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THE JUNIOR CLASSICS
A LIBRARY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS
SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY
WILLIAM PATTEN--MANAGING EDITOR OF THE HARVARD CLASSICS
INTRODUCTION BY
CHARLES W. ELIOT, L L. D.--PRESIDENT EMERITUS OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY
WITH A READING GUIDE BY
WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON, Ph.D.--PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, HARVARD UNIVERSITY
PRESIDENT SMITH COLLEGE, NORTHAMPTON, MASS., SINCE 1917
VOLUME SIX
OLD-FASHIONED TALES
CONTENTS
The Race for the Silver Skates _Mary Mapes Dodge_
Nelly's Hospital _Louisa M. Alcott_
A Fox and a Raven _Rebecca H. Davis_
The Private Theatricals _Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney_
A Case of Coincidence _Rose Terry Cooke_
The Flight of the Dolls _Lucretia P. Hale_
Solomon John Goes for Apples _Lucretia P. Hale_
Wild Robin _Sophie May_
Deacon Thomas Wales' Will _Mary E. W. Freeman_
Dill _Mary E. W. Freeman_
Brownie and the Cook _Mrs. Dinah M. Craik_
Brownie and the Cherry Tree _Mrs. Dinah M. Craik_
The Ouphe of the Wood _Jean Ingelow_
The Prince's Dream _Jean Ingelow_
A Lost Wand _Jean Ingelow_
Snap-Dragons--A Tale of Christmas Eve _Juliana H. Ewing_
Uncle Jack's Story _Mrs. E. M. Field_
Bryda's Dreadful Scrape _Mrs. E. M. Field_
The Cratchits' Christmas Dinner _Charles Dickens_
Embellishment _Jacob Abbott_
The Great Stone Face _Nathaniel Hawthorne_
The King of the Golden River _John Ruskin_
The Two Gifts _Lillian M. Gask_
The Bar of Gold _Lillian M. Gask_
Uncle David's Nonsensical Story _Catherine Sinclair_
The Grand Feast _Catherine Sinclair_
The Story of Fairyfoot _Frances Browne_
ALICE IN WONDERLAND
Down the Rabbit-Hole _Lewis Carroll_
The Pool of Tears _Lewis Carroll_
A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale _Lewis Carroll_
The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill _Lewis Carroll_
Advice from a Caterpillar _Lewis Carroll_
Pig and Pepper _Lewis Carroll_
A Mad Tea-Party _Lewis Carroll_
The Queen's Croquet Ground _Lewis Carroll_
The Mock Turtle's Story _Lewis Carroll_
The Lobster-Quadrille _Lewis Carroll_
Who Stole the Tarts? _Lewis Carroll_
Alice's Evidence _Lewis Carroll_
ILLUSTRATIONS
"EVERYTHING'S GOT A MORAL, IF ONLY YOU CAN FIND IT"
Alice in Wonderland
_Frontispiece illustration in color from the painting by Beatrice
Stevens_
"IS THERE A PECULIAR FLAVOR IN WHAT YOU SPRINKLE FROM YOUR TORCH?"
ASKED SCROOGE
The Cratchits' Christmas Dinner
_From the drawing by T. Leech_
GLUCK PUT HIS HEAD OUT TO SEE WHO IT WAS
The King of the Golden River
_From the drawing by Richard Doyle_
THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS WERE SEATED ON THEIR THRONE
Alice in Wonderland
_From the drawing by Sir John Tenniel_
THE RACE FOR THE SILVER SKATES
By Mary Mapes Dodge
The 20th of December came at last, bringing with it the perfection
of winter weather. All over the level landscape lay the warm sunlight.
It tried its power on lake, canal, and river; but the ice flashed
defiance, and showed no sign of melting. The very weather-cocks stood
still to enjoy the sight. This gave the windmills a holiday. Nearly
all the past week they had been whirling briskly: now, being rather
out of breath, they rocked lazily in the clear, still air. Catch a
windmill working when the weather-cocks have nothing to do!
There was an end to grinding, crushing, and sawing for that day. It
was a good thing for the millers near Broek. Long before noon, they
concluded to take in their sails, and go to the race. Everybody would
be there. Already the north side of the frozen Y was bordered with
eager spectators: the news of the great skating-match had travelled
far and wide. Men, women, and children, in holiday attire, were
flocking toward the spot. Some wore furs, and wintry cloaks or shawls;
but many, consulting their feelings rather than the almanac, were
dressed as for an October day.
The site selected for the race was a faultless plain of ice near
Amsterdam, on that great _arm_ of the Zuyder-Zee, which Dutchmen,
of course, must call the Eye. The townspeople turned out in large
numbers. Strangers in the city deemed it a fine chance to see what was
to be seen. Many a peasant from the northward had wisely chosen the
20th as the day for the next city-trading. It seemed that everybody,
young and old, who had wheels, skates, or feet at command, had
hastened to the scene.
There were the gentry in their coaches, dressed like Parisians fresh
from the Boulevards; Amsterdam children in charity uniforms; girls
from the Roman-Catholic Orphan-House, in sable gowns and white
headbands; boys from the Burgher Asylum, with their black tights and
short-skirted, harlequin coats. [Footnote: This is not said in
derision. Both the boys and girls of this institution wear garments
quartered in red and black alternately. By making the dress thus
conspicuous, the children are, in a measure, deterred from wrong-doing
while going about the city. The Burgher Orphan-Asylum affords a
comfortable home to several hundred boys and girls. Holland is famous
for its charitable institutions.] There were old-fashioned gentlemen
in cocked hats and velvet knee-breeches; old-fashioned ladies, too, in
stiff, quilted skirts, and bodices of dazzling brocade. These were
accompanied by servants bearing foot-stoves and cloaks. There were the
peasant-folk arrayed in every possible Dutch costume--shy young
rustics in brazen buckles; simple village-maidens concealing their
flaxen hair under fillets of gold; women whose long, narrow aprons
were stiff with embroidery; women with short corkscrew curls hanging
over their foreheads; women with shaved heads and close-fitting caps;
and women in striped skirts and windmill bonnets; men in leather, in
homespun, in velvet and broadcloth; burghers in model European attire,
and burghers in short jackets, wide trousers, and steeple-crowned
hats.
There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden shoes and coarse
petticoats, with solid gold crescents encircling their heads, finished
at each temple with a golden rosette, and hung with lace a century
old. Some wore necklaces, pendants, and ear-rings of the purest gold.
Many were content with gilt, or even with brass; but it is not an
uncommon thing for a Friesland woman to have all the family treasure
in her head-gear. More than one rustic lass displayed the value of two
thousand guilders upon her head that day.
Scattered throughout the crowd were peasants from the Island of
Marken, with sabots, black stockings, and the widest of breeches; also
women from Marken, with short blue petticoats, and black jackets gayly
figured in front. They wore red sleeves, white aprons, and a cap like
a bishop's mitre over their golden hair.
The children, often, were as quaint and odd-looking as their elders.
In short, one-third of the crowd seemed to have stepped bodily from a
collection of Dutch paintings.
Everywhere could be seen tall women, and stumpy men, lively-faced
girls, and youths whose expression never changed from sunrise to
sunset.
There seemed to be at least one specimen from every known town in
Holland. There were Utrecht water-bearers, Gouda cheese-makers, Delft
pottery-men, Schiedam distillers, Amsterdam diamond-cutters, Rotterdam
merchants, dried-up herring-packers, and two sleepy-eyed shepherds
from Texel. Every man of them had his pipe and tobacco-pouch. Some
carried what might be called the smoker's complete outfit,--a pipe,
tobacco, a pricker with which to clean the tube, a silver net for
protecting the bowl, and a box of the strongest of brimstone-matches.
A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without his pipe on any
possible occasion. He may, for a moment, neglect to breathe; but, when
the pipe is forgotten, he must be dying, indeed. There were no such
sad cases here. Wreaths of smoke were rising from every possible
quarter. The more fantastic the smoke-wreath, the more placid and
solemn the smoker.
Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good idea. They can
see over the heads of the tallest. It is strange to see those little
bodies high in the air, carried about on mysterious legs. They have
such a resolute look on their round faces, what wonder that nervous
old gentlemen, with tender feet, wince and tremble while the
long-legged little monsters stride past them!
You will read, in certain books, that the Dutch are a quiet people: so
they are generally. But listen! did ever you hear such a din? All made
up of human voices--no, the horses are helping somewhat, and the
fiddles are squeaking pitifully (how it must pain fiddles to be
tuned!); but the mass of the sound comes from the great _vox humana_
that belongs to a crowd.
That queer little dwarf, going about with a heavy basket, winding in
and out among the people, helps not a little. You can hear his shrill
cry above all the other sounds, "Pypen en tabac! Pypen en tabac!"
Another, his big brother, though evidently some years younger, is
selling doughnuts and bon-bons. He is calling on all pretty children,
far and near, to come quickly, or the cakes will be gone.
You know quite a number among the spectators. High up in yonder
pavilion, erected upon the border of the ice, are some persons whom
you have seen very lately. In the centre is Madame van Gleck. It is
her birthday, you remember: she has the post of honor. There is
Mynheer van Gleck, whose meerschaum has not really grown fast to his
lips: it only appears so. There are grandfather and grandmother, whom
you meet at the St. Nicholas _fête_. All the children are with them.
It is so mild, they have brought even the baby. The poor little
creature is swaddled very much after the manner of an Egyptian mummy;
but it can crow with delight, and, when the band is playing, open and
shut its animated mittens in perfect time to the music.
Grandfather, with his pipe and spectacles and fur cap, makes quite a
picture as he holds baby upon his knee. Perched high upon their
canopied platforms, the party can see all that is going on. No wonder
the ladies look complacently at the glassy ice: with a stove for a
footstool, one might sit cosily beside the North Pole.
There is a gentleman with them who somewhat resembles St. Nicholas as
he appeared to the young Van Glecks, on the fifth of December. But the
saint had a flowing white beard; and this face is as smooth as a
pippin. His saintship was larger around the body, too, and (between
ourselves) he had a pair of thimbles in his mouth, which this
gentleman certainly has not. It cannot be St. Nicholas, after all.
Near by, in the next pavilion, sit the Van Holps, with their son and
daughter (the Van Gends) from The Hague. Peter's sister is not one to
forget her promises.
She has brought bouquets of exquisite hot-house flowers for the
winners.
These pavilions, and there are others beside, have all been erected
since daylight. That semicircular one, containing Mynheer Korbes's
family, is very pretty, and proves that the Hollanders are quite
skilled at tent-making; but I like the Van Gleck's best,--the centre
one,--striped red and white, and hung with evergreens.
The one with the blue flags contains the musicians. Those pagoda-like
affairs, decked with sea-shells, and streamers of every possible hue,
are the judges' stands; and those columns and flagstaffs upon the ice
mark the limit of the race-course. The two white columns, twined with
green, connected at the top by that long, floating strip of drapery,
form the starting-point. Those flagstaffs, half a mile off, stand at
each end of the boundary line, cut sufficiently deep to be distinct to
the skaters, though not enough so to trip them when they turn to come
back to the starting-point.
The air is so clear, it seems scarcely possible that the columns and
flagstaffs are so far apart. Of course, the judges' stands are but
little nearer together.
Half a mile on the ice, when the atmosphere is like this, is but a
short distance, after all, especially when fenced with a living chain
of spectators.
The music has commenced. How melody seems to enjoy itself in the open
air! The fiddles have forgotten their agony; and every thing is
harmonious. Until you look at the blue tent, it seems that the music
springs from the sunshine, it is so boundless, so joyous. Only when
you see the staid-faced musicians, you realize the truth.
Where are the racers? All assembled together near the white columns.
It is a beautiful sight,--forty boys and girls in picturesque attire,
darting with electric swiftness in and out among each other, or
sailing in pairs and triplets, beckoning, chatting, whispering, in the
fulness of youthful glee.
A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps: others,
halting on one leg, with flushed, eager faces, suddenly cross the
suspected skate over their knee, give it an examining shake, and dart
off again. One and all are possessed with the spirit of motion. They
cannot stand still. Their skates are a part of them; and every runner
seems bewitched.
Holland is the place for skaters, after all. Where else can nearly
every boy and girl perform feats on the ice that would attract a
crowd if seen on Central Park? Look at Ben! I did not see him before.
He is really astonishing the natives; no easy thing to do in the
Netherlands. Save your strength, Ben, you will need it soon. Now other
boys are trying! Ben is surpassed already. Such jumping, such poising,
such spinning, such india-rubber exploits generally! That boy with a
red cap is the lion now: his back is a watch-spring, his body is
cork--no, it is iron, or it would snap at that. He is a bird, a top, a
rabbit, a corkscrew, a sprite, a flesh-ball, all in an instant. When
you think he's erect, he is down; and, when you think he is down, he
is up. He drops his glove on the ice, and turns a somerset as he picks
it up. Without stopping, he snatches the cap from Jacob Poot's
astonished head, and claps it back again "hindside before." Lookers-on
hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy! It is arctic weather under your feet,
but more than temperate overhead. Big drops already are rolling down
your forehead. Superb skater, as you are, you may lose the race.
A French traveller, standing with a note-book in his hand, sees our
English friend, Ben, buy a doughnut of the dwarf's brother, and eat
it. Thereupon he writes in his note-book, that the Dutch take enormous
mouthfuls, and universally are fond of potatoes boiled in molasses.
There are some familiar faces near the white columns. Lambert, Ludwig,
Peter, and Carl are all there, cool, and in good skating-order. Hans
is not far off. Evidently he is going to join in the race, for his
skates are on,--the very pair that he sold for seven guilders. He had
soon suspected that his fairy godmother was the mysterious "friend"
who had bought them. This settled, he had boldly charged her with the
deed; and she, knowing well that all her little savings had been spent
in the purchase, had not had the face to deny it. Through the fairy
godmother, too, he had been rendered amply able to buy them back
again. Therefore Hans is to be in the race. Carl is more indignant
than ever about it; but, as three other peasant-boys have entered,
Hans is not alone.
Twenty boys and twenty girls. The latter, by this time, are standing
in front, braced for the start; for they are to have the first "run."
Hilda, Rychie, and Katrinka are among them. Two or three bend hastily
to give a last pull at their skate-straps. It is pretty to see them
stamp to be sure that all is firm. Hilda is speaking pleasantly to a
graceful little creature in a red jacket and a new brown petticoat.
Why, it is Gretel! What a difference those pretty shoes make, and the
skirt, and the new cap! Annie Bouman is there, too. Even Janzoon
Kolp's sister has been admitted; but Janzoon himself has been voted
out by the directors, because he killed the stork, and only last
summer, was caught in the act of robbing a bird's nest,--a legal
offence in Holland.
This Janzoon Kolp, you see, was--There, I cannot tell the story just
now. The race is about to commence.
Twenty girls are formed in a line. The music has ceased.
A man, whom we shall call the crier, stands between the columns and
the first judges' stand. He reads the rules in a loud voice:--
"THE GIRLS AND BOYS ARE TO RACE IN TURN, UNTIL ONE GIRL AND ONE BOY
HAS BEATEN TWICE. THEY ARE TO START IN A LINE FROM THE UNITED COLUMNS,
SKATE TO THE FLAGSTAFF LINE, TURN, AND THEN COME BACK TO THE
STARTING-POINT; THUS MAKING A MILE AT EACH RUN."
A flag is waved from the judges' stand. Madame van Gleck rises in her
pavilion. She leans forward with a white handkerchief in her hand.
When she drops it, a bugler is to give the signal for them to start.
The handkerchief is fluttering to the ground. Hark!
They are off!
No. Back again. Their line was not true in passing the judges' stand.
The signal is repeated.
Off again. No mistake this time. Whew! how fast they go!
The multitude is quiet for an instant, absorbed in eager, breathless
watching.
Cheers spring up along the line of spectators. Huzza! five girls are
ahead. Who comes flying back from the boundary-mark? We cannot tell.
Something red, that is all. There is a blue spot flitting near it, and
a dash of yellow nearer still. Spectators at this end of the line
strain their eyes, and wish they had taken their post nearer the
flagstaff.
The wave of cheers is coming back again. Now we can see. Katrinka is
ahead!
She passes the Van Holp pavilion. The next is Madame van Gleck's. That
leaning figure gazing from it is a magnet. Hilda shoots past Katrinka,
waving her hand to her mother as she passes. Two others are close now,
whizzing on like arrows. What is that flash of red and gray? Hurrah,
it is Gretel! She, too, waves her hand, but toward no gay pavilion.
The crowd is cheering; but she hears only her father's voice,--"Well
done, little Gretel!" Soon Katrinka, with a quick, merry laugh, shoots
past Hilda, The girl in yellow is gaining now. She passes them
all,--all except Gretel. The judges lean forward without seeming to
lift their eyes from their watches. Cheer after cheer fills the air:
the very columns seem rocking. Gretel has passed them. She has won.
"GRETEL BRINKER, ONE MILE!" shouts the crier.
The judges nod. They write something upon a tablet which each holds in
his hand.
While the girls are resting,--some crowding eagerly around our
frightened little Gretel, some standing aside in high disdain,--the
boys form in line.
Mynheer van Gleck drops the handkerchief, this time. The buglers give
a vigorous blast.
The boys have started.
Halfway already. Did ever you see the like!
Three hundred legs flashing by in an instant. But there are only
twenty boys. No matter: there were hundreds of legs, I am sure. Where
are they now? There is such a noise, one gets bewildered. What are the
people laughing at? Oh! at that fat boy in the rear. See him go! See
him! He'll be down in an instant: no, he won't. I wonder if he knows
he is all alone: the other boys are nearly at the boundary-line. Yes,
he knows it. He stops. He wipes his hot face. He takes off his cap,
and looks about him. Better to give up with a good grace. He has made
a hundred friends by that hearty, astonished laugh. Good Jacob Poot!
The fine fellow is already among the spectators, gazing as eagerly as
the rest.
A cloud of feathery ice flies from the heels of the skaters as they
"bring to" and turn at the flagstaffs.
Something black is coming now, one of the boys: it is all we know. He
has touched the _vox humana_ stop of the crowd: it fairly roars.
Now they come nearer: we can see the red cap. There's Ben, there's
Peter, there's Hans!
Hans is ahead. Young Madame van Gend almost crushes the flowers in her
hand: she had been quite sure that Peter would be first. Carl Schummel
is next, then Ben, and the youth with the red cap. The others are
pressing close. A tall figure darts from among them. He passes the red
cap, he passes Ben, then Carl. Now it is an even race between him and
Hans. Madame van Gend catches her breath.
It is Peter! He is ahead! Hans shoots past him. Hilda's eyes fill with
tears: Peter _must_ beat. Annie's eyes flash proudly. Gretel
gazes with clasped hands: four strokes more will take her brother to
the columns.
He is there! Yes; but so was young Schummel just a second before. At
the last instant, Carl, gathering his powers, had whizzed between
them, and passed the goal.
"CARL SCHUMMEL, ONE MILE!" shouts the crier.
Soon Madame van Gleck rises again. The falling handkerchief starts the
bugle; and the bugle, using its voice as a bow-string, shoots off
twenty girls like so many arrows.
It is a beautiful sight; but one has not long to look: before we can
fairly distinguish them, they are far in the distance. This time they
are close upon one another. It is hard to say, as they come speeding
back from the flagstaff, which will reach the columns first. There are
new faces among the foremost,--eager, glowing faces, unnoticed before.
Katrinka is there, and Hilda; but Gretel and Rychie are in the rear.
Gretel is wavering, but, when Rychie passes her, she starts forward
afresh. Now they are nearly beside Katrinka. Hilda is still in
advance: she is almost "home." She has not faltered since that
bugle-note sent her flying: like an arrow, still she is speeding
toward the goal. Cheer after cheer rises in the air. Peter is silent;
but his eyes shine like stars. "Huzza! Huzza!"
The crier's voice is heard again.
"HILDA VAN GLECK, ONE MILE!"
A loud murmur of approval runs through the crowd, catching the music
in its course, till all seems one sound, with a glad rhythmic
throbbing in its depths. When the flag waves, all is still.
Once more the bugle blows a terrific blast. It sends off the boys like
chaff before the wind,--dark chaff, I admit, and in big pieces.
It is whisked around at the flagstaff, driven faster yet by the cheers
and shouts along the line. We begin to see what is coming. There are
three boys in advance, this time, and all abreast,--Hans, Peter, and
Lambert. Carl soon breaks the ranks, rushing through with a whiff.
Fly, Hans; fly, Peter: don't let Carl beat again!--Carl the bitter,
Carl the insolent. Van Mounen is flagging; but you are as strong as
ever. Hans and Peter, Peter and Hans: which is foremost? We love them
both. We scarcely care which is the fleeter.
Hilda, Annie, and Gretel, seated upon the long crimson bench, can
remain quiet no longer. They spring to their feet, so different! and
yet one in eagerness. Hilda instantly reseats herself: none shall know
how interested she is; none shall know how anxious, how filled with
one hope. Shut your eyes, then, Hilda, hide your face rippling with
joy. Peter has beaten.
"PETER VAN HOLP, ONE MILE!" calls the crier.
The same buzz of excitement as before, while the judges take notes,
the same throbbing of music through the din; but something is
different. A little crowd presses close about some object near the
column. Carl has fallen. He is not hurt, though somewhat stunned. If
he were less sullen, he would find more sympathy in these warm young
hearts. As it is, they forget him as soon as he is fairly on his feet
again.
The girls are to skate their third mile.
How resolute the little maidens look as they stand in a line! Some are
solemn with a sense of responsibility; some wear a smile half-bashful,
half-provoked: but one air of determination pervades them all.
This third mile may decide the race. Still, if neither Gretel nor
Hilda win, there is yet a chance among the rest for the silver skates.
Each girl feels sure, that, this time, she will accomplish the
distance in one-half the time. How they stamp to try their runners!
How nervously they examine each strap! How erect they stand at last,
every eye upon Madame van Gleck!
The bugle thrills through them again. With quivering eagerness they
spring forward, bending, but in perfect balance. Each flashing stroke
seems longer than the last.
Now they are skimming off in the distance.
Again the eager straining of eyes; again the shouts and cheering;
again the thrill of excitement, as, after a few moments, four or five,
in advance of, the rest, come speeding back, nearer, nearer, to the
white columns.
Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrinka, Annie, nor Hilda, nor the girl in
yellow, but Gretel,--Gretel, the fleetest sprite of a girl that ever
skated. She was but playing in the earlier race: _now_ she is in
earnest, or, rather, something within her has determined to win. That
lithe little form makes no effort; but it cannot stop,--not until the
goal is passed!
In vain the crier lifts his voice: he cannot be heard. He has no news
to tell: it is already ringing through the crowd,--_Gretel has won
the silver skates!_
Like a bird, she has flown over the ice; like a bird, she looks about
her in a timid, startled way. She longs to dart to the sheltered nook
where her father and mother stand. But Hans is beside her: the girls
are crowding round. Hilda's kind, joyous voice breathes in her ear.
From that hour, none will despise her. Goose-girl, or not, Gretel
stands acknowledged Queen of the Skaters.
With natural pride, Hans turns to see if Peter van Holp is witnessing
his sister's triumph. Peter is not looking toward them at all. He is
kneeling, bending his troubled face low, and working hastily at his
skate-strap. Hans is beside him at once.
"Are you in trouble, mynheer?"
"Ah, Hans! that you? Yes, my fun is over. I tried to tighten my strap,
to make a new hole; and this botheration of a knife has cut it nearly
in two."
"Mynheer," said Hans, at the same time pulling off a skate, "you must
use my strap!"
"Not I, indeed, Hans Brinker!" cried Peter, looking up, "though I
thank you warmly. Go to your post, my friend: the bugle will sound in
a minute."
"Mynheer!" pleaded Hans in a husky voice. "You have called me your
friend. Take this strap--quick! There is not an instant to lose. I
shall not skate this time; indeed, I am out of practice. Mynheer, you
_must_ take it;" and Hans, blind and deaf to any remonstrance, slipped
his strap into Peter's skate, and implored him to put it on.
"Come, Peter!" cried Lambert from the line: "we are waiting for you."
"For madame's sake," pleaded Hans, "be quick! She is motioning to you
to join the racers. There, the skate is almost on: quick, mynheer,
fasten it. I could not possibly win. The race lies between Master
Schummel and yourself."
"You are a noble fellow, Hans!" cried Peter, yielding at last. He
sprang to his post just as the white handkerchief fell to the ground.
The bugle sends forth its blast, loud, clear, and ringing.
Off go the boys.
"Mein Gott!" cries a tough old fellow from Delft. "They beat every
thing,--these Amsterdam youngsters. See them!"
See them, indeed! They are winged Mercuries, every one of them. What
mad errand are they on?
Ah, I know: they are hunting Peter van Holp. He is some fleet-footed
runaway from Olympus. Mercury and his troop of winged cousins are in
full chase. They will catch him! Now Carl is the runaway. The pursuit
grows furious. Ben is foremost.
The chase turns in a cloud of mist. It is coming this way. Who is
hunted now? Mercury himself. It is Peter, Peter van Holp! Fly, Peter!
Hans is watching you. He is sending all his fleetness, all his
strength, into your feet. Your mother and sister are pale with
eagerness. Hilda is trembling, and dare not look up. Fly, Peter! The
crowd has not gone deranged: it is only cheering. The pursuers are
close upon you. Touch the white column! It beckons; it is reeling
before you--it--
"Huzza! Huzza! Peter has won the silver skates!"
"PETER VAN HOLP!" shouted the crier. But who heard him? "Peter van
Holp!" shouted a hundred voices; for he was the favorite boy of the
place. "Huzza! Huzza!"
Now the music was resolved to be heard. It struck up a lively air,
then a tremendous march. The spectators, thinking something new was
about to happen, deigned to listen and to look.
The racers formed in single file. Peter, being tallest, stood first.
Gretel, the smallest of all, took her place at the end. Hans, who had
borrowed a strap from the cake-boy, was near the head.
Three gayly-twined arches were placed at intervals upon the river,
facing the Van Gleck pavilion.
Skating slowly, and in perfect time to the music, the boys and girls
moved forward, led on by Peter. It was beautiful to see the bright
procession glide along like a living creature. It curved and doubled,
and drew its graceful length in and out among the arches: whichever
way Peter, the head, went, the body was sure to follow. Sometimes it
steered direct for the centre arch; then, as if seized with a new
impulse, turned away and curled itself about the first one; then
unwound slowly, and bending low, with quick, snake-like curvings,
crossed the river, passing at length through the farthest arch.
When the music was slow, the procession seemed to crawl like a thing
afraid: it grew livelier, and the creature darted forward with a
spring, gliding rapidly among the arches, in and out, curling,
twisting, turning, never losing form, until at the shrill call of the
bugle rising above the music, it suddenly resolved itself into boys
and girls standing in double semicircle before Madame van Gleck's
pavilion.
Peter and Gretel stand in the centre, in advance of the others. Madame
van Gleck rises majestically. Gretel trembles, but feels that she must
look at the beautiful lady. She cannot hear what is said, there is
such a buzzing all around her. She is thinking that she ought to try
and make a courtesy, such as her mother makes to the _meester_, when
suddenly something so dazzling is placed in her hand that she gives a
cry of joy.
Then she ventures to look about her. Peter, too, has something in his
hands. "Oh, Oh! how splendid!" she cries; and "Oh! how splendid!" is
echoed as far as people can see.
Meantime the silver skates flash in the sunshine, throwing dashes of
light upon those two happy faces.
Mevrouw van Gend sends a little messenger with her bouquets,--one for
Hilda, one for Carl, and others for Peter and Gretel.
At sight of the flowers, the Queen of the Skaters becomes
uncontrollable. With a bright stare of gratitude, she gathers skates
and bouquet in her apron, hugs them to her bosom, and darts off to
search for her father and mother in the scattering crowd.
NELLY'S HOSPITAL
By Louisa M. Alcott
Nelly sat beside her mother picking lint; but while her fingers flew,
her eyes often looked wistfully out into the meadow, golden with
buttercups, and bright with sunshine. Presently she said, rather
bashfully, but very earnestly, "Mamma, I want to tell you a little
plan I've made, if you'll please not laugh."
"I think I can safely promise that, my dear," said her mother, putting
down her work that she might listen quite respectfully.
Nelly looked pleased, and went on confidingly.
"Since brother Will came home with his lame foot, and I've helped you
tend him, I've heard a great deal about hospitals, and liked it very
much. To-day I said I wanted to go and be a nurse, like Aunt Mercy;
but Will laughed, and told me I'd better begin by nursing sick birds
and butterflies and pussies before I tried to take care of men. I did
not like to be made fun of, but I've been thinking that it would be
very pleasant to have a little hospital all my own, and be a nurse in
it, because, if I took pains, so many pretty creatures might be made
well, perhaps. Could I, mamma?"
Her mother wanted to smile at the idea, but did not, for Nelly looked
up with her heart and eyes so full of tender compassion, both for the
unknown men for whom her little hands had done their best, and for the
smaller sufferers nearer home, that she stroked the shining head, and
answered readily:
"Yes, Nelly, it will be a proper charity for such a young Samaritan,
and you may learn much if you are in earnest. You must study how to
feed and nurse your little patients, else your pity will do no good,
and your hospital become a prison. I will help you, and Tony shall be
your surgeon."
"O mamma, how good you always are to me! Indeed, I am in truly
earnest; I will learn, I will be kind, and may I go now and begin?"
"You may, but tell me first where will you have your hospital?"
"In my room, mamma; it is so snug and sunny, and I never should forget
it there," said Nelly.
"You must not forget it anywhere. I think that plan will not do. How
would you like to find caterpillars walking in your bed, to hear sick
pussies mewing in the night, to have beetles clinging to your clothes,
or see mice, bugs, and birds tumbling downstairs whenever the door was
open?" said her mother.
Nelly laughed at that thought a minute, then clapped her hands, and
cried: "Let us have the old summer-house! My doves only use the upper
part, and it would be so like Frank in the storybook. Please say yes
again, mamma."
Her mother did say yes, and, snatching up her hat, Nelly ran to find
Tony, the gardener's son, a pleasant lad of twelve, who was Nelly's
favorite playmate. Tony pronounced the plan a "jolly" one, and,
leaving his work, followed his young mistress to the summer-house, for
she could not wait one minute.
"What must we do first?" she asked, as they stood looking in at the
dim, dusty room, full of garden tools, bags of seeds, old flower-pots,
and watering-cans.
"Clear out the rubbish, miss," answered Tony.
"Here it goes, then," and Nelly began bundling everything out in such
haste that she broke two flower-pots, scattered all the squash-seeds,
and brought a pile of rakes and hoes clattering down about her ears.
"Just wait a bit, and let me take the lead, miss. You hand me things,
I'll pile 'em in the barrow and wheel 'em off to the barn; then it
will save time, and be finished up tidy."
Nelly did as he advised, and very soon nothing but dust remained.
"What next?" she asked, not knowing in the least.
"I'll sweep up while you see if Polly can come and scrub the room out.
It ought to be done before you stay here, let alone the patients."
"So it had," said Nelly, looking very wise all of a sudden. "Will says
the wards--that means the rooms, Tony--are scrubbed every day or two,
and kept very clean, and well venti--something--I can't say it; but it
means having a plenty of air come in. I can clean windows while Polly
mops, and then we shall soon be done."
Away she ran, feeling very busy and important. Polly came, and very
soon the room looked like another place. The four latticed windows
were set wide open, so the sunshine came dancing through the vines
that grew outside, and curious roses peeped in to see what frolic was
afoot. The walls shone white again, for not a spider dared to stay;
the wide seat which encircled the room was dustless now,--the floor as
nice as willing hands could make it; and the south wind blew away all
musty odors with its fragrant breath.
"How fine it looks!" cried Nelly, dancing on the doorstep, lest a
foot-print should mar the still damp floor.
"I'd almost like to fall sick for the sake of staying here," said
Tony, admiringly. "Now, what sort of beds are you going to have,
miss?"
"I suppose it won't do to put butterflies and toads and worms into
beds like the real soldiers where Will was?" answered Nelly, looking
anxious.
Tony could hardly help shouting at the idea; but, rather than trouble
his little mistress, he said Very soberly: "I'm afraid they wouldn't
lay easy, not being used to it. Tucking up a butterfly would about
kill him; the worms would be apt to get lost among the bed-clothes;
and the toads would tumble out the first thing."
"I shall have to ask mamma about it. What will you do while I'm gone?"
said Nelly, unwilling that a moment should be lost.
"I'll make frames for nettings to the windows, else the doves will
come in and eat up the sick people."
"I think they will know that it is a hospital, and be too kind to hurt
or frighten their neighbors," began Nelly; but as she spoke, a plump
white dove walked in, looked about with its red-winged eyes, and
quietly pecked up a tiny bug that had just ventured out from the crack
where it had taken refuge when the deluge came.
"Yes, we must have the nettings. I'll ask mamma for some lace," said
Nelly, when she saw that; and, taking her pet dove on her shoulder,
told it about her hospital as she went toward the house: for, loving
all little creatures as she did, it grieved her to have any harm
befall even the least or plainest of them. She had a sweet child-fancy
that her playmates understood her language as she did theirs, and that
birds, flowers, animals, and insects felt for her the same affection
which she felt for them. Love always makes friends, and nothing seemed
to fear the gentle child; but welcomed her like a little sun who shone
alike on all, and never suffered an eclipse.
She was gone some time, and when she came back her mind was full of
new plans, one hand full of rushes, the other of books, while over her
head floated the lace, and a bright green ribbon hung across her arm.
"Mamma says that the best beds will be little baskets, boxes, cages,
and any sort of thing that suits the patients; for each will need
different care and food and medicine. I have not baskets enough, so,
as I cannot have pretty white beds, I am going to braid pretty green
nests for my patients, and, while I do it, mamma thought you'd read to
me the pages she has marked, so that we may begin right."
"Yes, miss; I like that. But what is the ribbon for?" asked Tony.
"O, that's for you. Will says that, if you are to be an army surgeon,
you must have a green band on your arm; so I got this to tie on when
we play hospital."
Tony let her decorate the sleeve of his gray jacket, and when the
nettings were done, the welcome books were opened and enjoyed. It was
a happy time, sitting in the sunshine, with leaves pleasantly astir
all about them, doves cooing overhead, and flowers sweetly gossiping
together through the summer afternoon. Nelly wove her smooth, green
rushes, Tony pored over his pages, and both found something better
than fairy legends in the family histories of insects, birds, and
beasts. All manner of wonders appeared, and were explained to them,
till Nelly felt as if a new world had been given her, so full of
beauty, interest, and pleasure that she never could be tired of
studying it. Many of these things were not strange to Tony, because,
born among plants, he had grown up with them as if they were brothers
and sisters, and the sturdy, brown-faced boy had learned many lessons
which no poet or philosopher could have taught him, unless he had
become as childlike as himself, and studied from the same great book.
When the baskets were done, the marked pages all read, and the sun
began to draw his rosy curtains round him before smiling "Good night,"
Nelly ranged the green beds round the room, Tony put in the screens,
and the hospital was ready. The little nurse was so excited that she
could hardly eat her supper, and directly afterwards ran up to tell
Will how well she had succeeded with the first part of her enterprise.
Now brother Will was a brave young officer, who had fought stoutly and
done his duty like a man. But when lying weak and wounded at home, the
cheerful courage which had led him safely through many dangers seemed
to have deserted him, and he was often gloomy, sad, or fretful,
because he longed to be at his post again, and time passed very
slowly. This troubled his mother, and made Nelly wonder why he found
lying in a pleasant room so much harder than fighting battles or
making weary marches. Anything that interested and amused him was very
welcome, and when Nelly, climbing on the arm of his sofa, told her
plans, mishaps, and successes, he laughed out more heartily than he
had done for many a day, and his thin face began to twinkle with fun
as it used to do so long ago. That pleased Nelly, and she chatted like
any affectionate little magpie, till Will was really interested; for
when one is ill, small things amuse.
"Do you expect your patients to come to you, Nelly?" he asked.
"No, I shall go and look for them. I often see poor things suffering
in the garden, and the wood, and always feel as if they ought to be
taken care of, as people are."
"You won't like to carry insane bugs, lame toads, and convulsive
kittens in your hands, and they would not stay on a stretcher if you
had one. You should have an ambulance and be a branch of the Sanitary
Commission," said Will.
Nelly had often heard the words, but did not quite understand what
they meant. So Will told her of that great never-failing charity, to
which thousands owe their lives; and the child listened with lips
apart, eyes often full, and so much love and admiration in her heart
that she could find no words in which to tell it. When her brother
paused, she said earnestly: "Yes, I will be a Sanitary. This little
cart of mine shall be my amb'lance, and I'll never let my
water-barrels go empty, never drive too fast, or be rough with my poor
passengers, like some of the men you tell about. Does this look like
an amb'lance, Will?"
"Not a bit, but it shall, if you and mamma like to help me. I want
four long bits of cane, a square of white cloth, some pieces of thin
wood, and the gum-pot," said Will, sitting up to examine the little
cart, feeling like a boy again as he took out his knife and began to
whittle.
Upstairs and downstairs ran Nelly till all necessary materials were
collected, and almost breathlessly she watched her brother arch the
canes over the cart, cover them with the cloth, and fit an upper shelf
of small compartments, each lined with cotton-wool to serve as beds
for wounded insects, lest they should hurt one another or jostle out.
The lower part was left free for any larger creatures which Nelly
might find. Among her toys she had a tiny cask which only needed a peg
to be water-tight; this was filled and fitted in before, because, as
the small sufferers needed no seats, there was no place for it behind,
and, as Nelly was both horse and driver, it was more convenient in
front.
On each side of it stood a box of stores. In one were minute rollers,
as bandages are called, a few bottles not yet filled, and a wee doll's
jar of cold-cream, because Nelly could not feel that her outfit was
complete without a medicine-chest. The other box was full of crumbs,
bits of sugar, bird-seed, and grains of wheat and corn, lest any
famished stranger should die for want of food before she got it home.
Then mamma painted "U. S. San. Com." in bright letters on the cover,
and Nelly received her charitable plaything with a long sigh of
satisfaction.
"Nine o'clock already. Bless me, what a short evening this has been,"
exclaimed Will, as Nelly came to give him her good-night kiss.
"And such a happy one," she answered. "Thank you very, very much,
dear Will. I only wish my little amb'lance was big enough for you to
go in,--I'd so like to give you the first ride."
"Nothing I should like better, if it were possible, though I've a
prejudice against ambulances in general. But as I cannot ride, I'll
try and hop out to your hospital to-morrow, and see how you get
on,"--which was a great deal for Captain Will to say, because he had
been too listless to leave his sofa for several days.
That promise sent Nelly happily away to bed, only stopping to pop her
head out of the window to see if it was likely to be a fair day
to-morrow, and to tell Tony about the new plan as he passed below.
"Where shall you go to look for your first load of sick folks, miss?"
he asked.
"All round the garden first, then through the grove, and home across
the brook. Do you think I can find any patients so?" said Nelly.
"I know you will. Good night, miss," and Tony walked away with a merry
look on his face, that Nelly would not have understood if she had seen
it.
Up rose the sun bright and early, and up rose Nurse Nelly almost as
early and as bright. Breakfast was taken in a great hurry, and before
the dew was off the grass this branch of the S. C. was all astir.
Papa, mamma, big brother and baby sister, men and maids, all looked
out to see the funny little ambulance depart, and nowhere in all the
summer fields was there a happier child than Nelly, as she went
smiling down the garden path, where tall flowers kissed her as she
passed and every blithe bird seemed singing a "Good speed!"
"How I wonder what I shall find first," she thought, looking sharply
on all sides as she went. Crickets chirped, grasshoppers leaped, ants
worked busily at their subterranean houses, spiders spun shining webs
from twig to twig, bees were coming for their bags of gold, and
butterflies had just begun their holiday. A large white one alighted
on the top of the ambulance, walked over the inscription as if
spelling it letter by letter, then floated away from flower to flower,
like one carrying the good news far and wide.
"Now every one will know about the hospital and be glad to see me
coming," thought Nelly. And indeed it seemed so, for just then a
blackbird, sitting on the garden wall, burst out with a song full of
musical joy, Nelly's kitten came running after to stare at the wagon
and rub her soft side against it, a bright-eyed toad looked out from
his cool bower among the lily-leaves, and at that minute Nelly found
her first patient. In one of the dewy cobwebs hanging from a shrub
near by sat a fat black and yellow spider, watching a fly whose
delicate wings were just caught in the net. The poor fly buzzed
pitifully, and struggled so hard that the whole web shook; but the
more he struggled, the more he entangled himself, and the fierce
spider was preparing to descend that it might weave a shroud about its
prey, when a little finger broke the threads and lifted the fly safely
into the palm of a hand, where he lay faintly humming his thanks.
Nelly had heard much about contrabands, knew who they were, and was
very much interested in them; so, when she freed the poor black fly,
she played he was her contraband, and felt glad that her first patient
was one that needed help so much. Carefully brushing away as much of
the web as she could, she left small Pompey, as she named him, to free
his own legs, lest her clumsy fingers should hurt him; then she laid
him in one of the soft beds with a grain or two of sugar if he needed
refreshment, and bade him rest and recover from his fright,
remembering that he was at liberty to fly away whenever he liked,
because she had no wish to make a slave of him.
Feeling very happy over this new friend, Nelly went on singing softly
as she walked, and presently she found a pretty caterpillar dressed in
brown fur, although the day was warm. He lay so still she thought him
dead, till he rolled himself into a ball as she touched him.
"I think you are either faint from the heat of this thick coat of
yours, or that you are going to make a cocoon of yourself, Mr. Fuzz,"
said Nelly. "Now I want to see you turn into a butterfly, so I shall
take you, and if you get lively again I will let you go. I shall play
that you have given out on a march, as the soldiers sometimes do, and
been left behind for the Sanitary people to see to."
In went sulky Mr. Fuzz, and on trundled the ambulance till a golden
green rose-beetle was discovered, lying on his back kicking as if in a
fit.
"Dear me, what shall I do for him?" thought Nelly. "He acts as baby
did when she was so ill, and mamma put her in a warm bath. I haven't
got my little tub here, or any hot water, and I'm afraid the beetle
would not like it if I had. Perhaps he has pain in his stomach; I'll
turn him over, and pat his back, as nurse does baby's when she cries
for pain like that."
She set the beetle on his legs, and did her best to comfort him; but
he was evidently in great distress, for he could not walk, and instead
of lifting his emerald overcoat, and spreading the wings that lay
underneath, he turned over again, and kicked more violently than
before. Not knowing what to do, Nelly put him into one of her soft
nests for Tony to cure if possible. She found no more patients in the
garden except a dead bee, which she wrapped in a leaf, and took home
to bury. When she came to the grove, it was so green and cool she
longed to sit and listen to the whisper of the pines, and watch the
larch-tassels wave in the wind. But, recollecting her charitable
errand, she went rustling along the pleasant path till she came to
another patient, over which she stood considering several minutes
before she could decide whether it was best to take it to her
hospital, because it was a little gray snake, with a bruised tail. She
knew it would not hurt her, yet she was afraid of it; she thought it
pretty, yet could not like it; she pitied its pain, yet shrunk from
helping it, for it had a fiery eye, and a keen quivering tongue, that
looked as if longing to bite.
