kit," 
 said one of her schoolmates ; " but all I need to ask of 
 a girl's looks is, ' Has she hazel eyes, and are they 
 witch-hazel ? ' That's Kit's kind." 
 
 It was vacation-time ; and Kittie was presiding at 
 home over the servants and her young brother and 
 sister. Her father had gone to Florida for his invalid 
 wife, who was much improved by her winter in the 
 land of oranges and soft breezes.
 
 H4 MISS MISCHIEF. 
 
 A thought came into Kittie's busy head, a most 
 thoughtless thought ; but, as usual, she was ready to 
 follow the first plan that suggested itself, so she has- 
 tened to carry this out. 
 
 " It would be so nice to have a little surprise for 
 mamma," she announced to her sister and brother; 
 " and this is what I mean to do. You know that old 
 portrait in the hall, Maud, that one of the cunning 
 little girl ? Well, you let me bang your hair and cut 
 off your curls, and you'll make a lovely ' her.' I'll rig 
 you up in sweet old-fashioned things, then take out the 
 portrait, frame yoii, and hang you up instead. Won't 
 that be too lovely ? " 
 
 "How can you hang me?" said the admiring younger 
 sister, willing to be hung by the neck if need be. 
 
 "Oh! stand you up, I mean. I'll push a tall otto- 
 man under the picture, then swing the frame outward, 
 and you'll have plenty room. I shall drape the lower 
 part of the frame with green. All the pictures are to 
 be trimmed." 
 
 " And what can / be ? " said little brother. 
 
 " You shall be that other darling portrait, and wear 
 my best hat and feather, and mamma's point-lace. 
 
 "The fun of it will be when mamma comes. She 
 will say, of course, ' Where are the children ? ' And I 
 shall say, ' Oh, they're about the house ! I saw them 
 only a minute ago.' Then I will hunt for you, and the 
 servants will hunt, and papa and mamma will hunt,
 
 ii6 MISS MISCHIEF. 
 
 and we'll see how long it w r ill be before they find you. 
 W.on't it be splendid?. Do you suppose you can keep 
 as still as little images ? " 
 
 Fairer than any thing ever done on canvas \vere the 
 little living portraits; \vhen the pleasant sound of car- 
 riage-\vheels announced that papa and mamma were 
 almost home. 
 
 Kittie stood in the doorway to greet them ; and, if 
 her cheeks were a wild-rose red \vith excitement, it 
 were little wonder. 
 
 The expected question was asked, and the answer 
 given. The servants' surprise w T as the greatest, for 
 they all declared it was but a few minutes ago since 
 the children were capering about from attic to cellar. 
 
 Mrs. Goodenow was just beginning to feel alarmed, 
 when she spied a tangle of golden curls, which, in 
 Kittie's hurry, had been left on the carpet just as they 
 dropped from her naughty scissors. The poor mother 
 turned white, and staggered feebly toward the open 
 door with the treasure in her trembling hands. The 
 sight was too much for one loving little portrait. 
 With a wild cry she sprang toward her mother, bring- 
 ing the heavy frame with her. When, a moment later, 
 the startled family gathered in the hall, there was little 
 Maud in a heap of evergreen boughs and fragments of 
 gilded frame, and there was poor mamma w r hite and 
 still like death. 
 
 For hours the good family physician watched for
 
 LITTLE WINNIE. 117 
 
 returning life; and, when the dear eyes opened, Kittie's 
 joy was almost beyond control. 
 
 It would be too much to say that the lively girl 
 never did wrong again ; but this sad lesson taught her 
 to be thoughtful, and she became her mother's faithful 
 helper and companion, as the right kind of "eldest 
 daughter" is sure to be. 
 
 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 HERE'S an odd little portrait hanging on 
 somebody's parlor wall. It represents a cor- 
 ner of that very parlor: a bright bit of carpet, 
 a register, the walls with their simple olive paper. By 
 the register is a child's willow chair ; and in the chair 
 the dear child herself, looking not " like a picture," but 
 just like herself, with a yellow flannel nightdress, and 
 in her arms a precious, battered old doll cuddled up for 
 by-lo time. 
 
 This was the picture that little Winnie's father saw 
 every night when he came home from town, the pic- 
 ture of little Winnie tha't everybody loved, from the 
 old minister down to dog and cat, rabbits and birds. 
 
 Eight o'clock was rather late for three-years '-old bed- 
 time, but the indulgent mother couldn't deny the wish 
 of both father and child : so, when Winnie had taken
 
 n8 
 
 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 her bread and milk, and was all ready for bed, she was 
 allowed to sit in her warm little corner till papa came, 
 and then ride on his shoulder to her crib. 
 
 It was just a few moments of delight, but looked 
 forward to all day long by both papa and Winnie, and 
 I'm not sure but mamma enjoyed it as much as any of 
 the three. 
 
 Then, when the little fair head was nestled on the
 
 LITTLE WINNIE. 119 
 
 pillow, papa would always say, " Good-night, Winnie ! 
 I'll see you in the morning." 
 
 " Winnie will see you in the morning," the sweet, 
 sleepy voice would echo. 
 
 One stormy night Winnie's papa came home to a sad 
 house ; no little Winnie in the bright corner. 
 
 " Scarlet fever, malignant form ; no hope," was what 
 the doctor said. 
 
 " She will not know you : you would better not see 
 her," said the poor mother. 
 
 But, bending tenderly over the dear flushed face, the 
 father whispered, - 
 
 " Good-night, Winnie dearest 1 I will see you in 
 the morning." 
 
 The sweet eyes opened once more. "Winnie'll see 
 you in the morning," she whispered and was gone. 
 
 She lay in her little casket dressed in the comfortable 
 yellow nightdress, and her precious old dolly folded close 
 in her arms. 
 
 When her father kissed her good-by, the minister 
 who attended the funeral heard him say, " Good-night, 
 Winnie ! Papa will see you in the morning." 
 
 Two or three sad years went by, and the father was 
 taken as suddenly ill as his little girl had been. He 
 was delirious from the first; but, just before the wild 
 fever had finished its work, he looked up brightly, and 
 " Good-morning, Winnie darling ! " were his last words 
 here, and his first words there.
 
 120 FAITHFUL JANET. 
 
 FAITHFUL JANET. 
 
 H, do, Miss Fisher ! You can go as well as 
 not. And you'll never have a better chance." 
 It was faithful Janet that spoke, Janet 
 with her gold-bright hair and sky-blue eyes, 
 that Baby Genie loved next to his pretty mother's 
 curls, and merry face. 
 
 " You know, Miss Fisher," Janet went on earnestly, 
 she could never remember to say " Mrs." Fisher, - 
 " I wouldn't leave Genie out of sight a minute, and 
 you'd never I hope have the chance to see your 
 sister married again." 
 
 Mrs. Fisher hesitated a moment. She had never 
 left her nine-months-old little one to be gone over 
 night ; but it was a temptation to see sister Bee mar- 
 ried, and Mr. Fisher followed up Janet's persuasions. 
 
 The result of it all was, that the three-o'clock train 
 from Weller saw Mr. and Mrs. Fisher on their way to 
 Boston ; while Janet and Baby Genie, equally happy, 
 were in the back meadow feeding the pony with sweet 
 June grass. 
 
 The little darling came in then, quite ready to enjoy
 
 122 FAITHFUL JANET. 
 
 his supper, and slide into slumber-land. Janet laid the 
 rosy little sleeper in his crib, softly lowered the shades, 
 and then, with the cup of milk which Genie was too 
 tired to finish, she started for the kitchen ; when the 
 door- bell rang. The sudden jingle roused baby a bit; 
 and, while Janet lingered till her charge was again 
 asleep, the caller had gone. 
 
 Janet stepped out on the stoop, and looked up and 
 down, hoping that the call was nothing of importance. 
 
 It had been a hot summer's day ; but now a cool 
 wind was blowing a flame of many-colored clouds in 
 the west, and setting every flower and leaf a-dancing, 
 rattling the blinds, too, and, alas ! before Janet could 
 stop it --banging the door, clinching the spring-lock, 
 thus hopelessly shutting her out from her little charge. 
 Every other door was locked also, and all the windows 
 securely fastened. 
 
 This house which the Fishers had taken for the 
 summer was a lovely, but lonely, country-seat, quite off 
 the main road, and far from any neighbors. 
 
 Janet would never have dared to leave Genie alone 
 while she should run half a mile to the nearest house 
 for help. It did not occur to her to break a window- 
 pane, and reach in to undo the fastening : in fact, I 
 doubt if she would have felt it was justifiable to do so. 
 But get in she must, somehow. She raced around the 
 house like a wild creature, and at last spied an open 
 ventilator which, guarded only by wooden slats, sup-
 
 FAITHFUL JANET, 123 
 
 plied cool air to the milk-room. These slats she soon 
 pushed away ; and then, regardless of the fact that the 
 little ventilator was hardly wide enough to admit a 
 child, she forced her own compact shoulders part way 
 in with such energy that she could not get them out 
 again, nor, of course, could she get them in any farther. 
 There she was, poor girl, in a vise ! As it happened, 
 no one went by that night ; and her frantic cries for 
 help only mocked her in echoes from the white walls of 
 the milk-room. 
 
 The earliest provision-dealer, driving his cart up the 
 grassy road to the kitchen door next morning, was sur- 
 prised to see what he thought was a female burglar. 
 Armed with his cleaver, he went valiantly to secure 
 her, but was astonished at her rapturous greeting; and, 
 soon learning her story, used his cleaver to good effect 
 in rescuing her. 
 
 Together, then, they went up-stairs, poor Janet so ill 
 and exhausted she could hardly step. There they 
 found the young cherub who had caused such anxiety, 
 doing remarkably well. 
 
 He had climbed over his crib into a chair, helped 
 himself to the remains of his supper, and had just 
 pulled over his mother's work-basket, and was having 
 a delightful time with the forbidden buttons, needles, 
 and scissors that babies enjoy above all permitted toys. 
 
 Mrs. Fisher and her husband returned that day, and 
 Janet was tenderly nursed through the nervous fever 
 that followed her fearful night in the ventilator.
 
 124 THE SPARROWS. 
 
 It proved to be the provision-dealer who had pulled 
 the bell, and called Janet to such an unlooked-for expe- 
 rience. He tried his best to make amends by sending 
 all the delicacies of the season to the sunny-haired 
 invalid. 
 
 If this were a grown-up story, I could tell of a Sep- 
 tember wedding, when the provision-dealer was around 
 bright and early --but without his cart. I think, how- 
 ever, I will stop right here. 
 
 THE SPARROWS. 
 
 HIS surly dog does not thank the sparrows 
 for their morning song. In fact, he would 
 rather not hear it. It bothers him, dis- 
 turbs his morning nap, reminds him that 
 he can't pick up his breakfast anywhere, and altogether 
 makes him uncomfortable. He wishes a law had been 
 passed years ago, preventing the immigration of spar- 
 rows into this country. 
 