"He is a rebel, I wonder if I ought to be good to him," thought Nelly,
watching the reptile writhe with pain. "Will said there were sick
rebels in his hospital, and one was very kind to him. It says, too, in
my little book, 'Love your enemies.' I think snakes are mine, but I
guess I'll try and love him because God made him. Some boy will kill
him if I leave him here, and then perhaps his mother will be very sad
about it. Come, poor worm, I wish to help you, so be patient, and
don't frighten me."
Then Nelly laid her little handkerchief on the ground, and with a
stick gently lifted the wounded snake upon it, and, folding it
together, laid it in the ambulance. She was thoughtful after that, and
so busy puzzling her young head about the duty of loving those who
hate us, and being kind to those who are disagreeable or unkind, that
she went through the rest of the wood quite forgetful of her work. A
soft "Queek, queek!" made her look up and listen. The sound came from
the long meadow-grass, and, bending it carefully back, she found a
half-fledged bird, with one wing trailing on the ground, and its eyes
dim with pain or hunger.
"You darling thing, did you fall out of your nest and hurt your wing?"
cried Nelly, looking up into the single tree that stood near by. No
nest was to be seen, no parent birds hovered overhead, and little
Robin could only tell its troubles in that mournful "Queek, queek,
queek!"
Nelly ran to get both her chests, and, sitting down beside the bird,
tried to feed it. To her great joy it ate crumb after crumb, as if it
were half starved, and soon fluttered nearer with a confiding
fearlessness that made her very proud. Soon baby Robin seemed quite
comfortable, his eye brightened, he "queeked" no more, and but for the
drooping wing would have been himself again. With one of her bandages
Nelly bound both wings closely to his sides for fear he should hurt
himself by trying to fly; and though he seemed amazed at her
proceedings, he behaved very well, only staring at her, and ruffling
up his few feathers in a funny way that made her laugh. Then she had
to discover some way of accommodating her two larger patients so that
neither should hurt nor alarm the other. A bright thought came to her
after much pondering. Carefully lifting the handkerchief, she pinned
the two ends to the roof of the cart, and there swung little
Forked-tongue, while Rob lay easily below.
By this time Nelly began to wonder how it happened that she found so
many more injured things than ever before. But it never entered her
innocent head that Tony had searched the wood and meadow before she
was up, and laid most of these creatures ready to her hands, that she
might not be disappointed. She had not yet lost her faith in fairies,
so she fancied they too belonged to her small sisterhood, and
presently it did really seem impossible to doubt that the good folk
had been at work.
Coming to the bridge that crossed the brook, she stopped a moment to
watch the water ripple over the bright pebbles, the ferns bend down to
drink, and the funny tadpoles frolic in quieter nooks, where the sun
shone, and the dragon-flies swung among the rushes. When Nelly turned
to go on, her blue eyes opened wide, and the handle of the ambulance
dropped with a noise that caused a stout frog to skip into the water
heels over head.
Directly in the middle of the bridge was a pretty green tent, made of
two tall burdock leaves. The stems were stuck into cracks between the
boards, the tips were pinned together with a thorn, and one great
buttercup nodded in the doorway like a sleepy sentinel. Nelly stared
and smiled, listened, and looked about on every side. Nothing was seen
but the quiet meadow and the shady grove, nothing was heard but the
babble of the brook and the cheery music of the bobolinks.
"Yes," said Nelly softly to herself, "that is a fairy tent, and in it
I may find a baby elf sick with whooping-cough or scarlet-fever. How
splendid it would be! only I could never nurse such a dainty thing."
Stooping eagerly, she peeped over the buttercup's drowsy head, and saw
what seemed a tiny cock of hay. She had no time to feel disappointed,
for the haycock began to stir, and, looking nearer, she beheld two
silvery gray mites, who wagged wee tails, and stretched themselves as
if they had just waked up. Nelly knew that they were young field-mice,
and rejoiced over them, feeling rather relieved that no fairy had
appeared, though she still believed them to have had a hand in the
matter.
"I shall call the mice my Babes in the Wood, because they are lost and
covered up with leaves," said Nelly, as she laid them in her snuggest
bed, where they nestled close together, and fell fast asleep again.
Being very anxious to get home, that she might tell her adventures,
and show how great was the need of a sanitary commission in that
region, Nelly marched proudly up the avenue, and, having displayed her
load, hurried to the hospital, where another applicant was waiting for
her. On the step of the door lay a large turtle, with one claw gone,
and on his back was pasted a bit of paper, with his name,--"Commodore
Waddle, U. S. N." Nelly knew this was a joke of Will's, but welcomed
the ancient mariner, and called Tony to help her get him in.
All that morning they were very busy settling the new-comer, for both
people and books had to be consulted before they could decide what
diet and treatment was best for each. The winged contraband had taken
Nelly at her word, and flown away on the journey home. Little Rob was
put in a large cage, where he could use his legs, yet not injure his
lame wing. Forked-tongue lay under a wire cover, on sprigs of fennel,
for the gardener said that snakes were fond of it. The Babes in the
Wood were put to bed in one of the rush baskets, under a cotton-wool
coverlet. Greenback, the beetle, found ease for his unknown aches in
the warm heart of a rose, where he sunned himself all day. The
Commodore was made happy in a tub of water, grass, and stones, and Mr.
Fuzz was put in a well-ventilated glass box to decide whether he would
be a cocoon or not.
Tony had not been idle while his mistress was away, and he showed her
the hospital garden he had made close by, in which were cabbage,
nettle, and mignonette plants for the butterflies, flowering herbs for
the bees, chick-weed and hemp for the birds, catnip for the pussies,
and plenty of room left for whatever other patients might need. In the
afternoon, while Nelly did her task at lint-picking, talking busily to
Will as she worked, and interesting him in her affairs, Tony cleared a
pretty spot in the grove for the burying-ground, and made ready some
small bits of slate on which to write the names of those who died. He
did not have it ready an hour too soon, for at sunset two little
graves were needed, and Nurse Nelly shed tender tears for her first
losses as she laid the motherless mice in one smooth hollow, and the
gray-coated rebel in the other. She had learned to care for him
already, and when she found him dead, was very glad she had been kind
to him, hoping that he knew it, and died happier in her hospital than
all alone in the shadowy wood.
The rest of Nelly's patients prospered, and of the many added
afterward few died, because of Tony's skilful treatment and her own
faithful care. Every morning when the day proved fair the little
ambulance went out upon its charitable errand; every afternoon Nelly
worked for the human sufferers whom she loved; and every evening
brother Will read aloud to her from useful books, showed her wonders
with his microscope, or prescribed remedies for the patients, whom he
soon knew by name and took much interest in. It was Nelly's holiday;
but, though she studied no lessons, she learned much, and
unconsciously made her pretty play both an example and a rebuke for
others.
At first it seemed a childish pastime, and people laughed. But there
was something in the familiar words "sanitary," "hospital," and
"ambulance" that made them pleasant sounds to many ears. As reports of
Nelly's work went through the neighborhood, other children came to see
and copy her design. Rough lads looked ashamed when in her wards they
found harmless creatures hurt by them, and going out they said among
themselves, "We won't stone birds, chase butterflies, and drown the
girls' little cats any more, though we won't tell them so." And most
of the lads kept their word so well that people said there never had
been so many birds before as all that summer haunted wood and field.
Tender-hearted playmates brought their pets to be cured; even busy
farmers had a friendly word for the small charity, which reminded them
so sweetly of the great one which should never be forgotten; lonely
mothers sometimes looked out with wet eyes as the little ambulance
went by, recalling thoughts of absent sons who might be journeying
painfully to some far-off hospital, where brave women waited to tend
them with hands as willing, hearts as tender, as those the gentle
child gave to her self-appointed task.
At home the charm worked also. No more idle days for Nelly, or fretful
ones for Will, because the little sister would not neglect the
helpless creatures so dependent upon her, and the big brother was
ashamed to complain after watching the patience of these lesser
sufferers, and merrily said he would try to bear his own wound as
quietly and bravely as the "Commodore" bore his. Nelly never knew how
much good she had done Captain Will till he went away again in the
early autumn. Then he thanked her for it, and though she cried for joy
and sorrow she never forgot it, because he left something behind him
which always pleasantly reminded her of the double success her little
hospital had won.
When Will was gone and she had prayed softly in her heart that God
would keep him safe and bring him home again, she dried her tears and
went away to find comfort in the place where he had spent so many
happy hours with her. She had not been there before that day, and when
she reached the door she stood quite still and wanted very much to cry
again, for something beautiful had happened. She had often asked Will
for a motto for her hospital, and he had promised to find her one. She
thought he had forgotten it; but even in the hurry of that busy day he
had found time to do more than keep his word, while Nelly sat indoors,
lovingly brightening the tarnished buttons on the blue coat that had
seen so many battles.
Above the roof, where the doves cooed in the sun, now rustled a white
flag with the golden "S. C." shining on it as the wind tossed it to
and fro. Below, on the smooth panel of the door, a skilful pencil had
drawn two arching ferns, in whose soft shadow, poised upon a mushroom,
stood a little figure of Nurse Nelly, and underneath it another of Dr.
Tony bottling medicine, with spectacles upon his nose. Both hands of
the miniature Nelly were outstretched, as if beckoning to a train of
insects, birds and beasts, which was so long that it not only circled
round the lower rim of this fine sketch, but dwindled in the distance
to mere dots and lines. Such merry conceits as one found there! A
mouse bringing the tail it had lost in some cruel trap, a dor-bug with
a shade over its eyes, an invalid butterfly carried in a tiny litter
by long-legged spiders, a fat frog with gouty feet hopping upon
crutches, Jenny Wren sobbing in a nice handkerchief, as she brought
dear dead Cock Robin to be restored to life. Rabbits, lambs, cats,
calves, and turtles, all came trooping up to be healed by the
benevolent little maid who welcomed them so heartily.
Nelly laughed at these comical mites till the tears ran down her
cheeks, and thought she never could be tired of looking at them. But
presently she saw four lines clearly printed underneath her picture,
and her childish face grew sweetly serious as she read the words of a
great poet, which Will had made both compliment and motto:--
"He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all"
A FOX AND A RAVEN
By Rebecca Harding Davis
[_A raven, sitting high up on a limb, had a fine piece of cheese. He
was just going to enjoy it, when along came Mr. Fox. Now the fox
wanted the cheese, and he knew he could not catch the raven. So he
began to flatter the raven's croaking voice, and to beg the raven for
one of his "sweet songs." At last the poor raven, silly with flattery,
opened his mouth to sing--when lo! the cheese dropped to the ground,
and off ran the wily fox with the stolen treasure in his mouth. The
raven flew away, and never was heard of again._]
Donee was a king's daughter. She had heard her father talk of the
battles into which he had led his mighty warriors, and of how all the
world that she knew had once been his, from the hills behind which the
sun rose to the broad rushing river where it set. Now all of this
account was strictly true.
But the king, as he talked, wore no clothes but a muddy pair of cotton
trousers, and sat on a log in the sun, a pig rooting about his bare
feet. Black Joe, going by, called him a lazy old red-skin; and that
was true, too. But these differing accounts naturally confused Donee's
mind. When the old chief was dead, however, there was an end of all
talk of his warriors or battles. A large part of the land was left,
though; a long stretch of river bottom and forests, with but very
little swamp. Donee's brother, Oostogah, when he was in a good humor,
planted and hoed a field of corn (as he had no wife to do it for him),
and with a little fish and game, they managed to find enough to eat.
Oostogah and the little girl lived in a hut built of logs and mud,
and, as the floor of it never had been scrubbed, the grass actually
began to grow out of the dirt in the corners. There was a log
smouldering on the hearth, where Donee baked cakes of pounded corn and
beans in the ashes, and on the other side of the dark room was the
heap of straw where she slept. Besides this, there were two hacked
stumps of trees which served for chairs, and an iron pot out of which
they ate; and there you have the royal plenishing of _that_ palace.
All the other Indians had long ago gone West. Donee had nothing and
nobody to play with. She was as easily scared as a rabbit; yet
sometimes, when Oostogah was gone for days together, she was so lonely
that she would venture down through the swamp to peep out at the
water-mill and the two or three houses which the white people had
built. The miller, of all the white people, was the one that she liked
best to watch, he was so big and round, and jolly; and one day, when
he had met her in the path, he did not call her "Injun," or "red
nigger," as the others did, but had said: "Where's your brother, my
dear?" just as if she were white. She saw, sometimes, his two little
girls and boy playing about the mill-door, and they were round and
fat, and jolly, just like their father.
At last, one day Oostogah went down to the mill, and Donee plucked up
her courage and followed him. When she was there hiding close behind
the trough in which the horses were watered, so that nobody could see
her, she heard the miller say to her brother: "You ought to go to work
to clear your land, my lad. In two years there will be hundreds of
people moving in here, and you own the best part of the valley."
Oostogah nodded. "The whole country once belonged to my people."
"That's neither here nor there," said the miller. "Dead chickens don't
count for hatching. You go to work now and clear your land, and you
can sell it for enough to give you and this little girl behind the
trough an education. Enough to give you both a chance equal to any
white children."
Oostogah nodded again, but said nothing. He was shrewd enough, and
could work, too, when he was in the humor. "Come, Donee," he said.
But the miller's little Thad. and Jenny had found Donee behind the
trough, and the three were making a nettle basket together, and were
very well acquainted already.
"Let the child stay till you come back from fishing, Oostogah," said
the miller.
So Donee staid all the afternoon. Jenny and Betty rolled and shouted,
and could not talk fast enough with delight because they had this new
little girl to play with, and Thad. climbed all the trees, as Jenny
said, to "show off," and Betty tumbled into the trough head over heels
and was taken out dripping.
Donee was very quiet, but it was to her as if the end of the world had
come, all this was so happy and wonderful. She never had had anybody
to play with before.
Then, when Betty was carried in to be dried and dressed, there was,
too, the bright, cheerful room, with a lovely blue carpet on the
floor, and a white spread on the bed with fringe, and red dahlias that
shone in the sun, putting their heads in at the window. Betty's mother
did not scold when she took her wet clothes off, but said some funny
things which made them laugh. She looked at Donee now and then,
standing with her little hands clasped behind her back.
"Does your mother _never_ wash or dress you, Donee?" said Betty.
"She is dead," said Donee.
Betty's mother did not say any more funny things after that. When
she had finished dressing Betty, to the tying of her shoes, she called
the little Indian girl up to her.
"What can you do?" she said. "Sew? Make moccasins?"
She had the pleasantest voice. Donee was not at all afraid. "I can
sew. I can make baskets," she said. "I am going to make a basket for
every one of you."
"Very well. You can have a tea-party, Jenny, out of doors." Then she
opened a cupboard. "Here are the dishes," taking out a little box.
"And bread, jam, milk, sugar, and candy."
"Candy!" cried Betty, rushing out to tell Thad.
"Candy? Hooray!" shouted Thad.
For there are no shops out in that wild country where a boy can run
for a stick of lemon or gumdrops every time he gets a penny. It was
very seldom that Thad. or Betty could have a taste of those red and
white "bull's eyes" which their mother now took out of the jar in the
locked cupboard. They knew she brought it out to please the little
Indian girl, whose own mother was dead.
Jenny set the table for the tea-party under a big oak. There was a
flat place on one of the round roots that rose out of the moss, which
was the very thing for a table. So there she spread the little white
and gold plates and cups and saucers, with the meat dish (every bit as
large as your hand), in the middle, full of candy. The milk, of
course, was put in the pot for coffee, and set on three dead leaves to
boil; and Jenny allowed Donee to fill the jam dishes herself, with her
own hands. Donee could hardly get her breath as she did it.
When they were all ready they sat down. The sun shone, and the wind
was blowing, and the water of the mill-race flashed and gurgled as it
went by, and a song-sparrow perched himself on the fence close to them
and sang, and sang, just as if he knew what was going on.
"He wants to come to the party!" said Betty, and then they all
laughed. Donee laughed too.
The shining plates just fitted into the moss, and there was a little
pitcher, the round-bellied part of which was covered with sand, while
the handle and top were, Jenny said, of solid gold; that was put in
the middle of all.
Donee did not think it was like fairy-land or heaven, because she had
never in her life heard of fairy-land or heaven. She had never seen
anything but her own filthy hut, with its iron pot and wooden spoons.
When it was all over, the children's mother (Donee felt as if she was
her mother too) called her in, and took out of that same cupboard a
roll of the loveliest red calico.
"Now, Donee," she said, "if you can make yourself a dress of this I
will give you this box," and she opened a box, just like Jenny's.
Inside, packed in thin slips of paper, was a set of dishes; pure
white, with the tiniest rose-bud in the middle of each; cups, saucers,
meat-dish, coffee-pot, and all; and, below all, a pitcher, with sand
on the brown bottom, but the top and handle of solid gold!
Donee went back to the hut, trotting along beside Oostogah, her roll
of calico under her arm. The next day she cut it out into a slip and
began to sew.
Oostogah was at work all day cutting down dead trees. When he came in
at night, Donee said: "If you sold the land for much money, could we
have a home like the miller's?"
Oostogah was as much astonished as if a chicken had asked him a
question, but he said, "Yes."
"Would I be like Jenny and Betty?"
"You're a chief's daughter," grunted Oostogah.
One day in the next week she went down to the river far in the woods,
and took a bath, combing her long straight black hair down her
shoulders. Then she put on her new dress, and went down to the
miller's house. It was all very quiet, for the children were not
there, but their mother came to the door. She laughed out loud with
pleasure when she saw Donee. The red dress was just the right color
for her to wear with her dark skin and black hair. Her eyes were soft
and shy, and her bare feet and arms (like most Indian women's) pretty
enough to be copied in marble.
"You are a good child--you're a very good child! Here are the dishes.
I wish the children were at home. Sit right down on the step now and
eat a piece of pie."
But Donee could not eat the pie, her heart was so full.
"Hillo!" called the miller, when he saw her. "Why, what a nice girl
you are to-day, Dony! Your brother's hard at work, eh? It will all
come right, then."
Donee stood around for a long time, afraid to say what she wanted.
"What is it?" asked the miller's wife.
Donee managed to whisper, if she were to have a party the next day,
could the children come to it? and their mother said: "Certainly, in
the evening."
When the little girl ran down the hill, the miller said: "Seems as
if't would be easy to make Christians out of them two."
"I'm going to do what I can for Donee," said the miller's wife.
It was not so easy for the little red-skinned girl to have a party,
for she had neither jam nor bread, nor butter, not to mention candy.
But she was up very early the next morning, and made tiny little cakes
of corn, no bigger than your thumbnail, and she went to a hollow tree
she knew of and got a cupful of honey, and brought some red haws, and
heaps of nuts, hickory and chestnuts. When Oostogah had gone, she set
out her little dishes under a big oak, and dressed herself in her
lovely frock, though she knew the party could not begin for hours and
hours. The brown cakes and honey, and scarlet haws, were in the white
dishes, and the gold pitcher, with a big purple flower, was in the
middle. Donee sat down and looked at it all. In a year or two Oostogah
would build a house like the miller's, and she should have a blue
carpet on the floor, and a white bed, and wear red frocks every day,
like Betty.
Just then she heard voices talking. Oostogah had come back; he sat
upon a log; and the trader, who came around once a year, stood beside
him, a pack open at his feet. It was this peddler, Hawk, who was
talking.
"I tell you, Oostogy, the miller's a fool. There's no new settlers
coming here, and nobody wants your land. There's hundreds and
thousands of acres beyond better than this. You'd better take my
offer. Look at that suit!"
He held up short trousers of blue cloth worked with colored porcupine
quills, and a scarlet mantle glittering with beads and gold fringe.
"I don't want it," grunted Oostogah. "Sell my land for big pile
money."
"Oh, very well. I don't want to buy your land. There's thousands of
acres to be had for the asking, but there's not such a dress as that
in the United States. I had that dress made on purpose for you,
Oostogy. I said: 'Make me a dress for the son of a great chief. The
handsomest man'" (eying the lad from head to foot) "'that lives this
side of the great water.'"
Oostogah grunted, but his eyes began to sparkle.
"Here now, Oostogy, just try it on to please me. I'd like to see you
dressed like a chief for once."
Oostogah, nothing loth, dropped his dirty blanket, and was soon rigged
in the glittering finery, while Hawk nodded in rapt admiration.
"There's not a man in the country, red-skin or pale-face, but would
know you for the son of the great Denomah. Go look down in the creek,
Oostogy."
Oostogah went, and came back, walking more slowly. He began to take
off his mantle.
"There's a deputation from these Northern tribes going this winter to
see the Great Father at Washington. If Oostogy had a proper dress he
could go. But shall the son of Denomah come before the Great Father in
a torn horse-blanket?"
"Your words are too many," said Oostogah. "I have made up my mind. I
will sell you the land for the clothes."
Donee came up then, and stood directly before him, looking up at him.
But she said nothing. It is not the habit of Indian women and children
to speak concerning matters of importance.
Oostogah pushed her out of the way, and, with the trader, went into
the hut to finish their bargain.
In an hour or two her brother came to Donee. He had his new clothes in
a pack on his back. "Come," he said, pointing beyond the great river
to the dark woods.
"We will come back here again, Oostogah?"
"No; we will never come back."
Donee went to the tree and looked down at the party she had made; at
the little dishes with the rose on each. But she did not lift one of
them up. She took off her pretty dress and laid it beside them, and,
going to the hut, put on her old rags again. Then she came out and
followed her brother, whose face was turned toward the great dark
woods in the west.
When the miller's children came to the party that afternoon, a pig was
lying on Donee's red dress, and the dishes were scattered and broken.
But the hut was empty.
* * * * *
A year afterward, the miller came back from a long journey. After he
had kissed and hugged his wife and little ones, he said: "You
remember, wife, how Hawk cheated that poor Indian lad out of his
land?"
"Yes; I always said it was the old story of the fox and the foolish
raven over again."
"It was the old story of the white and the red man over again. But out
in an Indian village I found Donee sick and starving."
The miller's wife jumped to her feet. The tears rushed to her eyes.
"What did you do? What did you do?"
"Well, there wasn't but one thing to do, and I did that." He went out
to the wagon and carried in the little Indian girl, and laid her on
the bed.
"Poor child! Poor child! Where is Oostogah?"
The miller shook his head. "Don't ask any questions about him. The
raven flew away to the woods, and was never heard of again. Better if
that were the end of Oostogah."
Donee, opening her tired eyes, saw the blue carpet and the white bed
where she lay, and the red dahlias shining in the sun and looking in
at the window, and beside her were the children, and the children's
mother smiling down on her with tears in her eyes.
THE PRIVATE THEATRICALS
By Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney
Saturday was a day of hammering, basting, draping, dressing,
rehearsing, running from room to room. Upstairs, in Mrs. Green's
garret, Leslie Goldthwaite and Dakie Thayne, with a third party never
before introduced upon the stage, had a private practising; and at
tea-time, when the great hall was cleared, they got up there with Sin
Saxon and Frank Scherman, locked the doors, and in costume, with
regular accompaniment of bell and curtain, the performance was
repeated.
Dakie Thayne was stage-manager and curtain-puller; Sin Saxon and Frank
Scherman represented audience, with clapping and stamping, and
laughter that suspended both,--making as nearly the noise of two
hundred as two could,--this being an essential part of the rehearsal
in respect to the untried nerves of the _debutant_, which might easily
be a little uncertain.
"He stands fire like a Yankee veteran."
"It's inimitable," said Sin Saxon, wiping the moist merriment from her
eyes. "And your cap, Leslie! And that bonnet! And this unutterable old
oddity of a gown! Who did contrive it all? and where did they come
from? You'll carry off the glory of the evening. It ought to be the
last."
"No, indeed," said Leslie. "Barbara Frietchie must be last, of course.
But I'm so glad you think it will do. I hope they'll be amused."
"Amused! If you could only see your own face!"
"I see Sir Charles's, and that makes mine."
The new performer, you perceive, was an actor with a title.
That night's coach, driving up while the dress-rehearsal of the other
tableaux was going on at the hall, brought Cousin Delight to the Green
Cottage, and Leslie met her at the door.
Sunday morning was a pause and rest and hush of beauty and joy. They
sat--Delight and Leslie--by their open window, where the smell of the
lately harvested hay came over from the wide, sunshiny entrance of the
great barn, and away beyond stretched the pine woods, and the hills
swelled near in dusky evergreen, and indigo shadows, and lessened far
down toward Winnipiseogee, to where, faint and tender and blue, the
outline of little Ossipee peeped in between great shoulders so
modestly,--seen only through the clearest air on days like this.
Leslie's little table, with fresh white cover, held a vase of ferns
and white convolvulus and beside this Cousin Delight's two books that
came out always from the top of her trunk,--her Bible and her little
"Daily Food." To-day the verses from Old and New Testaments were
these:--"The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and he
delighteth in his way." "Walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as
wise, redeeming the time."
They had a talk about the first,--"The steps,"--the little
details,--not merely the general trend and final issue; if, indeed,
these could be directed without the other.
"You always make me see things, Cousin Delight," Leslie said.
"It is very plain," Delight answered; "if people only would read the
Bible as they read even a careless letter from a friend, counting each
word of value, and searching for more meaning and fresh inference to
draw out the most. One word often answers great doubts and askings
that have troubled the world."
Afterward, they walked round by a still wood-path under the Ledge to
the North Village, where there was a service. It was a plain little
church, with unpainted pews; but the windows looked forth upon a green
mountain-side, and whispers of oaks and pines and river-music crept
in, and the breath of sweet water-lilies, heaped in a great bowl upon
the communion-table of common stained cherry-wood, floated up and
filled the place. The minister, a quiet, gray-haired man, stayed his
foot an instant at that simple altar, before he went up the few steps
to the desk. He had a sermon in his pocket from the text, "The hairs
of your heads are all numbered." He changed it at the moment in his
mind, and, when presently he rose to preach, gave forth, in a tone
touched, through the fresh presence of that reminding beauty, with the
very spontaneousness of the Master's own saying,--"Consider the
lilies." And then he told them of God's momently thought and care.
There were scattered strangers, from various houses, among the simple
rural congregation. Walking home through the pines again, Delight and
Leslie and Dakie Thayne found themselves preceded and followed along
the narrow way. Sin Saxon and Frank Scherman came up and joined them
when the wider openings permitted.
Two persons just in front were commenting upon the sermon.
"Very fair for a country parson," said a tall, elegant-looking man,
whose broad, intellectual brow was touched by dark hair slightly
frosted, and whose lip had the curve that betokens self-reliance and
strong decision,--"very fair. All the better for not flying too high.
Narrow, of course. He seems to think the Almighty has nothing grander
to do than to finger every little cog of the tremendous machinery of
the universe,--that he measures out the ocean of his purposes as we
drop a liquid from a phial. To me it seems belittling the Infinite."
"I don't know whether it is littleness or greatness, Robert, that must
escape minutiae," said his companion, apparently his wife. "If we
could reach to the particles, perhaps we might move the mountains."
"We never agree upon this, Margie. We won't begin again. To my mind,
the grand plan of things was settled ages ago,--the impulses generated
that must needs work on. Foreknowledge and intention, doubtless: in
that sense the hairs _were_ numbered. But that there is a special
direction and interference to-day for you and me--well, we won't
argue, as I said; but I never can conceive it so; and I think a wider
look at the world brings a question to all such primitive faith."
The speakers turned down a side-way with this, leaving the ledge path
and their subject to our friends. Only to their thoughts at first; but
presently Cousin Delight said, in a quiet tone, to Leslie, "That
doesn't account for the steps, does it?"
"I am glad it _can't_," said Leslie.
Dakie Thayne turned a look toward Leslie, as if he would gladly know
of what she spoke,--a look in which a kind of gentle reverence was
strangely mingled with the open friendliness. I cannot easily indicate
to you the sort of feeling with which the boy had come to regard this
young girl, just above him in years and thought and in the attitude
which true womanhood, young or old, takes toward man. He had no
sisters; he had been intimately associated with no girl-companions; he
had lived with his brother and an uncle and a young aunt, Rose. Leslie
Goldthwaite's kindness had drawn him into the sphere of a new and
powerful influence,--something different in thought and purpose from
the apparent unthought about her; and this lifted her up in his regard
and enshrined her with a sort of pure sanctity. He was sometimes
really timid before her, in the midst of his frank chivalry.
"I wish you'd tell me," he said suddenly, falling back with her as the
path narrowed again. "What are the 'steps?'"
"It was a verse we found this morning,--Cousin Delight and I," Leslie
answered; and as she spoke the color came up full in her cheeks, and
her voice was a little shy and tremulous. "'The steps of a good man
are ordered by the Lord.' That one word seemed to make one certain.
'Steps,'--not path, nor the end of it; but all the way." Somehow she
was quite out of breath as she finished.
Meantime Sin Saxon and Frank had got with Miss Goldthwaite, and were
talking too.
"Set spinning," they heard Sin Saxon say, "and then let go. That was
his idea. Well! Only it seems to me there's been especial pains taken
to show us it can't be done. Or else, why don't they find out
perpetual motion? Everything stops after a while, unless--I can't talk
theologically, but I mean all right--you hit it again."
"You've a way of your own of putting things, Asenath," said Frank
Scherman--with a glance that beamed kindly and admiringly upon her and
"her way,"--"but you've put that clear to me as nobody else ever did.
A proof set in the very laws themselves,--momentum that must lessen
and lose itself with the square of the distance. The machinery cavil
won't do."
"Wheels; but a living spirit within the wheels," said Cousin Delight.
"Every instant a fresh impulse; to think of it so makes it real, Miss
Goldthwaite,--and grand and awful." The young man spoke with a
strength in the clear voice that could be so light and gay.
"And tender, too. 'Thou layest Thine hand upon me,'" said Delight
Goldthwaite.
Sin Saxon was quiet; her own thought coming back upon her with a
reflective force, and a thrill at her heart at Frank Scherman's words.
Had these two only planned tableaux and danced Germans together
before?
Dakie Thayne walked on by Leslie Goldthwaite's side, in his happy
content touched with something higher and brighter through that
instant's approach and confidence. If I were to write down his thought
as he walked, it would be with phrase and distinction peculiar to
himself and to the boy-mind,--"It's the real thing with her; it don't
make a fellow squirm like a pin put out at a caterpillar. She's
_good_; but she isn't _pious_!"
This was the Sunday that lay between the busy Saturday and Monday. "It
is always so wherever Cousin Delight is," Leslie Goldthwaite said to
herself, comparing it with other Sundays that had gone. Yet she too,
for weeks before, by the truth that had come into her own life and
gone out from it, had been helping to make these moments possible. She
had been shone upon, and had put forth; henceforth she should scarcely
know when the fruit was ripening or sowing itself anew, or the good
and gladness of it were at human lips.
She was in Mrs. Linceford's room on Monday morning, putting high
velvet-covered corks to the heels of her slippers, when Sin Saxon came
over hurriedly, and tapped at the door.
"_Could_ you be _two_ old women?" she asked, the instant Leslie
opened. "Ginevra Thoresby has given out. She says it's her cold,--that
she doesn't feel equal to it; but the amount of it is, she got her
chill with the Shannons going away so suddenly, and the Amy Robsart
and Queen Elizabeth picture being dropped. There was nothing else to
put her in, and so she won't be Barbara."
"Won't be Barbara Frietchie!" cried Leslie, with an astonishment as if
it had been angelhood refused.
"No. Barbara Frietchie is only an old woman in a cap and kerchief, and
she just puts her head out of a window: the _flag_ is the whole of it,
Ginevra Thoresby says."
"_May_ I do it? Do you think I can be different enough in the
two? Will there be time?" Leslie questioned eagerly.
"We'll change the programme, and put 'Taking the Oath' between. The
caps can be different, and you can powder your hair for one,
and--_would_ it do to ask Miss Craydocke for a front for the other?"
Sin Saxon had grown delicate in her feeling for the dear old friend
whose hair had once been golden.
"I'll tell her about it, and ask her to help me contrive. She'll be
sure to think of anything that can be thought of."
"Only there's the dance afterward, and you had so much more costume
for the other," Sin Saxon said, demurringly.
"Never mind. I shall _be_ Barbara; and Barbara wouldn't dance, I
suppose."
"Mother Hubbard would, marvellously."
"Never mind," Leslie answered again, laying down the little slipper,
finished.
"She don't care _what_ she is, so that she helps along," Sin
Saxon said of her, rejoining the others in the hall. "I'm ashamed of
myself and all the rest of you, beside her. Now make yourselves as
fine as you please."
We must pass over the hours as only stories and dreams do, and put
ourselves, at ten of the clock that night, behind the green curtain
and the footlights, in the blaze of the three rows of bright lamps,
that, one above another, poured their illumination from the left upon
the stage, behind the wide picture-frame.
Susan Josselyn and Frank Scherman were just "posed" for "Consolation."
They had given Susan this part, after all, because they wanted Martha
for "Taking the Oath," afterward. Leslie Goldthwaite was giving a
hasty touch to the tent drapery and the gray blanket; Leonard
Brookhouse and Dakie Thayne manned the halyards for raising the
curtain; there was the usual scuttling about the stage for hasty
clearance; and Sin Saxon's hand was on the bell, when Grahame Lowe
sprang hastily in through the dressing-room upon the scene.
"Hold on a minute," he said to Brookhouse. "Miss Saxon, General
Ingleside and party are over at Green's,--been there since nine
o'clock. Oughtn't we to send compliments or something, before we
finish up?"
Then there was a pressing forward and an excitement. The wounded
soldier sprang from his couch; the nun came nearer, with a quick light
in her eye; Leslie Goldthwaite, in her mob cap, quilted petticoat,
big-flowered calico train, and high-heeled shoes; two or three
supernumeraries, in Rebel gray, with bayonets, coming on in "Barbara
Frietchie"; and Sir Charles, bouncing out from somewhere behind, to
the great hazard of the frame of lights,--huddled together upon the
stage and consulted. Dakie Thayne had dropped his cord and almost made
a rush off at the first announcement; but he stood now, with a
repressed eagerness that trembled through every fibre, and waited.
"Would he come?" "Isn't it too late?" "Would it be any compliment?"
"Won't it be rude not to?" "All the patriotic pieces are just coming!"
"Will the audience like to wait?" "Make a speech and tell 'em. You,
Brookhouse." "O, he _must_ come! Barbara Frietchie and the flag! Just
think!" "Isn't it grand?" "O, I'm so frightened!" These were the
hurried sentences that made the buzz behind the scenes; while in front
"all the world wondered." Meanwhile, lamps trembled, the curtain
vibrated, the very framework swayed.
"What is it? Fire?" queried a nervous voice from near the footlights.
"This won't do," said Frank Scherman. "Speak to them, Brookhouse.
Dakie Thayne, run over to Green's, and say,--The ladies' compliments
to General Ingleside and friends, and beg the honor of their presence
at the concluding tableaux."
Dakie was off with a glowing face, something like an odd, knowing
smile twinkling out from the glow also, as he looked up at Scherman
and took his orders. All this while he had said nothing.
Leonard Brookhouse made his little speech, received with applause and
a cheer. Then they quieted down behind the scenes, and a rustle and
buzz began in front,--kept up for five minutes or so, in gentle
fashion, till two gentlemen, in plain clothes, walked quietly in at
the open door; at sight of whom, with instinctive certainty, the whole
assembly rose. Leslie Goldthwaite, peeping through the folds of the
curtain, saw a tall, grand-looking man, in what may be called the
youth of middle age, every inch a soldier, bowing as he was ushered
forward to a seat vacated for him, and followed by one younger, who
modestly ignored the notice intended for his chief. Dakie Thayne was
making his way, with eyes alight and excited, down a side passage to
his post.
Then the two actors hurried once more into position; the stage was
cleared by a whispered peremptory order; the bell rung once, the tent
trembling with some one whisking further out of sight behind
it,--twice, and the curtain rose upon "Consolation."
Lovely as the picture is, it was lovelier in the living tableau. There
was something deep and intense in the pale calm of Susan Josselyn's
face, which they had not counted on even when they discovered that
hers was the very face for the "Sister." Something made you thrill at
the thought of what those eyes would show, if the downcast, quiet lids
were raised. The earnest gaze of the dying soldier met more, perhaps,
in its uplifting; for Frank Scherman had a look, in this instant of
enacting, that he had never got before in all his practisings. The
picture was too real for applause,--almost, it suddenly seemed, for
representation.
"Don't I know that face, Noll?" General Ingleside asked, in a low
tone, of his companion.
Instead of answering at once, the younger man bent further forward
toward the stage, and his own very plain, broad, honest face, full
over against the downcast one of the Sister of Mercy, took upon itself
that force of magnetic expression which makes a look felt even across
a crowd of other glances, as if there were but one straight line of
vision, and that between such two. The curtain was going slowly down;
the veiling lids trembled, and the paleness replaced itself with a
slow-mounting flush of color over the features, still held motionless.
They let the cords run more quickly then. She was getting tired, they
said; the curtain had been up too long. Be that as it might, nothing
could persuade Susan Josselyn to sit again, and "Consolation" could
not be repeated.
So then came "Mother Hubbard and her dog,"--the slow old lady and the
knowing beast that was always getting one step ahead of her. The
possibility had occurred to Leslie Goldthwaite as she and Dakie Thayne
amused themselves one day with Captain Green's sagacious Sir Charles
Grandison, a handsome black spaniel, whose trained accomplishment was
to hold himself patiently in any posture in which he might be placed,
until the word of release was given. You might stand him on his hind
legs, with paws folded on his breast; you might extend him on his
back, with helpless legs in air; you might put him in any attitude
possible to be maintained, and maintain it he would, faithfully, until
the signal was made. From this prompting came the Illustration of
Mother Hubbard. Also, Leslie Goldthwaite had seized the hidden
suggestion of application, and hinted it in certain touches of costume
and order of performance. Nobody would think, perhaps, at first, that
the striped scarlet and white petticoat under the tucked-up train, or
the common print apron of dark blue, figured with innumerable little
white stars, meant anything beyond the ordinary adjuncts of a
traditional old woman's dress; but when, in the second scene, the
bonnet went on,--an ancient marvel of exasperated front and crown,
pitched over the forehead like an enormous helmet, and decorated, upon
the side next the audience, with black and white eagle plumes
springing straight up from the fastening of an American shield,--above
all, when the dog himself appeared, "dressed in his clothes" (a cane,
an all-round white collar and a natty little tie, a pair of
three-dollar tasselled kid-gloves dangling from his left paw, and a
small monitor hat with a big spread-eagle stuck above the brim,--the
remaining details of costume being of no consequence),--when he stood
"reading the news" from a huge bulletin,--"LATEST BY CABLE FROM
EUROPE,"--nobody could mistake the personification of Old and Young
America.
It had cost much pains and many dainty morsels, to drill Sir Charles,
with all the aid of his excellent fundamental education; and the great
fear had been that he might fail them at the last. But the scenes were
rapid, in consideration of canine infirmity. If the cupboard was
empty, Mother Hubbard's basket behind was not; he got his morsels
duly; and the audience was "requested to refrain from applause until
the end." Refrain from laughter they could not, as the idea dawned
upon them and developed; but Sir Charles was used to that in the
execution of his ordinary tricks; he could hardly have done without it
better than any other old actor. A dog knows when he is having his
day, to say nothing of doing his duty; and these things are as
sustaining to him as to anybody. This state of his mind, manifest in
his air, helped also to complete the Young America expression. Mother
Hubbard's mingled consternation and pride at each successive
achievement of her astonishing puppy were inimitable. Each separate
illustration made its point. Patriotism, especially, came in when the
undertaker, bearing the pall with red-lettered border,--Rebellion,--finds
the dog, with upturned, knowing eye, and parted jaws, suggestive as
much of a good grip as of laughter, half risen upon fore-paws, as far
from "dead" as ever, mounting guard over the old bone "Constitution."
The curtain fell at last, amid peals of applause and calls for the
actors.
Dakie Thayne had accompanied with the reading of the ballad, slightly
transposed and adapted. As Leslie led Sir Charles before the curtain,
in response to the continued demand, he added the concluding stanza,--
"The dame made a courtesy,
The dog made a bow;
The dame said, 'Your servant,'
The dog said, 'Bow-wow.'"
Which, with a suppressed "Speak, sir!" from Frank Scherman, was
brought properly to pass. Done with cleverness and quickness from
beginning to end, and taking the audience utterly by surprise,
Leslie's little combination of wit and sagacity had been throughout a
signal success. The actors crowded round her. "We'd no idea of it!"
"Capital!" "A great hit!" they exclaimed. "Mother Hubbard is the star
of the evening," said Leonard Brookhouse. "No, indeed," returned
Leslie, patting Sir Charles's head,--"this is the dog-star." "Rather
a Sirius reflection upon the rest of us," rejoined Brookhouse,
shrugging his shoulders, as he walked off to take his place in the
"Oath," and Leslie disappeared to make ready for "Barbara Frietchie."
Several persons, before and behind the curtain, were making up their
minds, just now, to a fresh opinion. There was nothing so very slow or
tame, after all, about Leslie Goldthwaite. Several others had known
that long ago.
"Taking the Oath" was piquant and spirited. The touch of restive scorn
that could come out on Martha Josselyn's face just suited her part;
and Leonard Brookhouse was very cool and courteous, and handsome and
gentlemanly-triumphant as the Union officer.
"Barbara Frietchie" was grand. Grahame Lowe played Stonewall Jackson.
They had improvised a pretty bit of scenery at the back, with a few
sticks, some paint, brown carpet-paper, and a couple of mosquito-bars;--a
Dutch gable with a lattice window, vines trained up over it, and
bushes below. It was a moving tableau, enacted to the reading of
Whittier's glorious ballad. "Only an old woman in a cap and kerchief,
putting her head out at a garret window,"--that was all; but the fire
was in the young eyes under the painted wrinkles and the snowy hair;
the arm stretched itself out quick and bravely at the very instant of
the pistol-shot that startled timid ears; one skilful movement
detached and seized the staff in its apparent fall, and the
liberty-colors flashed full in Rebel faces, as the broken lower
fragment went clattering to the stage. All depended on the one instant
action and expression. These were perfect. The very spirit of Barbara
stirred her representative. The curtain began to descend slowly, and
the applause broke forth before the reading ended. But a hand, held
up, hushed it till the concluding lines were given in thrilling tones,
as the tableau was covered from sight.
"Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
"Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
"Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
"Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
"And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!"
Then one great cheer broke forth, and was prolonged to three.
"Not be Barbara Frietchie!" Leslie would not have missed that thrill
for the finest beauty-part of all. For the applause--that was for the
flag, of course, as Ginevra Thoresby said.
The benches were slid out at a window upon a lower roof, the curtain
was looped up, and the footlights carried away; the "music" came up,
and took possession of the stage; and the audience hall resolved
itself into a ballroom. Under the chandelier, in the middle, a tableau
not set forth in the programme was rehearsed and added a few minutes
after.
Mrs. Thoresby, of course, had been introduced to the general; Mrs.
Thoresby, with her bright, full, gray curls and her handsome figure,
stood holding him in conversation between introductions, graciously
waiving her privilege as new-comers claimed their modest word. Mrs.
Thoresby took possession; had praised the tableaux, as "quite
creditable, really, considering the resources we had," and was
following a slight lead into a long talk, of information and advice on
her part, about Dixville Notch. The general thought he should go
there, after a day or two at Outledge.
Just here came up Dakie Thayne. The actors, in costume, were gradually
mingling among the audience, and Barbara Frietchie, in white hair,
from which there was not time to remove the powder, plain cap and
kerchief, and brown woolen gown, with her silken flag yet in her hand,
came with him. This boy, who "was always everywhere," made no
hesitation, but walked straight up to the central group, taking Leslie
by the hand. Close to the general, he waited courteously for a long
sentence of Mrs. Thoresby's to be ended, and then said, simply,--"Uncle
James, this is my friend Miss Leslie Goldthwaite. My brother, Dr.
Ingleside--why, where is Noll?"
Dr. Oliver Ingleside had stepped out of the circle in the last half of
the long sentence. The Sister of Mercy--no longer in costume, however--had
come down the little flight of steps that led from the stage to the
floor. At their foot the young army surgeon was shaking hands with
Susan Josselyn. These two had had the chess-practice together--and
other practice--down there among the Southern hospitals.
Mrs. Thoresby's face was very like some fabric subjected to chemical
experiment, from which one color and aspect has been suddenly and
utterly discharged to make room for something different and new.
Between the first and last there waits a blank. With this blank full
upon her, she stood there for one brief, unprecedented instant in her
life, a figure without presence or effect. I have seen a daguerreotype
in which were cap, hair, and collar, quite correct,--what should have
been a face rubbed out. Mrs. Thoresby rubbed herself out, and so
performed her involuntary tableau.
"Of course I might have guessed. I wonder it never occurred to me,"
Mrs. Linceford was replying, presently, to her vacuous inquiry. "The
name seemed familiar, too; only he called himself 'Dakie.' I remember
perfectly now. Old Jacob Thayne, the Chicago millionaire. He married
pretty little Mrs. Ingleside, the Illinois Representative's widow,
that first winter I was in Washington. Why, Dakie must be a dollar
prince!"
He was just Dakie Thayne, though, for all that. He and Leslie and
Cousin Delight,--the Josselyns and the Inglesides,--dear Miss
Craydocke, hurrying up to congratulate,--Marmaduke Wharne looking on
without a shade of cynicism in the gladness of his face, and Sin Saxon
and Frank Scherman flitting up in the pauses of dance and promenade,--well,
after all, these were the central group that night. The pivot of the
little solar system was changed; but the chief planets made but slight
account of that; they just felt that it had grown very warm and
bright.
"O Chicken Little!" Mrs. Linceford cried to Leslie Goldthwaite, giving
her a small shake with her good-night kiss at her door. "How did you
know the sky was going to fall? And how have you led us all this chase
to cheat Fox Lox at last?"
But that wasn't the way Chicken Little looked at it. She didn't care
much for the bit of dramatic _dénouement_ that had come about by
accident,--like a story, Elinor said,--or the touch of poetic justice
that tickled Mrs. Linceford's world-instructed sense of fun. Dakie
Thayne wasn't a sum that needed proving. It was very nice that this
famous general should be his uncle,--but not at all strange: they were
just the sort of people he _must_ belong to. And it was nicest of all
that Dr. Ingleside and Susan Josselyn should have known each other,--"in
the glory of their lives," she phrased it to herself, with a little
flash of girl-enthusiasm and a vague suggestion of romance.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Mrs. Linceford said to Dakie Thayne next
morning. "Everybody would have--" She stopped. She could not tell this
boy to his frank face that everybody would have thought more and made
more of him because his uncle had got brave stars on his shoulders,
and his father had died leaving two millions or so of dollars.
"I know they would have," said Dakie Thayne. "That was just it. What
is the use of telling things? I'll wait till I've done something that
tells itself."
There was a pretty general break-up at Outledge during the week
following. The tableaux were the _finale_ of the season's gayety,--of
this particular little episode, at least, which grew out of the
association together of these personages of our story. There might
come a later set, and later doings; but this last week of August sent
the mere summer-birds fluttering. Madam Routh must be back in New
York, to prepare for the reopening of her school; Mrs. Linceford had
letters from her husband, proposing to meet her by the first, in
N----, and so the Haddens would be off; the Thoresbys had stayed as
long as they cared to in any one place where there seemed no special
inducement; General Ingleside was going through the mountains to
Dixville Notch. Rose Ingleside,--bright and charming as her name,--just
a fit flower to put beside our Ladies' Delight,--finding out, at once,
as all girls and women did, her sweetness, and leaning more and more
to the rare and delicate sphere of her quiet attraction,--Oliver and
Dakie Thayne,--these were his family party; but there came to be
question about Leslie and Delight. Would not they make six? And since
Mrs. Linceford and her sisters must go, it seemed so exactly the thing
for them to fall into; otherwise Miss Goldthwaite's journey hither
would hardly seem to have been worth while. Early September was so
lovely among the hills; opportunities for a party to Dixville Notch
would not come every day; in short, Dakie had set his heart upon it,
Rose begged, the general was as pressing as true politeness would
allow, and it was settled.
"Only" Sin Saxon said, suddenly, on being told, "I should like if you
would tell me, General Ingleside, the precise military expression
synonymous with 'taking the wind out of one's sails.' Because that's
just what you've done for me."
"My dear Miss Saxon! In what way?"
"Invited my party,--some of them,--and taken my road. That's all. I
spoke first, though I didn't speak out loud. See here!" And she
produced a letter from her mother, received that morning. "Observe the
date, if you please,--August 24. 'Your letter reached me yesterday'
And it had travelled round, as usual, two days in papa's pocket,
beside. I always allow for that. 'I quite approve your plan; provided,
as you say, the party be properly matronized, I--h'm--h'm!--That
refers to little explanations of my own. Well, all is, I was going to
do this very thing,--with enlargements. And now Miss Craydocke and I
may collapse."
"Why? when with you and your enlargements we might make the most
admirable combination? At least, the Dixville road is open to all."
"Very kind of you to say so,--the first part, I mean,--if you could
possibly have helped it. But there are insurmountable obstacles on that
Dixville road--to us. There's a lion in the way. Don't you see we should
be like the little ragged boys running after the soldier-company? We
couldn't think of putting ourselves in that 'bony light,' especially
before the eyes of Mrs.--Grundy." This last, as Mrs. Thoresby swept
impressively along the piazza in full dinner costume.
"Unless you go first, and we run after you," suggested the general.
"All the same. You talked Dixville to her the very first evening, you
know. No, nobody can have an original Dixville idea any more. And I've
been asking them,--the Josselyns, and Mr. Wharne and all, and was just
coming to the Goldthwaites; and now I've got them on my hands, and I
don't know where in the world to take them. That comes of keeping an
inspiration to ripen. Well, it's a lesson of wisdom! Only, as Effie
says about her housekeeping, the two dearest things in living are
butter and experience!"
Amidst laughter and banter and repartee, they came to it, of course;
the most delightful combination and joint arrangement. Two wagons, the
general's and Dr. Ingleside's two saddle-horses, Frank Scherman's
little mountain mare, that climbed like a cat, and was sure-footed as
a chamois,--these with a side-saddle for the use of a lady sometimes
upon the last, make up the general equipment of the expedition.
All Mrs. Grundy knew was that they were wonderfully merry and excited
together, until this plan came out as the upshot.
The Josselyns had not quite consented at once, though their faces were
bright with a most thankful appreciation of the kindness that offered
them such a pleasure; nay, that entreated their companionship as a
thing so genuinely coveted to make its own pleasure complete. Somehow,
when the whole plan developed, there was a little sudden shrinking on
Sue's part, perhaps on similar grounds to Sin Saxon's perception of
insurmountable obstacles; but she was shyer than Sin of putting forth
her objections, and the general zeal and delight, and Martha's longing
look, unconscious of cause why not, carried the day.
There had never been a blither setting off from the Giant's Cairn. All
the remaining guests were gathered to see them go. There was not a
mote in the blue air between Outledge and the crest of Washington. All
the subtile strength of the hills--ores and sweet waters and resinous
perfumes and breath of healing leaf and root distilled to absolute
purity in the clear ether that only sweeps from such bare, thunder-scoured
summits--made up the exhilarant draught in which they drank the
mountain-joy and received afar off its baptism of delight.
It was beautiful to see the Josselyns so girlish and gay; it was
lovely to look at old Miss Craydocke, with her little tremors of
pleasure, and the sudden glistenings in her eyes; Sin Saxon's pretty
face was clear and noble, with its pure impulse of kindliness, and her
fun was like a sparkle upon deep waters. Dakie Thayne rushed about in
a sort of general satisfaction which would not let him be quiet
anywhere. Outsiders looked with a kind of new, half-jealous respect on
these privileged few who had so suddenly become the "General's party."
Sin Saxon whispered to Leslie Goldthwaite,--"It's neither his nor
mine, honeysuckle; it's yours,--Henny-penny and all the rest of it, as
Mrs. Linceford said." Leslie was glad with the crowning gladness of
her bright summer.
"That girl has played her cards well," Mrs. Thoresby said of her, a
little below her voice, as she saw the general himself making her
especially comfortable with Cousin Delight in a back seat.
"Particularly, my dear madam," said Marmaduke Wharne, coming close and
speaking with clear emphasis, "as she could not possibly have known
that she had a trump in her hand!"
* * * * *
To tell of all that week's journeying, and of Dixville Notch,--the
adventure, the brightness, the beauty, and the glory,--the sympathy of
abounding enjoyment, the waking of new life that it was to some of
them,--the interchange of thought, the cementing of friendships,--would
be to begin another story, possibly a yet longer one. Leslie's summer,
according to the calendar, is already ended. Much in this world must
pause unfinished, or come to abrupt conclusion. People "die suddenly
at last," after the most tedious illnesses. "Married and lived happy
ever after," is the inclusive summary that winds up many an old tale
whose time of action only runs through hours. If in this summer-time
with Leslie Goldthwaite your thoughts have broadened somewhat with
hers, some questions for you have been partly answered; if it has
appeared to you how a life enriches itself by drawing toward and going
forth into the life of others through seeing how this began with her,
it is no unfinished tale that I leave with you.
A little picture I will give you farther on, a hint of something
farther yet, and say good by.
Some of them came back to Outledge, and stayed far into the still rich
September. Delight and Leslie sat before the Green Cottage one
morning, in the heart of a golden haze and a gorgeous bloom. All
around the feet of the great hills lay the garlands of early-ripened
autumn. You see nothing like it in the lowlands;--nothing like the
fire of the maples, the carbuncle-splendor of the oaks, the flash of
scarlet sumachs and creepers, the illumination of every kind of little
leaf, in its own way, upon which the frost-touch comes down from those
tremendous heights that stand rimy in each morning's sun, trying on
white caps that by and by they shall pull down heavily over their
brows, till they cloak all their shoulders also in the like sculptured
folds, to stand and wait, blind, awful chrysalides, through the long
winter of their death and silence.
Delight and Leslie had got letters from the Josselyns and Dakie Thayne.
There was news in them such as thrills always the half-comprehending
sympathies of girlhood. Leslie's vague suggestion of romance had
become fulfilment. Dakie Thayne was wild with rejoicing that dear old
Noll was to marry Sue. "She had always made him think of Noll, and his
ways and likings, ever since that day of the game of chess that by his
means came to grief. It was awful slang, but he could not help it: it
was just the very jolliest go!"
Susan Josselyn's quiet letter said,--"That kindness which kept us on
and made it beautiful for us, strangers, at Outledge, has brought to
me, by God's providence, this great happiness of my life."
After a long pause of trying to take it in, Leslie looked up. "What a
summer this has been! So full,--so much has happened! I feel as if I
had been living such a great deal!"
"You have been living in others' lives. You have had a great deal to
do with what has happened."
"O Cousin Delight! I have only been _among_ it! I could not _do_
--except such a very little."
"There is a working from us beyond our own. But if our working runs
with that--? You have done more than you will ever know, little one."
Delight Goldthwaite spoke very tenderly. Her own life, somehow, had
been closely touched, through that which had grown and gathered about
Leslie. "It depends on that abiding. 'In me, and I in you; so shall ye
bear much fruit.'"
She stopped. She would not say more. Leslie thought her talking rather
wide of the first suggestion; but this child would never know, as
Delight had said, what a centre, in her simple, loving way, she had
been for the working of a purpose beyond her thought.
Sin Saxon came across the lawn, crowned with gold and scarlet,
trailing creepers twined about her shoulders, and flames of beauty in
her full hands. "Miss Craydocke says she praised God with every leaf
she took. I'm afraid I forgot to--for the little ones. But I was so
greedy and so busy, getting them all for her. Come, Miss Craydocke;
we've got no end of pressing to do, to save half of them!"
"She can't do enough for her. O Cousin Delight, the leaves _are_
glorified, after all! Asenath never was so charming; and she is more
beautiful than ever!"
Delight's glance took in also another face than Asenath's, grown into
something in these months that no training or taking thought could
have done for it. "Yes," she said, in the same still way in which she
had spoken before, "that comes, too,--as God wills. All things shall
be added."
* * * * *
My hint is of a Western home, just outside the leaping growth and
ceaseless stir of a great Western city; a large, low, cosy mansion,
with a certain Old-World mellowness and rest in its aspect,--looking
forth, even, as it does on one side, upon the illimitable sunset-ward
sweep of the magnificent promise of the New; on the other, it catches
a glimpse, beyond and beside the town, of the calm blue of a
fresh-water ocean.
The place is "Ingleside"; the general will call it by no other than
the family name,--the sweet Scottish synonym for Home-corner. And
here, while I have been writing and you reading these pages, he has
had them all with him; Oliver and Susan, on their bridal journey,
which waited for summertime to come again, though they have been six
months married; Rose, of course, and Dakie Thayne, home in vacation
from a great school where he is studying hard, hoping for West Point
by and by; Leslie Goldthwaite, who is Dakie's inspiration still; and
our Flower, our Pansie, our Delight,--golden-eyed Lady of innumerable
sweet names.
The sweetest and truest of all, says the brave soldier and high-souled
gentleman, is that which he has persuaded her to wear for life,--Delight
Ingleside.
A CASE OF COINCIDENCE
By Rose Terry Cooke
She was a queer old lady, was Grandmother Grant; she was not a bit
like other grandmothers; she was short and fat and rosy as a winter
apple, with a great deal of snow-white hair set up in a big puff on
top of her head, and eyes as black as huckleberries, always puckered
up with smiles or laughter.
She never would wear a cap.
"I can't be bothered with 'em!" she said: and when Amelia Rutledge,
who was determined her grandma should, as she said, "look half-way
decent," made her two beautiful little mob caps, soft and fluffy, and
each with a big satin bow, one lavender and one white, put on to show
where the front was, Grandma never put them on right; the bow was over
one ear or behind, or the cap itself was awry, and in the end she
pulled them off and stuck them on a china jar in the parlor, or a tin
canister on the kitchen shelf, and left them there till flies and dust
ruined them.
"Amelia's as obstinate as a pig!" said the old lady: "she would have
me wear 'em, and I wouldn't!"
That was all, but it was enough; not a grandchild ever made her
another cap. Moreover Grandmother Grant always dressed in one fashion;
she had a calico dress for morning and a black silk for the afternoon,
made with an old-fashioned surplice waist, with a thick plaited ruff
about her throat; she sometimes tied a large white apron on, but only
when she went into the kitchen; and she wore a pocket as big as three
of yours, Matilda, tied on underneath and reached through a slit in
her gown. Therein she kept her keys, her smelling-bottle, her
pocket-book, her handkerchief and her spectacles, a bit of flagroot
and some liquorice stick. I mean when I say this, that all these
things belonged in her pocket, and she meant to keep them there; but
it was one peculiarity of the dear old lady, that she always lost her
necessary conveniences, and lost them every day.
"Maria!" she would call out to her daughter in the next room, "have
you seen my spectacles?"
"No, mother; when did you have them?"
"Five minutes ago, darning Harry's stockings; but never mind, there's
another pair in the basket."
In half an hour when Gerty came into her room for something she
needed, Grandmother would say:
"Gerty, do look on the floor and see if my specs lie anywhere around."
Gerty couldn't find them, and then Grandma would say:
"Probably they dropped out on the grass under the window, you can see
when you go down; but give me my gold pair out of my upper drawer."
And when Mrs. Maria went to call her mother down to dinner she would
find her hunting all about the room, turning her cushions over,
peering into the wood-basket, shaking out the silk quilt, and say
"What is it you want, mother?"
"My specs, dear. I can't find one pair."
"But there are three on your head now!" and Grandma would sit down and
laugh till she shook all over, as if it were the best joke in the
world to push your spectacles up over the short white curls on your
forehead, one pair after another, and forget all about them.
She mislaid her handkerchief still oftener. Gerty would sometimes pick
up six of these useful articles in one day where the old lady dropped
them as she went about the house; but the most troublesome of all her
habits was a way she had of putting her pocket-book in some queer
place every night, or if ever she left home in the day-time, and then
utterly forgetting where she had secreted it from the burglars or
thieves she had all her life expected.
The house she lived in was her own, but Doctor White who had married
her daughter Maria, rented it of her, and the rent paid her board; she
had a thousand dollars a year beside, half of which she reserved for
her dress and her charities, keeping the other half for her Christmas
gifts to her children and grandchildren. There were ten of these last,
and the ten always needed something. Gerty White, the doctor's
daughter, was twelve years old; she had three brothers: Tom, John, and
Harry, all older than she was. Mrs. Rutledge, who had been Annie
Grant, was a widow with three daughters--Sylvia, Amelia, and Anne,
these latter two now out in society and always glad of new dresses,
gloves, bonnets, ribbons, lace, and the thousand small fineries girls
never have to their full satisfaction. There were Thomas Grant's two
girls of thirteen and fifteen, Rosamond and Kate, and his little boy
Hal, crippled in his babyhood so that he must always go on crutches,
but as bright and happy as Grandma herself, and her prime favorite.
Now it was Grandma's way to draw her money out of the bank two weeks
before Christmas, and go into Boston with Mrs. White to buy all the
things she had previously thought over for these ten and their
parents; and one winter she had made herself all ready to take the
ten-o'clock train, and had just taken her pocket-book out of the
drawer when she was called down-stairs to see a poor woman who had
come begging for some clothes for her husband.
"Come right upstairs, Mrs. Slack," said Grandma. "I don't have many
applications for men's things, so I guess there's a coat of Mr.
Grant's put away in the camphor chest, and maybe a vest or so; you sit
right down by my fire whilst I go up to the garret and look."
It took Grandma some time to find the clothes under all the shawls and
blankets in the chest, and when she had given them to Mrs. Slack she
had to hurry to the station with her daughter, and the cars being on
the track they did not stop to get tickets, but were barely in time to
find seats when the train rolled off. The conductor came round in a
few minutes and Grandma put her hand in her pocket, suddenly turned
pale, opened her big satchel and turned out all its contents, stood up
and shook her dress, looked on the floor, and when Mrs. White said in
amazement, "What _is_ the matter, mother?" she answered curtly, "I've
lost my pocket-book."
"Was it in your pocket?" asked Maria.
"Yes; at least I s'pose so: I certainly took it out of my drawer, for
I noticed how heavy 'twas; that new cashier gave me gold for most of
it, you see."
"You'd have known then if you dropped it on the way, mother."
"I should think so: any way, I can't go to Boston without it! We may
as well stop at the next station and go back."
So back they went; asked at the ticket office if any such thing had
been picked up on the platform, and leaving a description of it, went
rather forlornly back to the house. Here a terrible upturning of
everything took place; drawers were emptied, cupboards ransacked,
trunks explored, even the camphor chest examined to its depths, and
everything in it shaken out.
"You don't suspect Mrs. Slack?" inquired Maria.
"Sally Slack! no, indeed. I've known her thirty year, Maria; she's
honest as the daylight."
Still Maria thought it best to send for Mrs. Slack and inquire if she
had seen it when she was at the house.
"Certain, certain!" answered the good woman. "I see Mis' Grant hev it
into her hand when she went up charmber; I hedn't took no notice of it
before, but she spoke up an' says, says she, 'I'll go right up now,
Mis' Slack, for I'm in some of a hurry, bein' that I'm a goin' in the
cars to Bosstown for to buy our folkses' Christmas things;' so then I
took notice 't she hed a pocket-book into her hand."
This was valuable testimony, and Mrs. Slack's face of honest concern
and sympathy showed her innocence in the matter. Next day there was an
advertisement put in the paper, for the family concluded Grandma must
have dropped her money in the street going to the station, but the
advertisement proved as fruitless as the search, and for once in her
life the dear old lady was downcast enough.
"The first time I never gave 'em a thing on Christmas! I do feel real
downhearted about it, Maria. There's Annie's three girls lotted so on
their gloves an' nicknacks for parties this winter, for I was goin' to
give them gold pieces so's they could get what they wanted sort of
fresh when they _did_ want it; and poor Gerty's new cloak!"
"Oh, never mind that, mother. I can sponge and turn and fix over the
old one; a plush collar and cuffs will make it all right."
"But there's the boys. Tom did want that set of tools and a bench for
'em; and I reckoned on seeing Harry's eyes shine over a real
Newfoundland dog. That makes me think; won't you write to that man in
New York? I've changed my mind about the dog. And Jack can't go to
Thomas's now for vacation; oh dear!"
"_Don't_ worry, mother," said Maria; but Grandma went on:
"Kate and Rosy too, they won't get their seal muffs and caps, and dear
little Hal! how he will long for the books I promised him. It's real
trying, Maria!" and Grandma wiped a tear from her eyes, a most unusual
symptom.
But it was her way to make the best of things, and she sat down at
once to tell Thomas of her loss, and then put it out of her mind as
well as she might.
It spoke well for all those ten grandchildren that they each felt far
more sorry for Grandmother Grant's disappointment than their own, and
all resolved to give her a present much nicer and more expensive than
ever before, pinching a little on their other gifts to the end; and
because they had to spare from their own presents for this laudable
purpose, it was natural enough that not one should tell another what
they meant to send her, lest it should seem too extravagant in
proportion to what the rest of the family received. Christmas morning
the arrival began. The stocking of Grandpa's which Gerty had insisted
on hanging to the knob of Grandma's door was full, and when she came
down to breakfast she brought it with her still unsearched, that the
family might enjoy her surprise.
At the top a square parcel tied with blue ribbon was marked "from
Gerty," and proved to be a little velvet porte-monnaie.
"Dear child! how thoughtful!" said Grandma, giving her a kiss, and not
observing that the doctor looked funnily at Mrs. White across the
table.
The next package bore John's name and disclosed a pocket-book of
Russia leather.
"So useful!" said Grandma, with a twinkle of gratitude in her kind old
eyes.
Harry emitted a long low whistle, and his eyes shone as the next paper
parcel with his name on it showed an honest black leather pocket-book
with a steel clasp.
Grandma had to laugh. Doctor White roared, and Tom looked a little
rueful as his bundle produced another wallet as like to Harry's as two
peas in a pod:
"Dear boys!" said Grandma, shaking like a liberal bowl of jelly with
the laughter she tried to suppress in vain; but it was the boys' turn
to shout as further explorations into the foot of the old blue
stocking brought up a lovely seal-skin wallet from their mother, and
a voluminous yellow leather one from the doctor.
"Six souls with but a single thought;
Six hearts that beat as one;"
misquoted Mrs. Maria, and a chorus of laughter that almost rattled the
windows followed her. They were still holding their sides and bursting
out afresh every other minute, when little Sylvia Rutledge sailed into
the dining-room with a delicate basket in her hand.
"Merry Christmas!" said she, "but you seem to have it already."
The boys all rushed at once to explain.
"Wait a minute," said she, "till I have given Grandma her gifts," and
she produced successively from her basket four parcels.
Sylvia's held another velvet porte-monnaie; Annie's contained a second
of hand-painted kid, daisies on a black ground; and Amelia's was a
third pocket-book of gray canvas with Russia leather corners and
straps; while Mrs. Rutledge's tiny packet produced an old-fashioned
short purse, with steel fringe and clasp, which she had knit herself
for her mother.
How can words tell the laughter which hailed this repetition?
The boys rolled off their chairs and roared till their very sides
ached; tears streamed down Mrs. White's fair face; Grace gazed at the
presents with a look half rueful and half funny, while the doctor's
vigorous "haw! haw! haw!" could have been heard half a mile had it not
been happily the season of shut doors and windows, while Sylvia
herself perceiving the six pocket-books which had preceded her
basketful, appreciated the situation and laughed all the harder
because she was not tired with a previous fit of mirth, and Grandma
sat shaking and chuckling in her chair, out of breath to be sure, but
her face rosy and her eyes shining more than ever.
Suddenly a loud knock at the front door interrupted their laughter.
Tom ran to admit the intruder; it was the expressman with a box from
New York directed in uncle Tom's hand to Mrs. J. G. Grant.
"Something better than pocket-books this time, mother!" said the
doctor, as Tom ran for the screwdriver; but alas! the very first
bundle that rolled out and fell heavily to the floor, proved when
picked up to be indeed another pocket-book, cornered and clasped with
silver, and Grandma's initials on the clasp; beautiful as the gift was
it was thrust aside with a certain impatience, for the next package,
labelled "from Rosamond," but opened only to display the very
counterpart of Amelia's gift; and a paper box with Kate's script
outside held the recurrent pocket-book again in black velvet and gilt
corners, while a little carved white-wood box, the work of Hal's
patient fingers, showed within its lid a purse of silvered links which
had cost all his year's savings.
This was the last touch. Hitherto their curiosity as one thing was
displayed after another had kept them in a sort of bubbling quiet, but
this final development was too much; they laughed so loud and so long
that old Hannah, hurrying from the kitchen and opening the door to see
what was the matter, looked thunderstruck as she beheld the whole
family shaking, choking, rolling about or holding on to each other in
roars of sidesplitting laughter, while fourteen purses and pocket-books
made the breakfast table look like a fancy fair.
"I thought I heard a crackling of thorns, as scripter says," she
growled. "Be you a-going to set up a fancy store, Mis' White?"
"Bring in breakfast, Hannah," said the doctor, recovering himself.
"It's a melancholy truth that we can't eat pocket-books!"
For the satisfaction of the curious I must explain that the next May,
when a certain old clock on the landing of the garret stairs was taken
down to be put in order and made into a household god after the modern
rage for such things, right under it lay Grandma's pocket-book intact.
"Well, now I remember!" said the astonished old lady, who never did
remember where she had hidden anything till somebody else found it.
"I was goin' up to the chest to get out those things of husband's for
Sally Slack, and I thought I wouldn't leave my pocket-book in my room,
'twould be putting temptation in her way, which isn't really right if
a person is ever so honest; we're all frail as you may say when our
time comes, and I didn't have my cloak on to put it in the pocket, and
my under pocket was full, so I just slipped it under the clock case as
I went up, feeling certain sure I should remember it because I never
put it there before."
But the family voted that no harm had been done after all, for next
Christmas the Rutledge girls each had a lovely silk party dress from
the double fund; Gracie's cloak was mated by the prettiest hat and
muff; Tom had his wild desire for a bicycle fulfilled; Harry owned a
real gold watch which was far better than a dog; and Jack's ten gold
eagles took him in the spring to Niagara and down the St. Lawrence, a
journey never to be forgotten. Kate and Rosamond had their sealskin
caps with muffs, gloves and velvet skirts to correspond with and
supplement their last year's jackets; and Hal not only had his
precious books, but a bookcase for them, and the pocket-books were
redistributed among their givers; so that in the end good and not evil
came of Grandma's losing her Christmas pocket-book!
THE FLIGHT OF THE DOLLS
By Lucretia P. Hale
How could the heart of doll wish for anything more in such a
baby-house! It was fitted up in the most complete style; there were
coal-hods for all the grates, and gas-fixtures in the drawing-rooms,
and a register (which would not _rege_., however!), carpets on all the
floors, books on the centre-table; everything to make a sensible doll
comfortable. But they were not happy, these dolls, seven of them, not
counting the paper dolls. They were very discontented. They had always
been happy till the Spanish Doll had come among them, dressed in a
gypsy dress, yellow and black lace. But she had talked to them so much
about the world that all were anxious to go abroad and see it,
all,--from the large one that could open and shut her eyes, to the
littlest China that could not sit down.
So they set out, one clear night. The Spanish Doll had put a chip in
the play-room window that made it easier to open; and the Large Doll
had slept outside the baby-house, so she opened the doors and let out
the others. All stepped safely upon the piazza. Where should they go
first?
The first plan was for the lamb-pen, and they made for it directly.
The Spanish Doll walked through its slats; the Large Doll pushed in
the little ones, but when she came to go in herself, horrible to
say--she _stuck_! The Spanish Doll pulled, and the little dolls ran
out and pushed. No use!
If Angelica Maria could have seen her Large Doll now! But no, Angelica
Maria's head was asleep on its pillow; she little knew of the escape
of her dolls!
At last said the Large Doll, "Wake up the Lamb and tell him!" Which
they did, and he came and butted, till he butted the Large Doll out.
"It is no use," said the Large Doll, "we must try something else," and
the rest all came out of the pen. They went to the dovecote. The
Spanish Doll quickly climbed the ladder; so could the Large Doll. But
when she turned to help the little ones, her head was too heavy, and
she was not stiff enough to stoop. "We must try something else," said
she, and the Spanish Doll had to come down, scolding Spanish all the
way. Then they walked down the garden walk, all in a procession, the
Large Doll leading the way; they reached the arbor at the foot of the
garden. "Let us all sit in a row here," said the Large Doll. So they
got upon the seat, facing the door, running up a board that was laid
against the seat. Here they sat till the morning began to dawn.
Angelica Maria could have seen them now, but she was still fast asleep
on her pillow.
"This will never do," exclaimed the Large Doll, as soon as light came,
"for they can see us from the play room, our eyes all in a row." They
must hide during the day time, and start on their journey when night
should come again. But where should they go? They walked up and down
the green alleys. The scarlet poppies nodded to them sleepily, and the
roses put out a thorn or two, to get them to stop. The little China
would have been very tired, but a broad-backed Toad kindly offered to
carry her. If Angelica Maria could have seen them now!
"Let us speak to some of the animals," said the Large Doll, "and ask
where we shall hide."
"Not the Cat," said a middle-sized Doll, "for she makes up faces."
"Suppose we ask the birds," said the Large Doll, for they were just
waking up. The Spanish Doll soon made acquaintance with an Oriole, who
agreed to take her up to his nest for the day. It was just fitted up,
and Mrs. had not moved in. Fortunately the Spanish Doll was quite
slender, so the Oriole could lift her, and her dress matched his
feathers. The squirrels kindly took some of the others into their
nests under the beech-tree, and the Large Doll tucked the littlest
China into a fox-glove. "Where shall I go myself?" thought she. "There
is one comfort; if I want to go to sleep, I can shut my eyes, which
none of the rest can do wherever they are." So she walked round till
she came to a water-melon, with a three-cornered piece cut out. She
climbed up on a Rabbit's back, and looked in. A cat had eaten out the
inside. "This will do very well for me," said she, "and I feel like
having a nap by this time, if only somebody would pull my wire!" The
Rabbit knew of a dragon-fly who was strong in his feelers; but the
Large Doll had an objection to dragon-flies, so she flung herself in
with a jounce, and that closed her eyes. The Rabbit tucked in her
skirts, and there she was.
Could Angelica Maria have seen them now! Some hidden among the low
branches of the spruces, where the robins had invited them; some still
chatting in the bushes, with the jays; the Spanish Doll swinging in
the Oriole's nest, way up in the elm. That was life!
But Angelica Maria was calmly eating her breakfast. A friend had
invited her to a picnic for the day, so, instead of thinking of her
dolls she was planning what she should carry.
One thought she did give to her Large Doll. She wished to take her to
the picnic. But, of course, she could not be found! If the Large Doll
had only known, how she would have regretted that she had run away!
For she was fond of picnics, and now she was sleeping in this damp
melon!
But she knew nothing of it till the Spanish Doll came to wake her, and
tell her that all the family had gone away for the day. Far up in the
Oriole's nest in the elm tree, the Spanish Doll had seen them go. Now,
if ever, was the time for fun. So the Large Doll came out of her
melon, jumped open her eyes, assembled the rest, and asked what they
should do. A large Dor-bug who was going that way, advised them to try
the strawberry bed. "Oh, yes," all exclaimed, "the strawberry bed!"
The procession was formed but two were missing! In passing the
fox-gloves, where the little China had been hidden, many had shut up
never to open again, and she could not be found. A middling-sized
Doll, with boots, was missing also! In vain they called; there was no
answer.
The Spanish Doll ran up a nasturtium vine, to see that all was safe.
She sat on a scarlet nasturtium at the very top of the post, and
declared "all was quiet in the strawberry bed," and came down.
What a jolly time they had among the strawberries! The Large Doll sat
under a vine, and the strawberries dropped into her mouth, and the
stiffer dolls stood up and helped themselves. Such fun as they had!
They got strawberries all over their faces, and their hands, and their
light dresses! This they liked so much, for they usually had to be
careful. How they chatted, and one told how the squirrels lived, and
another about the robins. And the Spanish Doll told how delightful it
was up in the Oriole's nest. She had half a mind to hire it for the
summer. All this was much more charming than their dull baby-house;
though the Large Doll declared she had been used all her life to
better society than she had yet found in the melon.
But all this festivity was put an end to by a sudden shower. The
Spanish Doll, afraid for her black lace, made for a hen-coop, where
she had a battle with a Poland. The rest ran into the summer-house.
As soon as the rain ceased, however, all came out from their
hiding-places. There was a beautiful rainbow in the sky, and as the
dolls walked down the alley, they suddenly saw that the garden gate
was open. They ran eagerly toward it, and soon were out in the Wide
World! They crossed the broad road, into the fields, into the meadows.
They stumbled through a potato-patch, and ran in and out of
cornstalks. In their hurry they had to stop to breathe now and then,
all but one Doll whose mouth was always open. They reached a little
stream and ran along its border, and never stopped till they came to
a shady place among some trees, by mossy rocks. Here they might be
safe, and here they stopped to think.
Hunger was their first sensation. One of the dolls drew from her
pocket a pewter gridiron, which she had snatched from the kitchen fire
when they fled, the night before. There were three fish on it, one
red, one yellow, one blue. These they shared, and were satisfied for a
little while. How lovely was the spot, they began to say. How charming
it would be to set up housekeeping among the rushes. It was even
suggested that, from time to time, one of them might return to the
deserted baby-house, and bring from it comfortable furniture--a dish
here, a flat-iron there. But in the midst of their cheerful talk, a
terrible accident!
The Spanish Doll was thirsty, and leaning over the edge of a brook,
she lost her balance, and fell into the water! The exhausted dolls all
rushed to the rescue. All their efforts were vain; but a large
Bull-frog kindly came to help, and lifted the Spanish Doll's head from
the stream, and propped it up against the reeds. But what a state she
was in! The bright color washed from her cheeks, her raven hair all
dimmed, the lustre of her eyes all gone. A fashionable Doll in vain
attempted consolation, suggesting the greater charms of light hair and
rats; in vain did the Large Doll speak of the romance of the
adventure, and call the Bullfrog their Don Quixote; a heavy gloom hung
over all. It was the Spanish Doll that had led them on, that had kept
up their spirits; now hers had failed, and with her feet still in the
water, she leaned her head wearily against the reeds.
Suddenly voices were heard! Steps approached! Each doll rushed to a
hiding place. It was the voice of Angelica Maria herself! Some of the
picnic party had decided to walk down the stream, on their way home,
and Angelica Maria was among them.
The Spanish Doll had drawn a reed across her face, to hide it, but the
Large Doll had not been able to fly quickly enough, and was left in
full view, leaning against a mullein. A blush suffused her cheek. What
was Angelica Maria's surprise!
"Who can have brought my Large Doll here?" she exclaimed. "It must
have been the boys,"--meaning her brothers; "how wicked of them to
leave her out in that shower. And here are the twins, Euphrosyne and
Calliope, all hidden among the bushes, and dear little Eunice! They
look as if they had been in the wars! How could Tom have known we were
coming this way? How naughty of him!"
"Perhaps he meant a little surprise," suggested her uncle. But
Angelica Maria picked up her dolls and fondled them, and were not they
glad of the rest, after that weary march?
All but the Spanish Doll! Why had she not spoken? And would Angelica
Maria have known her Spanish Doll if she had? When the trees were left
all silent again, and the voices had died away, perhaps the Spanish
Doll was sorry she had hidden her face,--that she had not lifted up
her arms. But she was very proud. How could she have borne to be
recognized? For she felt that one of her feet was washed off by the
flowing stream, and her gay yellow and black dress soiled and torn.
The Bull-frog at last succeeded in lifting her to the shore. A kindly
Musk-rat begged her to be his housekeeper; limping, she went into his
soft-lined house, and was grateful even for this humble abode. Often
she thought of the past, and cheered the simple fireside with tales of
adventure, with the grandeur of Life in a Baby-house, and how she
might have been the bride of an Oriole. But was she not missed in the
baby-house? Angelica Maria wept her loss, but her uncle consoled her
by telling her the Spanish Doll must have retired to one of her
castles in Spain. This cheered Angelica Maria, and she busied herself
in fitting new dresses for the poor travel-stained dolls she had left.
So this was the end of the Flight of the Dolls. You can imagine
whether they ever tried it again, or rested satisfied with their
comfortable home. A few days after, Angelica Maria saw a little head
peeping out of a withered fox-glove. It was that of the littlest
China. She was much emaciated, having had nothing to eat but a few
drops of honey brought her by a benevolent Bee. Even these had cloyed.
Years after, when the spout of the wood-house was cleared out, the
boots of a middling-sized Doll were seen. They belonged to the
middling-sized Doll with boots, who had clambered up to the dovecote,
and had lost her balance in the gutter. She had passed a miserable
existence, summer and winter, bewailing her fate, and looking at her
boots.
SOLOMON JOHN GOES FOR APPLES
By Lucretia P. Hale
Solomon John agreed to ride to Farmer Jones's for a basket of apples,
and he decided to go on horseback. The horse was brought round to the
door. Now he had not ridden for a great while; and, though the little
boys were there to help him, he had great trouble in getting on the
horse.
He tried a great many times, but always found himself facing the wrong
way, looking at the horse's tail. They turned the horse's head, first
up the street, then down the street; it made no difference; he always
made some mistake, and found himself sitting the wrong way.
"Well," said he, at last, "I don't know as I care. If the horse has
his head in the right direction, that is the main thing. Sometimes I
ride this way in the cars, because I like it better. I can turn my
head easily enough, to see where we are going." So off he went, and
the little boys said he looked like a circus-rider, and they were much
pleased.
He rode along out of the village, under the elms, very quietly. Pretty
soon he came to a bridge, where the road went across a little stream.
There a road at the side, leading down to the stream, because
sometimes waggoners watered their horses there. Solomon John's horse
turned off, too, to drink of the water.
"Very well," said Solomon John, "I don't blame him for wanting to wet
his feet, and to take a drink, this hot day."
When they reached the middle of the stream, the horse bent over his
head.
"How far his neck comes into his back!" exclaimed Solomon John; and at
that very moment he found he had slid down over the horse's head, and
was sitting on a stone, looking into the horse's face. There were two
frogs, one on each side of him, sitting just as he was, which pleased
Solomon John, so he began to laugh instead of to cry.
But the two frogs jumped into the water.
"It is time for me to go on," said Solomon John. So he gave a jump, as
he had seen the frogs do; and this time he came all right on the
horse's back, facing the way he was going.
"It is a little pleasanter," said he.
The horse wanted to nibble a little of the grass by the side of the
way; but Solomon John remembered what a long neck he had, and would
not let him stop.
At last he reached Farmer Jones, who gave him his basket of apples.
Next he was to go on to a cider-mill, up a little lane by Farmer
Jones's house, to get a jug of cider. But as soon as the horse was
turned into the lane, he began to walk very slowly,--so slowly that
Solomon John thought he would not get there before night. He whistled,
and shouted, and thrust his knees into the horse, but still he would
not go.
"Perhaps the apples are too heavy for him," said he. So he began by
throwing one of the apples out of the basket. It hit the fence by the
side of the road, and that started up the horse, and he went on
merrily.
"That was the trouble," said Solomon John; "that apple was too heavy
for him."
But very soon the horse began to go slower and slower.
So Solomon John thought he would try another apple. This hit a large
rock, and bounded back under the horse's feet, and sent him off at a
great pace. But very soon he fell again into a slow walk.
Solomon John had to try another apple. This time it fell into a pool
of water, and made a great splash, and set the horse out again for a
little while; he soon returned to a slow walk,--so slow that Solomon
John thought it would be to-morrow morning before he got to the
cider-mill.
"It is rather a waste of apples," thought he; "but I can pick them up
as I come back, because the horse will be going home at a quick pace."
So he flung out another apple; that fell among a party of ducks, and
they began to make such a quacking and a waddling, that it frightened
the horse into a quick trot.
So the only way Solomon John could make his horse go was by flinging
his apples, now on one side, now on the other. One time he frightened
a cow, that ran along by the side of the road, while the horse raced
with her. Another time he started up a brood of turkeys, that gobbled
and strutted enough to startle twenty horses. In another place he came
near hitting a boy, who gave such a scream that it sent the horse off
at a furious rate.
And Solomon John got quite excited himself, and he did not stop till
he had thrown away all his apples, and had reached the corner of the
cider-mill.
"Very well," said he, "if the horse is so lazy, he won't mind my
stopping to pick up the apples on the way home. And I am not sure but
I shall prefer walking a little to riding the beast."
The man came out to meet him from the cider-mill, and reached him the
jug. He was just going to take it, when he turned his horse's head
round, and, delighted at the idea of going home, the horse set off at
a full run without waiting for the jug. Solomon John clung to the
reins, and his knees held fast to the horse. He called out "Whoa!
whoa!" but the horse would not stop.
He went galloping on past the boy, who stopped, and flung an apple at
him; past the turkeys, that came and gobbled at him; by the cow, that
turned and ran back in a race with them until her breath gave out; by
the ducks, that came and quacked at him; by an old donkey, that brayed
over the wall at him; by some hens, that ran into the road under the
horse's feet, and clucked at him; by a great rooster, that stood up on
a fence, and crowed at him; by Farmer Jones, who looked out to see
what had become of him; down the village street, and he never stopped
till he had reached the door of the house.
Out came Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin, Agamemnon, Elizabeth Eliza, and the
little boys.
Solomon John got off his horse all out of breath.
"Where is the jug of cider?" asked Mrs. Peterkin.
"It is at the cider-mill," said Solomon John.
"At the mill!" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin.
"Yes," said Solomon John; "the little boys had better walk out for it;
they will enjoy it; and they had better take a basket; for on the way
they will find plenty of apples, scattered all along on either side of
the lane, and hens, and ducks, and turkeys, and a donkey."
The little boys looked at each other, and went; but they stopped
first, and put on their india-rubber boots.
WILD ROBIN
By Sophie May
In the green valley of the Yarrow, near the castle-keep of Norham,
dwelt an honest sonsy little family, whose only grief was an unhappy
son, named Robin.
Janet, with jimp form, bonnie eyes, and cherry cheeks, was the best of
daughters: the boys, Sandie and Davie, were swift-footed, brave, kind,
and obedient; but Robin, the youngest, had a stormy temper, and, when
his will was crossed, he became as reckless as a reeling hurricane.