 Our own little sparrows, Snap thinks, are civil birds 
 enough. The song-sparrow sings sweetly, and knows 
 enough to go south winters, and not haunt a fellow's 
 kennel-door. The chip-sparrow, too, goes south, and 
 stays till one is really glad to see him back. But
 
 126 THE SPARROWS. 
 
 these English sparrows ! They are not graceful, nor 
 musical, nor have they lovely feathers ; and here they 
 stay the year through, with their everlasting " Te-wit ! 
 
 T> I 
 
 1 e-wee ! 
 
 All the above is Snap's opinion, and the opinion of 
 some other Snaps who think there is precious little 
 " English reserve " about these imported birds. They 
 were first brought to this country from Manchester, 
 England, in 1856, and the following spring set free in 
 Brooklyn, N.Y., for the defence of the trees, and the 
 people as well, from the canker-worms which swung 
 their disagreeable hammocks from the branches above 
 the sidewalks so that pedestrians took to the middle of 
 the streets. 
 
 The sparrows were too much for the canker-worms. 
 
 But, notwithstanding their social ways, they are 
 quarrelsome at times ; and the dear robins and blue- 
 birds are driven off as well as the worms and cater- 
 pillars. 
 
 I shouldn't want the sparrows to leave, though. 
 Most cheering is the sight of the little, chirping things, 
 hopping about in the winter snow or the summer dust, 
 twittering a song of trust and comfort to many a dis- 
 couraged soul.
 
 BETTER THAN CANDY. 
 
 12-7 
 
 BETTER THAN CANDY. 
 
 R. HERBERT BROWN, bachelor, was pack 
 ing his very tidy valise, when his mother 
 said, " Now, don't put that in ! It's caramels, 
 
 >.L * J "\ 
 
 isn t it? 
 
 " No, ma'am ! It's sugared almonds and gum-drops 
 this time." 
 
 " Well, please don't teach those young Arabs to ex- 
 pect something every time you come." 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Brown!" said the young man. "The 
 idea of your speaking of your own grandchildren as 
 Arabs ! "
 
 !2S BETTER THAN CANDY. 
 
 The fond grandmother smiled. She loved the 
 " Arabs," and always brought them candies. 
 
 Mr. Herbert packed his goodies; and, as he travelled 
 countryward, he thought of the " pure, disinterested love 
 of childhood." 
 
 The children, Will, Johnnie, and Prissie, were play- 
 ing horse, the horse being a good, steady log, --but 
 they rode with such spirit that little Growl, their dog, 
 nearly wagged his small tail off in excitement. 
 
 As their uncle passed them on his way to the house 
 to speak to his sister for a few minutes, he said, " I 
 shall leave a bag of candy for you." 
 
 This pleasing news made the bright eyes shine 
 brighter, but they were too much interested in driving 
 to leave it even for candy. 
 
 Mr. Brown made his call, and was passing down the 
 schoolhouse hill, where the children were at play, on 
 his way to the train. 
 
 " Well, good-by, children ! " he said, " I am going." 
 
 " Did you leave that candy in that bag ? " inquired 
 Prissie anxiously. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " All the candy in that bag ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said the devoted uncle. 
 
 " Well, good-by, then." 
 
 But, for all that, Uncle Herbert believes the children 
 love him better than candy ; and he is right.
 
 MANLY SPORTS. 
 
 [INGLE, jerk! The 
 horse-car was packed, 
 and lumbered its way 
 out from the city streets 
 into the country, which 
 early spring was trimming 
 up with maple tassels and 
 willow fringe. 
 
 What a variety of peo- 
 ple ! Students, school-girls, 
 dainty children ; and here 
 three sportsmen, with rifles 
 and wallets. " Tell ye 1 " 
 
 I2Q
 
 130 MANLY SPORTS. 
 
 said one of these in a high, petulant voice, " I wouldn't 
 give a snap for your heavy gun. Mine is a nine- 
 pounder, and she's perfect. What does a man want 
 with any other pet, be it horse or whatever? I'd not 
 give my rifle for any of 'em. There she is, bright, 
 alive, responds to your instant touch. She's the pet 
 for me ! Shot fifteen birds, one morning I was out; 
 and nineteen squirrels last week." 
 
 " Poh ! " said a gruff voice near a second rifle, <( git 
 out with your squirrels ! /'ve shot seven b'ars ! " 
 
 A golden-haired child of seven hid behind her 
 brother's jacket at this. It was a relief when the three 
 dreadful men suddenly left the car, and stamped off 
 toward the Brighton road. 
 
 " I hope I shall never see them again," said little 
 Ada, as she and Tom, having left the car, walked up 
 the garden-path home. 
 
 " Oh ! we may see them/' said Tom, with the air of a 
 boy who hoped he should see them. To tell the truth, 
 Tom thought it would be a pretty nice thing to own a 
 rifle and a fancy pointer and setter, and be able to 
 " shoot a bird on the wing," even if he could never 
 boast of killing " seven b'ars." 
 
 After dinner th^ children set forth on a walk for 
 flowers. As they lingered, watching a farmer turn up 
 the rich soil with his ploughshare, the sudden, sharp 
 crack of a rifle was heard, and a wounded bird dropped 
 at their feet. Ada tenderly gathered the quivering
 
 THE FAVORED ONE. [31 
 
 bunch of feathers in her apron ; and, when the piteous 
 eyes of the dying thing looked up as if for sympathy, it 
 was Tom that gave it quite as much as Ada. 
 
 " I tell you," said the boy earnestly, as they walked 
 soberly homeward, "I'll never shoot for the fun of it, 
 never ! " And, though Tom is now the manliest of 
 young fellows, he has kept his word. 
 
 THE FAVORED ONE. 
 
 HE Rev. Mr. Smith was thirty-five years old, 
 and had a few facts to think about. First, 
 he was out of health ; second, he was out of 
 money ; third, he had a wife and three small 
 daughters ; and, as if these were not enough facts for 
 one man, on Christmas morning a fourth daughter was 
 born. 
 
 A deep sigh shook the parish (or, was it the winter 
 wind?). But Miss Otillia Hope Blood was happy. 
 " Now is my chance," said she to herself. The reason 
 she said it to herself was because she had no one else 
 to say it to ; Miss Blood being an unmarried lady, 
 rich, old, and lonely. She ordered her sleigh, and drove 
 to the parsonage. 
 
 " I called on business," she announced ; " and, as I 
 can't so well say what I want as to write it, here is a
 
 132 THE FAVORED ONE. 
 
 letter for you to read at your leisure. I sha'n't be 
 offended if you say me nay, though I shall be dis- 
 appointed." 
 
 She would stay to say no more ; so, leaving her love 
 for Mrs. Smith and the new baby, Miss Blood departed. 
 
 This was the letter she left : 
 
 MR. AND MRS. SMITH. 
 
 My dear Friends, I make bold to propose the following. 
 Knowing that your three daughters, Anne, Mary, and Martha, 
 bear respectively the names of their mother and grandmothers, 
 I am not presuming on the rights of near relatives when I ask 
 you to call the baby for me, Otillia Hope Blood'. 
 
 I would like, in this way, to have a special interest in the 
 child, and to have that child cherish a special interest in me. 
 
 You can understand that the name I propose, while it is not 
 desirable in itself, may be of advantage to her. 
 
 Hoping to hear from you favorably, 
 
 I remain your sincere friend, 
 
 O. H. B. 
 
 Mrs. Smith, who was romantic, though she was poor 
 and a minister's wife, was already trying on such names 
 as " Blanche " and " Lilian," and wondering how they 
 would fit this blue-eyed daughter, when she heard Miss 
 Blood's proposal. 
 
 " That horrid name 1 " she exclaimed. " No, my dar- 
 ling ! we are poor, I know ; but ' a good name is rather 
 to be chosen than great riches.' Pardon me, Aaron," 
 she said, as a shadow passed over her husband's rev- 
 erent face, " I did not mean to quote Scripture lightly."
 
 THE FAVORED ONE. 
 
 '33 
 
 " I did not notice what you said, Anne," replied Mr. 
 Smith absently (he was still dwelling upon the afore- 
 mentioned facts}. " Really, that name may be a bless- 
 
 ing which we ought not to refuse. ' Otillia H. B. 
 Smith ' is not so bad as it might be. We must con- 
 sider what it will be to the child to have such a patron 
 as Miss Blood."
 
 134 THE FAVORED ONE. 
 
 So, with a tear over " Blanche " and " Lilian," the 
 dear mother consented to name her child Otillia. 
 
 The little one was speedily presented with a rich 
 baby's service in silver ; but as Molly, the Irish help, 
 said, " That was neither drink, victuals, nor clothes, and 
 was not worth the name the pore swate baby had to 
 lug." 
 
 Later on in the winter, Mr. Smith's ill-health was 
 more alarming; and Miss Blood and others noticed a 
 tiresome little cough. 
 
 About this time Otillia H. B. Smith received a note 
 containing a check, with instructions that she was to 
 send her father to Florida, and pay the current expenses 
 of the family during his absence, including pulpit-sup- 
 ply. She was also requested not to let her family offer 
 any thanks for the enclosed, but simply to do as she 
 was bid. 
 
 Otillia's birthday was a truly glad one. Mr. Smith's 
 health was much improved by his Southern trip. A 
 gentle nursery-maid had been sent by Miss Blood, to 
 assist Mrs. Smith in the care of the little ones, partic- 
 ularly of the small Otillia, who had reached the button- 
 swallowing and general-mischief stage, and needed, so 
 Molly said, " to have six men and a boy to wait upon 
 her." Yes, it was a glad Christmas. The fire danced, 
 the evergreens told their good cheer. Queen Otillia 
 crowed, while her dear little sisters applauded that and 
 every thing else she did.
 
 * THE FAVORED ONE. 
 
 135 
 
 On that and every succeeding Christmas, a big box 
 found its way to the parsonage. It was always directed 
 to Otillia Hope Blood Smith; but it contained gifts for 
 each of the family, the choicest gift being for "the 
 favored one," as Otillia was soon called. It was a 
 
 mercy that the other little Smiths had tempers as sweet 
 as sunshine. 
 
 When Miss Blood's pet was old enough to exist 
 without the ever-watchful eye of mother or nurse, she 
 was taken journeys by her beloved patron. 
 
 One memorable summer, she went fifty miles away
 
 136 
 
 THE FAVORED ONE. 
 
 to the country, Miss Blood fancying she would like to 
 live for a while in such a vine-covered cottage as was 
 described in the " real-estate " columns of the news- 
 papers. 
 
 Otillia inherited the romance of her mother ; and it 
 was with pure delight that she took the journey, reach- 
 ing " Rose-Bush," as the little villa was called, just at 
 lovely twilight, when the whole scene was like en- 
 chanted ground. 
 
 Most children would have been homesick on leaving 
 a lively circle, ,and a nursery full of little beds : but 
 
 Otillia, though dear- 
 ly loving those left 
 behind, thought it 
 good fun to come to 
 this strange, lovely 
 place ; to sleep in a 
 little room her very 
 own, with odd furni- 
 ture that was to be 
 hers to keep ; to have sunshine come to her all painted 
 through the stained glass ; to have a robin put his 
 head through the lattice, and carol a gay good-morning. 
 The best thing about "it all was, that Otillia did not 
 " put on airs." She was just a simple child in her 
 enjoyment of all good things. It was a picture to see 
 her, as Miss Blood did one day, standing by the brook, 
 with her little sunbonnet and simple apron and frock,
 
 THE FAVORED ONE. 
 
 137 
 
 inviting the Jersey bossies to "jump across, and she 
 would catch them in her arms." 
 
 One day there strolled into the Rose-Bush an Italian 
 boy and monkey. Otillia enjoyed the monkey's pranks 
 as if he were " a man and a brother," as some wise 
 
 men think he is. Then suddenly she said to the boy, 
 " Monkeys and hand-organs go together. Where is 
 your hand-organ ? " 
 
 "Me no understand," replied the boy; but a
 
 138 THE FAVORED ONE. 
 
 glance of his big shiny eyes showed that he did 
 understand. 
 
 The fact was, a hand-organ did belong with this 
 monkey, and a hand-organ man besides. Bad old Gio- 
 vanno was tired of grinding " The Sweet By-and-By." 
 He wanted the sweet Now, and thought he might get 
 it by robbing a rich old lady's house. 
 
 Tasso and Trip - - the boy and monkey - - were 
 therefore spies to find out about the doors and win- 
 dows of Rose-Bush, --whether the silver was in easy 
 reach, and what were the defences in the way of hired 
 men. 
 
 Now, it chanced that a circus in the next village was 
 charming all the boys and men that could leave their 
 work to witness its wonderful sights ; and Miss Blood 
 had given her gardener and coachman a holiday, and 
 her cook and chambermaid as well. They had started 
 off after the noon dinner was over. The simple supper 
 for Miss Blood and Miss Otillia was already spread in 
 the shaded dining-room, all ready but the strawberries 
 which she was heaping in a pink china bowl, --when 
 Tasso and Trip came upon the scene. 
 
 Miss Blood was taking an afternoon nap; and Otillia, 
 not wishing to disturb her, rewarded them for their 
 entertainment with pennies from her ow T n little purse. 
 The boy then leisurely strolled along, with occasional 
 sly, backward looks which Otillia disliked. 
 
 In a few minutes, as the little girl was placing the
 
 140 THE FAVORED ONE. 
 
 strawberries on the tea-table, a rough-looking man 
 dashed hastily up the walk, swept the contents of the 
 spoon-holder into his pocket, then stepped into the 
 dining-room closet, where there were richer treasures of 
 table-ware. As usual in dining-room closets, there was 
 a little sliding-door for the convenience of the cook in 
 passing in desserts, and so on, to the table-girl. Bridg- 
 et, in her haste to be off, had left a hod of ashes beside 
 the kitchen stove. Quick as thought, the child raced 
 into the kitchen, shovelled a load of the ashes as big as 
 she could lift, flung back the closet-slide, and, as the 
 thief, kneeling by the drawers to take out the treasure, 
 looked up to see what was the noise, he received a dose 
 of ashes right in his eyes. It blinded him ; and, in 
 pain and fury, he dashed this way and that, but could 
 not find his way out. 
 
 Otillia was quick to take advantage of his bewilder- 
 ment, and bolted him in securely, while she blew the 
 horn for the neighbors, that being the understood 
 signal of distress in that locality. Tasso and Trip 
 were on the spot earliest, of course, but they were not 
 admitted. 
 
 Fortunately, all the farmers were not so neglectful 
 of their hay-fields as to forsake them for the circus. 
 Enough men soon came to the rescue to secure old 
 Giovanno and his black-eyed son. The monkey went 
 along to jail too, though he would have been given to 
 Otillia had she wanted him.
 
 THE FAVORED ONE. 
 
 141 
 
 I need not say that Miss Blood was delighted to find 
 how quick and cool her namesake could be if necessary. 
 She spared no pains in her education, and Miss Otillia 
 H. B. Smith became a most lovely and accomplished 
 young lady. 
 
 On the death of Miss Blood she inherited a fortune, 
 which she was not so selfish as to enjoy alone, but 
 shared it equally with her family. 
 
 She is married now to a Mr. John Clarendon, who 
 persists in calling his wife by her second name " Hope." 
 Mrs. Smith's romantic notions are fully satisfied now, 
 for she says "Mrs. Hope Clarendon is too sweet for 
 any thing." But the heiress of Miss Blood will call 
 herself Otillia to the end of the chapter.
 
 ABSOLVO TE:- 
 
 
 "ABSOLYO 
 
 JHAT is what the old frog said to the sorry little 
 fish. At least, if he did not talk Latin, he 
 spoke in some other foreign language. 
 Frogs can converse in English : when a frog jumps 
 suddenly into the water, he says he went ker chunk, 
 exactly what some boys would say to express the same 
 thing.
 
 THE SMALL MISSIONARY. 143 
 
 This frog in the picture is a father-confessor frog. 
 He thinks all the worms and insects belong to himself; 
 and, if he spies a fish about to take a lunch, he seizes 
 the dainty morsel. But if the fish is sorry, like this 
 gentle little penitent, Father Frog rolls his eyes around, 
 blesses the scared creature, and says, Absolve te. 
 
 THE SMALL MISSIONARY. 
 
 S ETTY SIMMONS had a very real desire to do 
 good; but it was tangled up with so much self- 
 ishness that the poor child made a few mistakes, 
 and shed not a few tears, in her endeavors to do right. 
 And everybody is like Letty, more or less. 
 
 After reading the story of a wonderful child who died 
 when she was ten, and spent most of her life distribut- 
 ing tracts, and taking goodies to the poor and sick, 
 Letty wanted to be like her. 
 
 But the country-place where Letty lived was a 
 prosperous village before the days of railroads and for- 
 eigners, and it was hard to find "poverty-stricken" 
 people. The only available objects in that line seemed 
 to be the Pullen family, owing to Mrs. Pullen having 
 burned her hand, and Mr. Pullen not being able to hire 
 sewing. 
 
 Letty grandly offered to fit out the Pullen girls for
 
 144 
 
 THE SMALL MISSIONARY. 
 
 Sunday school ; but earned the dislike instead of 
 gratitude of the family, as she boasted of the 
 throughout the village. 
 
 Old Mrs. Furlong had been ill all winter, and L 
 had a kind thought to take her a basket 
 of eggs ; for Letty owned a few hens, 
 and turned the eggs into pin-money. 
 Hardly had she planned to take 
 the eggs to her sick neighbor, 
 when the hateful idea came 
 into her mind (or was it 
 there without com- 
 ing?), "Mrs. Furlong 
 
 the 
 fact 
 
 etty
 
 THE SMALL MISSIONARY. 145 
 
 is very rich : perhaps she will give me a handsome 
 present ; perhaps she will remember me in her will." 
 
 Letty should have choked that mean thought the 
 moment it showed its head, but she did not. 
 
 Carefully stepping along the snowy path, she reached 
 the door of Mrs. Furlong. The nurse had gone out 
 for a short walk, having made her patient comfortable, 
 reclining against the pillows, a soft purple shawl folded 
 warmly about her shoulders, a pet kitty sleeping on the 
 counterpane at her feet, and the cheerful February 
 sunshine making diamond shadows through the 
 lattice. 
 
 Into this chamber of peace Miss Letty was invited, 
 and offered her gift of "fresh-laid eggs from my own 
 hens." 
 
 " You don't mean to give me the whole cfozen?" said 
 Mrs. Furlong. 
 
 " Why, certainly, ma'am ! " replied Letty. " It is our 
 duty to comfort the sick, you know." 
 
 Mrs. Furlong looked for a moment at the flushing 
 face and unsteady eyes of the little girl. Sickness 
 makes one very acute. The loss of bodily strength 
 sometimes sharpens the spiritual faculties. At least, 
 in this case, the sick lady watched keenly the young 
 girl's face. She thanked her for the eggs, and then 
 said, "Could I ask you for one more favor? My nurse 
 is out, and I want to look at something in my ward- 
 robe. You see that key hanging by the chimney?
 
 146 THE SMALL MISSIONARY. 
 
 Unlock the wardrobe-door, please. You will see there 
 a. tin box. Will you bring it to me?" 
 
 Letty eagerly did as she was bid. She could not 
 keep her eyes away from the treasure-box, as the in- 
 valid's delicate fingers took out chamois-skin bags of 
 coin, a few old-fashioned trinkets, and, finally, packages 
 of bank-bills. These she carefully counted, and then 
 put every thing back in the box. Yes, every thing ! 
 Not a brooch, not a ring, not the smallest coin, was 
 offered to the little girl whose face now told a story 
 plain enough to be read. 
 
 "Thank you, my dear," said the old lady, gravely 
 returning the box. " Will you put it back for me, 
 please? I just wanted to look at it." 
 
 Letty was so afraid she should cry, she bade Mrs. 
 Furlong good-afternoon as soon as possible, and hur- 
 ried away. And now that the mean thought had be- 
 trayed her, as mean thoughts are apt to do, poor Letty 
 despised herself far more than Mrs. Furlong could 
 have despised her. 
 
 I think the next time she tries to do a kindness she 
 will look out for these bad second thoughts, that are 
 always on hand trying to turn good into evil.
 
 ONE OF THE FAMILY 
 
 HEN strangers asked 
 Ruth Porter how many 
 children her father had, she 
 promptly answered, "Three! 
 Johnnie, Bruno, and I." 
 
 That being, then, Bruno's po- 
 sition in the family, it was little 
 wonder that the children's 
 hearts were almost broken 
 at being separated 
 from the faithful 
 dog. 
 
 For Mr. Porter 
 proposed emi- 
 grating to 
 America with 
 his family. He 
 could not conven- 
 iently take Bruno,
 
 148 ONE OF THE "FAMILY. 
 
 and the dog was sold to the richest man in the county. 
 It was a bit of comfort to the bereft children to know 
 that the dear old dog could sleep on a silken cushion, 
 go to ride with his little new master, and have, prob- 
 ably, no end of petting. 
 
 Bruno deserved it all ; for, besides being the most 
 delightful companion possible, he had actually saved 
 the life of little Ruth one winter, when she attempted 
 to walk from the village to her home on the farm, a 
 distance of two miles. Chilled and tired, she sank 
 down in the snow where good Bruno found her, and 
 called help by his piercing howls. 
 
 Bruno's new master was a spoiled child with an ugly 
 temper. He had a fashion, in his tantrums, of break- 
 ing whatever was nearest him ; and he found the dog a 
 convenience, as he could charge him with many of his 
 own misdeeds. 
 
 " It was Bruno," he declared, " that smashed the par- 
 lor mirror. It was Bruno that broke dolly's head." 
 
 The boy's father, soon seeing the state of the case, 
 directed the gardener to dispose of the dog. The man 
 took the poor creature in a basket, the next time he 
 went to town, and left basket and all at the corner of a 
 street. Bruno was soon released by a couple of news- 
 boys ; but, breaking loose from them, he dashed over 
 the pavements, and was off toward the open country. 
 