Once, in a passion, he drove two of his father's "kye," or cattle,
down a steep hill to their death. He seemed not to care for home or
kindred, and often pierced the tender heart of his mother with sharp
words. When she came at night, and "happed" the bed-clothes carefully
about his form, and then stooped to kiss his nut-brown cheeks, he
turned away with a frown, muttering, "Mither, let me be."
It was a sad case with Wild Robin, who seemed to have neither love nor
conscience.
"My heart is sair," sighed his mother, "wi' greeting over sich a son."
"He hates our auld cottage and our muckle wark," said the poor father.
"Ah, weel! I could a'maist wish the fairies had him for a season, to
teach him better manners."
This the gudeman said heedlessly, little knowing there was any danger
of Robin's being carried away to Elfland. Whether the fairies were at
that instant listening under the eaves, will never be known; but it
chanced, one day, that Wild Robin was sent across the moors to fetch
the kye.
"I'll rin away," thought the boy: "'tis hard indeed if ilka day a
great lad like me must mind the kye. I'll gae aff; and they'll think
me dead."
So he gaed, and he gaed, over round swelling hills, over old
battle-fields, past the roofless ruins of houses whose walls were
crowned with tall climbing grasses, till he came to a crystal sheet of
water, called St. Mary's Loch. Here he paused to take breath. The sky
was dull and lowering; but at his feet were yellow flowers, which
shone, on that gray day, like freaks of sunshine.
He threw himself wearily upon the grass, not heeding that he had
chosen his couch within a little mossy circle known as a "fairy's
ring." Wild Robin knew that the country people would say the fays had
pressed that green circle with their light feet. He had heard all the
Scottish lore of brownies, elves, will-o'-the-wisps, and the strange
water-kelpies, who shriek with eldritch laughter. He had been told
that the queen of the fairies had coveted him from his birth, and
would have stolen him away, only that, just as she was about to seize
him from the cradle, he had _sneezed_; and from that instant the
fairy-spell was over, and she had no more control of him.
Yet, in spite of all these stories, the boy was not afraid; and if he
had been informed that any of the uncanny people were, even now,
haunting his footsteps, he would not have believed it.
"I see," said Wild Robin, "the sun is drawing his night-cap over his
eyes, and dropping asleep. I believe I'll e'en take a nap mysel', and
see what comes o' it."
In two minutes he had forgotten St. Mary's Loch, the hills, the moors,
the yellow flowers. He heard, or fancied he heard, his sister Janet
calling him home.
"And what have ye for supper?" he muttered between his teeth.
"Parritch and milk," answered the lassie gently.
"Parritch and milk! Whist! say nae mair! Lang, lang! may ye wait for
Wild Robin: he'll not gae back for oatmeal parritch!"
Next a sad voice fell on his ear.
"Mither's; and she mourns me dead!" thought he; but it was only the
far-off village-bell, which sounded like the echo of music he had
heard lang syne, but might never hear again.
"D'ye think I'm not alive?" tolled the bell. "I sit all day in my
little wooden temple, brooding over the sins of the parish."
"A brazen lie!" cried Robin.
"Nay, the truth, as I'm a living soul! Wae worth ye, Robin Telfer: ye
think yersel' hardly used. Say, have your brithers softer beds than
yours? Is your ain father served with larger potatoes or creamier
buttermilk? Whose mither sae kind as yours, ungrateful chiel? Gae to
Elfland, Wild Robin; and dool and wae follow ye! dool and wae follow
ye!"
The round yellow sun had dropped behind the hills; the evening breezes
began to blow; and now could be heard the faint trampling of small
hoofs, and the tinkling of tiny bridle-bells: the fairies were
trooping over the ground. First of all rode the queen.
"Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,
Her mantle of the velvet fine;
At ilka tress of her horse's mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine."
But Wild Robin's closed eyes saw nothing; his sleep-sealed ears heard
nothing. The queen of the fairies dismounted, stole up to him, and
laid her soft fingers on his cheeks.
"Here is a little man after my ain heart," said she: "I like his
knitted brow, and the downward curve of his lips. Knights, lift him
gently, set him on a red-roan steed, and waft him away to Fairy-land."
Wild Robin was lifted as gently as a brown leaf borne by the wind; he
rode as softly as if the red-roan steed had been saddled with satin,
and shod with velvet. It even may be that the faint tinkling of the
bridle-bells lulled him into a deeper slumber; for when he awoke it
was morning in Fairy-land.
Robin sprang from his mossy couch, and stared about him. Where was he?
He rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Dreaming, no doubt; but what
meant all these nimble little beings bustling hither and thither in
hot haste? What meant these pearl-bedecked caves, scarcely larger than
swallows' nests? these green canopies, overgrown with moss? He pinched
himself, and gazed again. Countless flowers nodded to him, and seemed,
like himself, on tiptoe with curiosity, he thought. He beckoned one of
the busy, dwarfish little brownies toward him.
"I ken I'm talking in my sleep," said the lad; "but can ye tell me
what dell is this, and how I chanced to be in it?"
The brownie might or might not have heard; but, at any rate, he
deigned no reply, and went on with his task, which was pounding seeds
in a stone mortar.
"Am I Robin Telfer, of the Valley of Yarrow, and yet canna shake aff
my silly dreams?"
"Weel, my lad," quoth the queen of the fairies, giving him a smart tap
with her wand, "stir yersel', and be at work; for naebody idles in
Elf-land."
Bewildered Robin ventured a look at the little queen. By daylight she
seemed somewhat sleepy and tired; and was withal so tiny, that he
might almost have taken her between his thumb and finger, and twirled
her above his head; yet she poised herself before him on a
mullein-stalk and looked every inch a queen.
Robin found her gaze oppressive; for her eyes were hard and cold and
gray, as if they had been little orbs of granite.
"Get ye to work, Wild Robin!"
"What to do?" meekly asked the boy, hungrily glancing at a few kernels
of rye which had rolled out of one of the brownie's mortars.
"Are ye hungry, my laddie? Touch a grain of rye if ye dare! Shell
these dry beans; and if so be ye're starving, eat as many as ye can
boil in an acorn-cup."
With these words she gave the boy a withered bean-pod, and, summoning
a meek little brownie, bade him see that the lad did not over-fill the
acorn-cup, and that he did not so much as peck at a grain of rye.
Then glancing sternly at her prisoner, she withdrew, sweeping after
her the long train of her green robe.
The dull days crept by, and still there seemed no hope that Wild Robin
would ever escape from his beautiful but detested prison. He had no
wings, poor laddie; and he could neither become invisible nor draw
himself through a keyhole bodily.
It is true, he had mortal companions: many chubby babies; many
bright-eyed boys and girls, whose distracted parents were still
seeking them, far and wide, upon the earth. It would almost seem that
the wonders of Fairy-land might make the little prisoners happy. There
were countless treasures to be had for the taking, and the very dust
in the little streets was precious with specks of gold: but the poor
children shivered for the want of a mother's love; they all pined for
the dear home-people.
If a certain task seemed to them particularly irksome, the heartless
queen was sure to find it out, and oblige them to perform it, day
after day. If they disliked any article of food, that, and no other,
were they forced to eat, or starve.
Wild Robin, loathing his withered beans and unsalted broths, longed
intensely for one little breath of fragrant steam from the toothsome
parritch on his father's table, one glance at a roasted potato. He was
homesick for the gentle sister he had neglected, the rough brothers
whose cheeks he had pelted black and blue; and yearned for the very
chinks in the walls, the very thatch on the home-roof.
Gladly would he have given every fairy-flower, at the root of which
clung a lump of gold ore, if he might have had his own coverlet
"happed" about him once more by the gentle hands he had despised.
"Mither," he whispered in his dreams, "my shoon are worn, and my feet
bleed; but I'll soon creep hame, if I can. Keep the parritch warm for
me."
Robin was as strong as a mountain-goat; and his strength was put to
the task of threshing rye, grinding oats and corn, or drawing water
from a brook.
Every night, troops of gay fairies and plodding brownies stole off on
a visit to the upper world, leaving Robin and his companions in
ever-deeper despair. Poor Robin! he was fain to sing,--
"Oh that my father had ne'er on me smiled!
Oh that my mother had ne'er to me sung!
Oh that my cradle had never been rocked,
But that I had died when I was young!"
Now, there was one good-natured brownie who pitied Robin. When he took
a journey to earth with his fellow-brownies, he often threshed rye for
the laddie's father, or churned butter in his good mother's dairy,
unseen and unsuspected. If the little creature had been watched, and
paid for these good offices, he would have left the farmhouse forever
in sore displeasure.
To homesick Robin he brought news of the family who mourned him as
dead. He stole a silky tress of Janet's fair hair, and wondered to see
the boy weep over it; for brotherly affection is a sentiment which
never yet penetrated the heart of a brownie. The dull little sprite
would gladly have helped the poor lad to his freedom, but told him
that only on one night of the year was there the least hope, and that
was on Hallow-e'en, when the whole nation of fairies ride in
procession through the streets of earth.
So Robin was instructed to spin a dream, which the kind brownie would
hum in Janet's ear while she slept. By this means the lassie would not
only learn that her brother was in the power of the elves, but would
also learn how to release him.
Accordingly, the night before Hallow-e'en, the bonnie Janet dreamed
that the long-lost Robin was living in Elf-land, and that he was to
pass through the streets with a cavalcade of fairies. But, alas! how
should even a sister know him in the dim starlight, and among the
passing troops of elfish and mortal riders? The dream assured her that
she might let the first company go by, and the second; but Robin would
be one of the third:--
"First let pass the black, Janet,
And syne let pass the brown;
But grip ye to the milk-white steed,
And pull the rider down.
For _I_ ride on the milk-white steed,
And aye nearest the town:
Because I was a christened lad
They gave me that renown.
My right hand will be gloved, Janet;
My left hand will be bare;
And these the tokens I give thee,
No doubt I will be there.
They'll shape me in your arms, Janet,
A toad, snake, and an eel;
But hold me fast, nor let me gang,
As you do love me weel.
They'll shape me in your arms, Janet,
A dove, bat, and a swan:
Cast your green mantle over me,
I'll be myself again."
The good sister Janet, far from remembering any of the old sins of her
brother, wept for joy to know that he was yet among the living. She
told no one of her strange dream; but hastened secretly to the Miles
Cross, saw the strange cavalcade pricking through the greenwood, and
pulled down the rider on the milk-white steed, holding him fast
through all his changing shapes. But when she had thrown her green
mantle over him, and clasped him in her arms as her own brother Robin,
the angry voice of the fairy queen was heard:--
"Up then spake the queen of fairies,
Out of a bush of rye,
'You've taken away the bonniest lad
In all my companie.
'Had I but had the wit, yestreen,
That I have learned to-day,
I'd pinned the sister to her bed
Ere he'd been won away!'"
However, it was too late now. Wild Robin was safe, and the elves had
lost their power over him forever. His forgiving parents and his
leal-hearted brothers welcomed him home with more than the old love.
So grateful and happy was the poor laddie, that he nevermore grumbled
at his oatmeal parritch, or minded his kye with a scowling brow.
But to the end of his days, when he heard mention of fairies and
brownies, his mind wandered off in a mizmaze. He died in peace, and
was buried on the banks of the Yarrow.
DEACON THOMAS WALES' WILL
By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
In the Name of God Amen! the Thirteenth Day of September One Thousand
Seven Hundred Fifty & eight, I, Thomas Wales of Braintree, in the
County of Suffolk & Province of the Massachusetts Bay in New England,
Gent--being in good health of Body and of Sound Disposing mind and
Memory, Thanks be given to God--Calling to mind my mortality, Do
therefore in my health make and ordain this my Last Will and
Testament. And First I Recommend my Soul into the hand of God who gave
it--Hoping through grace to obtain Salvation thro' the merits and
Mediation of Jesus Christ my only Lord and Dear Redeemer, and my body
to be Decently interd, at the Discretion of my Executer, believing at
the General Resurection to receive the Same again by the mighty Power
of God--And such worldly estate as God in his goodness hath graciously
given me after Debts, funeral Expenses &c, are Paid I give & Dispose
of the Same as Followeth--
_Imprimis_--I Give to my beloved Wife Sarah a good Sute of mourning
apparrel Such as she may Choose--also if she acquit my estate of Dower
and third-therin (as we have agreed) Then that my Executer return all
of Household movables she bought at our marriage & since that are
remaining, also to Pay to her or Her Heirs That Note of Forty Pound I
gave to her, when she acquited my estate and I hers. Before Division
to be made as herein exprest, also the Southwest fire-Room in my
House, a right in my Cellar, Halfe the Garden, also the Privilege of
water at the well & yard room and to bake in the oven what she hath
need of to improve her Life-time by her.
* * * * *
After this, followed a division of his property amongst his children,
five sons, and two daughters. The "Homeplace" was given to his sons
Ephraim and Atherton. Ephraim had a good house of his own, so he took
his share of the property in land, and Atherton went to live in the
old homestead. His quarters had been poor enough; he had not been so
successful as his brothers, and had been unable to live as well. It
had been a great cross to his wife, Dorcas, who was very high
spirited. She had compared, bitterly, the poverty of her household
arrangements with the abundant comfort of her sisters-in-law.
Now, she seized eagerly at the opportunity of improving her style of
living. The old Wales house was quite a pretentious edifice for those
times. All the drawback to her delight was, that Grandma should have
the southwest fire-room. She wanted to set up her high-posted bedstead
with its enormous feather-bed in that, and have it for her fore-room.
Properly, it was the fore-room, being right across the entry from the
family sitting room. There was a tall chest of drawers that would fit
in so nicely between the windows, too. Take it altogether, she was
chagrined at having to give up the southwest room; but there was no
help for it--there it was in Deacon Wales' will.
Mrs. Dorcas was the youngest of all the sons' wives, as her husband
was the latest born. She was quite a girl to some of them. Grandma had
never more than half approved of her. Dorcas was high-strung and
flighty, she said. She had her doubts about living happily with her.
But Atherton was anxious for this division of the property, and he was
her youngest darling, so she gave in. She felt lonely, and out of her
element, when everything was arranged, she established in the
southwest fire-room, and Atherton's family keeping house in the
others, though things started pleasantly and peaceably enough.
It occurred to her that her son Samuel might have her own "help," a
stout woman, who had worked in her kitchen for many years, and she
take in exchange his little bound girl, Ann Ginnins. She had always
taken a great fancy to the child. There was a large closet out of the
southwest room, where she could sleep, and she could be made very
useful, taking steps, and running "arrants" for her.
Mr. Samuel and his wife hesitated a little, when this plan was
proposed. In spite of the trouble she gave them, they were attached to
Ann, and did not like to part with her, and Mrs. Polly was just
getting her "larnt" her own ways, as she put it. Privately, she feared
Grandma would undo all the good she had done, in teaching Ann to be
smart and capable. Finally they gave in, with the understanding that
it was not to be considered necessarily a permanent arrangement, and
Ann went to live with the old lady.
Mrs. Dorcas did not relish this any more than she did the appropriation
of the southwest fire-room. She had never liked Ann very well. Besides
she had two little girls of her own, and she fancied Ann rivaled them
in Grandma's affection. So, soon after the girl was established in the
house, she began to _show out_ in various little ways.
Thirsey, her youngest child, was a mere baby, a round fat dumpling of
a thing. She was sweet, and good-natured, and the pet of the whole
family. Ann was very fond of playing with her, and tending her, and
Mrs. Dorcas began to take advantage of it. The minute Ann was at
liberty she was called upon to take care of Thirsey. The constant
carrying about such a heavy child soon began to make her shoulders
stoop and ache. Then Grandma took up the cudgels. She was smart and
high-spirited, but she was a very peaceable old lady on her own
account, and fully resolved "to put up with every thing from Dorcas,
rather than have strife in the family." She was not going to see this
helpless little girl imposed on, however. "The little gal ain't goin'
to get bent all over, tendin' that heavy baby, Dorcas," she
proclaimed. "You can jist make up your mind to it. She didn't come
here to do sech work."
Dorcas had to make up her mind to it, but it rankled.
Ann's principal duties were scouring "the brasses" in Grandma's room,
taking steps for her, and spinning her stint every day. Grandma set
smaller stints than Mrs. Polly. As time went on, she helped about the
cooking. She and Grandma cooked their own victuals, and ate from a
little separate table in the common kitchen. It was a very large room,
and might have accommodated several families, if they could have
agreed. There was a big oven, and a roomy fire-place. Good Deacon
Wales had probably seen no reason at all why his "beloved wife" should
not have her right therein with the greatest peace and concord.
But it soon came to pass that Mrs. Dorcas' pots and kettles were all
prepared to hang on the trammels when Grandma's were, and an army of
cakes and pies marshalled to go in the oven when Grandma had proposed
to do some baking. Grandma bore it patiently for a long time; but Ann
was with difficulty restrained from freeing her small mind, and her
black eyes snapped more dangerously at every new offence.
One morning, Grandma had two loaves of "riz bread," and some election
cakes, rising, and was intending to bake them in about an hour, when
they should be sufficiently light. What should Mrs. Dorcas do, but mix
up sour milk bread and some pies with the greatest speed, and fill up
the oven, before Grandma's cookery was ready!
Grandma sent Ann out into the kitchen to put the loaves in the oven
and lo and behold! the oven was full. Ann stood staring for a minute,
with a loaf of election cake in her hands; that and the bread would be
ruined if they were not baked immediately, as they were raised enough.
Mrs. Dorcas had taken Thirsey and stepped out somewhere, and there was
no one in the kitchen. Ann set the election cake back on the table.
Then, with the aid of the tongs, she reached into the brick oven and
took out every one of Mrs. Dorcas' pies and loaves. Then she arranged
them deliberately in a pitiful semicircle on the hearth, and put
Grandma's cookery in the oven.
She went back to the southwest room then, and sat quietly down to her
spinning. Grandma asked if she had put the things in, and she said
"Yes, ma'am," meekly. There was a bright red spot on each of her dark
cheeks.
When Mrs. Dorcas entered the kitchen, carrying Thirsey wrapped up in
an old homespun blanket, she nearly dropped as her gaze fell on the
fireplace and the hearth. There sat her bread and pies, in the most
lamentable half-baked, sticky, doughy condition imaginable. She opened
the oven, and peered in. There were Grandma's loaves, all a lovely
brown. Out they came, with a twitch. Luckily, they were done. Her own
went in, but they were irretrievable failures.
Of course, quite a commotion came from this. Dorcas raised her shrill
voice pretty high, and Grandma, though she had been innocent of the
whole transaction, was so blamed that she gave Dorcas a piece of her
mind at last. Ann surveyed the nice brown loaves, and listened to the
talk in secret satisfaction; but she had to suffer for it afterward.
Grandma punished her for the first time, and she discovered that that
kind old hand was pretty firm and strong. "No matter what you think,
or whether you air in the rights on't, or not, a little gal mustn't
ever sass her elders," said Grandma.
But if Ann's interference was blamable, it was productive of one good
result--the matter came to Mr. Atherton's ears, and he had a stern
sense of justice when roused, and a great veneration for his mother.
His father's will should be carried out to the letter, he declared;
and it was. Grandma baked and boiled in peace, outwardly, at least,
after that.
Ann was a great comfort to her; she was outgrowing her wild,
mischievous ways, and she was so bright and quick. She promised to be
pretty, too. Grandma compared her favorably with her own grandchildren,
especially Mrs. Dorcas' eldest daughter Martha, who was nearly Ann's
age. "Marthy's a pretty little gal enough," she used to say, "but she
ain't got the _snap_ to her that Ann has, though I wouldn't tell
Atherton's wife so, for the world."
She promised Ann her gold beads, when she should be done with them,
under strict injunctions not to say anything about it till the time
came; for the others might feel hard as she wasn't her own flesh and
blood. The gold beads were Ann's ideals of beauty, and richness,
though she did not like to hear Grandma talk about being "done with
them." Grandma always wore them around her fair, plump old neck; she
had never seen her without her string of beads.
As before said, Ann was now very seldom mischievous enough to make
herself serious trouble; but, once in a while, her natural
propensities would crop out. When they did, Mrs. Dorcas was
exceedingly bitter. Indeed, her dislike of Ann was, at all times,
smouldering, and needed only a slight fanning to break out.
One stormy winter day, Mrs. Dorcas had been working till dark, making
candle-wicks. When she came to get tea, she tied the white fleecy
rolls together, a great bundle of them, and hung them up in the
cellar-way, over the stairs, to be out of the way. They were extra
fine wicks, being made of flax for the company candles. "I've got a
good job done," said Mrs. Dorcas, surveying them complacently. Her
husband had gone to Boston, and was not coming home till the next day,
so she had had a nice chance to work at them, without as much
interruption as usual.
Ann, going down the cellar-stairs, with a lighted candle, after some
butter for tea, spied the beautiful rolls swinging overhead. What
possessed her to, she could not herself have told--she certainly had
no wish to injure Mrs. Dorcas' wicks--but she pinched up a little end
of the fluffy flax and touched her candle to it. She thought she would
see how that little bit would burn off. She soon found out. The flame
caught, and ran like lightning through the whole bundle. There was a
great puff of fire and smoke, and poor Mrs. Dorcas' fine candle-wicks
were gone. Ann screamed, and sprang down stairs. She barely escaped
the whole blaze coming in her face.
"What's that!" shrieked Mrs. Dorcas, rushing to the cellar-door. Words
can not describe her feeling when she saw that her nice candle-wicks,
the fruit of her day's toil, were burnt up.
If ever there was a wretched culprit that night, Ann was. She had not
meant to do wrong, but that, maybe, made it worse for her in one way.
She had not even gratified malice to sustain her. Grandma blamed her,
almost as severely as Mrs. Dorcas. She said she didn't know what would
"become of a little gal, that was so keerless," and decreed that she
must stay at home from school and work on candle-wicks till Mrs.
Dorcas' loss was made good to her. Ann listened ruefully. She was
scared and sorry, but that did not seem to help matters any. She did
not want any supper, and she went to bed early and cried herself to
sleep.
Somewhere about midnight, a strange sound woke her up. She called out
to Grandma in alarm. The same sound had awakened her. "Get up, an'
light a candle, child," said she; "I'm afeard the baby's sick."
Ann scarcely had the candle lighted, before the door opened, and Mrs.
Dorcas appeared in her nightdress--she was very pale, and trembling
all over. "Oh!" she gasped, "it's the baby. Thirsey's got the croup,
an' Atherton's away, and there ain't anybody to go for the doctor. O
what shall I do, what shall I do!" She fairly wrung her hands.
"_Hev_ you tried the skunk's oil?" asked Grandma eagerly,
preparing to get up.
"Yes, I have, I have! It's a good hour since she woke up, an' I've
tried everything. It hasn't done any good. I thought I wouldn't call
you, if I could help it, but she's worse--only hear her! An'
Atherton's away! Oh! what shall I do, what shall I do?"
"Don't take on so, Dorcas," said Grandma, tremulously, but cheeringly.
"I'll come right along, an'--why, child, what air you goin' to do?"
Ann had finished dressing herself, and now she was pinning a heavy
homespun blanket over her head, as if she were preparing to go out
doors.
"I'm going after the doctor for Thirsey," said Ann, her black eyes
flashing with determination.
"O will you, will you!" cried Mrs. Dorcas, catching at this new help.
"Hush, Dorcas," said Grandma, sternly. "It's an awful storm out--jist
hear the wind blow! It ain't fit fur her to go. Her life's jist as
precious as Thirsey's."
Ann said nothing more, but she went into her own little room with the
same determined look in her eyes. There was a door leading from this
room into the kitchen. Ann slipped through it hastily, lit a lantern
which was hanging beside the kitchen chimney, and was out doors in a
minute.
The storm was one of sharp, driving sleet, which struck her face like
so many needles. The first blast, as she stepped outside the door,
seemed to almost force her back, but her heart did not fail her. The
snow was not so very deep, but it was hard walking. There was no
pretense of a path. The doctor lived half a mile away, and there was
not a house in the whole distance, save the Meeting House and
schoolhouse. It was very dark. Lucky it was that she had taken the
lantern; she could not have found her way without it.
On kept the little slender, erect figure, with the fierce
determination in its heart, through the snow and sleet, holding the
blanket close over its head, and swinging the feeble lantern bravely.
When she reached the doctor's house, he was gone. He had started for
the North Precinct early in the evening, his good wife said; he was
called down to Captain Isaac Lovejoy's, the house next to the North
Precinct Meeting House. She'd been sitting up waiting for him, it was
such an awful storm, and such a lonely road. She was worried, but she
didn't think he'd start for home that night; she guessed he'd stay at
Captain Lovejoy's till morning.
The doctor's wife, holding her door open, as best she could, in the
violent wind, had hardly given this information to the little
snow-bedraggled object standing out there in the inky darkness,
through which the lantern made a faint circle of light, before she had
disappeared.
"She went like a speerit," said the good woman, staring out into the
blackness in amazement. She never dreamed of such a thing as Ann's
going to the North Precinct after the doctor, but that was what the
daring girl had determined to do. She had listened to the doctor's
wife in dismay, but with never one doubt as to her own course of
proceeding.
Straight along the road to the North Precinct she kept. It would have
been an awful journey that night for a strong man. It seemed
incredible that a little girl could have the strength or courage to
accomplish it. There were four miles to traverse in a black, howling
storm, over a pathless road, through forests, with hardly a house by
the way.
When she reached Captain Isaac Lovejoy's house, next to the Meeting
House in the North Precinct of Braintree, stumbling blindly into the
warm, lighted kitchen, the captain and the doctor could hardly believe
their senses. She told the doctor about Thirsey; then she almost
fainted from cold and exhaustion.
Good wife Lovejoy laid her on the settee, and brewed her some hot herb
tea. She almost forgot her own sick little girl, for a few minutes, in
trying to restore this brave child who had come from the South
Precinct in this dreadful storm to save little Thirsey Wales' life.
When Ann came to herself a little, her first question was, if the
doctor were ready to go.
"He's gone," said Mrs. Lovejoy, cheeringly.
Ann felt disappointed. She had thought she was going back with him.
But that would have been impossible. She could not have stood the
journey for the second time that night, even on horseback behind the
doctor, as she had planned.
She drank a second bowlful of herb tea, and went to bed with a hot
stone at her feet, and a great many blankets and coverlids over her.
The next morning, Captain Lovejoy carried her home. He had a rough
wood sled, and she rode on that, on an old quilt; it was easier than
horseback, and she was pretty lame and tired.
Mrs. Dorcas saw her coming and opened the door. When Ann came up on
the stoop, she just threw her arms around her and kissed her.
"You needn't make the candle-wicks," said she. "It's no matter about
them at all. Thirsey's better this morning, an' I guess you saved her
life."
Grandma was fairly bursting with pride and delight in her little gal's
brave feat, now that she saw her safe. She untied the gold beads on
her neck, and fastened them around Ann's. "There," said she, "you may
wear them to school to-day, if you'll be keerful."
That day, with the gold beads by way of celebration, began a new era
in Ann's life. There was no more secret animosity between her and Mrs.
Dorcas. The doctor had come that night in the very nick of time.
Thirsey was almost dying. Her mother was fully convinced that Ann had
saved her life, and she never forgot it. She was a woman of strong
feelings, who never did things by halves, and she not only treated Ann
with kindness, but she seemed to smother her grudge against Grandma
for robbing her of the southwest fire-room.
DILL
By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
Dame Clementina was in her dairy, churning, and her little daughter
Nan was out in the flower-garden. The flower-garden was a little plot
back of the cottage, full of all the sweet, old-fashioned herbs. There
were sweet marjoram, sage, summer savory, lavender, and ever so many
others. Up in one corner, there was a little green bed of dill.
Nan was a dainty, slim little maiden, with yellow, flossy hair in
short curls all over her head. Her eyes were very sweet and round and
blue, and she wore a quaint little snuff-colored gown. It had a very
short full waist, with low neck and puffed sleeves, and the skirt was
straight and narrow and down to her little heels.
She danced around the garden, picking a flower here and there. She was
making a nosegay for her mother. She picked lavender and sweet-william
and pinks, and bunched them up together.
Finally she pulled a little sprig of dill and ran, with that and the
nosegay, to her mother in the dairy.
"Mother dear," said she, "here is a little nosegay for you; and what
was it I overheard you telling Dame Elizabeth about dill last night?"
Dame Clementina stopped churning and took the nosegay. "Thank you,
Sweetheart, it is lovely," said she, "and, as for the dill--it is a
charmed plant, you know, like four-leaved clover."
"Do you put it over the door?" asked Nan.
"Yes. Nobody who is envious or ill-disposed, can enter into the house
if there is a sprig of dill over the door. Then I know another charm
which makes it stronger. If one just writes this verse:
'Alva, aden, winira mir,
Villawissen lingen;
Sanchta, wanchta, attazir,
Hor de mussen wingen'
under the sprig of dill, every one envious, or evil-disposed, who
attempts to enter the house, will have to stop short, just where they
are, and stand there; they cannot move."
"What does the verse mean?" asked Nan, with great eyes.
"That, I do not know. It is written in a foreign language. But it is a
powerful charm."
"O mother, will you write it off for me, if I will bring you a bit of
paper and a pen?"
"Certainly," replied her mother, and wrote it off when Nan brought pen
and paper.
"Now," said she, "you must run off and play again, and not hinder me
any longer, or I shall not get my butter made to-day."
So Nan danced away with the verse, and the sprig of dill, and her
mother went on churning.
She had a beautiful tall stone churn, with the sides all carved with
figures in relief. There were milkmaids and cows as natural as life
all around the churn. The dairy was charming too. The shelves were
carved stone; and the floor had a little silvery rill running right
through the middle of it, with green ferns at the sides. All along the
stone shelves were set pans full of yellow cream, and the pans were
all of solid silver, with a chasing of buttercups and daisies around
the brims.
It was not a common dairy, and Dame Clementina was not a common
dairy-woman. She was very tall and stately, and wore her silver-white
hair braided around her head like a crown, with a high silver comb at
the top. She walked like a queen; indeed she was a noble count's
daughter. In her early youth, she had married a pretty young dairyman,
against her father's wishes; so she had been disinherited. The
dairyman had been so very poor and low down in the world, that the
count felt it his duty to cast off his daughter, lest she should do
discredit to his noble line. There was a much pleasanter, easier way
out of the difficulty, which the count did not see. Indeed, it was a
peculiarity of all his family that they never could see a way out of a
difficulty, high and noble as they were. The count only needed to have
given the poor young dairyman a few acres of his own land, and a few
bags of his own gold, and begged the king, with whom he had great
influence, to knight him, and all the obstacles would have been
removed; the dairyman would have been quite rich and noble enough for
his son-in-law. But he never thought of that, and his daughter was
disinherited. However, he made all the amends to her that he could,
and fitted her out royally for her humble station in life. He caused
this beautiful dairy to be built for her, and gave her the silver
milk-pans, and the carved stone churn.
"My daughter shall not churn in a common wooden churn, or skim the
cream from wooden pans," he had said.
The dairyman had been dead a good many years now, and Dame Clementina
managed the dairy alone. She never saw anything of her father, though
he lived in his castle not far off on a neighboring height. When the
sky was clear, she could see its stone towers against it. She had four
beautiful white cows, and Nan drove them to pasture; they were very
gentle.
When Dame Clementina had finished churning, she went into the cottage.
As she stepped through the little door with clumps of sweet peas on
each side, she looked up. There was the sprig of dill and the magic
verse she had written under it.
Nan was sitting at the window inside, knitting her stent on a blue
stocking. "Ah, Sweetheart," said her mother, laughing, "you have
little cause to pin the dill and the verse over our door. None is
likely to envy us, or to be ill disposed toward us."
"O mother," said Nan, "I know it, but I thought it would be so nice to
feel sure. O there is Dame Golding coming after some milk. _Do_ you
suppose she will have to stop?"
"What nonsense!" said her mother. They both of them watched Dame
Golding coming. All of a sudden, she stopped short, just outside. She
could go no further. She tried to lift her feet, but could not.
"O mother!" cried Nan, "she has stopped!"
The poor woman began to scream. She was frightened almost to death.
Nan and her mother were not much less frightened, but they did not
know what to do. They ran out, and tried to comfort her, and gave her
some cream to drink; but it did not amount to much. Dame Golding had
secretly envied Dame Clementina for her silver milk-pans. Nan and her
mother knew why their visitor was so suddenly rooted to the spot, of
course, but she did not. She thought her feet were paralyzed, and she
kept begging them to send for her husband.
"Perhaps he can pull her away," said Nan, crying. How she wished she
had never pinned the dill and the verse over the door! So she set off
for Dame Golding's husband. He came running in a great hurry; but when
he had nearly reached his wife, and had his arms reached out to grasp
her, he, too, stopped short. He had envied Dame Clementina for her
beautiful white cows, and there he was fast, also.
He began to groan and scream too. Nan and her mother ran into the
house and shut the door. They could not bear it. "What shall we do, if
any one else comes?" sobbed Nan. "O mother, there is Dame Dorothy
coming! And--yes--O she has stopped too!" Poor Dame Dorothy had envied
Dame Clementina a little for her flower-garden, which was finer than
hers, as she had to join Dame Golding and her husband.
Pretty soon, another woman came, who had looked with envious eyes at
Dame Clementina, because she was a count's daughter; and another, who
had grudged her a fine damask petticoat which she had had before she
was disinherited, and still wore on holidays; and they both had to
stop.
Then came three rough-looking men in velvet jackets and slouched hats,
who brought up short at the gate with a great jerk that nearly took
their breath away. They were robbers who were prowling about with a
view to stealing Dame Clementina's silver milk-pans some dark night.
All through the day the people kept coming and stopping. It was
wonderful how many things poor Dame Clementina had to be envied by men
and women, and even children. They envied Nan for her yellow curls or
her blue eyes, or her pretty snuff-colored gown. When the sun set, the
yard in front of Dame Clementina's cottage was full of people. Lastly,
just before dark, the count himself came ambling up on a coal-black
horse. The count was a majestic old man dressed in velvet, with stars
on his breast. His white hair fell in long curls on his shoulders, and
he had a pointed beard. As he came to the gate, he caught a glimpse of
Nan in the door.
"How I wish that little maiden was my child," said he.
And, straightway, he stopped. His horse pawed and trembled when he
lashed him with a jewelled whip to make him go on; but he could not
stir forward one step. Neither could the count dismount from his
saddle; he sat there fuming with rage.
Meanwhile, poor Dame Clementina and little Nan were overcome with
distress. The sight of their yard full of all these weeping people was
dreadful. Neither of them had any idea how to do away with the
trouble, because of their family inability to see their way out of a
difficulty.
When supper time came, Nan went for the cows, and her mother milked
them into her silver milk pails, and strained off the milk into her
silver pans. Then they kindled up a fire and cooked some beautiful
milk porridge for the poor people in the yard, and then carried them
each a bowlful.
It was a beautiful warm moonlight night, and all the winds were sweet
with roses and pinks; so the people could not suffer out of doors; but
the next morning it rained.
"O mother," said Nan, "it is raining, and what will the poor people
do?"
Dame Clementina would never have seen her way out of this difficulty,
had not Dame Golding cried out that her bonnet was getting wet, and
she wanted an umbrella.
"Why you must go around to their houses of course, and get their
umbrellas for them," said Dame Clementina, "but first, give ours to
that old man on horseback." She did not know her father, so many years
had passed since she had seen him, and he had altered so.
So Nan carried out their great yellow umbrella to the count, and went
around to the others' houses for their own umbrellas. It was pitiful
enough to see them standing all alone behind the doors. She could not
find three extra ones for the three robbers, and she felt badly about
that.
Somebody suggested, however, that milk pans turned over their heads
would keep the rain off their slouched hats, at least; so she got a
silver milk-pan for an umbrella for each. They made such frantic
efforts to get away then, that they looked like jumping-jacks; but it
was of no use.
Poor Dame Clementina and Nan after they had given more milk porridge
to the people, and done all they could for their comfort, stood
staring disconsolately out of the window at them under their dripping
umbrellas. The yard was fairly green and black and blue and yellow
with umbrellas. They wept at the sight, but they could not think of
any way out of the difficulty. The people themselves might have
suggested one, had they known the real cause; but they did not dare to
tell them how they were responsible for all the trouble; they seemed
so angry.
About noon Nan spied their most particular friend, Dame Elizabeth,
coming. She lived a little way out of the village. Nan saw her
approaching the gate through the rain and mist, with her great blue
umbrella, and her long blue double cape and her poke bonnet; and she
cried out in the greatest dismay: "O mother, mother, there is our dear
Dame Elizabeth coming; she will have to stop too!"
Then they watched her with beating hearts. Dame Elizabeth stared with
astonishment at the people, and stopped to ask them questions. But she
passed quite through their midst, and entered the cottage under the
sprig of dill, and the verse. She did not envy Dame Clementina or Nan,
anything.
"Tell me what this means," said she. "Why are all these people
standing in your yard in the rain with umbrellas?"
Then Dame Clementina and Nan told her. "And O what shall we do?" said
they. "Will these people have to stand in our yard forever?"
Dame Elizabeth stared at them. The way out of the difficulty was so
plain to her, that she could not credit its not being plain to them.
"Why," said she, "don't you _take down the sprig of dill and the
verse_?"
"Why, sure enough!" said they in amazement. "Why didn't we think of
that before?"
So Dame Clementina ran out quickly, and pulled down the sprig of dill
and the verse.
Then the way the people hurried out of the yard! They fairly danced
and flourished their heels, old folks and all. They were so delighted
to be able to move, and they wanted to be sure they could move. The
robbers tried to get away unseen with their silver milk-pans, but some
of the people stopped them, and set the pans safely inside the dairy.
All the people, except the count, were so eager to get away, that they
did not stop to inquire into the cause of the trouble then.
Afterward, when they did, they were too much ashamed to say anything
about it.
It was a good lesson to them; they were not quite so envious after
that. Always, on entering any cottage, they would glance at the door,
to see if, perchance, there might be a sprig of dill over it. And, if
there was not, they were reminded to put away any envious feeling they
might have toward the inmates out of their hearts.
As for the count, he had not been so much alarmed as the others, since
he had been to the wars and was braver. Moreover, he felt that his
dignity as a noble had been insulted. So he dismounted and fastened
his horse to the gate, and strode up to the door with his sword
clanking and the plumes on his hat nodding.
"What," he begun; then he stopped short. He had recognized his
daughter in Dame Clementina. She recognized him at the same moment. "O
my dear daughter!" said he. "O my dear father!" said she.
"And this is my little grandchild?" said the count; and he took Nan
upon his knee, and covered her with caresses.
Then the story of the dill and the verse was told. "Yes," said the
count, "I truly was envious of you, Clementina, when I saw Nan."
After a little, he looked at his daughter sorrowfully. "I should
dearly love to take you up to the castle with me, Clementina," said
he, "and let you live there always, and make you and the little child
my heirs. But how can I? You are disinherited, you know?"
"I don't see any way," assented Dame Clementina, sadly.
Dame Elizabeth was still there, and she spoke up to the count with a
curtesy. "Noble sir," said she, "why don't you make another will?"
"Why, sure enough," cried the count with great delight, "why don't I?
I'll have my lawyer up to the castle to-morrow."
He did immediately alter his will, and his daughter was no longer
disinherited. She and Nan went to live at the castle, and were very
rich and happy. Nan learned to play on the harp, and wore
snuff-colored satin gowns. She was called Lady Nan, and she lived a
long time, and everybody loved her. But never, so long as she lived,
did she pin the sprig of dill and the verse over the door again. She
kept them at the very bottom of a little satinwood box--the faded
sprig of dill wrapped round with the bit of paper on which was written
the charm-verse:
"Alva, aden, winira mir,
Villawissen lingen;
Sanchta, wanchta, attazir,
Hor de mussen wingen."
BROWNIE AND THE COOK
By Mrs. Dinah Mulock Craik
There was once a little Brownie, who lived--where do you think he
lived?--in a coal cellar.
Now a coal cellar may seem a most curious place to choose to live in;
but then a Brownie is a curious creature--a fairy and yet not one of
that sort of fairies who fly about on gossamer wings, and dance in the
moonlight, and so on. He never dances; and as to wings, what use would
they be to him in a coal cellar? He is a sober, stay-at-home,
household elf--nothing much to look at, even if you did see him, which
you are not likely to do--only a little old man, about a foot high,
all dressed in brown, with a brown face and hands, and a brown peaked
cap, just the color of a brown mouse. And, like a mouse, he hides in
corners--especially kitchen corners, and only comes out after dark
when nobody is about, and so sometimes people call him Mr. Nobody.
I said you were not likely to see him. I never did, certainly, and
never knew anybody that did; but still, if you were to go into
Devonshire, you would hear many funny stories about Brownies in
general, and so I may as well tell you the adventures of this
particular Brownie, who belonged to a family there; which family he
had followed from house to house most faithfully, for years and years.
A good many people had heard him--or supposed they had--when there
were extraordinary noises about the house; noises which must have come
from a mouse or a rat--or a Brownie. But nobody had ever seen him
except the children,--the three little boys and three little girls,--who
declared he often came to play with them when they were alone, and was
the nicest companion in the world, though he was such an old
man--hundreds of years old! He was full of fun and mischief, and up to
all sorts of tricks, but he never did anybody any harm unless they
deserved it.
Brownie was supposed to live under one particular coal, in the darkest
corner of the cellar, which was never allowed to be disturbed. Why he
had chosen it nobody knew, and how he lived there nobody knew either,
nor what he lived upon. Except that, ever since the family could
remember, there had always been a bowl of milk put behind the
coal-cellar door for the Brownie's supper. Perhaps he drank it--perhaps
he didn't: anyhow the bowl was always found empty next morning. The
old Cook, who had lived all her life in the family, had never once
forgotten to give Brownie his supper; but at last she died, and a
young Cook came in her stead, who was very apt to forget everything.
She was also both careless and lazy, and disliked taking the trouble
to put a bowl of milk in the same place every night for Mr. Nobody.
"She didn't believe in Brownies," she said; "she had never seen one,
and seeing's believing." So she laughed at the other servants, who
looked very grave, and put the bowl of milk in its place as often as
they could, without saying much about it.
But once, when Brownie woke up, at his usual hour for rising--ten
o'clock at night, and looked round in search of his supper--which was,
in fact, his breakfast--he found nothing there. At first he could not
imagine such neglect, and went smelling and smelling about for his
bowl of milk--it was not always placed in the same corner now--but in
vain.
"This will never do," said he; and being extremely hungry, began
running about the coal cellar to see what he could find. His eyes were
as useful in the dark as in the light--like a pussy-cat's; but there
was nothing to be seen--not even a potato paring, or a dry crust, or a
well-gnawed bone, such as Tiny, the terrier, sometimes brought into
the coal cellar and left on the floor--nothing, in short, but heaps of
coals and coal-dust; and even a Brownie cannot eat that, you know.
"Can't stand this; quite impossible!" said the Brownie, tightening his
belt to make his poor little inside feel less empty. He had been
asleep so long--about a week I believe, as was his habit when there
was nothing to do--that he seemed ready to eat his own head, or his
boots, or anything. "What's to be done? Since nobody brings my supper,
I must go and fetch it."