 At last he reached an old mill, where two schoolboys 
 were standing in a forbidden place watching the charm-
 
 150 ONE OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 ing wheel go around in the deep water. The miller's 
 apprentice, vexed with the boys, was just sending them 
 away, when Bruno dashed among them, tired and pant- 
 ing, and looking up with appealing eyes. The miller- 
 boy, glad of a chance to vent his vexation, seized the 
 dog, and hurled him into the water. " And I'll send 
 you after him," exclaimed the boy hotly, " if I catch you 
 here again!" and he grasped young Charlie Dall by the 
 collar. 
 
 Charlie Dall was nowhere near the size of the miller- 
 boy; but he was not easily scared, and was quick-witted 
 as a boy could well be. "Give us your mallet, Jim," 
 he coolly called to his companion. Springing back- 
 ward suddenly, Charlie shook off the miller-boy ; then, 
 grasping the mallet, he reached out a handle to the 
 sinking spaniel. "Grab it! there's a good fellow!" he 
 shouted. 
 
 The dog obeyed, and pulled for the shore. Charlie 
 took his dripping prize in his arms; and, in scornful 
 disregard of the miller-boy's threats, marched off in 
 triumph, followed by the admiring Jimmie. 
 
 Bruno, now named " Moses," was beloved as much 
 as in his earlier days when the Porter children regarded 
 him as their brother. 
 
 Charlie kept him during his school-days, and finally 
 took him to America, where, in the Western States, he 
 was to pursue his profession as civil engineer. 
 
 Riding on horseback, one day, past a schoolhouse in
 
 ONE OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 lovely Iowa, he saw a young schoolmistress escorted to 
 her kingdom by a crowd of sunbonneted little subjects. 
 
 As she turned her pretty head at the sound of the 
 horse's hoofs, a glad brightness overspread her face; 
 "Bruno! Bruno!" she cried.
 
 152 ONE OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 The spaniel looked bewildered for a moment ; then 
 he bounced frantically among the alarmed sun-bonnets, 
 and into the arms of the teacher. 
 
 " What upon earth ! Beg pardon ! " said the young 
 man, touching his hat. " How did you bewitch my 
 dog? I don't blame him though," added Charlie gal- 
 lantly. 
 
 " He is an old friend," explained the young lady. 
 
 " But this dog does not come from these parts : he is 
 an English dog," exclaimed the young fellow some- 
 what proudly. 
 
 "And I am an English girl," retorted the teacher 
 with dignity. " A dog named Bruno saved my life ; 
 and do you think there's any doubt about his being 
 this Bruno?" 
 
 It was little use for Charlie to say, "Moses, come 
 here!" The joyful dog abandoned himself completely, 
 for the time, to his early friend. The teacher looked 
 at her watch suggestively. 
 
 " I will see you later," said Charlie, offering his card. 
 
 He did see her later, a good many times later ; 
 and, as neither could be persuaded to give up the dog, 
 the young engineer and the schoolmistress agreed, after 
 a while, to own him together ; and, if you should ever 
 visit a certain home in Iowa, you may be introduced to 
 a spaniel with a double name, Bruno-Moses.
 
 WELCOME! 
 
 '53 
 
 WELCOME! 
 
 ENTINI, the hand-organ man, and Jacko his 
 monkey, stroll through the city with their 
 tunes and capers, but with, oh, such sad faces ! 
 How do they know whether they shall be driven away, 
 or welcomed with smiles, and paid with pennies and 
 apples ? One thing is certain : it is safer, they find, to
 
 154 WELCOME! 
 
 halt where a baby-carriage waits at the door; and, if a 
 dear little baby-nose is flattened on the window-pane, 
 and round eager eyes beg them to stop, then come the 
 happy minutes of life to Jacko and Lentini. 
 
 To many people the hand-organ is a nuisance, but I 
 would be sorry never to hear one. It is a sure sign of 
 clearing weather when " Molly Darling " sounds under 
 your window; and, if the lively airs from "Tancredi" 
 trip over the wires (no matter ho\v much out of tune), 
 it is safe to leave your umbrella at home, and go to 
 your picnic. It is true that some people are in distress 
 when those sounds greet their ears ; but, on the other 
 hand, there are many that welcome them. 
 
 There's a lady in Boston, the wife of a noted orator, 
 who has been for long years an invalid. I am told 
 that she hires a hand-organ man by the half-hour to- 
 gether, to grind his cheerful airs under the window of 
 the room where she lies. Another invalid used to call 
 Thursdays her cheerful days, because a hand-organ 
 with unusually sweet notes stopped at the street corner 
 near by. And now that the dear lady is dead, her 
 brown-eyed baby daughter waits at the window Thurs- 
 days ; and the organ-man is richer, not only for the 
 ready pennies that patter on the sidewalk, but for the 
 glad little face that does not think the hand-organ is a 
 nuisance.
 
 STUDIES IN NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 '55 
 
 STUDIES IN NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 ERE is one study. The wise cat on the 
 table looks as if she could deliver a lecture 
 on Crustaceans; but it is my opinion she 
 knows nothing whatever about them. 
 Kitty number two is in a fair way to pursue her 
 studies still farther ; and it would not be surprising if,
 
 156 STUDIES IN NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 in time, she could tell a crab from a lobster. It is 
 safer, let me tell you, kitty, to read a nice little story of 
 a crab than to handle one ; for they are apt to take fast 
 hold with their strong claws. 
 
 There are different kinds of crabs, some of which are 
 considered quite a dainty dish, and are to be seen in 
 the markets in the proper season. 
 
 On the next page, you will learn something about 
 the crab's cousin, --the lobster. 
 
 Scamp, the Joneses pet, was always putting his paws 
 where they had no business to be. 
 
 Such a dainty basket as came up from the fish-mar- 
 ket one summer morning, -- lobsters, pond-lilies, and 
 cowslips .! Scamp sniffed at the cowslips, dragged the 
 pond-lilies over the kitchen-floor, and then offered a 
 paw to a lobster. The lobster took it ; and, oh, dear ! 
 what did Scamp find out then ? Why, that the lobster 
 kept teeth in his claw, sharp " single " teeth in one 
 claw, and double teeth in the other claw, and the single 
 teeth hurt. This is what Scamp is trying to tell you. 
 But he does not care to study any more about lobsters, 
 and I shall have to tell you the rest. 
 
 Lobsters are sometimes caught by hand ; but oftener 
 by traps set in the water, and baited with fish or meat. 
 The shell of the lobster is dark green ; but when boiled, 
 it becomes, as we usually see it, a bright red. It is 
 well to know that the lobster never wears his gorgeous 
 red till he is dead.
 
 STUDIES IN NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 157 
 
 A French artist who did not know this fact painted 
 bright red lobsters sailing about in the water. 
 
 In his dark green coat, the lobster is so spry that he 
 
 can jump backward fifteen feet at a time if he wants to. 
 
 Lobsters would make good soldiers; for they don't 
 mind having a claw or so amputated, as a new one soon 
 grows. 
 
 The lobster is a good mother, and is generally fol- 
 lowed about by her timid children till they are nearly
 
 158 ESSf'S FIRST PARTY. 
 
 as large as she. Wise books say nothing about the 
 lobster-father : probably he is at the club. 
 
 But it is as salad that the lobster is most interest- 
 ing. When his coat-of-mail is cast aside, and he is 
 daintily served, accompanied by coffee, ice-cream, and a 
 party of friends, he is a delightful study. 
 
 BESSIE'S FIRST PARTY. 
 
 'F course Bessie had her own birthday parties 
 with her uncles and aunties, and the little neigh- 
 bors ; but now she was six years old, and had a 
 grand printed invitation to a children's party in a dis- 
 tant part of the city. The dainty invitation was de- 
 livered by a stylish coachman whose livery was a little 
 beyond any thing Bessie had ever seen. She begged 
 her mother to read again and again the magic words, - 
 
 BIRDIE HOWARD 
 
 Receives Jier friends February zy, 
 from four to eight. 
 
 Bessie opened the closet-door, and, gazing at the bright 
 little w'opl-plaid \vhich was her best dress, said, " I 
 don't know as this dress was invited." 
 
 " I suppose it wasn't, darling," said her mother smil- 
 ing; "but you shall have a new dress."
 
 160 ESSSE'S FIRST PARTY. 
 
 "And look just like Cinderella?" said Bessie. 
 
 " I dare say you'll see some little ones at that party 
 that will look like Cinderellas or fairies, but I don't 
 dare to dress my little girlie in a ' real party-dress ' in 
 cold weather. You shall have something new and 
 pretty though." 
 
 When the great day came, and the dear little girl 
 was dressed in the warm white cashmere gracefully 
 fashioned, -- her only ornament the lovely gold curls 
 that were tied back with a blue ribbon to match her 
 sash ; her happy little feet cased in bronze slippers, 
 nothing could have looked sweeter to the eyes of the 
 home-circle where Bessie lived. 
 
 Long before four o'clock, the w r onderful coachman 
 came again, and took Bessie away in a shell-shaped 
 sleigh lined with rosy velvet and warm with white furs. 
 
 She was too young to know that the other little 
 guests wore most costly dresses. If she had known it, 
 I don't believe it would have spoiled her happy time. 
 She was an imaginative child, and was so familiar 
 with make-believe princes and princesses, that gold and 
 jewels and castles were as every-day as pebbles to her. 
 
 " I thought that poor minister's little girl would be 
 just about overwhelmed with Birdie's party ; but she 
 takes to it as naturally as a duck to water," said a lady 
 who was there. 
 
 Bessie enjoyed the quiet games and the noisy games. 
 She gave the tiny Scotch-wood workbox, --her birth-
 
 MINCE-PIE FOR SUPPER. 161 
 
 day offering, to Birdie as sweetly as the rich children 
 gave their costly trinkets. She was pleased with the 
 wonderful supper, where every article of food was fash- 
 ioned into animal or bird. At last the rosy-lined sleigh 
 cradled her again ; and, when the black horses stopped 
 at the parsonage door, Bessie was fast asleep. 
 
 " I've been to fairy-land," she said smiling, when she 
 woke in her father's arms, by the bright blaze in the 
 parlor grate. " I've been to fairy-land, but I guess I'd 
 rather live at home." 
 
 MlNCE-PlE FOR SUPPER. 
 
 was perfect November weather. The sky 
 was gray, the earth was gray, the branches 
 were gray. The ponds were steel ; the frozen 
 ground echoed crisp to the horses' galloping feet. The 
 sober twilight made the bright home-fires all the more 
 cheery. Red mittens, red stockings, red hoods, were all 
 the fashion ; and delightful odors of Thanksgiving 
 floated up everybody's chimney. 
 
 It was Tuesday. Thursday, as everybody knew, 
 would be the great day of the year. Spheres of delight 
 in pumpkin, in apple, in cranberry, in mince, already 
 lined the pantry-shelves, and made a plain supper of 
 hulled corn seem very plain indeed.
 
 1 62 MINCE-PIE FOR SUPPER. 
 
 Hannah and Rhoda sipped their milk in disdainful 
 fashion, and gave their dear tired mother cross looks ; 
 though she kindly promised them what they wanted for 
 breakfast, and laughingly quoted the old saying, - 
 
 " Mince-pie is gold in the morning, silver at noon, 
 and lead at night." 
 