He spoke quickly, for he always thought quickly, and made up his mind
in a minute. To be sure, it was a very little mind, like his little
body; but he did the best he could with it, and was not a bad sort of
old fellow, after all. In the house he had never done any harm, and
often some good, for he frightened away all the rats, mice, and black
beetles. Not the crickets--he liked them, as the old Cook had done:
she said they were such cheerful creatures, and always brought luck to
the house. But the young Cook could not bear them, and used to pour
boiling water down their holes, and set basins of beer for them with
little wooden bridges up to the rim, that they might walk up, tumble
in, and be drowned.
So there was not even a cricket singing in the silent house when
Brownie put his head out of his coal-cellar door, which, to his
surprise, he found open. Old Cook used to lock it every night, but the
young Cook had left that key, and the kitchen and pantry keys, too,
all dangling in the lock, so that any thief might have got in, and
wandered all over the house without being found out.
"Hurrah, here's luck!" cried Brownie, tossing his cap up in the air,
and bounding right through the scullery into the kitchen. It was quite
empty, but there was a good fire burning itself out--just for its own
amusement, and the remains of a capital supper spread on the
table--enough for half a dozen people being left still.
Would you like to know what there was? Devonshire cream, of course;
and part of a large dish of junket, which is something like curds and
whey. Lots of bread and butter and cheese, and half an apple pudding.
Also a great jug of cider and another of milk, and several half-full
glasses, and no end of dirty plates, knives, and forks. All were
scattered about the table in the most untidy fashion, just as the
servants had risen from their supper, without thinking to put anything
away.
Brownie screwed up his little old face and turned up his button of a
nose, and gave a long whistle. You might not believe it, seeing he
lived in a coal cellar; but really he liked tidiness, and always
played his pranks upon disorderly or slovenly folk.
"Whew!" said he; "here's a chance. What a supper I'll get now!"
And he jumped on to a chair and thence to the table, but so quietly
that the large black cat with four white paws, called Muff, because
she was so fat and soft and her fur so long, who sat dozing in front
of the fire, just opened one eye and went to sleep again. She had
tried to get her nose into the milk jug, but it was too small; and the
junket dish was too deep for her to reach, except with one paw. She
didn't care much for bread and cheese and apple pudding, and was very
well fed besides; so, after just wandering round the table she had
jumped down from it again, and settled herself to sleep on the hearth.
But Brownie had no notion of going to sleep. He wanted his supper, and
oh! what a supper he did eat! first one thing and then another, and
then trying everything all over again. And oh! what a lot he
drank!--first milk and then cider, and then mixed the two together in
a way that would have disagreed with anybody except a Brownie. As it
was, he was obliged to slacken his belt several times, and at last
took it off altogether. But he must have had a most extraordinary
capacity for eating and drinking--since, after he had nearly cleared
the table, he was just as lively as ever, and began jumping about on
the table as if he had had no supper at all.
Now his jumping was a little awkward, for there happened to be a clean
white tablecloth: as this was only Monday, it had had no time to get
dirty--untidy as the Cook was. And you know Brownie lived in a coal
cellar, and his feet were black with running about in coal dust. So,
wherever he trod, he left the impression behind, until, at last, the
whole tablecloth was covered with black marks.
Not that he minded this: in fact, he took great pains to make the
cloth as dirty as possible; and then laughing loudly, "Ho, ho, ho!"
leaped on to the hearth, and began teasing the cat; squeaking like a
mouse, or chirping like a cricket, or buzzing like a fly; and
altogether disturbing poor Pussy's mind so much that she went and hid
herself in the farthest corner and left him the hearth all to himself,
where he lay at ease till daybreak.
Then, hearing a slight noise overhead, which might be the servants
getting up, he jumped on to the table again--gobbled up the few
remaining crumbs for his breakfast, and scampered off to his coal
cellar; where he hid himself under his big coal, and fell asleep for
the day.
Well, the Cook came downstairs rather earlier than usual, for she
remembered she had to clear off the remains of supper; but lo and
behold, there was nothing left to clear! Every bit of food was eaten
up--the cheese looked as if a dozen mice had been nibbling at it, and
nibbled it down to the very rind; the milk and cider were all drunk--and
mice don't care for milk and cider, you know. As for the apple pudding,
it had vanished altogether; and the dish was licked as clean as if
Boxer, the yard dog, had been at it in his hungriest mood.
"And my white tablecloth--oh, my clean white tablecloth! What can have
been done to it?" cried she in amazement. For it was all over little
black footmarks, just the size of a baby's foot--only babies don't
wear shoes with nails in them, and don't run about and climb on
kitchen tables after all the family have gone to bed.
Cook was a little frightened; but her fright changed to anger when she
saw the large black cat stretched comfortably on the hearth. Poor Muff
had crept there for a little snooze after Brownie went away.
"You nasty cat! I see it all now; it's you that have eaten up all the
supper; it's you that have been on my clean tablecloth with your dirty
paws."
They were white paws, and as clean as possible; but Cook never thought
of that, any more than she did of the fact that cats don't usually
drink cider or eat apple pudding.
"I'll teach you to come stealing food in this way; take that--and
that--and that!"
Cook got hold of a broom and beat poor Pussy till the creature ran
mewing away. She couldn't speak, you know--unfortunate cat! and tell
people that it was Brownie who had done it all.
Next night Cook thought she would make all safe and sure; so, instead
of letting the cat sleep by the fire, she shut her up in the chilly
coal cellar, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and went off
to bed--leaving the supper as before.
When Brownie woke up and looked out of his hole, there was, as usual,
no supper for him, and the cellar was close shut. He peered about, to
try and find some cranny under the door to creep out at, but there was
none. And he felt so hungry that he could almost have eaten the cat,
who kept walking to and fro in a melancholy manner--only she was
alive, and he couldn't well eat her alive; besides, he knew she was
old, and had an idea she might be too tough; so he merely said
politely, "How do you do, Mrs. Pussy?" to which she answered
nothing--of course.
Something must be done, and luckily Brownies can do things which
nobody else can do. So he thought he would change himself into a
mouse, and gnaw a hole through the door. But then he suddenly
remembered the cat, who, though he had decided not to eat her, might
take this opportunity of eating him. So he thought it advisable to
wait till she was fast asleep, which did not happen for a good while.
At length, quite tired with walking about, Pussy turned round on her
tail six times, curled down in a corner, and fell fast asleep.
Immediately Brownie changed himself into the smallest mouse possible;
and, taking care not to make the least noise, gnawed a hole in the
door, and squeezed himself through, immediately turning into his
proper shape again, for fear of accidents.
The kitchen fire was at its last glimmer; but it showed a better
supper than even last night, for the Cook had had friends with her--a
brother and two cousins--and they had been exceedingly merry. The food
they had left behind was enough for three Brownies at least, but this
one managed to eat it all up. Only once, in trying to cut a great
slice of beef, he let the carving-knife and fork fall with such a
clatter that Tiny, the terrier, who was tied up at the foot of the
stairs, began to bark furiously. However, he brought her her puppy,
which had been left in a basket in a corner of the kitchen, and so
succeeded in quieting her.
After that he enjoyed himself amazingly, and made more marks than ever
on the white tablecloth; for he began jumping about like a pea on a
trencher, in order to make his particularly large supper agree with
him.
Then, in the absence of the cat, he teased the puppy for an hour or
two, till, hearing the clock strike five, he thought it as well to
turn into a mouse again, and creep back cautiously into his cellar. He
was only just in time, for Muff opened one eye, and was just going to
pounce upon him, when he changed himself back into a Brownie. She was
so startled that she bounded away, her tail growing into twice its
natural size, and her eyes gleaming like round green globes. But
Brownie only said, "Ha, ha, ho!" and walked deliberately into his
hole.
When Cook came downstairs and saw that the same thing had happened
again--that the supper was all eaten, and the tablecloth blacker than
ever with the extraordinary footmarks, she was greatly puzzled. Who
could have done all this? Not the cat, who came mewing out of the coal
cellar the minute she unlocked the door. Possibly a rat--but then
would a rat have come within reach of Tiny?
"It must have been Tiny herself, or her puppy," which just came
rolling out of its basket over Cook's feet. "You little wretch! You
and your mother are the greatest nuisance imaginable. I'll punish
you!"
And, quite forgetting that Tiny had been safely tied up all night, and
that her poor little puppy was so fat and helpless it could scarcely
stand on its legs, to say nothing of jumping on chairs and tables, she
gave them both such a thrashing that they ran howling together out of
the kitchen door, where the kind little kitchen maid took them up in
her arms.
"You ought to have beaten the Brownie, if you could catch him," said
she in a whisper. "He'll do it again and again, you'll see, for he
can't bear an untidy kitchen. You'd better do as poor old Cook did,
and clear the supper things away, and put the odds and ends safe in
the larder; also," she added mysteriously, "if I were you, I'd put a
bowl of milk behind the coal-cellar door."
"Nonsense!" answered the young Cook, and flounced away. But afterward
she thought better of it, and did as she was advised, grumbling all
the time, but doing it.
Next morning the milk was gone! Perhaps Brownie had drunk it up;
anyhow nobody could say that he hadn't. As for the supper, Cook having
safely laid it on the shelves of the larder, nobody touched it. And
the tablecloth, which was wrapped up tidily and put in the dresser
drawer, came out as clean as ever, with not a single black footmark
upon it. No mischief being done, the cat and the dog both escaped
beating, and Brownie played no more tricks with anybody--till the next
time.
BROWNIE AND THE CHERRY TREE
By Mrs. Dinah Mulock Craik
The "next time" was quick in coming, which was not wonderful,
considering there was a Brownie in the house. Otherwise the house was
like most other houses, and the family like most other families. The
children also: they were sometimes good, sometimes naughty, like other
children; but, on the whole, they deserved to have the pleasure of a
Brownie to play with them, as they declared he did--many and many a
time.
A favorite play-place was the orchard, where grew the biggest cherry
tree you ever saw. They called it their "castle," because it rose up
ten feet from the ground in one thick stem, and then branched out into
a circle of boughs, with a flat place in the middle, where two or
three children could sit at once. There they often did sit, turn by
turn, or one at a time--sometimes with a book, reading; and the
biggest boy made a sort of rope ladder by which they could climb up
and down--which they did all winter, and enjoyed their "castle" very
much.
But one day in spring they found their ladder cut away! The Gardener
had done it, saying it injured the tree, which was just coming into
blossom. Now this Gardener was a rather gruff man, with a growling
voice. He did not mean to be unkind, but he disliked children; he said
they bothered him. But when they complained to their mother about the
ladder, she agreed with Gardener that the tree must not be injured, as
it bore the biggest cherries in all the neighborhood--so big that the
old saying of "taking two bites at a cherry" came really true.
"Wait till the cherries are ripe," said she; and so the little people
waited, and watched it through its leafing and blossoming--such sheets
of blossoms, white as snow!--till the fruit began to show, and grew
large and red on every bough.
At last one morning the mother said, "Children, should you like to
help gather the cherries to-day?"
"Hurrah!" they cried, "and not a day too soon; for we saw a flock of
starlings in the next field--and if we don't clear the tree, they
will."
"Very well; clear it, then. Only mind and fill my baskets quite full,
for preserving. What is over you may eat, if you like."
"Thank you, thank you!" and the children were eager to be off; but the
mother stopped them till she could get the Gardener and his ladder.
"For it is he must climb the tree, not you; and you must do exactly as
he tells you; and he will stop with you all the time and see that you
don't come to harm."
This was no slight cloud on the children's happiness, and they begged
hard to go alone.
"Please, might we? We will be so good!"
The mother shook her head. All the goodness in the world would not
help them if they tumbled off the tree, or ate themselves sick with
cherries. "You would not be safe, and I should be so unhappy!"
To make mother "unhappy" was the worst rebuke possible to these
children; so they choked down their disappointment, and followed the
Gardener as he walked on ahead, carrying his ladder on his shoulder.
He looked very cross, and as if he did not like the children's company
at all.
They were pretty good, on the whole, though they chattered a good
deal; but Gardener said not a word to them all the way to the orchard.
When they reached it, he just told them to "keep out of his way and
not worrit him," which they politely promised, saying among themselves
that they should not enjoy their cherry-gathering at all. But children
who make the best of things, and try to be as good as they can,
sometimes have fun unawares.
When the Gardener was steadying his ladder against the trunk of the
cherry tree, there was suddenly heard the barking of a dog, and a very
fierce dog, too. First it seemed close beside them, then in the flower
garden, then in the fowl yard.
Gardener dropped the ladder out of his hands. "It's that Boxer! He has
got loose again! He will be running after my chickens, and dragging
his broken chain all over my borders. And he is so fierce, and so
delighted to get free. He'll bite anybody who ties him up, except me."
"Hadn't you better go and see after him?"
Gardener thought it was the eldest boy who spoke, and turned around
angrily; but the little fellow had never opened his lips.
Here there was heard a still louder bark, and from a quite different
part of the garden.
"There he is--I'm sure of it! jumping over my bedding-out plants, and
breaking my cucumber frames. Abominable beast!--just let me catch
him!"
Off Gardener darted in a violent passion, throwing the ladder down
upon the grass, and forgetting all about the cherries and the
children.
The instant he was gone, a shrill laugh, loud and merry, was heard
close by, and a little brown old man's face peeped from behind the
cherry tree.
"How d'ye do?--Boxer was me. Didn't I bark well? Now I'm come to play
with you."
The children clapped their hands; for they knew that they were going
to have some fun if Brownie was there--he was the best little
playfellow in the world. And then they had him all to themselves.
Nobody ever saw him except the children.
"Come on!" cried he, in his shrill voice, half like an old man's, half
like a baby's. "Who'll begin to gather the cherries?"
They all looked blank; for the tree was so high to where the branches
sprung, and besides, their mother had said that they were not to
climb. And the ladder lay flat upon the grass--far too heavy for
little hands to move.
"What! you big boys don't expect a poor little fellow like me to lift
the ladder all by myself? Try! I'll help you."
Whether he helped or not, no sooner had they taken hold of the ladder
than it rose up, almost of its own accord, and fixed itself quite
safely against the tree.
"But we must not climb--mother told us not," said the boys ruefully.
"Mother said we were to stand at the bottom and pick up the cherries."
"Very well. Obey your mother. I'll just run up the tree myself."
Before the words were out of his mouth Brownie had darted up the
ladder like a monkey, and disappeared among the fruit-laden branches.
The children looked dismayed for a minute, till they saw a merry brown
face peeping out from the green leaves at the very top of the tree.
"Biggest fruit always grows highest," cried the Brownie. "Stand in a
row, all you children. Little boys, hold out your caps: little girls,
make a bag of your pinafores. Open your mouths and shut your eyes, and
see what the queen will send you."
They laughed and did as they were told; whereupon they were drowned in
a shower of cherries--cherries falling like hailstones, hitting them
on their heads, their cheeks, their noses--filling their caps and
pinafores and then rolling and tumbling on to the grass, till it was
strewn thick as leaves in autumn with the rosy fruit.
What a glorious scramble they had--these three little boys and three
little girls! How they laughed and jumped and knocked heads together
in picking up the cherries, yet never quarreled--for there were such
heaps, it would have been ridiculous to squabble over them; and
besides, whenever they began to quarrel, Brownie always ran away. Now
he was the merriest of the lot; ran up and down the tree like a cat,
helped to pick up the cherries, and was first-rate at filling the
large market basket.
"We were to eat as many as we liked, only we must first fill the
basket," conscientiously said the eldest girl; upon which they all set
to at once, and filled it to the brim.
"Now we'll have a dinner-party," cried the Brownie; and squatted down
like a Turk, crossing his queer little legs, and sticking his elbows
upon his knees, in a way that nobody but a Brownie could manage. "Sit
in a ring! sit in a ring! and we'll see who can eat the fastest."
The children obeyed. How many cherries they devoured, and how fast
they did it, passes my capacity of telling. I only hope they were not
ill next day, and that all the cherry-stones they swallowed by mistake
did not disagree with them. But perhaps nothing does disagree with one
when one dines with a Brownie. They ate so much, laughing in equal
proportion, that they had quite forgotten the Gardener--when, all of a
sudden, they heard him clicking angrily the orchard gate, and talking
to himself as he walked through.
"That nasty dog! It wasn't Boxer, after all. A nice joke! to find him
quietly asleep in his kennel after having hunted him, as I thought,
from one end of the garden to the other! Now for the cherries and the
children--bless us! where are the children? And the cherries? Why, the
tree is as bare as a blackthorn in February! The starlings have been
at it, after all. Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" echoed a voice from behind the tree, followed by
shouts of mocking laughter. Not from the children--they sat as demure
as possible, all in a ring, with their hands before them, and in the
center the huge basket of cherries, piled as full as it could possibly
hold. But the Brownie had disappeared.
"You naughty brats, I'll have you punished!" cried the Gardener,
furious at the laughter, for he never laughed himself. But as there
was nothing wrong, the cherries being gathered--a very large crop--and
the ladder found safe in its place--it was difficult to say what had
been the harm done and who had done it.
So he went growling back to the house, carrying the cherries to the
mistress, who coaxed him into good temper again, as she sometimes did;
bidding also the children to behave well to him, since he was an old
man, and not really bad--only cross. As for the little folks, she had
not the slightest intention of punishing them; and, as for the
Brownie, it was impossible to catch him. So nobody was punished at
all.
THE OUPHE [Footnote: _Ouphe_, pronounced "oof," is an
old-fashioned word for goblin or elf.] OF THE WOOD
By Jean Ingelow
"An Ouphe!" perhaps you exclaim, "and pray what might that be?"
An Ouphe, fair questioner,--though you may never have heard of
him,--was a creature well known (by hearsay, at least) to your
great-great-grandmother. It was currently reported that every forest
had one within its precincts, who ruled over the woodmen, and exacted
tribute from them in the shape of little blocks of wood ready hewn for
the fire of his underground palace,--such blocks as are bought at
shops in these degenerate days, and called "kindling."
It was said that he had a silver axe, with which he marked those trees
that he did not object to have cut down; moreover, he was supposed to
possess great riches, and to appear but seldom above ground, and when
he did to look like an old man in all respects but one, which was that
he always carried some green ash-keys about with him which he could
not conceal, and by which he might be known.
Do I hear you say that you don't believe he ever existed?
It matters not at all to my story whether you do or not. He certainly
does not exist now. The Commissioners of Woods and Forests have much
to answer for, if it was they who put an end to his reign; but I do
not think they did; it is more likely that the spelling-book used in
woodland districts disagreed with his constitution.
After this short preface please to listen while I tell you that once
in a little black-timbered cottage, at the skirts of a wood, a young
woman sat before the fire rocking her baby, and, as she did so,
building a castle in the air: "What a good thing it would be," she
thought to herself, "if we were rich!"
It had been a bright day, but the evening was chilly; and, as she
watched the glowing logs that were blazing on her hearth, she wished
that all the lighted part of them would turn to gold.
She was very much in the habit--this little wife--of building castles
in the air, particularly when she had nothing else to do, or her
husband was late in coming home to his supper. Just as she was
thinking how late he was there was a tap at the door, and an old man
walked in, who said:
"Mistress, will you give a poor man a warm at your fire?"
"And welcome," said the young woman, setting him a chair.
So he sat down as close to the fire as he could, and spread out his
hands to the flames.
He had a little knapsack on his back, and the young woman did not
doubt that he was an old soldier.
"Maybe you are used to the hot countries," she said.
"All countries are much the same to me," replied the stranger. "I see
nothing to find fault with in this one. You have fine hawthorn-trees
hereabouts; just now they are as white as snow; and then you have a
noble wood behind you."
"Ah, you may well say that," said the young woman. "It is a noble wood
to us; it gets us bread. My husband works in it."
"And a fine sheet of water there is in it," continued the old man. "As
I sat by it to-day it was pretty to see those cranes, with red legs,
stepping from leaf to leaf of the water-lilies so lightly."
As he spoke he looked rather wistfully at a little saucepan which
stood upon the hearth.
"Why, I shouldn't wonder if you were hungry," said the young woman,
laying her baby in the cradle, and spreading a cloth on the round
table. "My husband will be home soon, and if you like to stay and sup
with him and me, you will be kindly welcome."
The old man's eyes sparkled when she said this, and he looked so very
old and seemed so weak that she pitied him. He turned a little aside
from the fire, and watched her while she set a brown loaf on the
table, and fried a few slices of bacon; but all was ready, and the
kettle had been boiling some time before there were any signs of the
husband's return.
"I never knew Will to be so late before," said the stranger. "Perhaps
he is carrying his logs to the saw-pits."
"Will!" exclaimed the wife. "What, you know my husband, then? I
thought you were a stranger in these parts."
"Oh, I have been past this place several times," said the old man,
looking rather confused; "and so, of course, I have heard of your
husband. Nobody's stroke in the wood is so regular and strong as his."
"And I can tell you he is the handiest man at home," began his wife.
"Ah, ah," said the old man, smiling at her eagerness; "and here he
comes, if I am not mistaken."
At that moment the woodman entered.
"Will," said his wife, as she took his bill-book from him, and hung up
his hat, "here's an old soldier come to sup with us, my dear." And as
she spoke, she gave her husband a gentle push toward the old man, and
made a sign that he should speak to him.
"Kindly welcome, master," said the woodman. "Wife, I'm hungry; let's
to supper."
The wife turned some potatoes out of the little saucepan, set a jug of
beer on the table, and they all began to sup. The best of everything
was offered by the wife to the stranger. The husband, after looking
earnestly at him for a few minutes, kept silence.
"And where might you be going to lodge tonight, good man, if I'm not
too bold?" asked she.
The old man heaved a deep sigh, and said he supposed he must lie out
in the forest.
"Well, that would be a great pity," remarked his kind hostess. "No
wonder your bones ache if you have no better shelter." As she said
this, she looked appealingly at her husband.
"My wife, I'm thinking, would like to offer you a bed," said the
woodman; "at least, if you don't mind sleeping in this clean kitchen,
I think that, we could toss you up something of that sort that you
need not disdain."
"Disdain, indeed!" said the wife. "Why, Will, when there's not a
tighter cottage than ours in all the wood, and with a curtain, as we
have, and a brick floor, and everything so good about us--"
The husband laughed; the old man looked on with a twinkle in his eye.
"I'm sure I shall be humbly grateful," said he.
Accordingly, when supper was over, they made him up a bed on the
floor, and spread clean sheets upon it of the young wife's own
spinning, and heaped several fresh logs on the fire. Then they wished
the stranger good night, and crept up the ladder to their own snug
little chamber.
"Disdain, indeed!" laughed the wife, as soon as they shut the door.
"Why, Will, how could you say it? I should like to see him disdain me
and mine. It isn't often, I'll engage to say, that he sleeps in such a
well-furnished kitchen."
The husband said nothing, but secretly laughed to himself.
"What are you laughing at, Will?" said his wife, as she put out the
candle.
"Why, you soft little thing," answered the woodman, "didn't you see
that bunch of green ash-keys in his cap; and don't you know that
nobody would dare to wear them but the Ouphe of the Wood? I saw him
cutting those very keys for himself as I passed to the sawmill this
morning, and I knew him again directly, though he has disguised
himself as an old man."
"Bless us!" exclaimed the little wife; "is the Wood Ouphe in our
cottage? How frightened I am! I wish I hadn't put the candle out."
The husband laughed more and more.
"Will," said his wife, in a solemn voice, "I wonder how you dare
laugh, and that powerful creature under the very bed where you lie!"
"And she to be so pitiful over him," said the woodman, laughing till
the floor shook under him, "and to talk and boast of our house, and
insist on helping him to more potatoes, when he has a palace of his
own, and heaps of riches! Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
"Don't laugh, Will," said the wife, "and I'll make you the most
beautiful firmity [Footnote: _Firmity_: generally written frumenty;
wheat boiled in milk with sugar and fruit.] you ever tasted to-morrow.
Don't let him hear you laughing."
"Why, he comes for no harm," said the woodman. "I've never cut down
any trees that he had not marked, and I've always laid his toll of the
wood, neatly cut up, beside his foot-path, so I am not afraid.
Besides, don't you know that he always pays where he lodges, and very
handsomely, too?"
"Pays, does he?" said the wife. "Well, but he is an awful creature to
have so near one. I would much rather he had really been an old
soldier. I hope he is not looking after my baby; he shall not have
him, let him offer ever so much."
The more the wife talked, the more the husband laughed at her fears,
till at length he fell asleep, whilst she lay awake, thinking and
thinking, till by degrees she forgot her fears, and began to wonder
what they might expect by way of reward. Hours appeared to pass away
during these thoughts. At length, to her great surprise, while it was
still quite dark, her husband called to her from below:
"Come down, Kitty; only come down to see what the Ouphe has left us."
As quickly as possible Kitty started up and dressed herself, and ran
down the ladder, and then she saw her husband kneeling on the floor
over the knapsack, which the Ouphe had left behind him. Kitty rushed
to the spot, and saw the knapsack bursting open with gold coins, which
were rolling out over the brick floor. Here was good fortune! She
began to pick them up, and count them into her apron. The more she
gathered, the faster they rolled, till she left off counting, out of
breath with joy and surprise.
"What shall we do with all this money?" said the delighted woodman.
They consulted for some time. At last they decided to bury it in the
garden, all but twenty pieces, which they would spend directly.
Accordingly they dug a hole and carefully hid the rest of the money,
and then the woodman went to the town, and soon returned laden with
the things they had agreed upon as desirable possessions; namely, a
leg of mutton, two bottles of wine, a necklace for Kitty, some tea and
sugar, a grand velvet waistcoat, a silver watch, a large clock, a red
silk cloak, and a hat and feather for the baby, a quilted petticoat, a
great many muffins and crumpets, a rattle, and two new pairs of shoes.
How enchanted they both were! Kitty cooked the nice things, and they
dressed themselves in the finery, and sat down to a very good dinner.
But, alas! the woodman drank so much of the wine that he soon got
quite tipsy, and began to dance and sing. Kitty was very much shocked;
but when he proposed to dig up some more of the gold, and go to market
for some more wine and some more blue velvet waistcoats, she
remonstrated very strongly. Such was the change that had come over
this loving couple, that they presently began to quarrel, and from
words the woodman soon got to blows, and, after beating his little
wife, lay down on the floor and fell fast asleep, while she sat crying
in a corner.
The next day they both felt very miserable, and the woodman had such
a terrible headache that he could neither eat nor work; but the day
after, being pretty well again, he dug up some more gold and went to
town, where he bought such quantities of fine clothes and furniture
and so many good things to eat, that in the end he was obliged to buy
a wagon to bring them home in, and great was the delight of his wife
when she saw him coming home on the top of it, driving the four gray
horses himself.
They soon began to unpack the goods and lay them out on the grass, for
the cottage was far too small to hold them.
"There are some red silk curtains with gold rods," said the woodman.
"And grand indeed they are!" exclaimed his wife, spreading them over
the onion bed.
"And here's a great looking-glass," continued the woodman, setting one
up against the outside of the cottage, for it would not go in the
door.
So they went on handing down the things, and it took nearly the whole
afternoon to empty the wagon. No wonder, when it contained, among
other things, a coral and bells for the baby, and five very large
tea-trays adorned with handsome pictures of impossible scenery, two
large sofas covered with green damask, three bonnets trimmed with
feathers and flowers, two glass tumblers for them to drink out of,--for
Kitty had decided that mugs were very vulgar things,--six books bound
in handsome red morocco, a mahogany table, a large tin saucepan, a
spit and silver waiter, a blue coat with gilt buttons, a yellow
waistcoat, some pictures, a dozen bottles of wine, a quarter of lamb,
cakes, tarts, pies, ale, porter, gin, silk stockings, blue and red and
white shoes, lace, ham, mirrors, three clocks, a four-post bedstead,
and a bag of sugar candy.
These articles filled the cottage and garden; the wagon stood outside
the paling. Though the little kitchen was very much encumbered with
furniture, they contrived to make a fire in it; and, having eaten a
sumptuous dinner, they drank each other's health, using the new
tumblers to their great satisfaction.
"All these things remind me that we must have another house built,"
said Kitty.
"You may do just as you please about that, my dear," replied her
husband, with a bottle of wine in his hand.
"My dear," said Kitty, "how vulgar you are! Why don't you drink out of
one of our new tumblers, like a gentleman?"
The woodman refused, and said it was much more handy to drink it out
of the bottle.
"Handy, indeed!" retorted Kitty; "yes, and by that means none will be
left for me."
Thereupon another quarrel ensued, and the woodman, being by this time
quite tipsy, beat his wife again. The next day they went and got
numbers of workmen to build them a new house in their garden. It was
quite astonishing even to Kitty, who did not know much about building,
to see how quick these workmen were; in one week the house was ready.
But in the meantime the woodman, who had very often been tipsy, felt
so unwell that he could not look after them; therefore it is not
surprising that they stole a great many of his fine things while he
lay smoking on the green damask sofa which stood on the carrot bed.
Those articles which the workmen did not steal the rain and dust
spoilt; but that they thought did not much matter, for still more than
half the gold was left; so they soon furnished the new house. And now
Kitty had a servant, and used to sit every morning on a couch dressed
in silks and jewels till dinner-time, when the most delicious hot
beefsteaks and sausage pudding or roast goose were served up, with
more sweet pies, fritters, tarts, and cheese-cakes than they could
possibly eat. As for the baby, he had three elegant cots, in which he
was put to sleep by turns; he was allowed to tear his picture-books as
often as he pleased, and to eat so many sugar-plums and macaroons that
they often made him quite ill.
The woodman looked very pale and miserable, though he often said what
a fine thing it was to be rich. He never thought of going to his work,
and used generally to sit in the kitchen till dinner was ready,
watching the spit. Kitty wished she could see him looking as well and
cheerful as in old days, though she felt naturally proud that her
husband should always be dressed like a gentleman, namely, in a blue
coat, red waistcoat, and top-boots.
He and Kitty could never agree as to what should be done with the rest
of the money; in fact, no one would have known them for the same
people; they quarrelled almost every day, and lost nearly all their
love for one another. Kitty often cried herself to sleep--a thing she
had never done when they were poor; she thought it was very strange
that she should be a lady, and yet not be happy. Every morning when
the woodman was sober they invented new plans for making themselves
happy, yet, strange to say, none of them succeeded, and matters grew
worse and worse. At last Kitty thought she should be happy if she had
a coach; so she went to the place where the knapsack was buried, and
began to dig; but the garden was so trodden down that she could not
dig deep enough, and soon got tired of trying. At last she called the
servant, and told her the secret as to where the money was, promising
her a gold piece if she could dig it up. The servant dug with all her
strength, and with a great deal of trouble they got the knapsack up,
and Kitty found that not many gold pieces were left.
However, she resolved to have the coach, so she took them and went to
the town, where she bought a yellow chariot, with a most beautiful
coat of arms upon it, and two cream-colored horses to draw it.
In the meantime the maid ran to the magistrates, and told them she had
discovered something very dreadful, which was, that her mistress had
nothing to do but dig in the ground and that she could make money
come--coined money: "which," said the maid, "is a very terrible thing,
and it proves that she must be a witch."
The mayor and aldermen were very much shocked, for witches were
commonly believed in in those days; and when they heard that Kitty had
dug up money that very morning, and bought a yellow coach with it,
they decided that the matter must be investigated.
When Kitty drove up to her own door, she saw the mayor and aldermen
standing in the kitchen waiting for her.
She demanded what they wanted, and they said they were come in the
king's name to search the house.
Kitty immediately ran up-stairs and took the baby out of his cradle,
lest any of them should steal him, which, of course, seemed a very
probable thing for them to do. Then she went to look for her husband,
who, shocking to relate, was quite tipsy, quarrelling and arguing with
the mayor, and she actually saw him box an alderman's ears.
"The thing is proved," said the indignant mayor; "this woman is
certainly a witch."
Kitty was very much bewildered at this; but how much more when she saw
her husband seize the mayor--yes, the very mayor himself--and shake
him so hard that he actually shook his head off, and it rolled under
the dresser! "If I had not seen this with my own eyes," said Kitty, "I
could not have believed it--even now it does not seem at all real."
All the aldermen wrung their hands.
"Murder! murder!" cried the maid.
"Yes," said the aldermen, "this woman and her husband must immediately
be put to death, and the baby must be taken from them and made a
slave."
In vain Kitty fell on her knees; the proofs of their guilt were so
plain that there was no hope for mercy; and they were just going to be
led out to execution when--why, then she opened her eyes, and saw that
she was lying in bed in her own little chamber where she had lived and
been so happy; her baby beside her in his wicker [Footnote: _Wicker_:
made of willow twigs like a basket.] cradle was crowing and sucking
his fingers.
"So, then, I have never been rich, after all," said Kitty; "and it was
all only a dream! I thought it was very strange at the time that a
man's head should roll off."
And she heaved a deep sigh, and put her hand to her face, which was
wet with the tears she had shed when she thought that she and her
husband were going to be executed.
"I am very glad, then, my husband is not a drunken man; and he does
_not_ beat me; but he goes to work every day, and I am as happy as a
queen."
Just then she heard her husband's good-tempered voice whistling as he
went down the ladder.
"Kitty, Kitty," said he, "come, get up, my little woman; it's later
than usual, and our good visitor will want his breakfast."
"Oh, Will, Will, do come here," answered the wife; and presently her
husband came up again, dressed in his fustian jacket, and looking
quite healthy and good-tempered--not at all like the pale man in the
blue coat, who sat watching the meat while it roasted.
"Oh, Will, I have had such a frightful dream," said Kitty, and she
began to cry; "we are not going to quarrel and hate each other, are
we?"
"Why, what a silly little thing thou art to cry about a dream," said
the woodman, smiling. "No, we are not going to quarrel as I know of.
Come, Kitty, remember the Ouphe."
"Oh, yes, yes, I remember," said Kitty, and she made haste to dress
herself and come down.
"Good morning, mistress; how have you slept?" said the Ouphe, in a
gentle voice, to her.
"Not so well as I could have wished, sir," said Kitty.
The Ouphe smiled. "_I_ slept very well," he said. "The supper was
good, and kindly given, without any thought of reward."
"And that is the certain truth," interrupted Kitty: "I never had the
least thought what you were till my husband told me."
The woodman had gone out to cut some fresh cresses for his guest's
breakfast.
"I am sorry, mistress," said the Ouphe, "that you slept uneasily--my
race are said sometimes by their presence to affect the dreams of you
mortals, Where is my knapsack? Shall I leave it behind me in payment
of bed and board?"
"Oh, no, no, I pray you don't," said the little wife, blushing and
stepping back; "you are kindly welcome to all you have had, I'm sure:
don't repay us so, sir."
"What, mistress, and why not?" asked the Ouphe, smiling. "It is as
full of gold pieces as it can hold, and I shall never miss them."
"No, I entreat you, do not," said Kitty, "and do not offer it to my
husband, for maybe he has not been warned as I have."
Just then the woodman came in.
"I have been thanking your wife for my good entertainment," said the
Ouphe, "and if there is anything in reason that I can give either of
you--"
"Will, we do very well as we are," said his wife, going up to him and
looking anxiously in his face.
"I don't deny," said the woodman, thoughtfully, "that there are one or
two things I should like my wife to have, but somehow I've not been
able to get them for her yet."
"What are they?" asked the Ouphe.
"One is a spinning-wheel," answered the woodman; "she used to spin a
good deal when she was at home with her mother."
"She shall have a spinning-wheel," replied the Ouphe; "and is there
nothing else, my good host?"
"Well," said the woodman, frankly, "since you are so obliging, we
should like a hive of bees."
"The bees you shall have also; and now, good morning both, and a
thousand thanks to you."
So saying, he took his leave, and no pressing could make him stay to
breakfast.
"Well," thought Kitty, when she had had a little time for reflection,
"a spinning-wheel is just what I wanted; but if people had told me
this time yesterday morning that I should be offered a knapsack full
of money, and should refuse it, I could not possibly have believed
them!"
THE PRINCE'S DREAM
By Jean Ingelow
If we may credit the fable, there is a tower in the midst of a great
Asiatic plain, wherein is confined a prince who was placed there in
his earliest infancy, with many slaves and attendants, and all the
luxuries that are compatible with imprisonment.
Whether he was brought there from some motive of state, whether to
conceal him from enemies, or to deprive him of rights, has not
transpired; but it is certain that up to the date of this little
history he had never set his foot outside the walls of that high
tower, and that of the vast world without he knew only the green
plains which surrounded it; the flocks and the birds of that region
were all his experience of living creatures, and all the men he saw
outside were shepherds.
And yet he was not utterly deprived of change, for sometimes one of
his attendants would be ordered away, and his place would be supplied
by a new one. The prince would never weary of questioning this fresh
companion, and of letting him talk of cities, of ships, of forests, of
merchandise, of kings; but though in turns they all tried to satisfy
his curiosity, they could not succeed in conveying very distinct
notions to his mind; partly because there was nothing in the tower to
which they could compare the external world, partly because, having
chiefly lived lives of seclusion and indolence in Eastern palaces,
they knew it only by hearsay themselves.
At length, one day, a venerable man of a noble presence was brought to
the tower, with soldiers to guard him and slaves to attend him. The
prince was glad of his presence, though at first he seldom opened his
lips, and it was manifest that confinement made him miserable. With
restless feet he would wander from window to window of the stone
tower, and mount from story to story; but mount as high as he would
there was still nothing to be seen but the vast, unvarying plain,
clothed with scanty grass, and flooded with the glaring sunshine;
flocks and herds and shepherds moved across it sometimes, but nothing
else, not even a shadow, for there was no cloud in the sky to cast
one. The old man, however, always treated the prince with respect, and
answered his questions with a great deal of patience, till at length
he found a pleasure in satisfying his curiosity, which so much pleased
the poor young prisoner, that, as a great condescension, he invited
him to come out on the roof of the tower and drink sherbet with him in
the cool of the evening, and tell him of the country beyond the
desert, and what seas are like, and mountains, and towns.
"I have learnt much from my attendants, and know this world pretty
well by hearsay," said the prince, as they reclined on the rich carpet
which was spread on the roof.
The old man smiled, but did not answer; perhaps because he did not
care to undeceive his young companion, perhaps because so many slaves
were present, some of whom were serving them with fruit, and others
burning rich odors on a little chafing-dish that stood between them.
"But there are some words to which I never could attach any particular
meaning," proceeded the prince, as the slaves began to retire, "and
three in particular that my attendants cannot satisfy me upon, or are
reluctant to do so."
"What words are those, my prince?" asked the old man. The prince
turned on his elbow to be sure that the last slave had descended the
tower stairs, then replied:
"O man of much knowledge, the words are these--Labor, and Liberty, and
Gold."
"Prince," said the old man, "I do not wonder that it has been hard to
make thee understand the first, the nature of it, and the cause why
most men are born to it; as for the second, it would be treason for
thee and me to do more than whisper it here, and sigh for it when none
are listening; but the third need hardly puzzle thee; thy hookah
[Footnote: _Hookah_: a kind of pipe for smoking tobacco, used in
Eastern Europe and Asia.] is bright with it; all thy jewels are set in
it; gold is inlaid in the ivory of thy bath; thy cup and thy dish are
of gold, and golden threads are wrought into thy raiment."
"That is true," replied the prince, "and if I had not seen and handled
this gold, perhaps I might not find its merits so hard to understand;
but I possess it in abundance, and it does not feed me, nor make music
for me, nor fan me when the sun is hot, nor cause me to sleep when I
am weary; therefore when my slaves have told me how merchants go out
and brave the perilous wind and sea, and live in the unstable ships,
and run risks from shipwreck and pirates, and when, having asked them
why they have done this, they have answered, 'For gold,' I have found
it hard to believe them; and when they have told me how men have lied,
and robbed, and deceived; how they have murdered one another, and
leagued together to depose kings, to oppress provinces, and all for
gold; then I have said to myself, either my slaves have combined to
make me believe that which is not, or this gold must be very different
from the yellow stuff that this coin is made of, this coin which is of
no use but to have a hole pierced through it and hang to my girdle,
that it may tinkle when I walk."
"Notwithstanding this," said the old man, "nothing can be done without
gold; for it is better than bread, and fruit, and music, for it can
buy them all, since all men love it, and have agreed to exchange it
for whatever they may need."
"How so?" asked the prince.
"If a man has many loaves he cannot eat them all," answered the old
man; "therefore he goes to his neighbor and says, 'I have bread and
thou hast a coin of gold--let us exchange;' so he receives the gold
and goes to another man, saying, 'Thou hast two houses and I have
none; lend me one of thy houses to live in, and I will give thee my
gold;' thus again they exchange."
"It is well," said the prince; "but in time of drought, if there is no
bread in a city, can they make it of gold?"
"Not so," answered the old man, "but they must send their gold to a
city where there is food, and bring that back instead of it."
"But if there was a famine all over the world," asked the prince,
"what would they do then?"
"Why, then, and only then," said the old man, "they must starve, and
the gold would be nought, for it can only be changed for that which
_is_; it cannot make that which _is not_."
"And where do they get gold?" asked the prince. "Is it the precious
fruit of some rare tree, or have they whereby they can draw it down
from the sky at sunset?"
"Some of it," said the old man, "they dig out of the ground."
Then he told the prince of ancient rivers running through terrible
deserts, whose sands glitter with golden grains and are yellow in the
fierce heat of the sun, and of dreary mines where the Indian slaves
work in gangs tied together, never seeing the light of day; and lastly
(for he was a man of much knowledge, and had travelled far), he told
him of the valley of the Sacramento in the New World, and of those
mountains where the people of Europe send their criminals, and where
now their free men pour forth to gather gold, and dig for it as hard
as if for life; sitting up by it at night lest any should take it from
them, giving up houses and country, and wife and children, for the
sake of a few feet of mud, whence they dig clay that glitters as they
wash it; and how they sift it and rock it as patiently as if it were
their own children in the cradle, and afterward carry it in their
bosoms, and forego on account of it safety and rest.
"But, prince," he went on, seeing that the young man was absorbed in
his narrative, "if you would pass your word to me never to betray me,
I would procure for you a sight of the external world, and in a trance
you should see those places where gold is dug, and traverse those
regions forbidden to your mortal footsteps."
Upon this, the prince threw himself at the old man's feet, and
promised heartily to observe the secrecy required, and entreated that,
for however short a time, he might be suffered to see this wonderful
world.
Then, if we may credit the story, the old man drew nearer to the
chafing-dish which stood between them, and having fanned the dying
embers in it, cast upon them a certain powder and some herbs, from
whence as they burnt a peculiar smoke arose. As their vapors spread,
he desired the prince to draw near and inhale them, and then (says the
fable) assured him that when he should sleep he would find himself, in
his dream, at whatever place he might desire, with this strange
advantage, that he should see things in their truth and reality as
well as in their outward shows.
So the prince, not without some fear, prepared to obey; but first he
drank his sherbet, and handed over the golden cup to the old man by
way of recompense; then he reclined beside the chafing-dish and
inhaled the heavy perfume till he became overpowered with sleep, and
sank down upon the carpet in a dream.
The prince knew not where he was, but a green country was floating
before him, and he found himself standing in a marshy valley where a
few wretched cottages were scattered here and there with no means of
communication. There was a river, but it had overflowed its banks and
made the central land impassable, the fences had been broken down by
it, and the fields of corn laid low; a few wretched peasants were
wandering about there; they looked half-clad and half-starved. "A
miserable valley, indeed!" exclaimed the prince; but as he said it a
man came down from the hills with a great bag of gold in his hand.