 " Don't see any sense in that ! " whispered naughty 
 Hannah to naughty Rhoda. 
 
 Wasn't it a pity that they should go to bed so very 
 cross, and grieve that kind mother ! 
 
 It was a bright moonlight night. Stars, were never 
 brighter too, and meteors flashed here and there as if 
 the heavens were spilling over with glory. 
 
 The little girls tossed uneasily in their high feather- 
 bed. 
 
 ' " It's so awful shiny I can't get to sleep," complained 
 Rhoda. 
 
 " Yes," said Hannah. " How the moon does come 
 through the skylight! It makes the back stairway 
 look like a gold ladder, and the pantry must be as light 
 as day. I wonder how many pies are in there? A 
 hundred, I guess. Let's go and see ! " 
 
 If there were a hundred, there were but ninety-nine 
 ten minutes later. Of course it was a mince-pie the 
 naughty girls took. So many good things in one 
 plate 1 raisins and citron, currants and spice, apples 
 and meat, and cider, I suppose, too ; for it was years 
 ago that pie was made.
 
 1 64 MINCE-PIE FOR SUPPER. 
 
 The little girls did not talk much after they crept up 
 stairs. Pretty soon the moon looked in upon two 
 flushed little faces in uneasy dreams. Ah, what mixed- 
 up, troubled dreams ! They were reciting to teacher, 
 and a dreadful committee-man sprang out of a bush. 
 They were running home, and horrible wolves were 
 chasing them. They were lost. A great moon was 
 blazing : they would catch fire. Both children waked 
 with a start: "The moon! the moon!" they screamed. 
 
 A loving mother gathered the frightened little girls 
 in her arms. " Not the moon," she whispered : " some- 
 thing else that is round disturbs you. You won't dis- 
 obey mother again ! " 
 
 Two sorry little penitents promised good behavior, 
 and would punish themselves Thanksgiving Day by 
 only having apple, cranberry, and pumpkin pie for 
 dessert.
 
 FHE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. 
 
 OR two centuries, in Eng- 
 land, it was a law that 
 November fifth should 
 be a thanksgiving-day, to cele- 
 brate the deliverance of the king 
 and parliament from the Gun- 
 powder Plot that Robert 
 
 Catesby planned, and Guy 
 Fawkes did not carry out. 
 Great sport had the 
 English boys, generation
 
 1 66 THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. 
 
 after generation, in saving up their money for this day, 
 and exploding it in squibs and crackers. But chief of 
 all the show was a Guy Fawkes image gotten up to 
 look as grotesque as possible. This image the merry 
 boys would carry through the streets, and finally burn. 
 
 So popular was this celebration, that it even crossed 
 the Atlantic, and has been observed for years in one of 
 our Eastern cities. A pumpkin forms the head of this 
 Yankee Guy Fawkes ; and those of us who reckon 
 jack-o'lanterns among childhood's joys, know very well 
 that our English cousins can't get up any thing more 
 hideous than a pumpkin head with a candle inside, 
 showing off the dreadful teeth and eyes. 
 
 This, then, is the sort of Guy Fawkes that certain 
 New-Hampshire boys manufacture, and carry through 
 the streets to the music of fish-horns. 
 
 Great fun for the boys ; but solemn business it was 
 to poor Guido Fawkes ! 
 
 He was an English gentleman of good family and 
 education, the last person to be found in such a wild 
 plot ! It is only one instance out of many, where good 
 family and good education may not prevent one " mak- 
 ing a Guy of himself." Mistaken zeal for his religion, 
 and, undoubtedly, a spice of political ambition, led him 
 to engage in Catesby's plot to blow up the king and 
 both houses of Parliament. 
 
 Sir Guido Fawkes did not look in the least like the 
 stuffed images that English boys burn on the 5th of
 
 THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. 167 
 
 November. He is described as being of fine stature 
 and commanding appearance. He was sworn to be "a 
 man of great piety, of exemplary temperance, an enemy 
 of broils and disputes ; and his society was sought by 
 all the most distinguished in the Archduke's camp for 
 nobility and virtue." He was, however, fatally wrong 
 if he believed his duty to God or man required him to 
 take the lives of so many, in such a shocking manner. 
 
 He was discovered just before midnight, in the vault 
 of the Parliament-house : thirty-six barrels of powder 
 were also discovered ; while upon Fawkes's person were 
 found a match, a tinder-box, and some touchwood. He 
 declared that if he had been within the house when 
 taken, he would have blown up house, takers, himself, 
 and all. 
 
 He had several confederates, but would say nothing 
 to implicate them, though he was tortured to draw out 
 the desired information. It is pitiful to see his signa- 
 ture written before and after his tortures. 
 
 One can't help feeling, in reading history of olden or 
 present days, that the people who do dreadful things, 
 and dare to call them " religious," if they would go 
 no farther than the Ten Commandments, if they would 
 stop and think when they read " Thou shalt not kill," 
 how much misery would have been prevented. But 
 then there would have been no religious wars, no mili- 
 tary " glory," no gunpowder plots, and no such lively 
 times for the boys.
 
 768 A SUMMER TEMPEST. 
 
 A SUMMER TEMPEST. 
 
 HOSE of us who were living on the i6th 
 of July, 1879, w iM never forget the dreadful 
 tempest of that afternoon. When the wind 
 and lightning were over, how joyful and clear were 
 the skies, and how the birds sang ! Flags flut- 
 tered, sails were spread to dry in the sweet sunshine, 
 and Nature behaved like a child who has forgotten her 
 late naughtiness. 
 
 Not so easy was it to make faces bright again. The 
 fear and ruin of that tempest aged many an one. 
 
 A waiting crowd stood on the wharf of a watering- 
 place, looking with eager solicitude at a wreck. Could 
 they have seen through the driving tempest a half-hour 
 before, they would have been thrilled with the sight of 
 a life-boat grandly manned in the wild sea, while the 
 remaining passengers were carefully lowered into its 
 shelter. All were thus rescued but one little boy, who, 
 wild with fear, jumped over the vessel's side, and was 
 seen no more by his distracted friends. 
 
 It was supposed that he sunk at once in that angry 
 sea. Such, however, was not the case. He grasped a
 
 1 70 
 
 A SUMMER TEMPEST. 
 
 floating board, and there clinging, was flung, like a bit 
 of seaweed, high up on the beach not far away. 
 
 An old-fashioned cottage stands by itself, a half-mile 
 at least from the new villas in that vicinity. Oh! this 
 
 is so old that smoke may have curled from its big 
 chimney when Capt. Miles Standish was waiting for 
 his answer from Puritan Priscilla. This was the home 
 of fisherman Nick and his son, young Nick as he was 
 called.
 
 172 A SUMMER TEMPEST. 
 
 The father was off in his boat, that wild after- 
 noon ; and the son, who had been delayed in rowing a 
 pleasure-party from the hotel to Strawberry Hill, was 
 anxiously looking up and down the beach, after the 
 tempest, hoping to see some sign of his father, when 
 he stumbled over this storm-tossed little boy. Quite 
 dead he seemed, but Nick was filled with all the eager- 
 ness of the possibility of saving him. He rushed to 
 the cottage with his dripping burden; then, not waiting 
 to call a wiser head, he laid the" boy with his head on 
 his left arm, opened his mouth, and then gently rolled 
 him towards the left till he was nearly quite over on 
 his face, then on to his back again. Persevering in 
 this method, he was rewarded in half an hour by signs 
 of returning life. 
 
 Nick's joy was moderated by the impossibility of 
 having warmth and nourishment right at hand. The 
 fire was down, there was no hot water of course, neigh- 
 bors half a mile away. Oh for another pair of hands ! 
 Things are always so aggravating when one is in des- 
 perate hurry. There were no kindlings prepared, the 
 jack-knife to whittle them was obstinate, the tea-kettle 
 was empty ; but at last Nick's rush was over. A 
 cheery fire snapped, the kettle sang, the old chest gave 
 out its treasures of warm blankets, and Nick held in 
 his arms the pretty boy as live and promising as one 
 could wish to see. 
 
 Old Nick returned in safety, and cooked a famous
 
 STO UT-HEAR TED, 1 73 
 
 supper over the coals. The telegraph-wires, which had 
 so many shocking tidings to carry that evening, bore 
 to a city home the blessed news : " Your Willie safe. 
 Home in the morning." 
 
 The little boy has many friends, but none that he 
 will remember with more gratitude than the fisher-boy 
 Nick. 
 
 STOUT-HEARTED. 
 
 HEN young Jimmie Foster died, he left a 
 mother, a wife, and a baby-girl, of whom he 
 was the sole support. He had been a trav- 
 elling artist in the days of daguerrotypes. 
 His little family had cheap lodgings in town, and there 
 )ie lived with them at odd times ; but when the travel- 
 ling was good he went from village to village, and 
 earned a comfortable living for himself and family in 
 making the wonderful pictures. But there was never 
 any money saved; and, when the young man was taken 
 away by a swift disease, there was nothing left but the 
 car with its small equipments, and the old horse and 
 faithful dog. 
 
 His wife and mother could not carry on the business, 
 and the proceeds of the whole affair --horse, dog, and 
 all would take care of them but a short time. What 
 could they do ?
 
 174 STOUT-HEARTED. 
 
 Grandmother Foster had learned, in her early days, 
 the art of weaving osier or willow twigs into baskets 
 ancl chairs. It is simple and pretty work. This art 
 young Mrs. Foster acquired ; and, together, the two 
 women soon made a stock of these attractive goods. 
 
 I doubt if any lady, no matter how well provided for 
 she may be in the basket-line, can pass a basket-seller 
 on the street without one sigh df longing for the tidy, 
 graceful things. Think, then, how attractive a moving 
 car must have been, decorated on the outside with work- 
 baskets, picnic-baskets, baby-baskets, clothes-baskets, 
 market-baskets, and all kinds of baskets. There were, 
 besides, brooms and brushes, mops and dainty whisks, 
 which found ready customers in the young dish-washers 
 who disliked to spoil their hands for piano lessons. 
 Inside the car, the tiniest of housekeeping went on. 
 Every thing was kept so tidy, it was a pleasure to peep 
 in. 
 
 Basket-making is one of the oldest arts, and it is as 
 attractive to-day as ever. Even before the time of 
 Christ, Egyptians wove baskets for various purposes. 
 
 But to come back to our travelling friends. Pleasant 
 as were their summer trips, they looked forward to a 
 more permanent and comfortable home than the basket- 
 car. And, by the time that little Bella was old enough 
 to go to school, the hard-working grandmother and 
 mother had earned enough to hire a comfortable little 
 cottage in the suburbs, where they could still make
 
 176 PLEASURES AND PERILS. 
 
 baskets, and, at the same time, enjoy a home like other 
 people. 
 