"This valley is mine," said he to the people; "I have bought it for
gold. Now make banks that the river may not overflow, and I will give
you gold; also make fences and plant fields, and cover in the roofs of
your houses, and buy yourselves richer clothing." So the people did
so, and as the gold got lower in the bag the valley grew fairer and
greener, till the prince exclaimed, "O gold, I see your value now! O
wonderful, beneficent gold!"
But presently the valley melted away like a mist, and the prince saw
an army besieging a city; he heard a general haranguing his soldiers
to urge them on, and the soldiers shouting and battering the walls;
but shortly, when the city was well-nigh taken, he saw some men
secretly giving gold among the soldiers, so much of it that they threw
down their arms to pick it up, and said that the walls were so strong
that they could not throw them down. "O powerful gold!" thought the
prince; "thou art stronger than the city walls!"
After that it seemed to him that he was walking about in a desert
country, and in his dream he thought, "Now I know what labor is, for I
have seen it, and its benefits; and I know what liberty is, for I have
tasted it; I can wander where I will, and no man questions me; but
gold is more strange to me than ever, for I have seen it buy both
liberty and labor." Shortly after this he saw a great crowd digging
upon a barren hill, and when he drew near he understood that he was to
see the place whence the gold came.
He came up and stood a long time watching the people as they toiled
ready to faint in the sun, so great was the labor of digging up the
gold.
He saw some who had much and could not trust any one to help them to
carry it, binding it in bundles over their shoulders, and bending and
groaning under its weight; he saw others hide it in the ground, and
watch the place, clothed in rags, that none might suspect that they
were rich; but some, on the contrary, who had dug up an unusual
quantity, he saw dancing and singing, and vaunting their success, till
robbers waylaid them when they slept, and rifled their bundles and
carried their golden sand away.
"All these men are mad," thought the prince, "and this pernicious gold
has made them so."
After this, as he wandered here and there, he saw groups of people
smelting the gold under the shadow of the trees, and he observed that
a dancing, quivering vapor rose up from it which dazzled their eyes,
and distorted everything that they looked at; arraying it also in
different colors from the true one.
He observed that this vapor from the gold caused all things to rock
and reel before the eyes of those who looked through it, and also, by
some strange affinity, it drew their hearts toward those who carried
much gold on their persons, so that they called them good and
beautiful; it also caused them to see darkness and dulness in the
faces of those who had carried none. "This," thought the prince, "is
very strange;" but not being able to explain it, he went still
farther, and there he saw more people. Each of these had adorned
himself with a broad golden girdle, and was sitting in the shade,
while other men waited on them.
"What ails these people?" he inquired of one who was looking on, for
he observed a peculiar air of weariness and dulness in their faces. He
was answered that the girdles were very tight and heavy, and being
bound over the regions of the heart, were supposed to impede its
action, and prevent it from beating high, and also to chill the
wearer, as, being of opaque material, the warm sunshine of the earth
could not get through to warm them.
"Why, then, do they not break them asunder," exclaimed the prince,
"and fling them away?"
"Break them asunder!" cried the man; "why, what a madman you must be;
they are made of the purest gold!"
"Forgive my ignorance," replied the prince; "I am a stranger."
So he walked on, for feelings of delicacy prevented him from gazing
any longer at the men with the golden girdles; but as he went he
pondered on the misery he had seen, and thought to himself that this
golden sand did more mischief than all the poisons of the apothecary;
for it dazzled the eyes of some, it strained the hearts of others, it
bowed down the heads of many to the earth with its weight; it was a
sore labor to gather it, and when it was gathered the robber might
carry it away; it would be a good thing, he thought, if there were
none of it.
After this he came to a place where were sitting some aged widows and
some orphan children of the gold-diggers, who were helpless and
destitute; they were weeping and bemoaning themselves, but stopped at
the approach of a man whose appearance attracted the prince, for he
had a very great bundle of gold on his back, and yet it did not bow
him down at all; his apparel was rich, but he had no girdle on, and
his face was anything but sad.
"Sir," said the prince to him, "you have a great burden; you are
fortunate to be able to stand under it."
"I could not do so," he replied, "only that as I go on I keep
lightening it;" and as he passed each of the widows, he threw gold to
her, and, stooping down, hid pieces of it in the bosoms of the
children.
"You have no girdle," said the prince.
"I once had one," answered the gold-gatherer; "but it was so tight
over my breast that my heart grew cold under it, and almost ceased to
beat. Having a great quantity of gold on my back, I felt almost at the
last gasp; so I threw off my girdle, and being on the bank of a river,
which I knew not how to cross, I was about to fling it in, I was so
vexed! 'But no,' thought I, 'there are many people waiting here to
cross besides myself. I will make my girdle into a bridge, and we will
cross over on it.'"
"Turn your girdle into a bridge!" said the prince, doubtfully, for he
did not quite understand.
The man explained himself.
"And, then, sir, after that," he continued, "I turned one-half of my
burden into bread, and gave it to these poor people. Since then I have
not been oppressed by its weight, however heavy it may have been; for
few men have a heavier one. In fact, I gather more from day to day."
As the man kept speaking, he scattered his gold right and left with a
cheerful countenance, and the prince was about to reply, when suddenly
a great trembling under his feet made him fall to the ground. The
refining fires of the gold-gatherers sprang up into flames, and then
went out; night fell over everything on the earth, and nothing was
visible in the sky but the stars of the southern cross.
"It is past midnight," thought the prince, "for the stars of the cross
begin to bend."
He raised himself upon his elbow, and tried to pierce the darkness,
but could not. At length a slender blue flame darted out, as from
ashes in a chafing-dish, and by the light of it he saw the strange
pattern of his carpet and the cushions lying about. He did not
recognize them at first, but presently he knew that he was lying in
his usual place, at the top of his tower.
"Wake up, prince," said the old man.
The prince sat up and sighed, and the old man inquired what he had
seen.
"O man of much learning!" answered the prince, "I have seen that this
is a wonderful world; I have seen the value of labor, and I know the
uses of it; I have tasted the sweetness of liberty, and am grateful,
though it was but in a dream; but as for that other word that was so
great a mystery to me, I only know this, that it must remain a mystery
forever, since I am fain to believe that all men are bent on getting
it; though, once gotten, it causeth them endless disquietude, only
second to their discomfort that are without it. I am fain to believe
that they can procure with it whatever they most desire, and yet that
it cankers their hearts and dazzles their eyes; that it is their
nature and their duty to gather it; and yet that, when once gathered,
the best thing they can do is to scatter it!"
The next morning, when he awoke, the old man was gone. He had taken
with him the golden cup. And the sentinel was also gone, none knew
whither. Perhaps the old man had turned his golden cup into a golden
key.
A LOST WAND
By Jean Ingelow
More than a hundred years ago, at the foot of a wild mountain in
Norway, stood an old castle, which even at the time I write of was so
much out of repair as in some parts to be scarcely habitable.
In a hall of this castle a party of children met once on Twelfth-night
to play at Christmas games and dance with little Hulda, the only child
of the lord and lady.
The winters in Norway are very cold, and the snow and ice lie for
months on the ground; but the night on which these merry children met
it froze with more than ordinary severity, and a keen wind shook the
trees without, and roared in the wide chimneys like thunder.
Little Hulda's mother, as the evening wore on, kept calling on the
servants to heap on fresh logs of wood, and these, when the long
flames crept around them, sent up showers of sparks that lit up the
brown walls, ornamented with the horns of deer and goats, and made it
look as cheerful and gay as the faces of the children. Hulda's
grandmother had sent her a great cake, and when the children had
played enough at all the games they could think of, the old gray-headed
servants brought it in and set it on the table, together with a great
many other nice things such as people eat in Norway--pasties made of
reindeer meat, and castles of the sweet pastry sparkling with sugar
ornaments of ships and flowers and crowns, and cranberry pies, and
whipped cream as white as the snow outside; but nothing was admired so
much as the great cake, and when the children saw it they set up a
shout which woke the two hounds who were sleeping on the hearths, and
they began to bark, which roused all the four dogs in the kennels
outside who had not been invited to see either the cake or the games,
and they barked, too, shaking and shivering with cold, and then a
great lump of snow slid down from the roof, and fell with a dull sound
like distant thunder on the pavement of the yard.
"Hurrah!" cried the children, "the dogs and the snow are helping us to
shout in honor of the cake."
All this time more and more nice things were coming in--fritters,
roasted grouse, frosted apples, and buttered crabs. As the old
servants came shivering along the passages, they said, "It is a good
thing that children are not late with their suppers; if the confects
had been kept long in the larder they would have frozen on the
dishes."
Nobody wished to wait at all; so, as soon as the supper was ready,
they all sat down, more wood was heaped on to the fire, and when the
moon shone in at the deep casements, and glittered on the dropping
snowflakes outside, it only served to make the children more merry
over their supper to think how bright and warm everything was inside.
This cake was a real treasure, such as in the days of the fairies, who
still lived in certain parts of Norway, was known to be of the kind
they loved. A piece of it was always cut and laid outside in the snow,
in case they should wish to taste it. Hulda's grandmother had also
dropped a ring into this cake before it was put into the oven, and it
is well known that whoever gets such a ring in his or her slice of
cake has only to wish for something directly, and the fairies are
bound to give it, _if they possibly can_. There have been cases
known when the fairies could not give it, and then, of course, they
were not to blame.
On this occasion the children said: "Let us all be ready with our
wishes, because sometimes people have been known to lose them from
being so long making up their minds when the ring has come to them."
"Yes," cried the eldest boy. "It does not seem fair that only one
should wish. I am the eldest. I begin. I shall wish that Twelfth-night
would come twice a year."
"They cannot give you that, I am sure," said Friedrich, his brother,
who sat by him.
"Then," said the boy, "I wish father may take me with him the next
time he goes out bear-shooting."
"I wish for a white kitten with blue eyes," said a little girl whose
name was Therese.
"I shall wish to find an amber necklace that does not belong to any
one," said another little girl.
"I wish to be a king," said a boy whose name was Karl. "No, I think I
shall wish to be the burgomaster, that I may go on board the ships in
the harbor, and make their captains show me what is in them. I shall
see how the sailors make their sails go up."
"I shall wish to marry Hulda," said another boy; "when I am a man, I
mean. And besides that, I wish I may find a black puppy in my room at
home, for I love dogs."
"But that is not fair," said the other children. "You must only wish
for one thing, as we did."
"But I really wish for both," said the boy.
"If you wish for both perhaps you will get neither," said little
Hulda.
"Well, then," answered the boy, "I wish for the puppy."
And so they all went on wishing till at last it came to Hulda's turn.
"What do you wish for, my child?" said her mother.
"Not for anything at all," she answered, shaking her head.
"Oh, but you must wish for something!" cried all the children.
"Yes," said her mother, "and I am now going to cut the cake. See,
Hulda, the knife is going into it. Think of something."
"Well, then," answered the little girl, "I cannot think of anything
else, so I shall wish that you may all have your wishes."
Upon this the knife went crunching down into the cake, the children
gave three cheers, and the white waxen tulip bud at the top came
tumbling on the table, and while they were all looking it opened its
leaves, and out of the middle of it stepped a beautiful little fairy
woman, no taller than your finger.
She had a white robe on, a little crown on her long yellow hair; there
were two wings on her shoulders, just like the downy brown wings of
a butterfly, and in her hand she had a little sceptre sparkling with
precious stones.
"Only one wish," she said, jumping down on to the table, and speaking
with the smallest little voice you ever heard. "Your fathers and
mothers were always contented if we gave them one wish every year."
As she spoke, Hulda's mother gave a slice of cake to each child, and,
when Hulda took hers, out dropped the ring, and fell clattering on her
platter.
"Only one wish," repeated the fairy. And the children were all so much
astonished (for even in those days fairies were but rarely seen) that
none of them spoke a word, not even in a whisper. "Only one wish.
Speak, then, little Hulda, for I am one of that race which delights to
give pleasure and to do good. Is there really nothing that you wish,
for you shall certainly have it if there is?"
"There was nothing, dear fairy, before I saw you," answered the little
girl, in a hesitating tone.
"But now there is?" asked the fairy. "Tell it me, then, and you shall
have it."
"I wish for that pretty little sceptre of yours," said Hulda, pointing
to the fairy's wand.
The moment Hulda said this the fairy shuddered and became pale, her
brilliant colors faded, and she looked to the children's eyes like a
thin white mist standing still in her place. The sceptre, on the
contrary, became brighter than ever, and the precious stones glowed
like burning coals.
"Dear child," she sighed, in a faint, mournful voice, "I had better
have left you with the gift of your satisfied, contented heart, than
thus have urged you to form a wish to my destruction. Alas! alas! my
power and my happiness fade from me, and are as if they had never
been. My wand must now go to you, who can make no use of it, and I
must flutter about forlornly and alone in the cold world, with no more
ability to do good, and waste away my time--a helpless and defenceless
thing."
"Oh, no, no!" replied little Hulda. "Do not speak so mournfully, dear
fairy. I did not wish at first to ask for it. I will not take the wand
if it is of value to you, and I should be grieved to have it against
your will."
"Child," said the fairy, "you do not know our nature. I have said
whatever you wished should be yours. I cannot alter this decree; it
_must_ be so. Take my wand; and I entreat you to guard it
carefully, and never to give it away lest it should get into the hands
of my enemy; for if once it should, I shall become his miserable
little slave. Keep my wand with care; it is of no use to you, but in
the course of years it is possible I may be able to regain it, and on
Midsummer night I shall for a few hours return to my present shape,
and be able for a short time to talk with you again."
"Dear fairy," said little Hulda, weeping, and putting out her hand for
the wand, which the fairy held to her, "is there nothing else that I
can do for you?"
"Nothing, nothing," said the fairy, who had now become so transparent
and dim that they could scarcely see her; only the wings on her
shoulders remained, and their bright colors had changed to a dusky
brown. "I have long contended with my bitter enemy, the chief of the
tribe of the gnomes--the ill-natured, spiteful gnomes. Their desire is
as much to do harm to mortals as it is mine to do them good. If now he
should find me I shall be at his mercy. It was decreed long ages ago
that I should one day lose my wand, and it depends in some degree upon
you, little Hulda, whether I shall ever receive it again. Farewell."
And now nothing was visible but the wings: the fairy had changed into
a moth, with large brown wings freckled with dark eyes, and it stood
trembling upon the table, till at length, when the children had
watched it some time, it fluttered toward the window and beat against
the panes, as if it wished to be released, so they opened the casement
and let it out in the wind and cold.
Poor little thing! They were very sorry for it; but after a while they
nearly forgot it, for they were but children. Little Hulda only
remembered it, and she carefully enclosed the beautiful sceptre in a
small box. But Midsummer day passed by, and several other Midsummer
days, and still Hulda saw nothing and heard nothing of the fairy. She
then began to fear that she must be dead, and it was a long time since
she had looked at the wand, when one day in the middle of the Norway
summer, as she was playing in one of the deep bay windows of the
castle, she saw a pedlar with a pack on his back coming slowly up the
avenue of pine-trees, and singing a merry song.
"Can I speak to the lady of this castle?" he said to Hulda, making at
the same time a very low bow.
Hulda did not much like him, he had such restless black eyes and such
a cunning smile. His face showed that he was a foreigner; it was as
brown as a nut. His dress also was very strange; he wore a red turban,
and had large earrings in his ears, and silver chains wound round and
round his ankles.
Hulda replied that her mother was gone to the fair at Christiania, and
would not be back for several days.
"Can I then speak with the lord of the castle?" asked the pedlar.
"My father is gone out to fish in the fiord," replied little Hulda;
"he will not return for some time, and the maids and the men are all
gone to make hay in the fields; there is no one left at home but me
and my old nurse."
The pedlar was very much delighted to hear this. However, he pretended
to be disappointed.
"It is very unfortunate," he said, "that your honored parents are not
at home, for I have got some things here of such wonderful beauty that
nothing could have given them so much pleasure as to have feasted
their eyes with the sight of them--rings, bracelets, lockets,
pictures--in short, there is nothing beautiful that I have not got in
my pack, and if your parents could have seen them they would have
given all the money they had in the world rather than not have bought
some of them."
"Good pedlar," said little Hulda, "could you not be so very kind as
just to let me have a sight of them?"
The pedlar at first pretended to be unwilling, but after he had looked
all across the wide heath and seen that there was no one coming, and
that the hounds by the doorway were fast asleep in the sun, and the
very pigeons on the roof had all got their heads under their wings, he
ventured to step across the threshold into the bay window, and begin
to open his pack and display all his fine things, taking care to set
them out in the sunshine, which made them glitter like glowworms.
Little Hulda had never seen anything half so splendid before. There
were little glasses set round with diamonds, and hung with small
tinkling bells which made delightful music whenever they were shaken;
ropes of pearls which had a more fragrant scent than bean-fields or
hyacinths; rings, the precious stones of which changed color as you
frowned or smiled upon them; silver boxes that could play tunes;
pictures of beautiful ladies and gentlemen, set with emeralds, with
devices in coral at the back; little golden snakes, with brilliant
eyes that would move about; and so many other rare and splendid jewels
that Hulda was quite dazzled, and stood looking at them with blushing
cheeks and a beating heart, so much she wished that she might have one
of them.
"Well, young lady," said the cunning pedlar, "how do you find these
jewels? Did I boast too much of their beauty?"
"Oh, no!" said Hulda, "I did not think there had been anything so
beautiful in the world. I did not think even our queen had such fine
jewels as these. Thank you, pedlar, for the sight of them."
"Will you buy something, then, of a poor man?" answered the pedlar.
"I've travelled a great distance, and not sold anything this many a
day."
"I should be very glad to buy," said little Hulda, "but I have
scarcely any money; not half the price of one of these jewels, I am
sure."
Now there was lying on the table an ancient signet-ring set with a
large opal.
"Maybe the young lady would not mind parting with this?" said he,
taking it up. "I could give her a new one for it of the latest
fashion."
"Oh, no, thank you!" cried Hulda, hastily, "I must not do so. This
ring is my mother's, and was left her by my grandmother."
The pedlar looked disappointed. However, he put the ring down, and
said, "But if my young lady has no money, perhaps she has some old
trinkets or toys that she would not mind parting with--a coral and
bells, or a silver mug, or a necklace, or, in short, anything that she
keeps put away, and that is of no use to her?"
"No," said the little girl, "I don't think I have got anything of the
kind. Oh, yes! to be sure, I have got somewhere up-stairs a little
gold wand, which I was told not to give away; but I'm afraid she who
gave it me must have been dead a long while, and it is of no use
keeping it any longer."
Now this pedlar was the fairy's enemy. He had long suspected that the
wand must be concealed somewhere in that region, and near the sea, and
he had disguised himself, and gone out wandering among the farmhouses
and huts and castles to try if he could hear some tidings of it, and
get it if possible into his power. The moment he heard Hulda mention
her gold wand, he became excessively anxious to see it. He was a
gnome, and when his malicious eyes gleamed with delight they shot out
a burning ray, which scorched the hound who was lying asleep close at
hand, and he sprang up and barked at him.
"Peace, peace, Rhan!" cried little Hulda; "lie down, you unmannerly
hound!" The dog shrank back again growling, and the pedlar said in a
careless tone to Hulda:
"Well, lady, I have no objection just to look at the little gold wand,
and see if it is worth anything."
"But I am not sure that I could part with it," said Hulda.
"Very well," replied the pedlar, "as you please; but I may as well
look at it. I should hope these beautiful things need not go begging."
As he spoke he began carefully to lock up some of the jewels in their
little boxes, as if he meant to go away.
"Oh, don't go," cried Hulda. "I am going upstairs to fetch my wand. I
shall not be long; pray wait for me."
Nothing was further from the pedlar's thought than to go away, and
while little Hulda was running up to look for the wand he panted so
hard for fear that after all he might not be able to get it that he
woke the other hound, who came up to him, and smelt his leg.
"What sort of a creature is this?" said the old hound to his
companion, speaking, of course, in the dogs' language.
"I'm sure I can't say," answered the other. "I wonder what he is made
of,--he smells of mushrooms! quite earthy, I declare! as if he had
lived underground all his life."
"Let us stand one on each side of him, and watch that he doesn't steal
anything."
So the two dogs stood staring at him; but the pedlar was too cunning
for them. He looked out of the window, and said, "I think I see the
master coming," upon which they both turned to look across the heath,
and the pedlar snatched up the opal ring, and hid it in his vest. When
they turned around he was folding up his trinkets again as calmly as
possible. "One cannot be too careful to count one's goods," he said,
gravely. "Honest people often get cheated in houses like these, and
honest as these two dogs look, I know where one of them hid that
leg-of-mutton bone that he stole yesterday!" Upon hearing this the
dogs sneaked under the table ashamed of themselves. "I would not have
it on my conscience that I robbed my master for the best bone in the
world," continued the pedlar, and as he said this he took up a little
silver horn belonging to the lord of the castle, and, having tapped it
with his knuckle to see whether the metal was pure, folded it up in
cotton, and put it in his pack with the rest of his curiosities.
Presently Hulda came down with a little box in her hand, out of which
she took the fairy's wand.
The pedlar was so transported at the sight of it that he could
scarcely conceal his joy; but he knew that unless he could get it by
fair means it would be of no use to him.
"How dim it looks!" said little Hulda; "the stones used to be so very
bright when first I had it."
"Ah! that is a sign that the person who gave it you is dead," said the
deceitful pedlar.
"I am sorry to hear she is dead," said Hulda, with a sigh. "Well,
then, pedlar, as that is the case, I will part with the wand if you
can give me one of your fine bracelets instead of it."
The pedlar's hand trembled with anxiety, as he held it out for the
wand, but the moment he had got possession of it all his politeness
vanished.
"There," he said, "you have got a very handsome bracelet in your hand.
It is worth a great deal more than the wand. You may keep it. I have
no time to waste; I must be gone." So saying, he hastily snatched up
the rest of his jewels, thrust them into his pack, and slung it over
his shoulder, leaving Hulda looking after him with the bracelet in her
hand. She saw him walk rapidly along the heath till he came to a
gravel-pit, very deep, and with overhanging sides. He swung himself
over by the branches of the trees.
"What can he be going to do there?" she said to herself. "But I will
run after him, for I don't like this bracelet half so well as some of
the others."
So Hulda ran till she came to the edge of the gravel-pit, but was so
much surprised that she could not say a word. There were the great
footmarks made by the pedlar down the steep sides of the pit; and at
the bottom she saw him sitting in the mud, digging a hole with his
hands.
"Hi!" he said, putting his head down. "Some of you come up. I've got
the wand at last. Come and help me down with my pack."
"I'm coming," answered a voice, speaking under the ground; and
presently up came a head, all covered with earth, through the hole the
pedlar had made. It was shaggy with hair, and had two little bright
eyes, like those of a mole. Hulda thought she had never seen such a
curious little man. He was dressed in brown clothes, and had a
red-peaked cap on his head; and he and the pedlar soon laid the pack
at the bottom of the hole, and began to stamp upon it, dancing and
singing with great vehemence. As they went on the pack sank lower and
lower, till at last, as they still stood upon it, Hulda could see only
their heads and shoulders. In a little time longer she could only see
the top of the red cap; and then the two little men disappeared
altogether, and the ground closed over them, and the white nettles and
marsh marigolds waved their heads over the place as if nothing had
happened.
Hulda walked away sadly and slowly. She looked at the beautiful
bracelet, and wished she had not parted with the wand for it, for she
now began to fear that the pedlar had deceived her. Nevertheless, who
would not be delighted to have such a fine jewel? It consisted of a
gold hoop, set with turquoise, and on the clasp was a beautiful bird,
with open wings, all made of gold, and which quivered as Hulda carried
it. Hulda looked at its bright eyes--ruby eyes, which sparkled in the
sunshine--and at its crest, all powdered with pearls, and she forgot
her regret.
"My beautiful bird!" she said, "I will not hide you in a dark box, as
the pedlar did. I will wear you on my wrist, and let you see all my
toys, and you shall be carried every day into the garden, that the
flowers may see how elegant you are. But stop! I think I see a little
dust on your wings. I must rub it off." So saying, Hulda took up her
frock and began gently rubbing the bird's wings, when, to her utter
astonishment, it opened its pretty beak and sang:
"My master, oh, my master,
The brown hard-hearted gnome,
He goes down faster, faster,
To his dreary home.
Little Hulda sold her
Golden wand for me,
Though the fairy told her
That must never be--
Never--she must never
Let the treasure go.
Ah! lost forever,
Woe! woe! woe!"
The bird sang in such a sorrowful voice, and fluttered its golden
wings so mournfully, that Hulda wept.
"Alas! alas!" she said, "I have done very wrong. I have lost the wand
forever! Oh, what shall I do, dear little bird? Do tell me."
But the bird did not sing again, and it was now time to go to bed. The
old nurse came out to fetch Hulda. She had been looking all over the
castle for her, and been wondering where she could have hidden
herself.
In Norway, at midsummer, the nights are so short that the sun only
dips under the hills time enough to let one or two stars peep out
before he appears again. The people, therefore, go to bed in the broad
sunlight.
"Child," said the old nurse, "look how late you are--it is nearly
midnight. Come, it is full time for bed. This is Midsummer day."
"Midsummer day!" repeated Hulda. "Ah, how sorry I am! Then this is a
day when I might have seen the fairy. How very, very foolish I have
been!"
Hulda laid her beautiful bracelet upon a table in her room, where she
could see it, and kissed the little bird before she got into bed. She
had been asleep a long time when a little sobbing voice suddenly awoke
her, and she sat up to listen. The house was perfectly still; her cat
was curled up at the door, fast asleep; her bird's head was under its
wing; a long sunbeam was slanting down through an opening in the green
window-curtain, and the motes danced merrily in it.
"What could that noise have been?" said little Hulda, lying down
again. She had no sooner laid her head on the pillow than she heard it
again; and, turning round quickly to look at the bracelet, she saw the
little bird fluttering its wings, and close to it, with her hands
covering her face, the beautiful, long lost fairy.
"Oh, fairy, fairy! what have I done!" said Hulda. "You will never see
your wand again. The gnome has got it, and he has carried it down
under the ground, where he will hide it from us forever."
The fairy could not look up, nor answer. She remained weeping, with
her hands before her till the little golden bird began to chirp.
"Sing to us again, I pray you, beautiful bird!" said Hulda; "for you
are not friendly to the gnome. I am sure you are sorry for the poor
fairy."
"Child," said the fairy, "be cautious what you say--that gnome is my
enemy; he disguised himself as a pedlar the better to deceive you, and
now he has got my wand he can discover where I am; he will be
constantly pursuing me, and I shall have no peace; if once I fall into
his hands, I shall be his slave forever. The bird is not his friend,
for the race of gnomes have no friends. Speak to it again, and see if
it will sing to you, for you are its mistress."
"Sing to me, sweet bird," said Hulda, in a caressing tone, and the
little bird quivered its wings and bowed its head several times; then
it opened its beak and sang:
"Where's the ring?
Oh the ring, my master stole the ring,
And he holds it while I sing,
In the middle of the world.
Where's the ring?
Where the long green Lizard curled
All its length, and made a spring
Fifty leagues along.
There he stands,
With his brown hands,
And sings to the Lizard a wonderful song.
And he gives the white stone to that Lizard fell,
For he fears it--and loves it parsing well."
"What!" said Hulda, "did the pedlar steal my mother's ring--that old
opal ring which I told him I could not let him have?"
"Child," replied the fairy, "be not sorry for his treachery; this
theft I look to for my last hope for recovering the wand."
"How so?" asked Hulda.
"It is a common thing among mortals," replied the fairy, "to say the
thing which is not true, and do the thing which is not honest; but
among the other races of beings who inhabit this world the penalty of
mocking and imitating the vices of you, the superior race, is, that if
ever one of us can be convicted of it, that one, be it gnome, sprite,
or fairy, is never permitted to appear in the likeness of humanity
again, nor to walk about on the face of the land which is your
inheritance. Now the gnomes hate one another, and if it should be
discovered by the brethren of this my enemy that he stole the opal
ring, they will not fail to betray him. There is, therefore, no doubt,
little Hulda, that he carries both the ring and the wand about with
him wherever he goes, and if in all your walks and during your whole
life you should see him again, and go boldly up to him and demand the
stolen stone, he will be compelled instantly to burrow his way down
again into the earth, and leave behind him all his ill-gotten gains."
"There is, then, still some hope," said Hulda, in a happier voice;
"but where, dear fairy, have you hidden yourself so long?"
"I have passed a dreary time," replied the fairy. "I have been
compelled to leave Europe and fly across to Africa, for my enemy
inhabits that great hollow dome which is the centre of the earth, and
he can only come up in Europe; but my poor little brown wings were
often so weary in my flight across the sea that I wished, like the
birds, I could drop into the waves and die; for what was to me the use
of immortality when I could no longer soothe the sorrow of mortals?
But I cannot die; and after I had fluttered across into Egypt, where
the glaring light of the sun almost blinded me, I was thankful to find
a ruined tomb or temple underground, where great marble sarcophagi
were ranged around the walls, and where in the dusky light I could
rest from my travels, in a place where I only knew the difference
between night and day by the redness of the one sunbeam which stole in
through a crevice, and the silvery blue of the moonbeam that succeeded
it.
"In that temple there was no sound but the rustling of the bat's wings
as they flew in before dawn, or sometimes the chirping of a swallow
which had lost its way, and was frightened to see all the grim marble
faces gazing at it. But the quietness did me good, and I waited,
hoping that the young King of Sweden would marry, and that an heir
would be born to him (for I am a Swedish fairy), and then I should
recover my liberty according to an ancient statute of the fairy realm,
and my wand would also come again into my possession; but alas! he is
dead, and the reason you see me to-day is, that, like the rest of my
race, I am come to strew leaves on his grave and recount his virtues.
I must now return, for the birds are stirring; I hear the cows lowing
to be milked, and the maids singing as they go out with their pails.
Farewell, little Hulda; guard well the bracelet; I must to my ruined
temple again. Happy for me will be the day when you see my enemy (if
that day ever comes); the bird will warn you of his neighborhood by
pecking your hand.
"One moment stay, dear fairy," said Hulda. "Where am I most likely to
see the gnome?"
"In the south," replied the fairy, "for they love hot sunshine. I can
stay no longer. Farewell."
So saying, the fairy again became a moth and fluttered to the window.
Little Hulda opened it, the brown moth settled for a moment upon her
lips as if it wished to kiss her, and then it flew out into the
sunshine, away and away.
Little Hulda watched her till her pretty wings were lost in the blue
distance; then she turned and took her bracelet, and put it on her
wrist, where, from that day forward, she always wore it night and day.
Hulda now grew tall, and became a fair young maiden, and she often
wished for the day when she might go down to the south, that she might
have a better chance of seeing the cruel gnome, and as she sat at work
in her room alone she often asked the bird to sing to her, but he
never sang any other songs than the two she had heard at first.
And now two full years had passed away, and it was again the height of
the Norway summer, but the fairy had not made her appearance.
As the days began to shorten, Hulda's cheeks lost their bright color,
and her steps their merry lightness; she became pale and wan. Her
parents were grieved to see her change so fast, but they hoped, as the
weary winter came on, that the cheerful fire and gay company would
revive her; but she grew worse and worse, till she could scarcely walk
alone through the rooms where she had played so happily, and all the
physicians shook their heads and said, "Alas! alas! the lord and lady
of the castle may well look sad: nothing can save their fair daughter,
and before the spring comes she will sink into an early grave."
The first yellow leaves now began to drop, and showed that winter was
near at hand.
"My sweet Hulda," said her mother to her one day, as she was lying
upon a couch looking out into the sunshine, "is there anything you can
think of that would do you good, or any place we can go to that you
think might revive you?"
"I had only one wish," replied Hulda, "but that, dear mother, I cannot
have."
"Why not, dear child?" said her father. "Let us hear what your wish
was."
"I wished that before I died I might be able to go into the south and
see that wicked pedlar, that if possible I might repair the mischief I
had done to the fairy by restoring her the wand."
"Does she wish to go into the south?" said the physicians. "Then it
will be as well to indulge her, but nothing can save her life; and if
she leaves her native country she will return to it no more."
"I am willing to go," said Hulda, "for the fairy's sake."
So they put her on a pillion, and took her slowly on to the south by
short distances, as she could bear it. And as she left the old castle,
the wind tossed some yellow leaves against her, and then whirled them
away across the heath to the forest. Hulda said:
"Yellow leaves, yellow leaves,
Whither away?
Through the long wood paths
How fast do ye stray!"
The yellow leaves answered:
"We go to lie down
Where the spring snowdrops grow,
Their young roots to cherish
Through frost and through snow."
Then Hulda said again to the leaves:
"Yellow leaves, yellow leaves,
Faded and few,
What will the spring flowers
Matter to you?"
And the leaves said:
"We shall not see them,
When gaily they bloom,
But sure they will love us
For guarding their tomb."
Then Hulda said:
"The yellow leaves are like me: I am going away from my place for the
sake of the poor fairy, who now lies hidden in the dark Egyptian ruin;
but if I am so happy as to recover her wand by my care, she will come
back glad and white, like the snowdrops when winter is over, and she
will love my memory when I am laid asleep in my tomb."
So they set out on their journey, and every day went a little distance
toward the south, till at last, on Christmas Eve, they came to an
ancient city at the foot of a range of mountains.
"What a strange Christmas this is!" said Hulda, when she looked out
the next morning. "Let us stay here, mother, for we are far enough to
the south. Look how the red berries hang on yonder tree, and these
myrtles on the porch are fresh and green, and a few roses bloom still
on the sunny side of the window."
It was so fine and warm that the next day they carried Hulda to a
green bank where she could sit down.
It was close by some public gardens, and the people were coming and
going. She fell into a doze as she sat with her mother watching her,
and in her half-dream she heard the voices of the passers-by, and what
they said about her, till suddenly a voice which she remembered made
her wake with a start, and as she opened her frightened eyes, there,
with his pack on his back, and his cunning eyes fixed upon her, stood
the pedlar.
"Stop him!" cried Hulda, starting up. "Mother, help me to run after
him!"
"After whom, my child?" asked her mother.
"After the pedlar," said Hulda. "He was here but now, but before I had
time to speak to him, he stepped behind that thorn-bush and
disappeared."
"So that is Hulda," said the pedlar to himself, as he went down the
steep path into the middle of the world. "She looks as if a few days
more would be all she has to live. I will not come here any more till
the spring, and then she will be dead, and I shall have nothing to
fear."
But Hulda did not die. See what a good thing it is to be kind. The
soft, warm air of the south revived her by degrees--so much, that by
the end of the year she could walk in the public garden and delight in
the warm sunshine; in another month she could ride with her father to
see all the strange old castles in that neighborhood, and by the end
of February she was as well as ever she had been in her life; and all
this came from her desire to do good to the fairy by going to the
south.
"And now," thought the pedlar, "there is no doubt that the daisies are
growing on Hulda's grave by this time, so I will go up again to the
outside of the world, and sell my wares to the people who resort to
those public places."
So one day when in that warm climate the spring flowers were already
blooming on the hillsides, up he came close to the ruined walls of a
castle, and set his pack down beside him to rest after the fatigues
of his journey.
"This is a cool, shady place," he said, looking round, "and these dark
yew-trees conceal it very well from the road. I shall come here always
in the middle of the day, when the sun is too hot, and count over my
gains. How hard my mistress, the Lizard, makes me work! Who would have
thought she would have wished to deck her green head with opals down
there, where there are only a tribe of brown gnomes to see her? But I
have not given her that one out of the ring which I stole, nor three
others that I conjured out of the crozier of the priest as I knelt at
the altar, and they thought I was rehearsing a prayer to the Virgin."
After resting some time, the pedlar took up his pack and went boldly
on to the gardens, never doubting but that Hulda was dead; but it so
happened that at that moment Hulda and her mother sat at work in a
shady part of the garden under some elder-trees.
"What is the matter, my sweet bird?" said Hulda, for the bird pecked
her wrist, and fluttered its wings, and opened its beak as if it were
very much frightened.
"Let us go, mother, and look about us," said Hulda.
So they both got up and wandered all over the gardens; but the pedlar,
in the meantime, had walked on toward the town, and they saw nothing
of him.
"Sing to me, my sweet bird," said Hulda that night as she lay down to
sleep. "Tell me _why_ you pecked my wrist."
Then the bird sang to her:
"Who came from the ruin, the ivy-clad ruin,
With old shaking arches, all moss overgrown,
Where the flitter-bat hideth,
The limber snake glideth,
And chill water drips from the slimy green stone?"
"Who did?" asked Hulda. "Not the pedlar, surely? Tell me, my pretty
bird." But the bird only chirped a little and fluttered its golden
wings, so Hulda ceased to ask it, and presently fell asleep, but the
bird woke her by pecking her wrist very early, almost before sunrise,
and sang:
"Who dips a brown hand in the chill shaded water
The water that drips from a slimy green stone?
Who flings his red cap
At the owlets that flap
Their white wings in his face as he sits there alone?"
Hulda, upon hearing this, arose in great haste and dressed herself;
then she went to her father and mother, and entreated that they would
come with her to the old ruin. It was now broad day, so they all three
set out together. It was a very hot morning, the dust lay thick upon
the road, and there was not air enough to stir the thick leaves of the
trees which hung overhead.
They had not gone far before they found themselves in a crowd of
people, all going toward the castle ruin, for there, they told Hulda,
the pedlar, the famous pedlar from the north, who sold such fine
wares, was going to perform some feats of jugglery of most surprising
cleverness.
"Child," whispered Hulda's mother, "nothing could be more fortunate
for us; let us mingle with the crowd and get close to the pedler."
Hulda assented to her mother's wish, but the heat and dust, together
with her own intense desire to rescue the lost wand, made her tremble
so that she had great difficulty in walking. They went among gypsies,
fruit-women, peasant girls, children, travelling musicians, common
soldiers, and laborers; the heat increased, and the dust and the
noise, and at last Hulda and her parents were borne forward into the
old ruin among a rush of people running and huzzaing, and heard the
pedlar shout to them:
"Keep back, good people; leave a space before me; leave a large space
between me and you."
So they pressed back again, jostling and crowding each other, and left
an open space before him from which he looked at them with his cunning
black eyes, and with one hand dabbling in the cold water of the spring.
The place was open to the sky, and the broken arches and walls were
covered with thick ivy and wall flowers. The pedlar sat on a large
gray stone, with his red cap on and his brown fingers adorned with
splendid rings, and he spread them out and waved his hands to the
people with ostentatious ceremony.
"Now, good people," he said, without rising from his seat, "you are
about to see the finest, rarest, and most wonderful exhibition of the
conjuring art ever known!"
"Stop!" cried a woman's voice from the crowd, and a young girl rushed
wildly forward from the people, who had been trying to hold her back.
"I impeach you before all these witnesses!" she cried, seizing him by
the hand. "See justice done, good people. I impeach you, pedlar.
Where's the ring--my mother's ring--which you stole on Midsummer's day
in the castle?"
"Good people," said the pedlar, pulling his red cap over his face, and
speaking in a mild, fawning voice, "I hope you'll protect me. I hope
you won't see me insulted."
"My ring, my ring!" cried Hulda; "he wore it on his finger but now!"
"Show your hand like a man!" said the people. "If the lady says
falsely, can't you face her and tell her so? Never hold it down so
cowardly!"
The pedlar had tucked his feet under him, and when the people cried
out to him to let the rings on his hand be seen, he had already
burrowed with them up to his knees in the earth.
"Oh, he will go down into the earth!" cried Hulda. "But I will not let
go! Pedlar, pedlar, it is useless! If I follow you before the Lizard,
your mistress, I will not let go!"
The pedlar turned his terrified, cowardly eyes upon Hulda, and sank
lower and lower. The people were too frightened to move.
"Stop, child," cried her mother. "Oh, he will go down and drag thee
with him."
But Hulda would not and could not let go. The pedlar had now sunk up
to his waist. Her mother wrung her hands, and in an instant the earth
closed upon them both, and, after falling in the dark down a steep
abyss, they found themselves, not at all the worse, standing in a
dimly lighted cave with a large table in it piled with mouldy books.
Behind the table was a smooth and perfectly round hole in the wall
about the size of a cartwheel.
Hulda looked that way, and saw how intensely dark it was through this
hole, and she was wondering where it led to when an enormous green
Lizard put its head through into the cave, and gazed at her with its
great brown eyes.
"What is thy demand, fine child of the daylight?" said the Lizard.
"Princess," replied Hulda, "I demand that this thy servant should give
up to me a ring which he stole in my father's castle when I was a
child."
The pedlar no sooner heard Hulda boldly demand her rights than he fell
on his knees and began to cry for mercy.
"Mercy rests with this maiden," said the Lizard. At the same time she
darted out her tongue, which was several yards in length and like a
scarlet thread, and with it stripped the ring from the gnome's finger
and gave it to Hulda.
"Speak, maiden, what reparation do you demand of this culprit, and
what shall be his punishment?"
"Great princess," replied Hulda, "let him restore to me a golden wand
which I sold to him, for it belongs to a fairy whom he has long
persecuted."
"Here it is, here it is!" cried the cowardly gnome, putting his hand
into his bosom and pulling it out, shaking all the time, and crying
out most piteously, "Oh, don't let me be banished from the sunshine!"
"After this double crime no mercy can be shown you," said the Lizard,
and she twined her scarlet tongue round him, and drew him through the
hole to herself. At the same instant it closed, and a crack came in
the roof of the cave, through which the sunshine stole, and as Hulda
looked up in flew a brown moth and settled on the magic bracelet. She
touched the moth with the wand, and instantly it stood upon her
wrist--a beautiful and joyous fairy. She took her wand from Hulda's
hand, and stood for a moment looking gratefully in her face without
speaking. Then she said to the wand:
"Art thou my own again, and wilt thou serve me?"
"Try me," said the wand.
So she struck the wall with it, and said, "Cleave, wall!" and a hole
came in the wall large enough for Hulda to creep through, and she
found herself at the foot of a staircase hewn in the rock, and, after
walking up it for three hours, she came out in the old ruined castle,
and was astonished to see that the sun had set. The moment she
appeared her father and mother, who had given her over for lost,
clasped her in their arms and wept for joy as they embraced her.
"My child," said her father, "how happy thou lookest, not as if thou
hadst been down in the dark earth!"
Hulda kissed her parents and smiled upon them; then she turned to look
for the fairy, but she was gone. So they all three walked home in the
twilight, and the next day Hulda set out again with her parents to
return to the old castle in Norway. As for the fairy, she was happy
from that day in the possession of her wand; but the little golden
bird folded its wings and never sang any songs again.
SNAP-DRAGONS--A TALE OF CHRISTMAS EVE
By Juliana Horatia Ewing
Once upon a time there lived a certain family of the name of Skratdj.
(It has a Russian or Polish look, and yet they most certainly lived in
England.) They were remarkable for the following peculiarity: They
seldom seriously quarrelled, but they never agreed about anything. It
is hard to say whether it were more painful for their friends to hear
them constantly contradicting each other, or gratifying to discover
that it "meant nothing," and was "only their way."