 " Be thankful for health and a stout heart, Jennie," 
 Grandmother Foster would often say. " Thank good- 
 ness, nobody had to take 'round a subscription-paper 
 for us/" 
 
 PLEASURES AND PERILS. 
 
 seemed too good to be true that vacation was 
 here, that the Bensons were really going to the 
 beach, and that the Hydes were going with them ; 
 for Belle and Brownie Hyde had no other playmates 
 so dear as Charlie Benson and Leo his brother. 
 
 Such a choky day as it had been in the city! A foul 
 pink mist hung from the State House to the wharves ; 
 but, as the steamer cut her way loose from the city, 
 what a different world did it reach ! The pure sea-air 
 was like wings that lifted you up and flew away with 
 you ; and, by the time the short hour's trip was over, 
 the children stepped ashore with new vigor in their 
 light feet. 
 
 The two families had hired a cottage together ; and, 
 with the best Bridget and Norah that ever made chow- 
 der and washed dishes, life looked free and happy. 
 
 For two or three days the children were satisfied

 
 178 PLEASURES AND PERILS. 
 
 with the pleasures along shore that had been granted 
 them. There was the wading and the bathing, allowed 
 only, as Charlie said, " when an ' elderkin ' was with 
 them ; " there was the shell-gathering and clam-digging. 
 Belle and Brownie found a treasure whom they named 
 "The Pleasant Man." He seemed to be a ship-car- 
 penter, with never so much to do that he hadn't time 
 to paint a dolly's dull eye, or to make its little mis- 
 tress's eye brighter by some wonderful gay story of the 
 sea. " Cap'n Isaac," he was called; and the children 
 thought it a fortunate thing that he had leisure to 
 amuse them. 
 
 Leo Benson generally preferred to stroll off by him- 
 self, digging till he was tired, and then enjoyed one of 
 Bridget's tarts or buns, several of them, in fact, - 
 while he sunned himself on a pile of seaweed, and 
 lazily enjoyed the sights on sea and shore, from the 
 gay excursion-steamers with their flags and music, to 
 the strolling blind boy with his dog and violin, who 
 shared Leo's pennies and lunches, when the rather self- 
 ish little boy did not choose to keep all for himself. 
 
 But the children were not all satisfied for long with 
 the safe pleasures of the beach. The ocean with its 
 many voices was every day tempting them. It was 
 but half a joy to be rowed by somebody else. Every 
 chance they could get, they would sit in a boat safely 
 moored, and play row; and they were very sure they 
 could manage a sail.
 
 i8o PLEASURES AND PERILS. 
 
 One bewitching afternoon, Leo and Brownie had 
 gone with the older folks on a picnic. Charlie had not 
 been quite well the night before; and it was thought 
 best for him to stay quietly near home, under the 
 charge of " The Pleasant Man," who was generally to 
 be found of an afternoon among the boats near by. 
 
 Belle begged to keep Charlie company : so, with the 
 usual promises of good behavior, the children bade the 
 picnickers good-by, and watched the barges ride away 
 without a sigh of regret. For, I am sorry to say, this 
 innocent-looking little boy and girl had a plan of daring 
 and delight that they were longing to carry out. It 
 began with a lie. Their parents had asked the chil- 
 dren to inquire of " The Pleasant Man " if he would 
 kindly look after them that afternoon. They brought 
 back his usual reply, "With great pleasure, my 
 hearties." But he did not say it that afternoon : on 
 the contrary, he said that he must go off to repair a 
 boat on Long Beach. 
 
 That lie was a bad beginning, surely. 
 
 The barges were hardly out of sight when the two 
 children, with their picnic-basket well stored with 
 goodies, strolled down to the beach. There was a cer- 
 tain gay little boat there, " The Waltzer," which they 
 boarded ; and, after much tugging, they loosened the 
 rope, and drifted out to sea. 
 
 It was a sleepy, still August afternoo^i,-- hardly a 
 motion in air or sea. The boat scarcely moved; and
 
 the children, soon tiring of this, 
 managed to raise the sail. 
 
 Ah, that was better! And, to 
 make it still more lively, little 
 sails were soon spread in the 
 sky. Clouds they were, that 
 were unfurled as briskly as if 
 eager little hands tugged at 
 them. . 
 
 Soon the whole sky, which had seemed 
 asleep, was full of these restless flying sails. 
 " The Waltzer " rocked and spun. But the ob- 
 stinate sail, which lent its aid so readily to help 
 the children off, was in no hurry to get them 
 back. It seemed filled with the mad spirit of 
 motion, and whistled and danced; and rocked 
 
 181
 
 182 PLEASURES AND PERILS. 
 
 the boat in defiance of danger. The children tugged at 
 the. oars with about as much of success as if they were 
 waving butterflies' wings ; and this story would end 
 right here, but for " The Pleasant Man." 
 
 His job at Long Beach was a short one; and, tak- 
 ing passage for the little run home on a friend's boat, 
 he spied " The Waltzer " in trouble. Charlie's small 
 handkerchief a signal of distress-- was fluttering 
 wildly, " only raising more wind," poor Belle declared. 
 
 But they were not rescued till they had known all the 
 fright and danger of an upset. From the moment that 
 their hearts stood still with horror, and the wild waters 
 took them in their arms, they knew nothing more till 
 they opened their eyes in their cottage-home. Not 
 a comfortable waking. They were still in distress. 
 Water seemed gurgling all about them. It was hard 
 to breathe, hard to think, hard to pray. 
 
 The lesson of disobedience the little ones never, never 
 forgot ; and for the rest of their vacation they never 
 cared to venture beyond " The Pleasant Man's " safe 
 moorings. They always felt that he was their special 
 guardian angel ; and perhaps, indeed, he was.
 
 A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER. 183 
 
 A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER. 
 
 T isn't a rose, at any rate," said Capt. Chan- 
 ticleer, much subdued at being in doubt about 
 any thing. 
 
 " A rose ! I should think not ! " gobbled the turkey. 
 " Do you suppose I am color-blind ? Don't I know 
 reel when I see it ? " 
 
 " I should think you might," retorted the captain, 
 " after wearing that very unbecoming necktie all your 
 life." 
 
 "Of course it is not a rose. But is it alive?" 
 
 " Touch it and see." 
 
 " Touch it yourself ! " 
 
 " Who's afraid ? " 
 
 Two valiant birds were afraid : that was evident. 
 
 Capt. Chanticleer suddenly remembered that it was 
 time to issue the afternoon edition of " The Barnyard 
 News." 
 
 Turkey-Gobbler spied, out of the far corner of his 
 eye, a little red hood bobbing along beside the fence. 
 He must chasse'e over to that little red hood, and tell 
 it, gobble, gobble, gobble, - - in great indignation,
 
 184 
 
 A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER. 
 
 
 that his own red necktie was gobble, gobble, gob- 
 ble a redder red than any red hood or any pair of 
 red cheeks.
 
 BETTER HAVE STAID AT HOME. 185 
 
 Meanwhile, two calm brown eyes had been looking 
 on, knowing well all about that suspicious character, 
 soberly amused at the angry talk. She bided her time 
 till the farmer's boy came around, when she enjoyed 
 her cabbage with a thankful heart. 
 
 BETTER HAYE STAID AT HOME. 
 
 [j$HESE picturesque soldiers, with tneir plumes 
 
 **-^. ^ 
 
 and gay trappings, were sent to Scotland to 
 make the people there worship after the fash- 
 ion of King Charles the First, a good enough fashion 
 for those that like it. But the Scots didn't like it. 
 
 This meek little lassie, who seems to belong to the 
 hostelry near by, is bringing water or something 
 stronger to the English soldiers. 
 
 An older lass, Janet Geddes by name, was not so 
 meek-looking, I dare say, when the English worship 
 was enforced upon the Scotch people. The Dean of 
 Edinburgh beginning to read the liturgy, his voice was 
 drowned in the shouts of the people, and Janet threw a 
 stool at him. The reverend gentleman threw off his 
 surplice, and fled for his life. 
 
 After this the king's troops were sent into Scotland 
 to enforce obedience. The Scots carried the day; and 
 King Charles, who was admitted to be, in private life,
 
 1 86 
 
 BETTER HAVE STAID AT HOME. 
 
 an estimable gentleman, but in public " a tyrant, 
 murderer, and enemy of the nation," was condemned 
 to death. 
 
 The people whom he had oppressed the Scots - 
 plead for his pardon, France and the Netherlands 
 entreated ; but in vain. He paid the penalty of his 
 mistaken zeal with his life. 
 
 As might have been expected, a re-action of enthu- 
 siasm sprang up in England. He was canonized as a 
 saint ; and the anniversary of his execution, Jan. 30, 
 was observed in the Church of England with special 
 religious services, as " The Day of King Charles the 
 Martyr." But, after reflecting upon the subject for 
 two hundred years, the English people concluded that 
 Charles the First was not exactly a saint after all ; and 
 the 3Oth of January (as a saint's day) was abolished 
 by act of Parliament in 1859.
 
 1 88 A -HERO. 
 
 A HERO. 
 - . . - 
 
 was a sickly little boy who entered the royal 
 navy when he was thirteen, and became the 
 greatest of Britain's admirals, that these sailors 
 are talking about. 
 
 Probably no hero ever kindled wilder enthusiasm ; 
 and even the biographer who attempted to give a faith- 
 ful account of his deeds was carried away with admi- 
 ration, and unable justly to condemn his unfaithfulness 
 to his best friend. This biographer writes : " Let us 
 compassionate the one cruel frailty of a man, in all else 
 as gentle and generous as he was brave." 
 
 Horatio Nelson was born in September of 1758, at 
 Burnham Thorpe, Norfolk. His father was a rector; 
 but, like many a minister's son before and since, Ho- 
 ratio struck out in an entirely different line from the 
 churchly habits of his father. In the heat of the battle 
 of Copenhagen, his ringing disdain of danger is as 
 noticeable for its profanity as for its daring. He was 
 a post-captain before he was twenty-one ; and soon 
 " flamed amazement " on the world by his brilliant 
 deeds. He lost his arm in one assault, received in
 
 190 A HERO. 
 
 another a head-wound which prostrated him, receiving 
 in exchange the delicious titles of " Lord," " Baron," 
 and " Admiral." 
 
 If you look closely at the foot of the picture the 
 sailor is holding out, you will see the additional title, 
 " Duke of Bronte." This was awarded Nelson by the 
 King of Naples, with a domain of ^3,000 a year, for his 
 services in driving out the French from Naples. In 
 1805, "he had chased half round the world a French 
 fleet of nearly double the force of his own, scared by 
 the very terror of his name." On the morning of the 
 2ist of October, in that year, he met the ships of 
 France and Spain. He met and conquered them, but 
 for this last crowning victory gave the price of his life. 
 
 The English kindle at the mention of his name, and 
 it is no wonder that they admire him. 
 
 Our hero may not have been so brilliant, though 
 there are diamond deeds in his military career ; but 
 Washington was reverent, pure, faithful in public and 
 private life, and well worth the admiration of all boys 
 who seek a hero.
 
 "/ WONDER!" 19; 
 
 "I WONDER!" 
 