It began with the father and mother. They were a worthy couple, and
really attached to each other. They had a habit of contradicting each
other's statements, and opposing each other's opinions, which, though
mutually understood and allowed for in private, was most trying to the
bystanders in public. If one related an anecdote, the other would
break in with half a dozen corrections of trivial details of no
interest or importance to any one, the speakers included. For
instance: Suppose the two dining in a strange house, and Mrs. Skratdj
seated by the host, and contributing to the small talk of the
dinner-table. Thus:
"Oh, yes. Very changeable weather indeed. It looked quite promising
yesterday morning in the town, but it began to rain at noon."
"A quarter-past eleven, my dear," Mr. Skratdj's voice would be heard
to say from several chairs down, in the corrective tones of a husband
and father; "and really, my dear, so far from being a promising
morning, I must say it looked about as threatening as it well could.
Your memory is not always accurate in small matters, my love."
But Mrs. Skratdj had not been a wife and a mother for fifteen years,
to be snuffed out at one snap of the marital snuffers. As Mr. Skratdj
leaned forward in his chair, she leaned forward in hers, and defended
herself across the intervening couples.
"Why, my dear Mr. Skratdj, you said yourself the weather had not been
so promising for a week."
"What I said, my dear, pardon me, was that the barometer was higher
than it had been for a week. But, as you might have observed if these
details were in your line, my love, which they are not, the rise was
extraordinarily rapid, and there is no surer sign of unsettled
weather. But Mrs. Skratdj is apt to forget these unimportant trifles,"
he added, with a comprehensive smile round the dinner-table; "her
thoughts are very properly absorbed by the more important domestic
questions of the nursery."
"Now I think that's rather unfair on Mr. Skratdj's part," Mrs. Skratdj
would chirp, with a smile quite as affable and as general as her
husband's. "I'm sure he's _quite_ as forgetful and inaccurate as _I_
am. And I don't think _my_ memory is at _all_ a bad one."
"You forgot the dinner-hour when we were going out to dine last week,
nevertheless," said Mr. Skratdj.
"And you couldn't help me when I asked you," was the sprightly retort.
"And I'm sure it's not like you to forget anything about _dinner_, my
dear."
"The letter was addressed to you," said Mr. Skratdj.
"I sent it to you by Jemima," said Mrs. Skratdj.
"I didn't read it," said Mr. Skratdj.
"Well, you burnt it," said Mrs. Skratdj; "and, as I always say,
there's nothing more foolish than burning a letter of invitation
before the day, for one is certain to forget."
"I've no doubt you always do say it," Mr. Skratdj remarked, with a
smile, "but I certainly never remember to have heard the observation
from your lips, my love."
"Whose memory's in fault there?" asked Mrs. Skratdj, triumphantly; and
as at this point the ladies rose, Mrs. Skratdj had the last word.
Indeed, as may be gathered from this conversation, Mrs. Skratdj was
quite able to defend herself. When she was yet a bride, and young and
timid, she used to collapse when Mr. Skratdj contradicted her
statements, and set her stories straight in public. Then she hardly
ever opened her lips without disappearing under the domestic
extinguisher. But in the course of fifteen years she had learned that
Mr. Skratdj's bark was a great deal worse than his bite. (If, indeed,
he had a bite at all.) Thus snubs that made other people's ears
tingle, had no effect whatever on the lady to whom they were
addressed, for she knew exactly what they were worth, and had by this
time become fairly adept at snapping in return. In the days when she
succumbed she was occasionally unhappy, but now she and her husband
understood each other, and, having agreed to differ, they,
unfortunately, agreed also to differ in public.
Indeed, it was the bystanders who had the worst of it on these
occasions. To the worthy couple themselves the habit had become second
nature, and in no way affected the friendly tenor of their domestic
relations. They would interfere with each other's conversation,
contradicting assertions, and disputing conclusions for a whole
evening; and then, when all the world and his wife thought that these
ceaseless sparks of bickering must blaze up into a flaming quarrel as
soon as they were alone, they would bowl amicably home in a cab,
criticizing the friends who were commenting upon them, and as little
agreed about the events of the evening as about the details of any
other events whatever.
Yes; the bystanders certainly had the worst of it. Those who were near
wished themselves anywhere else, especially when appealed to. Those
who were at a distance did not mind so much. A domestic squabble at a
certain distance is interesting, like an engagement viewed from a
point beyond the range of guns. In such a position one may some day be
placed oneself! Moreover, it gives a touch of excitement to a dull
evening to be able to say _sotto voce_ to one's neighbor, "Do listen!
The Skratdjs are at it again!" Their unmarried friends thought a
terrible abyss of tyranny and aggravation must lie beneath it all, and
blessed their stars that they were still single and able to tell a
tale their own way. The married ones had more idea of how it really
was, and wished in the name of common sense and good taste that
Skratdj and his wife would not make fools of themselves.
So it went on, however; and so, I suppose, it goes on still, for not
many bad habits are cured in middle age.
On certain questions of comparative speaking their views were never
identical. Such as the temperature being hot or cold, things being
light or dark, the apple-tarts being sweet or sour. So one day Mr.
Skratdj came into the room, rubbing his hands, and planting himself at
the fire with "Bitterly cold it is to-day, to be sure."
"Why, my dear William," said Mrs. Skratdj, "I'm sure you must have got
a cold; I feel a fire quite oppressive myself."
"You were wishing you'd a sealskin jacket yesterday, when it wasn't
half as cold as it is to-day," said Mr. Skratdj.
"My dear William! Why, the children were shivering the whole day, and
the wind was in the north."
"Due east, Mrs. Skratdj."
"I know by the smoke," said Mrs. Skratdj, softly, but decidedly.
"I fancy I can tell an east wind when I feel it," said Mr. Skratdj,
jocosely, to the company.
"I told Jemima to look at the weathercock," murmured Mrs. Skratdj.
"I don't care a fig for Jemima," said her husband.
On another occasion Mrs. Skratdj and a lady friend were conversing.
* * * "We met him at the Smith's--a gentlemanlike, agreeable man,
about forty," said Mrs. Skratdj, in reference to some matter
interesting to both ladies.
"Not a day over thirty-five," said Mr. Skratdj, from behind his
newspaper.
"Why, my dear William, his hair's gray," said Mrs. Skratdj.
"Plenty of men are gray at thirty," said Mr. Skratdj. "I knew a man
who was gray at twenty-five."
"Well, forty or thirty-five, it doesn't much matter," said Mrs.
Skratdj, about to resume her narration.
"Five years matters a good deal to most people at thirty-five," said
Mr. Skratdj, as he walked towards the door. "They would make a
remarkable difference to me, I know;" and with a jocular air Mr.
Skratdj departed, and Mrs. Skratdj had the rest of the anecdote her
own way.
* * * * *
The Spirit of Contradiction finds a place in most nurseries, though to
a very varying degree in different ones. Children snap and snarl by
nature, like young puppies; and most of us can remember taking part in
some such spirited dialogues as the following:
"I will."
"You can't."
"You shall."
"I won't."
"You daren't."
"I dare."
"I'll tell mamma."
"I don't care if you do."
It is the part of wise parents to repress these squibs and crackers of
juvenile contention, and to enforce that slowly learned lesson, that
in this world one must often "pass over" and "put up with" things in
other people, being oneself by no means perfect. Also that it is a
kindness, and almost a duty, to let people think and say and do things
in their own way occasionally.
But even if Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj had ever thought of teaching all this
to their children, it must be confessed that the lesson would not have
come with a good grace from either of them, since they snapped and
snarled between themselves as much or more than their children in the
nursery.
The two elders were the leaders in the nursery squabbles. Between
these, a boy and a girl, a ceaseless war of words was waged from
morning to night. And as neither of them lacked ready wit, and both
were in constant practice, the art of snapping was cultivated by them
to the highest pitch.
It began at breakfast, if not sooner.
"You've taken my chair."
"It's not your chair."
"You know it's the one I like, and it was in my place."
"How do you know it was in your place?"
"Never mind. I do know."
"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do."
"Suppose I say it was in my place."
"You can't, for it wasn't."
"I can, if I like."
"Well, was it?"
"I sha'n't tell you."
"Ah! that shows it wasn't."
"No, it doesn't."
"Yes, it does." Etc., etc., etc.
The direction of their daily walks was a fruitful subject of
difference of opinion.
"Let's go on the Common to-day, nurse?"
"Oh, don't let's go there; we're always going on the Common."
"I'm sure we're not. We've not been there for ever so long."
"Oh, what a story! We were there on Wednesday. Let's go down Gipsey
Lane. We never go down Gipsey Lane."
"Why, we're always going down Gipsey Lane. And there's nothing to see
there."
"I don't care. I won't go on the Common, and I shall go and get papa to
say we're to go down Gipsey Lane. I can run faster than you."
"That's very sneaking; but I don't care."
"Papa! papa! Polly's called me a sneak."
"No, I didn't, papa."
"You did."
"No, I didn't. I only said it was sneaking of you to say you'd run
faster than me, and get papa to say we were to go down Gipsey Lane."
"Then you did call him sneaking," said Mr. Skratdj. "And you're a very
naughty, ill-mannered little girl. You're getting very troublesome,
Polly, and I shall have to send you to school, where you'll be kept in
order. Go where your brother wishes at once."
For Polly and her brother had reached an age when it was convenient,
if possible, to throw the blame of all nursery differences on Polly.
In families where domestic discipline is rather fractious than firm,
there comes a stage when the girls almost invariably go to the wall,
because they will stand snubbing, and the boys will not. Domestic
authority, like some other powers, is apt to be magnified on the
weaker class.
But Mr. Skratdj would not always listen even to Harry.
"If you don't give it me back directly, I'll tell about your eating
the two magnum-bonums in the kitchen garden on Sunday," said Master
Harry, on one occasion.
"'Telltale tit!
Your tongue shall be slit,
And every dog in the town shall have a little bit,'"
quoted his sister.
"Ah! You've called me a telltale. Now I'll go and tell papa. You got
into a fine scrape for calling me names the other day."
"Go, then! I don't care."
"You wouldn't like me to go, I know."
"You daren't. That's what it is."
"I dare."
"Then why don't you?"
"Oh, I am going; but you'll see what will be the end of it."
Polly, however, had her own reasons for remaining stolid, and Harry
started. But when he reached the landing he paused. Mr. Skratdj had
especially announced that morning that he did not wish to be
disturbed, and though he was a favorite, Harry had no desire to invade
the dining-room at this crisis. So he returned to the nursery, and
said, with a magnanimous air, "I don't want to get you into a scrape,
Polly. If you'll beg my pardon I won't go."
"I'm sure I sha'n't," said Polly, who was equally well informed as to
the position of affairs at headquarters. "Go, if you dare."
"I won't if you want me not," said Harry, discreetly waiving the
question of apologies.
"But I'd rather you went," said the obdurate Polly. "You're always
telling tales. Go and tell now, if you're not afraid."
So Harry went. But at the bottom of the stairs he lingered again, and
was meditating how to return with most credit to his dignity, when
Polly's face appeared through the banisters, and Polly's sharp tongue
goaded him on.
"Ah! I see you. You're stopping. You daren't go."
"I dare," said Harry; and at last he went.
As he turned the handle of the door, Mr. Skratdj turned round.
"Please, papa--" Harry began.
"Get away with you!" cried Mr. Skratdj. "Didn't I tell you I was not
to be disturbed this morning? What an extraor--"
But Harry had shut the door, and withdrawn precipitately.
Once outside, he returned to the nursery with dignified steps, and an
air of apparent satisfaction, saying:
"You're to give me the bricks, please."
"Who says so?"
"Why, who should say so? Where have I been, pray?"
"I don't know, and I don't care."
"I've been to papa. There!"
"Did he say I was to give up the bricks?"
"I've told you."
"No, you've not."
"I sha'n't tell you any more."
"Then I'll go to papa and ask."
"Go by all means."
"I won't if you'll tell me truly."
"I sha'n't tell you anything. Go and ask, if you dare," said Harry,
only too glad to have the tables turned.
Polly's expedition met with the same fate, and she attempted to cover
her retreat in a similar manner.
"Ah! you didn't tell."
"I don't believe you asked papa."
"Don't you? Very well!"
"Well, did you?"
"Never mind." Etc., etc., etc.
Meanwhile Mr. Skratdj scolded Mrs. Skratdj for not keeping the
children in better order. And Mrs. Skratdj said it was quite
impossible to do so when Mr. Skratdj spoilt Harry as he did, and
weakened her (Mrs. Skratdj's) authority by constant interference.
Difference of sex gave point to many of these nursery squabbles, as it
so often does to domestic broils.
"Boys never will do what they're asked," Polly would complain.
"Girls ask such unreasonable things," was Harry's retort.
"Not half so unreasonable as the things you ask."
"Ah! that's a different thing! Women have got to do what men tell
them, whether it's reasonable or not."
"No, they've not!" said Polly. "At least, that's only husbands and
wives."
"All women are inferior animals," said Harry.
"Try ordering mamma to do what you want, and see!" said Polly.
"Men have got to give orders, and women have to obey," said Harry,
falling back on the general principle. "And when I get a wife, I'll
take care I make her do what I tell her. But you'll have to obey your
husband when you get one."
"I won't have a husband, and then I can do as I like."
"Oh, won't you? You'll try to get one, I know. Girls always want to be
married."
"I'm sure I don't know why," said Polly; "they must have had enough of
men if they have brothers."
And so they went on, _ad infinitum_, with ceaseless arguments
that proved nothing and convinced nobody, and a continual stream of
contradiction that just fell short of downright quarreling.
Indeed, there was a kind of snapping even less near to a dispute than
in the cases just mentioned. The little Skratdjs, like some other
children, were under the unfortunate delusion that it sounds clever to
hear little boys and girls snap each other up with smart sayings, and
old and rather vulgar play upon words, such as:
"I'll give you a Christmas box. Which ear will you have it on?"
"I won't stand it."
"Pray take a chair."
"You shall have it to-morrow."
"To-morrow never comes."
And so if a visitor kindly began to talk to one of the children,
another was sure to draw near and "take up" all the first child's
answers, with smart comments and catches that sounded as silly as they
were tiresome and impertinent.
And ill-mannered as this was, Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj never put a stop to
it. Indeed, it was only a caricature of what they did themselves. But
they often said, "We can't think how it is the children are always
squabbling!"
* * * * *
It is wonderful how the state of mind of a whole household is
influenced by the heads of it. Mr. Skratdj was a very kind master, and
Mrs. Skratdj was a very kind mistress, and yet their servants lived in
a perpetual fever of irritability that fell just short of discontent.
They jostled each other on the back stairs, said harsh things in the
pantry, and kept up a perennial warfare on the subject of the duty of
the sexes with the general man servant. They gave warning on the
slightest provocation.
The very dog was infected by the snapping mania. He was not a brave
dog, he was not a vicious dog, and no high breeding sanctioned his
pretensions to arrogance. But, like his owners, he had contracted a
bad habit, a trick, which made him the pest of all timid visitors, and
indeed of all visitors whatsoever.
The moment any one approached the house, on certain occasions when he
was spoken to, and often in no traceable connection with any cause at
all, Snap, the mongrel, would rush out, and bark in his little sharp
voice--"Yap! yap! yap!" If the visitor made a stand, he would bound
away sideways on his four little legs; but the moment the visitor went
on his way again, Snap was at his heels--"Yap! yap! yap!" He barked at
the milkman, the butcher's boy, and the baker, though he saw them
every day. He never got used to the washerwoman, and she never got
used to him. She said he "put her in mind of that there black dog in
the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'" He sat at the gate in summer, and yapped at
every vehicle and every pedestrian who ventured to pass on the high
road. He never but once had the chance of barking at burglars; and
then, though he barked long and loud, nobody got up, for they said,
"It's only Snap's way." The Skratdjs lost a silver teapot, a Stilton
cheese, and two electro christening mugs on this occasion; and Mr. and
Mrs. Skratdj dispute who it was who discouraged reliance on Snap's
warning to the present day.
One Christmas time, a certain hot-tempered gentleman came to visit the
Skratdjs,--a tall, sandy, energetic young man, who carried his own bag
from the railway. The bag had been crammed rather than packed, after
the wont of bachelors; and you could see where the heel of a boot
distended the leather, and where the bottle of shaving-cream lay. As
he came up to the house, out came Snap as usual--"Yap! yap! yap!" Now
the gentleman was very fond of dogs, and had borne this greeting some
dozen of times from Snap, who for his part knew the visitor quite as
well as the washerwoman, and rather better than the butcher's boy. The
gentleman had good, sensible, well-behaved dogs of his own, and was
greatly disgusted with Snap's conduct. Nevertheless he spoke kindly to
him; and Snap, who had had many a bit from his plate, could not help
stopping for a minute to lick his hand. But no sooner did the
gentleman proceed on his way, than Snap flew at his heels in the usual
fashion--
"Yap! Yap! Yap!"
On which the gentleman--being hot-tempered, and one of those people with
whom it is (as they say) a word and a blow, and the blow first--made
a dash at Snap, and Snap taking to his heels, the gentleman flung his
carpet-bag after him. The bottle of shaving-cream hit upon a stone and
was smashed. The heel of the boot caught Snap on the back and sent him
squealing to the kitchen. And he never barked at that gentleman again.
If the gentleman disapproved of Snap's conduct, he still less liked
the continual snapping of the Skratdj family themselves. He was an old
friend of Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj, however, and knew that they were
really happy together, and that it was only a bad habit which made
them constantly contradict each other. It was in allusion to their
real affection for each other, and their perpetual disputing, that he
called them the "Snapping Turtles."
When the war of words waxed hottest at the dinner-table between his
host and hostess, he would drive his hands through his shock of sandy
hair, and say, with a comical glance out of his umber eyes: "Don't
flirt, my friends. It makes a bachelor feel awkward."
And neither Mr. nor Mrs. Skratdj could help laughing.
With the little Skratdjs his measures were more vigorous. He was very
fond of children, and a good friend to them. He grudged no time or
trouble to help them in their games and projects, but he would not
tolerate their snapping up each other's words in his presence. He was
much more truly kind than many visitors, who think it polite to smile
at the sauciness and forwardness which ignorant vanity leads children
so often to "show off" before strangers. These civil acquaintances
only abuse both children and parents behind their backs, for the very
bad habits which they help to encourage.
The hot-tempered gentleman's treatment of his young friends was very
different. One day he was talking to Polly, and making some kind
inquiries about her lessons, to which she was replying in a quiet and
sensible fashion, when up came Master Harry, and began to display his
wit by comments on the conversation, and by snapping at and
contradicting his sister's remarks, to which she retorted; and the
usual snap-dialogue went on as usual.
"Then you like music?" said the hot-tempered gentleman.
"Yes, I like it very much," said Polly.
"Oh, do you?" Harry broke in. "Then what are you always crying over it
for?"
"I'm not always crying over it."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm not. I only cry sometimes, when I stick fast."
"Your music must be very sticky, for you're always stuck fast."
"Hold your tongue!" said the hot-tempered gentleman.
With what he imagined to be a very waggish air, Harry put out his
tongue, and held it with his finger and thumb. It was unfortunate that
he had not time to draw it in again before the hot-tempered gentleman
gave him a stinging box on the ear, which brought his teeth rather
sharply together on the tip of his tongue, which was bitten in
consequence.
"It's no use _speaking_," said the hot-tempered gentleman,
driving his hands through his hair.
Children are like dogs: they are very good judges of their real
friends. Harry did not like the hot-tempered gentleman a bit the less
because he was obliged to respect and obey him; and all the children
welcomed him boisterously when he arrived that Christmas which we have
spoken of in connection with his attack on Snap.
It was on the morning of Christmas Eve that the china punch-bowl was
broken. Mr. Skratdj had a warm dispute with Mrs. Skratdj as to whether
it had been kept in a safe place; after which both had a brisk
encounter with the housemaid, who did not know how it happened; and
she, flouncing down the back passage, kicked Snap, who forthwith flew
at the gardener as he was bringing in the horseradish for the beef;
who, stepping backwards, trod upon the cat; who spit and swore, and
went up the pump with her tail as big as a fox's brush.
To avoid this domestic scene, the hot-tempered gentleman withdrew to
the breakfast-room and took up a newspaper. By and by, Harry and Polly
came in, and they were soon snapping comfortably over their own
affairs in a corner.
The hot-tempered gentleman's umber eyes had been looking over the top
of his newspaper at them for some time, before he called, "Harry, my
boy!"
And Harry came up to him.
"Show me your tongue, Harry," said he.
"What for?" said Harry; "you're not a doctor."
"Do as I tell you," said the hot-tempered gentleman; and as Harry saw
his hand moving, he put his tongue out with all possible haste. The
hot-tempered gentleman sighed. "Ah!" he said in depressed tones; "I
thought so!--Polly, come and let me look at yours."
Polly, who had crept up during this process, now put out hers. But the
hot-tempered gentleman looked gloomier still, and shook his head.
"What is it?" cried both the children, "What do you mean?" And they
seized the tips of their tongues in their fingers, to feel for
themselves.
But the hot-tempered gentleman went slowly out of the room without
answering; passing his hands through his hair, and saying, "Ah! hum!"
and nodding with an air of grave foreboding.
Just as he crossed the threshold, he turned back, and put his head
into the room. "Have you ever noticed that your tongues are growing
pointed?" he asked.
"No!" cried the children with alarm. "Are they?"
"If ever you find them becoming forked," said the gentleman in solemn
tones, "let me know."
With which he departed, gravely shaking his head.
In the afternoon the children attacked him again.
"_Do_ tell us what's the matter with our tongues."
"You were snapping and squabbling just as usual this morning," said
the hot-tempered gentleman.
"Well, we forgot," said Polly. "We don't mean anything, you know. But
never mind that now, please. Tell us about our tongues. What is going
to happen to them?"
"I'm very much afraid," said the hot-tempered gentleman, in solemn,
measured tones, "that you are both of you--fast--going--to--the--"
"Dogs?" suggested Harry, who was learned in cant expressions.
"Dogs!" said the hot-tempered gentleman, driving his hands through his
hair. "Bless your life, no! Nothing half so pleasant! (That is, unless
all dogs were like Snap, which mercifully they are not.) No, my sad
fear is, that you are both of you--rapidly--going--_to the
Snap-Dragons_!"
And not another word would the hot-tempered gentleman say on the
subject.
In the course of a few hours Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj recovered their
equanimity. The punch was brewed in a jug, and tasted quite as good as
usual. The evening was very lively. There were a Christmas tree, Yule
cakes, log, and candles, furmety, and snap-dragon after supper. When
the company were tired of the tree, and had gained an appetite by the
hard exercise of stretching to high branches, blowing out "dangerous"
tapers, and cutting ribbon and pack-threads in all directions, supper
came, with its welcome cakes, and furmety, and punch. And when furmety
somewhat palled upon the taste (and it must be admitted to boast more
sentiment than flavor as a Christmas dish), the Yule candles were
blown out and both the spirits and the palates of the party were
stimulated by the mysterious and pungent pleasures of snap-dragon.
Then, as the hot-tempered gentleman warmed his coat tails at the Yule
log, a grim smile stole over his features as he listened to the sounds
in the room. In the darkness the blue flames leaped and danced, the
raisins were snapped and snatched from hand to hand, scattering
fragments of flame hither and thither. The children shouted as the
fiery sweetmeats burnt away the mawkish taste of the furmety. Mr.
Skratdj cried that they were spoiling the carpet; Mrs. Skratdj
complained that he had spilled some brandy on her dress. Mr. Skratdj
retorted that she should not wear dresses so susceptible of damage in
the family circle. Mrs. Skratdj recalled an old speech of Mr. Skratdj
on the subject of wearing one's nice things for the benefit of one's
family and not reserving them for visitors. Mr. Skratdj remembered
that Mrs. Skratdj's excuse for buying that particular dress when she
did not need it, was her intention of keeping it for the next year.
The children disputed as to the credit for courage and the amount of
raisins due to each. Snap barked furiously at the flames; and the
maids hustled each other for good places in the doorway, and would not
have allowed the man servant to see at all, but he looked over their
heads.
"St! St! At it! At it!" chuckled the hot-tempered gentleman in
undertones. And when he said this, it seemed as if the voices of Mr.
and Mrs. Skratdj rose higher in matrimonial repartee, and the
children's squabbles became louder, and the dog yelped as if he were
mad, and the maids' contest was sharper; whilst the snap-dragon flames
leaped up and up, and blue fire flew about the room like foam.
At last the raisins were finished, the flames were all put out, and
the company withdrew to the drawing-room. Only Harry lingered.
"Come along, Harry," said the hot-tempered gentleman.
"Wait a minute," said Harry.
"You had better come," said the gentleman.
"Why?" said Harry.
"There's nothing to stop for. The raisins are eaten, the brandy is
burnt out."
"No, it's not," said Harry.
"Well, almost. It would be better if it were quite out. Now come. It's
dangerous for a boy like you to be alone with the Snap-Dragons
tonight."
"Fiddlesticks!" said Harry.
"Go your own way, then!" said the hot-tempered gentleman; and he
bounced out of the room, and Harry was left alone.
* * * * *
He crept up to the table, where one little pale blue flame flickered
in the snap-dragon dish.
"What a pity it should go out!" said Harry. At this moment the brandy
bottle on the sideboard caught his eye.
"Just a little more," murmured Harry to himself; and he uncorked the
bottle, and poured a little brandy on to the flame.
Now, of course, as soon as the brandy touched the fire, all the brandy
in the bottle blazed up at once, and the bottle split to pieces; and
it was very fortunate for Harry that he did not get seriously hurt. A
little of the hot brandy did get into his eyes, and made them smart,
so that he had to shut them for a few seconds.
But when he opened them again what a sight he saw! All over the room
the blue flames leaped and danced as they had leaped and danced in the
soup-plate with the raisins. And Harry saw that each successive flame
was the fold in the long body of a bright-blue Dragon, which moved
like the body of a snake. And the room was full of these Dragons. In
the face they were like the dragons one sees made of very old blue and
white china; and they had forked tongues like the tongues of serpents.
They were most beautiful in color, being sky-blue. Lobsters who have
just changed their coats are very handsome, but the violet and indigo
of a lobster's coat is nothing to the brilliant sky-blue of a
Snap-Dragon.
How they leaped about! They were forever leaping over each other like
seals at play. But if it was "play" at all with them, it was of a very
rough kind; for as they jumped, they snapped and barked at each other,
and their barking was like that of the barking Gnu in the Zoological
Gardens; and from time to time they tore the hair out of each other's
heads with their claws, and scattered it about the floor. And as it
dropped it was like the flecks of flame people shake from their
fingers when they are eating snap-dragon raisins.
Harry stood aghast.
"What fun!" said a voice close by him; and he saw that one of the
Dragons was lying near, and not joining in the game. He had lost one
of the forks of his tongue by accident, and could not bark for a
while.
"I'm glad you think it funny," said Harry; "I don't."
"That's right. Snap away!" sneered the Dragon. "You're a perfect
treasure. They'll take you in with them the third round."
"Not those creatures?" cried Harry.
"Yes, those creatures. And if I hadn't lost my bark, I'd be the first
to lead you off," said the Dragon. "Oh, the game will exactly suit
you."
"What is it, please?" Harry asked.
"You'd better not say 'please' to the others," said the Dragon, "if
you don't want to have all your hair pulled out. The game is this: You
have always to be jumping over somebody else, and you must either talk
or bark. If anybody speaks to you, you must snap in return. I need not
explain what _snapping_ is. You _know_. If any one by accident gives
a civil answer, a clawful of hair is torn out of his head to stimulate
his brain. Nothing can be funnier."
"I dare say it suits you capitally," said Harry; "but I'm sure we
shouldn't like it. I mean men and women and children. It wouldn't do
for us at all."
"Wouldn't it?" said the Dragon. "You don't know how many human beings
dance with Dragons on Christmas Eve. If we are kept going in a house
till after midnight, we can pull people out of their beds, and take
them to dance in Vesuvius."
"Vesuvius!" cried Harry.
"Yes, Vesuvius. We come from Italy originally, you know. Our skins are
the color of the Bay of Naples. We live on dry grapes and ardent
spirits. We have glorious fun in the mountain sometimes. Oh! what
snapping, and scratching, and tearing! Delicious! There are times when
the squabbling becomes too great, and Mother Mountain won't stand it,
and spits us all out, and throws cinders after us. But this is only at
times. We had a charming meeting last year. So many human beings, and
how they _can_ snap! It was a choice party. So very select. We always
have plenty of saucy children, and servants. Husbands and wives, too,
and quite as many of the former as the latter, if not more. But
besides these, we had two vestry-men, a country postmaster, who
devoted his talents to insulting the public instead of to learning the
postal regulations, three cabmen and two 'fares,' two young shop-girls
from a Berlin wool shop in a town where there was no competition, four
commercial travellers, six landladies, six Old Bailey lawyers, several
widows from almshouses, seven single gentlemen, and nine cats, who
swore at everything; a dozen sulphur-colored screaming cockatoos; a
lot of street children from a town; a pack of mongrel curs from the
colonies, who snapped at the human beings' heels, and five elderly
ladies in their Sunday bonnets, with prayer-books, who had been
fighting for good seats in church."
"Dear me!" said Harry.
"If you can find nothing sharper to say than 'Dear me,'" said the
Dragon, "you will fare badly, I can tell you. Why, I thought you'd a
sharp tongue, but it's not forked yet, I see. Here they are, however.
Off with you! And if you value your curls--snap!"
And before Harry could reply, the Snap-Dragons came on their third
round, and as they passed they swept Harry with them.
He shuddered as he looked at his companions. They were as transparent
as shrimps, but of this lovely cerulean blue. And as they leaped they
barked--"Howf! Howf!"--like barking Gnus; and when they leaped Harry
had to leap with them. Besides barking, they snapped and wrangled with
each other; and in this Harry must join also.
"Pleasant, isn't it?" said one of the blue Dragons.
"Not at all," snapped Harry.
"That's your bad taste," snapped the blue Dragon.
"No, it's not!" snapped Harry.
"Then it's pride and perverseness. You want your hair combing."
"Oh, please don't!" shrieked Harry, forgetting himself. On which the
Dragon clawed a handful of hair out of his head, and Harry screamed,
and the blue Dragons barked and danced.
"That made your hair curl, didn't it?" asked another Dragon, leaping
over Harry.
"That's no business of yours," Harry snapped, as well as he could for
crying.
"It's more my pleasure than business," retorted the Dragon.
"Keep it to yourself, then," snapped Harry.
"I mean to share it with you, when I get hold of your hair," snapped
the Dragon.
"Wait till you get the chance," Harry snapped, with desperate presence
of mind.
"Do you know whom you're talking to?" roared the Dragon; and he opened
his mouth from ear to ear, and shot out his forked tongue in Harry's
face; and the boy was so frightened that he forgot to snap, and cried
piteously:
"Oh, I beg your pardon, please don't!"
On which the blue Dragon clawed another handful of hair out of his
head, and all the Dragons barked as before.
How long the dreadful game went on Harry never exactly knew. Well
practised as he was in snapping in the nursery, he often failed to
think of a retort, and paid for his unreadiness by the loss of his
hair. Oh, how foolish and wearisome all this rudeness and snapping now
seemed to him! But on he had to go, wondering all the time how near it
was to twelve o'clock, and whether the Snap-Dragons would stay till
midnight and take him with them to Vesuvius.
At last, to his joy, it became evident that the brandy was coming to
an end. The Dragons moved slower, they could not leap so high, and at
last one after another they began to go out.
"Oh, if they only all of them get away before twelve!" thought poor
Harry.
At last there was only one. He and Harry jumped about and snapped and
barked, and Harry was thinking with joy that he was the last, when the
clock in the hall gave that whirring sound which clocks do before they
strike, as if it were clearing its throat.
"Oh, _please_ go!" screamed Harry, in despair.
The blue Dragon leaped up, and took such a clawful of hair out of the
boy's head, that it seemed as if part of the skin went, too. But that
leap was his last. He went out at once, vanishing before the first
stroke of twelve. And Harry was left on his face in the darkness.
When his friends found him there was blood on his forehead. Harry
thought it was where the Dragon had clawed him, but they said it was
a cut from a fragment of the broken brandy bottle. The Dragons had
disappeared as completely as the brandy.
Harry was cured of snapping. He had had quite enough of it for a
lifetime, and the catch contradictions of the household now made him
shudder. Polly had not had the benefit of his experiences, and yet she
improved also.
In the first place, snapping, like other kinds of quarrelling,
requires two parties to it, and Harry would never be a party to
snapping any more. And when he gave civil and kind answers to Polly's
smart speeches, she felt ashamed of herself, and did not repeat them.
In the second place, she heard about the Snap-Dragons. Harry told all
about it to her and to the hot-tempered gentleman.
"Now do you think it's true?" Polly asked the hot-tempered gentleman.
"Hum! Ha!" said he, driving his hands through his hair. "You know I
warned you you were going to the Snap-Dragons."
* * * * *
Harry and Polly snubbed "the little ones" when they snapped, and
utterly discountenanced snapping in the nursery. The example and
admonitions of elder children are a powerful instrument of nursery
discipline, and before long there was not a "sharp tongue" among all
the little Skratdjs.
But I doubt if the parents ever were cured. I don't know if they heard
the story. Besides, bad habits are not easily cured when one is old.
I fear Mr. and Mrs. Skratdj have yet got to dance with the Dragons.
UNCLE JACK'S STORY
By Mrs. E. M. Field
"Once upon a time," began Uncle Jack, "since we know no fairy stories
are worth hearing unless they begin with 'once upon a time.'
"Once upon a time there was a country ruled over by a king and queen
who had no children. Having no children of their own, these sovereigns
thought other people's children a nuisance. I am afraid they were like
the fox, who said the grapes were sour because he could not reach
them, for it was well-known that they wanted some of these 'torments'
very badly themselves."
"Don't call us torments, Uncle Jack," interrupted his little niece.
"Well, you see, madam, historians must be truthful. I am bound to say
that the king and queen passed a law in which the children were
described as 'pickles, torments, plagues, bothers, nuisances,
worries,' and by twenty-four other titles of respect which I have
forgotten. This law enacted:
"First--That the children were to be seen and not heard. Wherefore all
children under the age of sixteen were to speak in a whisper and laugh
in a whisper."
"They couldn't, Uncle Jack," broke in Bryda, "they could only smile!"
"Or grin," said Uncle Jack. "So you think that a cruel law, Bryda?
"Secondly--As the sight of a child set the royal teeth on edge, no
child was to be allowed to set foot out of doors, unless between the
hours of twelve and one on any night when there was neither moon or
stars."
"At that rate they would _never_ go out" said Bryda.
"Well, you see this was a law for the abolition of children; so they
were to be suppressed as much as possible, of course.
"Then thirdly, the law declared--That, as little pitchers have long
ears, no child should ever hear the conversation of grown-up people.
Therefore children were never to be admitted into any sitting-room
used by the elders of the family, nor into any kitchen or room
occupied by servants."
"O-o-oh!" said Bryda; "did they keep them in the coal-cellar?"
"In some houses, perhaps.
"Fourthly--Forasmuch as play was not a profitable occupation, and led
to noise and laughter, all play-time and holidays should at once be
abolished."
"That was a very bad law," said Bryda warmly.
"Well, the law was passed, and was soon carried out; and any one
coming to the city would have thought there were no children, so
carefully were they kept out of sight. All the toy-shops were closed,
and confectioners were ordered, under pain of death, neither to make
nor sell goodies. But one thing the king had forgotten, and that was
that, after all, there were _more_ children than grown people in
the country. One family had nine children, another six, and so on; so
that, counting the boarding-schools, there were just three times as
many children as grown people in the capital. Well, after about a week
of this treatment (for the parents were compelled under threat of
instant execution to carry it out), it happened that there came a
night when at twelve o'clock, though it was not raining, there was
neither moon nor star to be seen. So all the children in the city
rushed forth into the park with Chinese lanterns in their hands,
making quite a fairy gathering under the trees. Ob, how delicious it
was! They ran and shouted, and played games and laughed, till suddenly
one o'clock struck; and all the king's horses, and all the king's men,
came to drive them to their homes again. But there were hundreds and
hundreds of children, and only a few soldiers with wooden swords; for
this was a very peaceable nation, and armed even its police with only
birch rods. So one of the biggest boys blew a tin trumpet, and called
all the children to him.
"'I vote we rebel,' he said. 'We will not stand this any more; let us
drive away all the grown-ups, and have the town altogether to
ourselves.'
"Now it so happened that a fairy had been watching all that went on in
the town, and was not at all pleased. So when she heard this bold boy
speak she thought it would be a good thing to let this rebellion be
carried out. 'Serve 'em right,' she said; 'young and old shall all
learn a lesson.'
"So she collected a few thousand fairies, and they flew to all the
king's men, and whispered in their left ears dreadful things, which
frightened them terribly and made them believe an immense army,
instead of the troops of children, was coming to crush them all. Then
the fairies whispered in their right ears that it would be wise to fly
to a neighboring mountain where there was a large old fort, and there
take refuge. So they galloped off as fast as the king's horses would
carry them. Then the fairies flew all over the town and whispered the
same things to all the grown-up people--fathers and mothers, old maids
and old bachelors--till they, too, tumbled out of bed, dressed in a
terrible hurry, and fled to the mountain. Even the king jumped out of
bed, tied up his crown in his pocket-handkerchief, and ran for his
life in his dressing-gown, while two lords in waiting, or gentlemen of
the bedchamber, rushed after him with the royal mantle of ermine, and
the scepter and golden ball. The lord chancellor filled his pockets
with new sovereigns from the mint (for he slept there to look after
the money) and then he too ran, but rather slowly, for he had the
woolsack on his back, and it was pretty heavy. When they asked him why
he took the trouble he answered that he thought the ground might be
damp, and he already had a cold in his head.
"Well, all the elders being gone, the children were left in possession
of the city, at which you may well suppose they were greatly
astonished. They went on with their games for a while; but then the
lanterns began to go out, and one after another they grew very sleepy.
So the boy with the tin trumpet blew it again, and commanded that
every one should now go to bed, and that a meeting should be held at
twelve o'clock next day in the park, at which every child should
appear.
"Appear they did, in their Sunday clothes, those of them at least who
cared for finery; there were no mothers or nurses to object. All were
in great delight at having no one to rule them.
"'I shall never go to bed at eight!' said one.
"'I shall never eat rice pudding-horrid stuff!'
"'I shall never take any more doses!'
"'I shall never do any more lessons!'
"'Nor I! nor I! nor I!' shouted one after another; 'we shall all do
only what we like! How happy we shall be!'
"Only one little maid whispered, with a tear trembling on the long
lashes of her blue eyes, 'Dottie wants mother!' But Dottie was soon
comforted, and ran about as merrily as ever.
"Meantime the elder boys and girls held a very noisy parliament, in
which there were never less than five speaking at once. After a great
deal of chatter they determined to set up a queen; and a very pretty
little girl called May was chosen, and crowned with a crown of
flowers.
"Next, Queen May and her council of six, three boys and three girls,
ordered that a big bonfire should be made of all lesson-books and
pinafores, for they thought pinafores were signs of an inferior state,
of being under command, as servants sometimes think their caps are.
"The next law was that all the raspberry jam in the city should be set
aside for the use of the queen and her court, and for those who were
invited to the royal tea parties. There was a little grumbling about
this, but finally the grumblers gave in. All this time troops of
children came pouring in from the neighboring villages with pinafores
on the end of broomsticks as flags of rebellion. Being pretty hungry,
they dispersed for dinner, which in most of the houses was a very
curious meal, as, of course, no one could cook, so they had to forage
in the kitchens and storerooms, while bands of hungry young folks
stormed the confectioners' shops, and dined off ices and
wedding-cakes.
"Then they opened the toy-shops and put them in charge of parties of
children and gradually the other shops were treated in the same way,
for buying and selling is always a game children like, and it was such
a treat to have real things to sell. Only money was such a trouble:
they were always forgetting to bring any, and the young shopkeepers
never were sure if a shilling or a sovereign was the right price for a
thing. Therefore they concluded to do without it; and costly things
were bought for kisses, while cheap ones were to be had for saying,
'If you please,' or, if they were very small, as a penny bun, for
instance, then 'please' was enough."
"How nice!" said Bryda.
"Well, for a whole week there never was such happiness as the children
enjoyed. Games from morning to night, bread and jam three times a day,
no lessons, no forbidden things, and a queen of their own age in place
of the tyrant king.
"But when a week was over some little murmurs began to arise. Every
morning, I ought to say, the queen sat on her throne in the royal
palace, to receive any of her subjects who liked playing at being
courtiers, and she and her council then settled any difficulty that
arose about rules of games, about the way to make the best toffee and
any other important question.
"On this particular morning, then, rather more than a week after the
establishment of the Children's Kingdom, a very large throng entered
the queen's presence. Foremost came a troop of boys and girls, who led
in a pale, serious-looking boy as a prisoner, and brought him to Queen
May's feet.
"'What is the charge against this prisoner?' asked the queen, with
dignity. 'Don't all speak at once,' she added, so hastily that several
courtiers giggled.
"'Please your majesty,' said a boy, stepping forward, 'we caught him
in the act--the very act--of learning lessons!'
"'Lessons!' cried the whole court, in every tone of disgust, anger,
grief and dismay.
"'Lessons!' screamed the queen, and at once fainted away."
"She didn't!" said Bryda indignantly.
"Don't you think the shock was great enough?" asked Uncle Jack.
"Besides, she felt it part of her royal duty, perhaps.
"Anyhow, they tickled her with feathers, and put burned cork to her
nose till she had a black mustache; and one boy brought a red-hot
poker, which he said he had heard was a good thing, though he did not
quite know how it was applied.
"It was the best remedy, certainly, for on its appearance the queen
jumped up shrieking, and declared she was perfectly well.
"Then the queen proceeded to try the prisoner, and requested the whole
court to act as jury. It was a very sad case of youthful depravity--the
criminal had carefully kept this one book, 'Somebody's Arithmetic,' or
'Mangnall's Questions,' to gloat over in secret; and even now was not
at all penitent, but declared, when asked what he had to say for
himself, that it was 'stupid, and a bore,' to play games all day long,
and he was sick of them.
"The jury could not agree as to what was to be done with such an
offender, and so he was allowed to go, and bidden 'not to do it
again,' and the queen went on to the next difficulty. Here the
throne-room became quite full of children, all in great perplexity;
for the matter was this, that the food supply was running short. The
confectioners' shops were nearly empty; there was plenty of jam, but
very little bread; and one or two boys, who had breakfasted on jam out
of a pot, eaten with a spoon, said. 'They didn't know how it could be,
but somehow they thought it did not quite agree with them.'
"This was really very serious. Could no one cook?
"Well several had tried to make puddings; but somehow, though they
ought to have been quite right, _something_ was wrong, and no one
would eat them. One girl had bravely made some apple-dumplings, and
baked them quite brown; but then she could not find out how to get the
apple in, so they were no more than hard balls, and not real
apple-dumplings at all.
"'What are we going to do?' said Queen May sorrowfully.
"A dead silence reigned.
"'I know!' said a boy called Eric, starting forward suddenly, and all
eyes turned to this owner of a bright idea. 'I know!' he said,
brandishing a many-bladed knife; 'I'll kill a pig!'
"A murmur of horror arose from the girls.
"'Oh, no!' said Queen May politely; 'my faithful subject, we will not
let you make yourself so miserable.'