 WONDER," said Mrs. Piper, looking across the 
 street toward the Bixby's, "why in the world 
 young Bixby didn't bring his wife home from 
 Baltimore with his little girl ! " 
 
 " Why, you dorit say he didn't bring his wife, Miss 
 Piper ! " exclaimed Mrs. Piper's caller, a wheezy, fat old 
 woman known as " Mis' Dan'l Metkif." 
 
 "Not a wife did he bring!" said Mrs. Piper, with 
 the implication that he should have brought two or 
 three at least. "And what worries me" continued 
 Mrs. Piper, " is, that I can't get no satisfaction, no how, 
 from nobody. We are the best of neighbors, us and 
 the Bixbys. If I'm out of coffee or saleratus I always 
 run over as free, and borrer of the Bixbys hired girl ; 
 but she don't know no more than I do about this affair. 
 It's an old story, young Bixby's failing in business, and 
 old Bixby offering his son a home with him, and a 
 share in the mills here. And it's well known to me, 
 Mis' Metkif, --for their Bridget told me, that they 
 had new lace curtains for the settin'-room chamber be- 
 cause Alferd's wife was young and fanciful. But there!
 
 192 "/ WONDER!' 
 
 She never come ; and what's more, she ain't a-comin', 
 so. Bridget says. Old Mrs. Bixby don't know A nor B 
 about it. All. is, they expected her and she didn't 
 come." 
 
 "Why don't you ask the little girl?" suggested Mrs. 
 Metcalf. 
 
 " Mean to, fust chance I get. There she goes now 
 to sit with the Millard children : their mother's gone 
 to the city. I saw her, an hour ago, put off with her 
 music-roll. How a married woman with three children 
 finds time to take" lessons beats me ! But then, she 
 don't neighbor a bit. I'll just run in and see if I can 
 find out, ef you'll excuse me. You know how it is 
 yourself, Mis' Metkif." 
 
 The Millard children were cosey in their bright nur- 
 sery, making little lonely Debbie Bixby as happy as 
 they knew how. The chill of our northern winter had 
 driven the little Baltimore stranger closely up to the 
 fender, where she sat enjoying the doll-dressmaking 
 which Grace Millard was busied about. 
 
 Into this pleasant group burst Mrs. Piper, with an 
 appearance of great haste. 
 
 " Excuse me. Miss Grace. I've got a friend visiting 
 me, and she wants to take the evenin' train (to Upper 
 Billingsville. Haven't seen no time-table lately, and 
 thought mebbe'your ma would be so kind as to lend 
 me the mornin' paper, if she is in." 
 
 " She ' has gone to the city," said Miss Grace, with
 
 "7 WONDER!" 
 
 193 
 
 dignity, not offering to put down her sewing to look 
 for the paper, which she shrewdly suspected was not 
 really wanted. 
 
 "Sho, now! You don't say she's out? Well, no 
 matter, dear. But who is this little girl ? " 
 
 " Debbie Bixby, ma'am," said the child politely.
 
 194 "/ WONDER!" 
 
 ''Debbie! Named for your Grandma Bixby, I see." 
 No doubt young Bixby would have every thing his 
 way, thought Mrs. Piper. 
 
 " No, ma'am. I was named for Grandma Benoir." 
 
 " And shes dead, I suppose ? dear grandma ! " said 
 this sympathetic caller. 
 
 " Why no, indeed ! " Debbie's brown eyes looked up 
 in surprise. " Why, who would be with mamma?" 
 
 "Sure enough! Who would?" said Mrs. Piper. 
 
 " And so she has gone back to live with your Grand- 
 ma Benoir ! " 
 
 Mrs. Piper, for a few minutes, talked with the other 
 children, and praised their curly hair. " Seems to me," 
 said she, coming back to Debbie, " seems to me your 
 hair was long and curly when you came." 
 
 " So it was," said the child ; " but it hurt me so to 
 have it curled that Grandma Bixby cut it." 
 
 " I suppose it didn't hurt so much when mamma 
 curled it ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am," said Debbie ; " but still I used to fuss, 
 and mamma would say, ' I hope you will never have 
 any one hurt you more than mamma does.' ' 
 
 "Ah, poor dear!" said Mrs. Piper. "She see what 
 was a-comin', no doubt. She won't be coming on this 
 way at present, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am. Oh, dear ! " and the little girl broke 
 out suddenly in such a torrent of tears that Mrs. Piper 
 could not console her ; and saying, excitedly, that it
 
 '/ WONDER!" 195 
 
 was no matter about the paper, she hurried home eager 
 to report the news. 
 
 "Well, Miss Metkif, it's all out! She ain't a-comin' 
 at all, far as I can find out, Mis' Bixby ain't. She an' 
 her own mother are a-livin' together down in Baltimore. 
 And that poor little Debbie ! She is a-pinin' herself to 
 death. They've ben and cut off her hair, her father's 
 folks have. And, there! Look, Mis' Metkif! Look, 
 do ! Did you ever see any thing more heartless than 
 young Bixby this minute ? There he is a-wavin' his 
 hand to his little girl as ef he never done such a thing 
 as to separate her from her mother ! " 
 
 The next day, as Mrs. Piper was walking out, she 
 met Mrs. Bixby, little Debbie's grandmother. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the curious neighbor, " I am very sorry 
 to hear that your son's wife has such weak lungs that 
 she can't stand our hard winters." 
 
 " Her lungs are entirely strong," said Mrs. Bixby 
 stiffly. 
 
 " Alfred," said Mrs. Bixby to her son, that evening, 
 "why can't you tell me frankly what the reason is 
 .that Matilde is not coming at present?" 
 
 " Promised not to tell," said the young man roguishly. 
 
 " But the neighbors are beginning to talk." 
 
 " Let them talk. There is nothing whatever wrong, 
 and I am determined to gratify Matilde in this matter. 
 Undoubtedly she will herself, some day, tell you all 
 about it. If you do not believe that we are happy, and
 
 196 "/ WONDER! 
 
 that all is as it should be, you may read this letter ; 
 and he somewhat impatiently tossed to her a well-filled 
 envelope bearing the Baltimore stamp. 
 
 Mrs. Bixby passed it back at once. " I believe you, 
 my son, and / am entirely satisfied ; but outsiders will 
 not be." And outsiders were not. 
 
 Business prospered with the Bixbys, however ; and 
 before spring a lovely Queen Anne cottage blossomed 
 on the hilly lot adjoining Mr. Bixby's residence. 
 
 Mrs. Piper complained that her eyes were really 
 getting affected watching the painters, as they laid the 
 fanciful new colors on roof and pinnacles. 
 
 Meeting Bridget, the Bixbys' kitchen-girl, one even- 
 ing, she plied her usual question : " Found out any 
 thing, Biddy ? " 
 
 " Niver a thing," said Bridget smoothly, while a sly 
 twinkle brightened her eye. " But I know Mr. Alferd 
 gets lots o' letters that seem to cheer him up won- 
 derful." 
 
 " Don't he never say nothin' to Debbie about her 
 ma?" asked Mrs. Piper. 
 
 " Forever talking," replied Bridget. " It's ' mamma ' 
 this, and ' mamma ' that, and ' how will she like the 
 new house that is* to be a surprise present to her.' 
 But if you won't breathe a word I will tell you 
 something." 
 
 " Hope I may choke if I speak of it," said Mrs. Piper 
 recklessly, at the same time determining to tell Mrs. 
 Metcalf, and other dear friends, her first opportunity.
 
 I WONDER!" 197 
 
 " Well," said Bridget, " the other mornin', whin I was 
 pitting Mr. Alferd's room to rights, I knocked down 
 his coat, and out tumbled a letter. I can read, praise 
 to goodness ! and I saw it was from Baltimore. ' An' 
 now,' says I, ' it's becomin' a Christian girl like meself 
 to know what kind of folks I'm afther livin' with.' ' 
 
 " And very proper and right of you, too, Bridget ! *' 
 exclaimed Mrs. Piper. 
 
 " Will, thin, I opened the letter in a big hurry ; for 
 old Mis' Bixby she do wear the most aggravatin' easy 
 slippers, and come upon a body unawares. The letter 
 was dated ' Baltimore, April the yth.' ' 
 
 " No matter about the date, Bridget. Do tell on." 
 
 "April --the --yth," repeated Bridget, with the lei- 
 surely manner of a novelist in a serial story. " April - 
 the --yth, 1875. 'My darlin' Alferd,' come next. 'If 
 you've found it best to tell our secret to mother and 
 little Debbie, say that, after all the distress and delay, 
 your new wife is packing her trunks to come to you. 
 I suppose I have been very foolish ; but, if you have 
 managed the affair so that your mother's feelings are 
 not hurt, I am glad, indeed." 
 
 " How could a mother's feelings but be hurt to have 
 a son behave so?" said Mrs. Piper. "But what else?" 
 
 " I don't rightly remember," said Bridget, "for Mis' 
 Bixby called me about then." 
 
 " Something must be done ! " declared Mrs. Piper 
 solemnly. And so worthily did she do that "some-
 
 198 / WONDER!" 
 
 thing " that a committee from the church waited upon 
 young Mr. Bixby the very next evening, desiring him 
 to explain the current report that he was about to bring 
 home a new wife, while the first Mrs. Alfred was still 
 living, and was not divorced. 
 
 Young Mr. Alfred declined to make any statement 
 till he had consulted with his parents ; and, even then, 
 he was strongly inclined to make no explanations. He 
 finally consented to allow his mother to receive the 
 committee. 
 
 " I have never seen my daughter-in-law, gentlemen," 
 began Mrs. Bixby. "She was but fifteen when she 
 was married, and is now hardly twenty years of age. 
 The week before she was to come here with her hus- 
 band and child, she had the misfortune to be thrown 
 from her carriage, injuring her in such a way that it 
 was necessary to have all her teeth removed. She was 
 unwilling to present herself to her husband's family 
 until the dentist should have completed his work, and, 
 very unwisely, desired to keep the whole affair a com- 
 plete secret, thinking such a sensitive little thing as 
 she is --that it would be easier to meet us if we knew 
 nothing about her injury." 
 
 " It is all very unfortunate," said Deacon Gray, one 
 of the committee-men ; " but there was a pretty -straight 
 story about a letter from a lady who called herself Mr. 
 Alfred's ' new wife.' ' 
 
 "The letter was from Matilde herself,'' said Mrs.
 
 MISS BLODGETTS BIRD. 199 
 
 Bixby. " She playfully called herself ' new,' referring 
 to the dentist's repairs." 
 
 The committee bowed themselves out, and made 
 another call in the neighborhood, bestowing rebukes 
 where they were more deserved. 
 
 Bridget never had a chance to lend Mrs. Piper 
 "coffee" or "saleratus" again. 
 
 Mrs. Piper still says "I wonder!" and people that 
 know her are very shy of her interrogation points. 
 
 MISS BLODGETT'S BIRD. 
 
 ISS JEMIMA BLODGETT was not blest 
 with a pretty name nor good looks. She 
 lived alone, in an unpainted little cottage, 
 and supported herself by dressmaking. 
 Yet a happier mortal than this same Miss Blodgett, it 
 would be hard to find. She had a great love of flowers, 
 especially of the common and usually unvalued kind ; 
 and long before Oscar Wilde discovered sunflowers, 
 she had brilliant ranks of the bold beauties blooming 
 beside her picket-fence, following the sun from the 
 moment he appeared above Deacon Foster's barn till 
 he sank behind Powow Hill. 
 
 But of all Miss Blodgett's delights, and she had 
 many, --her chief delight was her pet canary. It was
 
 200 MISS BLODGETTS BIRD. 
 
 years ago, when the Swedish nightingale was filling 
 our land with music, and Miss Blodgett thought no 
 name so worthy of her sweet singer as that of Jenny 
 Lind. 
 
 " So he should be called Jenny," she said to him one 
 morning; while the bird shook his wilful little head, 
 and apparently declared that he wished his name to be 
 " Dickie." 
 
 " You shan't be ' Dick-ee/ ' retorted his mistress : 
 "you shall be called Jenny. You warble now better 
 than any opera-singer. Why don't you hire a hall ? " 
 
 Then the bird, highly flattered, pirouetted across the 
 table, mounted the mantel with a flirt, and rendered a 
 " cascade of trills," as a music-raver would have said. 
 
 Not long after that morning, Miss Blodgett received 
 a letter from a distant city, announcing the death of an 
 uncle, whose will settled upon her a comfortable an- 
 nuity, with the request that she would entertain his 
 two sons during their school vacations, and take a 
 special interest in them. 
 
 Living opposite Miss Blodgett was a houseful of 
 girls, --the Solloways. There were Ruth and Lois, 
 Belle, Fanny, and Madeline ; and they all admired Miss 
 Blodgett and Jenny Lind. Miss Blodgett, then, quite 
 naturally confided her bird to these young people, dur- 
 ing her absence at her uncle's funeral, reasoning that, 
 among them all, he would be sure to receive sufficient 
 attention. But those experienced in the care of birds
 
 MISS BLODGETT'S BIRD. 
 
 201 
 
 will agree with me, that one might as well trust a 
 Christmas pudding to five cooks, as to give one canary 
 into the keeping of five girls. 
 
 For several days all went well. The bird had as 
 many waiting-maids as a princess. Ruth, being the 
 
 eldest, claimed the privilege of taking down the cage 
 and hanging it up ; while Lois, Belle, Fanny, and 
 Madeline divided the delights of filling the tiny bath, 
 supplying fresh seed and water, washing the perches, 
 or putting tempting bits of sugar and chickweed with- 
 in his reach.
 
 202 MISS BLODGETT' S BIRD. 
 
 It was not long, however, before the inquiry might 
 be heard, at odd times of day, " Who has attended to 
 Jenny to-day? Anybody?" Fourth of July brought 
 its picnics, as usual; and the'Solloway girls were much 
 interested in preparing for theirs. The day before, 
 every one was busy enough in cooking goodies, doing 
 up white dresses, or trimming shade-hats. Nobody 
 thought of Jenny. He drooped like a flower in his 
 brass prison, uttering a choky wee twitter occasionally, 
 as he glanced at his empty dishes. But nobody noticed 
 the starving canary. Next morning, among the Fourth- 
 of-July wrecks scattered through our beloved land was 
 poor Jenny. I don't like to describe the remorse of 
 the tender-hearted girls. 
 
 Poor Miss Blodgett was taken ill soon after learning 
 of the loss of her pet. She was confined in-doors all 
 winter; and, before the sunflowers shone again over the 
 picket-fence, she had gone to the land of eternal sum- 
 mer. The doctor said that her trouble was gastric 
 fever, but the Solloway girls felt that the canary's 
 death was the cause of her own. 
 
 The little cottage where she lived is now used as a 
 schoolhouse for young children, who delight in the 
 southernwood, sweet-mary, and larkspur, which witb 
 sweet breath keep good Miss Blodgett in remembrance 
 as every summer comes round.
 
 "HOW NOW, GOMEZ?" 203 
 
 "How NOW, GOMEZ?" 
 
 'CICLES dripped in the sunshine; and the Feb 
 ruary air was delicious, cold, pure, and sweet, 
 -that is, out of doors. Inside the little school- 
 house it was hot, close, and steamy with the 
 drying of numerous mittens under the big box- 
 stove. But it would take more than that to dull the 
 spirits of our young folks, especially with Bill Baker 
 for the teacher, and Town's Fourth-Reader Class just 
 called up. 
 
 " We'll have a dialogue," announced Mr. Baker. 
 Accordingly the champion readers were requested to 
 take opposite corners of the schoolroom. 
 
 The star reader was the senator's daughter, Florence 
 Adams ; a fine-looking girl of ten. She knew she was 
 a sort of royal personage in the little village where she 
 reigned, but she bore her honors naturally. Walking 
 gracefully to the corner assigned her, she called oui in 
 a clear, musical voice, 
 
 " How now, Gomez ? Whence comest thou ? " 
 "From the mountains!" screamed the bandit far 
 opposite.
 
 204 "HOW NOW, GOMEZ?" 
 
 The voice proceeded from a small boy as unlike 
 " Gomez," or any other Spaniard, as could well be 
 imagined. Little and thin he was, with white hair, and 
 eyes that were meant for hazel but failed for lack of 
 material, and were merely a greenish white. 
 
 Queer arrangement, the public school ! In their 
 respective homes, some of the pupils were as far apart 
 as the poles. Miss Florence Adams's breakfast was 
 served in state, with silver and china. - " Gomez" - or 
 little Dan MacElroy ate his on the door-step, or on 
 the way to school, or not at all, as the case might be. 
 Florence was always nicely dressed, and was a speci- 
 men of what love and care can do for a child. Poor 
 Dan shivered to school in a thin suit much too small 
 for him, his only winter clothing a bright scarf that 
 bloomed on the sabbath-school Christmas-tree for him. 
 He was poor, he was homely, he was not very good ; 
 but in one respect Florence and he were alike, they 
 were both wonderful readers, born actors ; and in the 
 schoolroom, where all distinctions are levelled, they 
 were the best of friends. 
 
 But the short hour of triumph was soon over. Out 
 of school, " Gomez " was only Dan MacElroy. How 
 he counted the remaining days of the term as a miser 
 would his gold! But summer was fast coming, sum- 
 mer that had nothing in common for Florence and 
 " Gomez." A season of delight it was for the rich 
 man's daughter, but a hard time for the drunkard's son.
 
 "HO W NOW, GOMEZ?" 
 
 205 
 
 There was to be a birthday 
 party at the senator's house. 
 How did MacElroy's boy know 
 it? No matter. He knew 
 very well that it was the 4th 
 
 of August, and that Florence Adams 
 would be eleven years old. He knew, too, 
 that she loved pond -lilies, wild cardinal 
 blossoms, and dewy blue flag. He was 
 off, before his father had wakened from 
 his drunken sleep, off, in fact, before any
 
 206 "HOW NOW, GOMEZ?" 
 
 one had wakened from any kind of sleep, when the 
 heavens were lovely beyond description, soft bands of 
 saffron and violet and pink, star-spangled, though the 
 bands were deepening and the stars fading in the grow- 
 ing dawn. 
 
 Dan massed the flowers in a little boat that he had 
 made, in clever fashion, too, for a boy of his years. 
 When Senator Adams opened his front door at six 
 o'clock, as was his custom on summer mornings, he 
 saw on the door-step this gay little craft, with its 
 freight of national colors in the scarlet cardinal-flower, 
 the white lily, and the blue flag. A modest card, with 
 " Gomez " in a schoolboy hand, did not explain matters 
 to the senator. He placed the pretty offering upon the 
 sideboard, and Florence appeared to enjoy it more than 
 any of her birthday presents. 
 
 But the morning which was so pleasant to Dan 
 brought a sad day. 
 
 Mr. MacElroy woke more desperate than ever. He 
 was a fearful man when his temper was up ; and Daniel, 
 who was not a hero, was apt to obey his father from 
 simple fear, whether the command was right or not. 
 Many times he had been for liquor when his coward 
 soul rebelled against it, but he feared what would come 
 if he refused. Many times, too, he had robbed melon- 
 patches and hen-roosts -- never, never for himself - 
 from this miserable fear. Now MacElroy demanded 
 something far harder. He had devised a scheme which
 
 "HOW NOW, GOMEZ?" 207 
 
 would bring him, he thought, some money without 
 working hard to get it. 
 
 Senator Adams had won his position mainly by his 
 generous way. a way that never selfishly crowded 
 " No. i " to the front ; a way that acknowledged any 
 favor and always recompensed it. 
 
 MacElroy knew all this, and reasoned that if, in 
 some mysterious way, the senator's barn should be 
 found to be on fire, and MacElroy should discover it, 
 and be foremost in putting it out, he would undoubt- 
 edly be paid far more than if he should work in the 
 senator's hay-field for a month. 
 
 " You are quick as a squirrel, Dan," said he to his 
 son. " You are keen as a ferret, Dan. There's a little 
 pile of shavings under the senator's barn, and all you've 
 to do is to touch it off, and scamper. Nobody'll see 
 you. You just cut for the meadow, and lie down in 
 the tall grass till you hear the crowd coming; then you 
 can come on and holler, and help with the rest. I shall 
 be among the first on the ground, and, through my 
 stren-oo-ous exertions, shall save the senator's barn for 
 him ; and he will, of course, make it all right for me." 
 
 MacElroy saw the opposition in the boy's face. 
 
 " You needn't be more nice than wise ! " he thun- 
 dered. "Do you see this rake? You refuse, and in 
 less than two minutes I'll comb your hair in a style 
 that won't leave you hair nor head either. I mean 
 what I say."
 
 208 "HO W NO IV, G O MEZ ? " 
 
 Dan did not look in the dark face. He knew his father 
 meant what he said. "If I must, I must," he faltered meekly, 
 and then hurried across lots to the senator's barn. He dared 
 not disobey his father's commands : he had even gone so far 
 as to touch the match to the shavings, when a voice floated 
 clear and musical from the garden-party not far off. It was 
 Florence Adams reciting, "A man's a man for a' that !" All 
 the manhood stirred in this miserable little boy. He now 
 began to fight the fire, but it was too. late. A second's prayer 
 as he looked in terror at the rising flames, and then he gave 
 the alarm. 
 
 Meanwhile MacElroy was waiting nervously for the first 
 smoke-wreath which should assure him that Dan had obeyed. 
 At last the tell-tale message rose in airy curls. MacElroy 
 started on the run, bawling "Fire!" with all his might. 
 Arrived at the spot, he was chagrined to find himself arrested. 
 
 Mr. Adams's hired men soon put out the fire. Then Daniel 
 sought the senator, whom he regarded with the greatest awe, 
 and confessed what he had done. 
 
 Mr. Adams did not take much stock in Daniel's penitence, 
 and would have sent the son to jail with the father; but it 
 chanced that Dan's birthday present to little Miss Florence 
 proved a life-boat for him. Her hearty interest in her little 
 schoolmate led her to intercede for him with her father. The 
 result was a good education, political preferment, and an agree- 
 able, cultured man.
 
 UCSOUTHWN REGIONAL 
 
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