"'Oh, _I_ don't mind!' cried Eric; 'really, you know, I should _like_
it!'
"I'll hold him for you!' cried several boys at once.
"'Quite as if they liked it,' whispered the girls.
"But Queen May interposed, and said the court should break up and go
to blind-man's-buff. At the same hour next day any one who had a
bright idea should come and tell it. For the rest of the day she, at
least, did not mean to bother her head. If a pig were killed, it would
have to be cooked. And shaking her curls, which were like a crown of
gold, Queen May jumped off her throne and ran out into the park.
"Presently the Fairy Set-'em-right came flying over the town, and saw
all the children running about and shrieking with laughter.
"'Bless my broomstick!' she said, for she had borrowed one from a
witch to fly upon, saying she had rheumatism in her left wing. 'Bless
my broomstick! this won't do at all!'
"She did not notice that a great many children were standing about in
groups, whispering--what they dared not say aloud--that they were
getting tired of games all day, and of nothing to eat but sweet cakes
and jam at meals.
"'I should really, really and truly, like some boiled mutton,' said
Master Archie, who was known to have had a special dislike to that
dish.
"'I know what I shall do,' said the fairy; 'I shall make these
children feel like grown-ups, and then I shall fly off to the
mountains, and make the grown-ups feel like children; and if _that_
doesn't bring them to their senses, I am sure I don't know what will.'
"So the Fairy Set-'em-right waved her hand over the troop of children,
'You shall all feel like grown-up people,' she said.
"In a few minutes a strange change began to come over them all. A
great game of 'blind-man's-buff' was going on, when suddenly several
of the girls put themselves into very stiff, solemn attitudes, just
like old maids, and said, 'Really, they thought they were almost
afraid they could not play any more. Such games, especially at their
time of life, were hardly quite proper.' So they would not go on.
"Others, again, declared that there was nothing they so thoroughly
enjoyed as watching people playing at these kind of amusements; but
for themselves--well, if the others did not mind, they would like just
to sit quietly and watch. So they did, and presently some of the boys
began stroking that part of their faces where a mustache might some
day grow, and remarking that 'Haw! don't know, you know--a--this sort
of thing was all very well for schoolboys, but really--a--we could
not, you know.'"
This sentence Uncle Jack brought out with a very funny drawl, the boys
being turned into dreadfully fashionable fellows.
"The crowning point," continued Uncle Jack, "was reached when the
blind man, pushing down his bandage, stood still, and addressed this
altered crowd very seriously indeed. 'What miserable folly is this?'
he asked. 'Shall we mortals waste our precious flying moments in--in
what, my brethren?'
"You see he had turned into a preacher," explained Uncle Jack.
"'In what a miserable, frivolous occupation! catching each other!--nay,
only _trying_ to catch each other! Poor fools and blind! let us cease,
I say--' But he had no one to say it to, for the whole audience had
gone off in different directions, and the preacher had only his little
brother of five left to listen to his wise words. 'Come along, Tommy,'
said he, 'I will try and find some one for you to play with, little
man.'
"'Play with!' answered the little brother in a tone of utter surprise.
'My dear sir, I have no time to play. Letters, telegrams, appointments
by scores fill my time. Let me tell you, sir, there is no busier man
than your humble servant in the whole country.'
"With which he turned about and strode off with the longest strides
his little legs in their blue sailor trousers could take; for he had
become a man of business.
"'This is too absurd,' muttered the elder, and went off to look for
the church of which he was vicar.
"The same remarkable change came over all the children. One little
brat who was busy teasing an unfortunate kitten stopped suddenly, and
rushed off in search of pen and paper, with which he returned, and
began at once to compose an ode 'To Tabitha.'
"'Fairest pussy ever seen!
With thine eyes of clearest green,
Fly me not.'
That was how it began, for he had become a poet."
"I thought poets wrote about knights and ladies, and green fields and
the moon," remonstrated Bryda.
"So they do. But sometimes they want a new subject, and this young
genius thought he had found one.
"Well, all the children, without losing their child faces and figures,
turned into the sort of people they would be when they were grown up.
So of course their games seemed very dull, and they wanted grown-up
occupations. But not knowing quite how to set to work, they were all
lounging vaguely about, when the clear notes of a bugle sounded
through the city.
"This was the well-known signal for the assembling of the whole
population in the park, and off went all these queer grown-up children
to the place of meeting. Here they were met by Queen May, who sat on a
garden-chair with her court around her, all looking very solemn.
"'My faithful subjects,' said the queen, 'I have sent for you to
consider a very grave question. I regret to state that the affairs of
this kingdom are in a condition which will, perhaps, be best described
as unsatisfactory.'
"'Hear, hear!' said a gentleman of four, bowing gravely.
"'Hear, hear!' echoed many voices.
"'Perhaps the most unsatisfactory point is,' went on Queen May, who,
you see, talked in very grown-up language, 'is, I say, the banishment
of a large portion of the population; that portion, in fact, which we
were formerly accustomed to call our elders and betters.'
"Cries of 'No, no!'
"Queen May went on to explain that after all they got on badly without
these elders. With all their efforts the young folks had not strength
or skill to do a variety of things, without which the round of life
seemed likely soon to come to a standstill. So she proposed that she
and all who would go should start at once for the mountain and fetch
home the exiles.
"There was some murmuring at this. The old law might be carried out,
and the children made wretched again.
"'And--why, bless me,' said an elderly person of nine, as he fixed on
a double eyeglass with gold rims, 'they might actually want to send
me, me! to bed at eight o'clock!'
"'Proper conditions would be made,' the queen said.
"One after another all the objections were overcome, and a long
procession started, with Queen May, mounted on a white pony, at its
head.
"On arriving at the mountain they were greatly surprised to meet the
king, that stern tyrant who wanted to stop all fun, running as hard as
his legs could carry his fat body, with his crown on the back of his
head, and a green net-bag tied on to the end of his scepter, chasing
a white butterfly.
"'Please, your majesty,' began Queen May shyly; but the king only
looked round for a moment, and ran on, then tumbled over a furzebush,
so that his crown rolled far away, and the butterfly escaped, while
he lay there kicking.
"The children were very much surprised at this, and thought the king
must have gone mad, and, in fact, they felt very penitent, for they
supposed his hurried flight must have been too much for the brain, so
they were to blame for this terrible alteration.
"A little further on, however, they were still more surprised to see
a circle of the most serious old maids in the whole capital, ladies
whose time was mostly spent in making flannel garments for the poor,
or sitting at neat tea tables with neat curls on each side of their
faces, and a neat cat, curled on a neat cushion, in a neat chair,
close at hand, and these old ladies were all screaming and laughing
like children.
"These very respectable old ladies now looked anything but neat! Their
curls were flying in all directions, and they were screaming with
laughter, pinching each other, and making all sorts of silly jokes
over a furious game of 'hunt the slipper.' For you see they had gone
back to what they used to like when they were children.
"Queen May looked at them gravely.
"'Dear friends,' she said, 'at your age, is this decorous? Is it
proper? Is it even ladylike?'
"'There it is! Catch it! Catch it!' cried one of the old ladies.
"'Come and play with us!' cried another.
"None of the rest paid any attention to the serious looks of the
grown-up children who went sadly on toward the fort, hoping to find
some one more reasonable.
"The next person they saw was the lord chancellor, a bald, stout old
gentleman, who was sitting on the woolsack, which, you remember, he
had carried away on his back. He was very busy with a pipe, and the
children thought he was smoking, and grew more hopeful. He might have
some trace of good sense left, they thought, if he could care for such
a grown-up pursuit."
Here Uncle Jack offered his cigar to Bryda politely; but she made a
face and turned her head away.
"I don't want to be so grown-up as _that_," she said.
"Oh!" said Uncle Jack, with his funny face, that he always put on to
tease Bryda. "Oh, I thought you wanted to grow up all of a sudden."
"Well--only for some things," answered she, feeling that Uncle Jack
was taking a mean advantage in remembering her sayings, and bringing
them up again. "Please go on," she added hastily.
Uncle Jack winked at her very slowly and solemnly; then took a good
puff at his cigar, and went on:
"When they came up he was found to be blowing soap-bubbles!
"'A-ah!' he spluttered, trying to talk with the pipe in his mouth.
'D-don't break it, please! There!' as the bubble burst and vanished;
'it's too bad, I declare! Directly I got a really good one, big and
bright, that always happens. Have a try,' he added, offering Queen May
the pipe.
"'I say, my lord,' said the major-general commanding the royal army,
coming up at the moment, 'can you tell me how to mend lead soldiers?
I've tried gum and glue, and one of the maids of honor tried to sew
one, but somehow they don't join properly. It's a horrid bore, and
that fellow, the speaker, won't let me have a ride on his
rocking-horse. I'd punch him, only he's six feet three, and as broad
as he's long. So I don't know what to play at.'
"'It _is_ slow,' answered the lord chancellor, pityingly. 'Never
mind, old chap, come up to the fort and we'll make some toffee.'
"So the elderly gentlemen went off arm-in-arm, and Queen May shook her
head sadly.
"'They are all mad, poor things! What are we to do?'
"'Hi! hi!' cried a voice, and looking round they saw that tall,
handsome nobleman, the master of the horse, running toward them as
fast as he could. At last, perhaps, they had found some one to speak
sensibly to.
"'Hi! you fellows,' he cried breathlessly; 'stop a minute, will you?
Is that a circus pony? and can he do tricks? Sit up with a hat on, and
drink out of teacups, I mean.'
"'Certainly not,' replied Queen May, with her utmost dignity. 'I
hardly understand, Lord Moyers, how you can ask such a strange
question. Did you ever see a lady, especially if she were a crowned
queen, riding a circus pony?'
"Lord Moyers giggled, and turned head-over-heels on the spot, after
which he rushed off again to join the rest of the House of Lords, who
were playing 'hi! cockalorum,' close by.
"The procession went on very sorrowfully toward the fort. It grieved
them to see this frivolity in those to whom they had been taught to
look up.
"'Alas, my country!' sighed Eric, the boy who, you remember, had
proposed to kill the pig before he was touched with the fairy wand.
"Perhaps it was on arriving at the gates of the fort that the very
strangest sight was seen. The queen was a very stout and middle-aged
person, of rather stern countenance, and here she was busy with a
skipping rope--her hair loose, her royal robes tucked up, and her
crown on one side.
"'It's the best fun and the finest exercise in the world,' she gasped.
'If I could only skip twice to one turn of the rope!'
"And on she went, while the children watched. But there was something
so utterly ridiculous about the sight that Queen May and her
followers, after various vain efforts to suppress their mirth, burst
into one peal of laughter, which rang merrily through the old fort,
and over the hillside.
"It broke the charm, and in a moment the children became children
again, and the grown people became as they were before.
"There was a large flat field on the mountain top, in front of the
gates of the old fort, and here all the exiles wore in a few minutes
assembled.
"The king was about to address them, when in a moment, no one knowing
how she came there, the Fairy Set-'em-right stood among them, close
beside his majesty.
"'You have all learned a lesson, and I will put it into words for
you,' she said."
"Oh, dear!" interrupted Bryda, "here comes the moral! Don't make a
very hard one, Uncle Jack, please!"
He laughed. "I must finish this truthful story truthfully, miss.
"She said, turning to the king and queen:
"'Your fault was that you forgot you once were young yourselves.'"
Bryda nodded her head very wisely.
"'And you, children, forgot that you could not do without old people.
That wicked law is at once repealed.'
"'Certainly, ma'am,' said the king, bowing.
"'Children are to be children, and behave as such, and be treated as
such. Parents are parents, the children are not to forget that. Now go
home all of you, and don't forget this one caution, _I've got my eye
on you_.'
"With these awful words the fairy vanished. And that's the end of the
story."
"And a very nice ending, too!" said Bryda.
[Illustration with caption: IS THERE A PECULIAR FLAVOR IN WHAT YOU
SPRINKLE FROM YOUR TORCH? ASKED SCROOGE--page 271 _From the drawing
by T Leech_]
BRDYA'S DREADFUL SCRAPE
By Mrs. E. M. Field
Bryda was awakened from her pleasant morning sleep by a strange sound.
Her window was partly open, but something struck against the upper
sash; it was not a bird that had lost its way, nor a wasp come to look
for jam, for as Bryda raised her head something that could only be a
handful of light gravel or shot struck the window again, and at the
same time a clear, shrill whistle sounded outside.
Bryda hastily sprang up. One does not care much about dress at nine
years old, so in white nightdress and dark twisted hair she fearlessly
put her head out of the window, and saw, to her delight, her cousin,
Maurice Gray, a boy some two years younger than herself, with his
queer, ugly little Scotch terrier, Toby, standing on the lawn. She
need not be sad for want of a playmate to-day.
"Get up and dress!" cried Maurice. "Aren't you ashamed, my Lady
Lie-in-bed? Come out directly!"
Bryda did not need a second invitation. A very short time indeed
passed before she was by Maurice's side.
His father had brought him over, he said; his father wanted to see
grandfather about some business, so he had started off very early.
Maurice was dreadfully hungry, and, as the grannies never breakfasted
till ten, he and Bryda each got a thick slice of bread and jam from
the good-natured cook, and then went off to the garden, Bryda running
races with Toby, who mostly had the best of it. You see he had four
legs to Bryda's two.
They went to the vinery, and acted a little play, which, however,
wanted a few more actors sadly. It was so puzzling for Bryda to be
both the imprisoned princess and the ogre at once; and when Maurice,
the valiant knight, slew Toby for a dragon, and stepped over his
corpse (or would have done, if Toby had been a little more dead, and
not run away every other minute), it got really puzzling, and it was
well that the breakfast-bell rang at that moment.
Breakfast was rather a long, dull affair. Uncle James, Maurice's
father, explained to grandfather a great deal about a drainage scheme;
and grandmother, every five minutes, asked her maid Martha, who stood
behind her chair, to tell her what it was all about, which Martha had
to do in very loud whispers over and over again.
Maurice and Bryda were very glad to run out again, with special
directions from grandmother to keep off wet grass, and not get into
mischief. This, they thought, could not possibly happen. This time
they rambled into the farmyard. Bryda would not look for more kittens,
but tried to make friends with some small balls of fluff, which meant
some day to be turkeys. At one corner of the yard was a deep tank, or
little pond, full of a dark brown, rather thick fluid, which was used
in the garden and fields, and had a great effect in the way of making
things grow. Bryda and her cousin stood looking at it.
"I declare," said Bryda, "it's like the Styx!"
"I don't see any sticks," said ignorant Maurice, who had never learned
that the old heathens believed the souls of dead people went in a
ferryboat across a dark river called the Styx, and that the old man
who rowed the boat was called Charon.
Bryda thought it would be capital fun to act this little scene.
Certainly the treacle-colored stuff in the pool looked nasty enough to
do very well for this dark river.
As to Maurice, he was younger than his cousin, and when they were
together she always invented the games, although he had been to school
already, and thought girls generally were very little use.
So when Bryda explained what she wanted to do, he only said that he
did not know how to act a story that he had never heard; to which
Bryda only answered quietly, and as if it were a fact no one could
think of doubting for a moment, "You don't know anything about
anything, Maurice. Sit down there--no! not on a cabbage, but on the
wheelbarrow--and I will tell you all about it."
So she told him the story, in the middle of which the wheelbarrow
upset, because Maurice laughed. So he sat on a log of wood, and Bryda
picked up the wheelbarrow, got into it, and began in the words of one
of her lesson-books, with a little alteration to suit the occasion.
"Friend! Roman! Countryman! lend me your ears! I am Charon--"
"What?" asked Maurice.
"Don't spoil my speech! You may only say 'Hear, hear!' as they do in
Parliament."
"But suppose I don't want to hear?"
Bryda had no notion of what they would do under such unlikely
circumstances; so, after thinking a little, she merely said, "Don't be
silly, Maurice!" And that sort of answer puts an end to any argument
quite easily.
"This is my dog Cerberus, with three heads," went on Bryda, pointing
to Toby.
"My! what a lot of bones he would eat!" said his master.
Bryda suddenly jumped down from her rather unsteady pulpit.
"Oh, we _will_ have fun! Here, Maurice, put on my white pinafore.
You shall be a ghost, and I will get into the tub with my dog
Cerberus, and ferry you over the river," she said.
"It won't hold two," said Maurice, looking rather doubtfully at the
rotten tub which Bryda pushed into the filthy waters, making a splash
and a most horrible smell as it went in.
"Oh, ghosts don't want much room! Now, Cerberus, in you go!" and in
the poor dog went, hastily and ungracefully; being, in fact, thrown in
head foremost.
After one howl he resigned himself, and lay down at the bottom of the
tub, into which unsteady boat Bryda, armed with her own small spade,
followed with Maurice's help.
Having balanced herself by crouching down, so as to bring the center
of gravity to the right place, she proceeded to paddle, or, as she
called it, to row with the little wooden spade, splashing a good deal,
and, of course, making the tub turn round and round, and wriggle very
uncomfortably in the pool. "Well, it doesn't matter," said Charon,
giving up in despair, and looking very red in the face. "We can
pretend I crossed the Styx to fetch you. Now I must speak to the soul
in Latin, because, of course, Charon and Cerberus talked Latin
always."
"I suppose Cerberus barked in Latin--all three mouths at once," said
Maurice; "what a horrid row it must have been!"
"Now talk away," said Bryda.
"But we don't know Latin; I've only just begun at _hic, haec, hoc_."
"_That_ doesn't matter; we must make it up, of course. If we put 'us'
or 'o' at the end of every word it will sound exactly like the stuff
Cousin Ronald learns. Now: Poor-us soul-us, do-us you-us want-o to cross
over-o?"
"Yes-o," replied Maurice promptly.
"Then-us come-o--oh! oh!" screamed Bryda, making the last word very
long indeed; for she trod on the _one_ tail of the dog Cerberus,
causing that remarkable animal to jump up howling. Charon's ferryboat
was not built to allow of athletic sports on board, so it went over,
and Bryda went in.
Oh, dear! what word can describe the filthy mess into which Bryda was
plunged up to her waist! the smell of it, and the chill, horrible
feeling! Fortunately, she had just taken Maurice's hand, to help in
"the soul," who indeed felt very lucky to escape such a voyage!
Maurice was able to help her, but, soaked to the waist and ready to
cry, she scrambled up to dry land.
By way of mending matters, the dog Cerberus, who may be supposed to
have become Toby again, had gone in altogether, and was rather pleased
with himself. So he came and had a good shake close to Bryda, so as to
splash all the rest of her small person, and then ran round and round,
expressing his delight by all sorts of queer noises.
But, oh! here was a mess! And this after the trouble of yesterday, and
all Bryda's good resolutions! It was too dreadful, and tears came fast
to her eyes.
But kind Maurice, instead of laughing, pitied her. "Don't cry," he
said; "can't you _wash_?"
"I might _run_," said Bryda dolefully, remembering what dreadful
things happened to frocks that "ran."
"That stuff might run off," said Maurice; "come on."
And she followed meekly to the nearest greenhouse, where was a large
tub of fresh water, and beside it a big squirt or syringe used for
watering plants high up in the greenhouse.
"Oh, Maurice dear, I never will call you stupid again!" cried Bryda,
delighted, as Maurice filled the syringe and set to work upon her.
What fun that was! It was almost worth the fright of that horrid
splash, and almost--not quite, perhaps--worth the disgrace Bryda would
certainly be in with nurse. Such peals of laughter followed each shower
that the quiet cows in the fields beyond lifted up their great heavy
heads, and stared with brown eyes of mild astonishment.
Can you imagine the sort of figure Bryda was when grandmother came out
in her wheel-chair to take a turn in the sunshine? Soaked from head to
foot; streams of clean water, and others of the horribly smelling
stuff into which she had plunged, pouring off her in all directions!
She did indeed look a miserable little guilty thing, hanging her head
while grandmother looked at her through her gold eyeglass, evidently
so surprised and shocked that she could find no words for a few
minutes, and at last could only tell her she must never! never! never!
do such dreadful things again. If she did, the consequences would be
* * * * *
This row of stars must stand for those dreadful consequences, for
Bryda never heard them! Uncle James and grandfather had come up by
this time, and she fled, as fast as wet, clinging clothes would let
her, to the house. It was "out of the frying-pan into the fire,"
though, for nurse's wrath was really something too dreadful; and the
way in which she ended, by saying that she supposed Miss Bryda would
like better to make mud pies in the streets than to play with other
Christians, hurt the child's feelings dreadfully. I am sorry to say
she walked out of the nursery with damp, smooth hair and a clean
frock, but with her head so very much in the air that her namesake,
Saint Bride, or Bridget, or Bryda, would have been quite shocked.
"You see, Cousin Salome," she said afterwards, "it was such a dose of
disgraces, and I meant to be so wise, and clever, and useful."
"Did you ask to be made wise, and clever, and useful?" asked Salome
gently.
Bryda hung her head. She had forgotten that, I am afraid she dressed
so quickly in the morning to join Maurice that she never remembered
to ask the Helper of the helpless to make her what she would like to
be.
"I have been so miserable, Cousin Salome," she added; "I don't believe
Mary Queen of Scots could have been more wretched if she had had her
head cut off three times running."
How this was to be managed did not seem to strike Bryda as puzzling.
She and Maurice had so often acted the execution of Mary of Scotland,
with an armchair for the block, and an umbrella for an ax, that they
were quite used to the queen having her head cut off very often
without minding it in the least, or being any the worse for it
afterward.
But, certainly, it is very tiresome when our most amusing games end in
some mischief that we never dreamed of doing! It was not so very long
before this dreadful accident in the tub that Bryda, who had been
reading English history, told Maurice they would act King Canute and
his courtiers on the seashore.
So she put two chairs, and collected all the water she could from
every jug and water-bottle she could find, so as nearly to fill a bath
placed in front of the two chairs on which she and Maurice sat.
"So they put chairs close by the seashore as the tide came in,"
related Bryda, "and the little waves came nearer and nearer. And the
courtiers said, 'Oh king, let us move a little higher up.' But Canute
said, 'Why should we? Did you not say I was such a great king that no
doubt even the sea would obey me?' And the courtiers held their stupid
tongues, for they knew very well that they had said so. But the tide
kept on coming, and presently the courtiers got up and ran away, for
the water was halfway up the legs of their chairs, and they had
already been sitting with their knees up to their noses."
But here Bryda, trying to get herself into this graceful position,
lost her balance, and rolled off her chair, falling on the edge of the
bath; which, of course, upset, and made a higher tide in the nursery
than had ever been seen there before, for the water flowed in every
direction, and the children, ashamed and frightened though they were,
could not help laughing at the way in which a pair of Bryda's shoes
floated about like little canoes, till one that had a hole at the side
turned over and went down.
This happened at Bryda's own home, before her father and mother went
away. Mother was not pleased, of course; but still she was not quite
so dreadfully shocked as the grannies were at the adventure in the old
tub.
THE CRATCHITS' CHRISTMAS DINNER
By Charles Dickens
Scrooge stood with the Ghost of Christmas Present in the city streets
on Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people
made a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping
the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the
tops of their houses: whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it
come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial
little snowstorms.
The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker,
contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and
with the dirtier snow upon the ground; which last deposit had been
plowed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and wagons;
furrows that crossed and recrossed each other hundreds of times where
the great streets branched off, and made intricate channels, hard to
trace, in the thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy, and
the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed
half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty
atoms, as if all the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one consent,
caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear hearts' content.
There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet
was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air
and brightest summer sun might have endeavored to diffuse in vain.
For, the people who were shovelling away on the house-tops were jovial
and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets, and
now and then exchanging a facetious snowball--better-natured missile
far than many a wordy jest--laughing heartily if it went right and not
less heartily if it went wrong. The poulterers' shops were still half
open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were
great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the
waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling
out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy,
brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish onions, shining in the fatness of
their growth like Spanish friars; and winking from their shelves in
wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely
at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high
in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the
shopkeepers' benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that
people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of
filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient
walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle-deep through
withered leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab, and swarthy,
setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great
compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching
to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner. The very gold
and silver fish, set forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though
members of a dull and stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that
there was something going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and
round their little world in slow and passionless excitement.
The grocers'! oh, the grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two
shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It was
not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry
sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that
the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even
that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the
nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds
so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the
other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted
with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint and
subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy,
or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their
highly-decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its
Christmas dress: but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in
the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each
other at the door, clashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left
their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them,
and committed hundreds of the like mistakes in the best humor
possible; while the grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that
the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might
have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for
Christmas daws to peck at if they chose.
But soon the steeples called good people all, to church and chapel,
and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best
clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there
emerged from scores of by-streets, lanes, and nameless turnings,
innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers' shops. The
sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very
much, for he stood with Scrooge beside him in a baker's doorway, and
taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on
their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of
torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some
dinner-carriers who had jostled with each other, he shed a few drops
of water on them from it, and their good humor was restored directly.
For they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it
was! God love it, so it was!
In time the bells ceased, and the bakers' were shut up; and yet there
was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners and the progress of
their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven;
where the pavements smoked as if its stones were cooking too.
"Is there a peculiar flavor in what you sprinkle from your torch?"
asked Scrooge.
"There is. My own."
"Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?" asked Scrooge.
"To any kindly given. To a poor one most."
"Why to a poor one most?" asked Scrooge.
"Because it needs it most."
"Spirit," said Scrooge, after a moment's thought, "I wonder you, of
all the beings in the many worlds about us, should desire to cramp
these people's opportunities of innocent enjoyment."
"I!" cried the Spirit.
"You would deprive them of their means of dining every seventh day,
often the only day on which they can be said to dine at all," said
Scrooge. "Wouldn't you?"
"I!" cried the Spirit.
"You seek to close these places on the Seventh Day?" said Scrooge.
"And it comes to the same thing."
"_I_ seek!" exclaimed the Spirit.
"Forgive me if I am wrong. It has been done in your name, or at least
in that of your family," said Scrooge.
"There are some upon this earth of yours," returned the Spirit, "who
lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride,
ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are
as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived.
Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us."
Scrooge promised that he would; and they went on, invisible, as they
had been before, into the suburbs of the town. It was a remarkable
quality of the Ghost (which Scrooge had observed at the baker's), that
notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any
place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as
gracefully and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible he
could have done in any lofty hall.
And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off
this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty
nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to
Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him,
holding to his robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit
smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the
sprinklings of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen "Bob" a
week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his
Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his
four-roomed house!
Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in
a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a
goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda
Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master
Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and
getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar (Bob's private
property, conferred upon his son and heir in honor of the day) into
his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned
to show his linen in the fashionable parks. And now two smaller
Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the
baker's they had smelled the goose, and known it for their own; and
basking in luxurious thoughts of sage-and-onion, these young Cratchits
danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the
skies, while he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him)
blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at
the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.
"What has ever got your precious father then?" said Mrs. Cratchit.
"And your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha warn't as late last Christmas
Day by half-an-hour!"
"Here's Martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as she spoke.
"Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young Cratchits. "Hurrah!
There's _such_ a goose, Martha!"
"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs.
Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and
bonnet for her with officious zeal.
"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl, "and
had to clear away this morning, mother!"
"Well! Never mind so long as you are come," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit
ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!"
"No, no! There's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits, who
were everywhere at once. "Hide, Martha, hide!"
So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at
least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down
before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look
seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore
a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame!
"Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.
"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.
"Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits;
for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church, and had
come home rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas Day!"
Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke;
so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into
his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him
off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the
copper.
"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had
rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his
heart's content.
"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful,
sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever
heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in
the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them
to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind
men see."
Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more
when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny
Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister
to his stool before the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs--as
if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby--compounded
some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round
and round and put it on the hob to simmer; Master Peter, and the two
ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they
soon returned in high procession.
Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of
all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter
of course--and in truth it was something very like it in that house.
Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan)
hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor;
Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot
plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table;
the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting
themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into
their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came
to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It
was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly
all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but
when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued
forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny
Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the
handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!
There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever
was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and
cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the
apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the
whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight
(surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it
all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the younger Cratchits
in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But
now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the
room alone--too nervous to bear witness--to take the pudding up and
bring it in.
Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in
turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the
backyard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose--a
supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts
of horrors were supposed.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A
smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an
eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a
laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute
Mrs. Cratchit entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding,
like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of
half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly
stuck into the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he
regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since
their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her
mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of
flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or
thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would
have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to
hint at such a thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth
swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and
considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a
shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew
round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a
one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass.
Two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden
goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks,
while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then
Bob proposed:
"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"
Which all the family re-echoed.
"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
EMBELLISHMENT
By Jacob Abbott
One day Beechnut, who had been ill, was taken by Phonny and Madeline
for a drive. When Phonny and Madeline found themselves riding quietly
along in the waggon in Beechnut's company, the first thought which
occurred to them, after the interest and excitement awakened by the
setting out had passed in some measure away, was that they would ask
him to tell them a story. This was a request which they almost always
made in similar circumstances. In all their rides and rambles
Beechnut's stories were an unfailing resource, furnishing them with an
inexhaustible fund of amusement sometimes, and sometimes of
instruction.
"Well," said Beechnut, in answer to their request, "I will tell you
now about my voyage across the Atlantic Ocean."
"Yes," exclaimed Madeline, "I should like to hear about that very much
indeed."
"Shall I tell the story to you just as it was," asked Beechnut, "as a
sober matter of fact, or shall I embellish it a little?"
"I don't know what you mean by embellishing it," said Madeline.
"Why, not telling exactly what is true," said Beechnut, "but inventing
something to add to it, to make it interesting."
"I want to have it true," said Madeline, "and interesting, too."
"But sometimes," replied Beechnut, "interesting things don't happen,
and in such cases, if we should only relate what actually does happen,
the story would be likely to be dull."
"I think you had better embellish the story a little," said Phonny--"just
a _little_, you know."
"I don't think I can do that very well," replied Beechnut. "If I
attempt to relate the actual facts, I depend simply on my memory, and
I can confine myself to what my memory teaches; but if I undertake to
follow my invention, I must go wherever it leads me."
"Well," said Phonny, "I think you had better embellish the story, at
any rate, for I want it to be interesting."
"So do I," said Madeline.
"Then," said Beechnut, "I will give you an embellished account of my
voyage across the Atlantic. But, in the first place, I must tell you
how it happened that my father decided to leave Paris and come to
America. It was mainly on my account. My father was well enough
contented with his situation so far as he himself was concerned, and
he was able to save a large part of his salary, so as to lay up a
considerable sum of money every year; but he was anxious about me.
"There seemed to be nothing," continued Beechnut, "for me to do, and
nothing desirable for me to look forward to, when I should become a
man. My father thought, therefore, that, though it would perhaps be
better for _him_ to remain in France, it would probably be better for
_me_ if he should come to America, where he said people might rise in
the world, according to their talents, thrift, and industry. He was
sure, he said, that I should rise, for, you must understand, he
considered me an extraordinary boy."
"Well," said Phonny, "_I_ think you were an extraordinary boy."
"Yes, but my father thought," rejoined Beechnut, "that I was something
very extraordinary indeed. He thought I was a genius."
"So do I," said Phonny.
"He said," continued Beechnut, "he thought it would in the end be a
great deal better for him to come to America, where I might become a
man of some consequence in the world, and he said that he should enjoy
his own old age a great deal better, even in a strange land, if he
could see me going on prosperously in life, than to remain all his
days in that porter's lodge.
"All the money that my father had saved," Beechnut continued, "he got
changed into gold at an office in the Boulevards; but then he was very
much perplexed to decide how it was best to carry it."
"Why did he not pack it up in his chest?" asked Phonny.
"He was afraid," replied Beechnut, "that his chest might be broken
open, or unlocked by false keys, on the voyage, and that the money
might be thus stolen away; so he thought that he would try to hide it
somewhere in some small thing that he could keep with him all the
voyage."
"Could not he keep his chest with him all the voyage?" asked Phonny.
"No," said Beechnut; "the chests, and all large parcels of baggage
belonging to the passengers, must be sent down into the hold of the
ship out of the way. It is only a very little baggage that the people
are allowed to keep with them between the decks. My father wished very
much to keep his gold with him, and yet he was afraid to keep it in a
bag, or in any other similar package, in his little trunk, for then
whoever saw it would know that it was gold, and so perhaps form some
plan to rob him of it.
"While we were considering what plan it would be best to adopt for the
gold, Arielle, who was the daughter of a friend of ours, proposed to
hide it in my _top_. I had a very large top which my father had made
for me. It was painted yellow outside, with four stripes of bright
blue passing down over it from the stem to the point. When the top was
in motion, both the yellow ground and the blue stripes entirely
disappeared, and the top appeared to be of a uniform green colour.
Then, when it came to its rest again, the original colours would
reappear."
"How curious!" said Madeline. "Why would it do so?"
"Why, when it was revolving," said Beechnut, "the yellow and the blue
were blended together in the eye, and that made green. Yellow and blue
always make green. Arielle coloured my top, after my father had made
it, and then my father varnished it over the colours, and that fixed
them.
"This top of mine was a monstrous large one, and being hollow, Arielle
thought that the gold could all be put inside. She said she thought
that that would be a very safe hiding-place, too, since nobody would
think of looking into a top for gold. But my father said that he
thought that the space would not be quite large enough, and then if
anybody should happen to see the top, and should touch it, the weight
of it would immediately reveal the secret.
"At last my father thought of a plan which he believed would answer
the purpose very perfectly. We had a very curious old clock. It was
made by my grandfather, who was a clockmaker in Geneva. There was a
little door in the face of the clock, and whenever the time came for
striking the hours, this door would open, and a little platform would
come out with a tree upon it. There was a beautiful little bird upon
the tree, and when the clock had done striking, the bird would flap
its wings and sing. Then the platform would slide back into its place,
the door would shut, and the clock go on ticking quietly for another
hour.
"This clock was made to go," continued Beechnut, "as many other clocks
are, by two heavy weights, which were hung to the wheel-work by strong
cords. The cords were wound round some of the wheels, and as they
slowly descended by their weight, they made the wheels go round. There
was a contrivance inside the clock to make the wheels go slowly and
regularly, and not spin round too fast, as they would have done if the
weights had been left to themselves. This is the way that clocks are
often made.
"Now, my father," continued Beechnut, "had intended to take this old
family clock with him to America, and he now conceived the idea of
hiding his treasure in the weights. The weights were formed of two
round tin canisters filled with something very heavy. My father said
he did not know whether it was shot or sand. He unsoldered the bottom
from these canisters, and found that the filling was shot. He poured
out the shot, put his gold pieces in in place of it, and then filled
up all the interstices between and around the gold pieces with sand,
to prevent the money from jingling. Then he soldered the bottom of the
canisters on again, and no one would have known that the weights were
anything more than ordinary clock-weights. He then packed the clock in
a box, and put the box in his trunk. It did not take up a great deal
of room, for he did not take the case of the clock, but only the face
and the works and the two weights, which last he packed carefully and
securely in the box, one on each side of the clock itself.
"When we got to Havre, all our baggage was examined at the
custom-house, and the officers allowed it all to pass. When they came
to the clock, my father showed them the little door and the bird
inside, and they said it was very curious. They did not pay any
attention to the weights at all.
"When we went on board of the vessel our chests were put by the side
of an immense heap of baggage upon the deck, where some seamen were at
work lowering it down into the hold through a square opening in the
deck of the ship. As for the trunk, my father took that with him to
the place where he was going to be himself during the voyage. This
place was called the steerage. It was crowded full of men, women, and
children, all going to America. Some talked French, some German, some
Dutch, and there were ever so many babies that were too little to talk
at all. Pretty soon the vessel sailed.
"We did not meet with anything remarkable on the voyage, except that
once we saw an iceberg."
"What is that?" asked Madeline.
"It is a great mountain of ice," replied Beechnut, "floating about in
the sea on the top of the water. I don't know how it comes to be
there."
"I should not think it would float upon the top of the water," said
Phonny. "All the ice that I ever saw in the water sinks into it."
"It does not sink to the bottom," said Madeline.
"No," replied Phonny, "but it sinks down until the top of the ice is
just level with the water. But Beechnut says that his iceberg rose up
like a mountain."
"Yes," said Beechnut, "it was several hundred feet high above the
water, all glittering in the sun. And I think that if you look at any
small piece of ice floating in the water, you will see that a small
part of it rises above the surface."
"Yes," said Phonny, "a very little."
"It is a certain proportion of the whole mass," rejoined Beechnut.
"They told us on board our vessel that about one-tenth part of the
iceberg was above the water; the rest--that is, nine-tenths--was under
it; so you see what an enormous big piece of ice it must have been
to have only one-tenth part of it tower up so high.
"There was one thing very curious and beautiful about our iceberg,"
said Beechnut. "We came in sight of it one day about sunset, just
after a shower. The cloud, which was very large and black, had passed
off into the west, and there was a splendid rainbow upon it. It
happened, too, that when we were nearest to the iceberg it lay toward
the west, and, of course, toward the cloud, and it appeared directly
under the rainbow, and the iceberg and the rainbow made a most
magnificent spectacle. The iceberg, which was very bright and dazzling
in the evening sun, looked like an enormous diamond, with the rainbow
for the setting."
"How curious!" said Phonny.
"Yes," said Beechnut, "and to make it more remarkable still, a whale
just then came along directly before the iceberg, and spouted there
two or three times; and as the sun shone very brilliantly upon the jet
of water which the whale threw into the air, it made a sort of silver
rainbow below in the centre of the picture."
"How beautiful it must have been!" said Phonny.
"Yes," rejoined Beechnut, "very beautiful indeed. We saw a great many
beautiful spectacles on the sea; but then, on the other hand, we saw
some that were dreadful."
"Did you?" asked Phonny. "What?"
"Why, we had a terrible storm and shipwreck at the end," said
Beechnut. "For three days and three nights the wind blew almost a
hurricane. They took in all the sails, and let the ship drive before
the gale under bare poles. She went on over the seas for five hundred
miles, howling all the way like a frightened dog."
"Were you frightened?" asked Phonny.
"Yes," said Beechnut. "When the storm first came on, several of the
passengers came up the hatchways and got up on the deck to see it; and
then we could not get down again, for the ship gave a sudden pitch
just after we came up, and knocked away the step-ladder. We were
terribly frightened. The seas were breaking over the forecastle and
sweeping along the decks, and the shouts and outcries of the captain
and the sailors made a dreadful din. At last they put the step-ladder
in its place again, and we got down. Then they put the hatches on, and
we could not come out any more."
"The hatches?" said Phonny. "What are they?"
"The hatches," replied Beechnut, "are a sort of scuttle-doors that
cover over the square openings in the deck of a ship. They always have
to put them on and fasten them down in a great storm."
Just at this time the party happened to arrive at a place where two
roads met, and as there was a broad and level space of ground at the
junction, where it would be easy to turn the waggon, Beechnut said
that he thought it would be better to make that the end of their ride,
and so turn round and go home. Phonny and Madeline were quite desirous
of going a little farther, but Beechnut thought that he should be
tired by the time he reached the house again.
"But you will not have time to finish the story," said Phonny.
"Yes," replied Beechnut; "there is very little more to tell. It is
only to give an account of our shipwreck."
"Why, did you have a shipwreck?" exclaimed Phonny.
"Yes," said Beechnut. "When you have turned the waggon, I will tell
you about it."
So Phonny, taking a great sweep, turned the waggon round, and the
party set their faces toward home. The Marshal was immediately going
to set out upon a trot, but Phonny held him back by pulling upon the
reins and saying:
"Steady, Marshal! steady! You have got to walk all the way home."
"The storm drove us upon the Nova Scotia coast," said Beechnut,
resuming his story. "We did not know anything about the great danger
that we were in until just before the ship went ashore. When we got
near the shore the sailors put down all the anchors; but they would
not hold, and at length the ship struck. Then there followed a
dreadful scene of consternation and confusion. Some jumped into the
sea in their terror, and were drowned. Some cried and screamed, and
acted as if they were insane. Some were calm, and behaved rationally.
The sailors opened the hatches and let the passengers come up, and we
got into the most sheltered places that we could find about the decks
and rigging and tied ourselves to whatever was nearest at hand. My
father opened his trunk and took out his two clock-weights, and gave
me one of them; the other he kept himself. He told me that we might as
well try to save them, though he did not suppose that we should be
able to do so.
"Pretty soon after we struck the storm seemed to abate a little. The
people of the country came down to the shore and stood upon the rocks
to see if they could do anything to save us. We were very near the
shore, but the breakers and the boiling surf were so violent between
us and the land that whoever took to the water was sure to be dashed
in pieces. So everybody clung to the ship, waiting for the captain to
contrive some way to get us to the shore."
"And what did he do?" asked Phonny.
"He first got a long line and a cask, and he fastened the end of the
long line to the cask, and then threw the cask overboard. The other
end of the line was kept on board the ship. The cask was tossed about
upon the waves, every successive surge driving it in nearer and nearer
to the shore, until at last it was thrown up high upon the rocks. The
men upon the shore ran to seize it, but before they could get hold of
it the receding wave carried it back again among the breakers, where
it was tossed about as if it had been a feather, and overwhelmed with
the spray. Presently away it went again up upon the shore, and the men
again attempted to seize it. This was repeated two or three times. At
last they succeeded in grasping hold of it, and they ran up with it
upon the rocks, out of the reach of the seas.
"The captain then made signs to the men to pull the line in toward the
shore. He was obliged to use signs, because the roaring and thundering
of the seas made such a noise that nothing could be heard. The sailors
had before this, under the captain's direction, fastened a much
stronger line--a small cable, in fact--to the end of the line which
had been attached to the barrel. Thus, by pulling upon the smaller
line, the men drew one end of the cable to the shore. The other end
remained on board the ship, while the middle of it lay tossing among
the breakers between the ship and the shore.
"The seamen then carried that part of the cable which was on shipboard
up to the masthead, while the men on shore made their end fast to a
very strong post which they set in the ground. The seamen drew the
cable as tight as they could, and fastened their end very strongly to
the masthead. Thus the line of the cable passed in a gentle slope from
the top of the mast to the land, high above all the surges and spray.
The captain then rigged what he called a sling, which was a sort of
loop of ropes that a person could be put into and made to slide down
in it on the cable to the shore. A great many of the passengers were
afraid to go in this way, but they were still more afraid to remain on
board the ship."
"What were they afraid of?" asked Phonny.
"They were afraid," replied Beechnut, "that the shocks of the seas
would soon break the ship to pieces, and then they would all be thrown
into the sea together. In this case they would certainly be destroyed,
for if they were not drowned, they would be dashed to pieces on the
rocks which lined the shore.
"Sliding down the line seemed thus a very dangerous attempt, but they
consented one after another to make the trial, and thus we all escaped
safe to land."
"And did you get the clock-weights safe to the shore?" asked Phonny.
"Yes," replied Beechnut, "and as soon as we landed we hid them in the
sand. My father took me to a little cove close by, where there was not
much surf, as the place was protected by a rocky point of land which
bounded it on one side. Behind this point of land the waves rolled up
quietly upon a sandy beach. My father went down upon the slope of this
beach, to a place a little below where the highest waves came, and
began to dig a hole in the sand. He called me to come and help him.
The waves impeded our work a little, but we persevered until we had
dug a hole about a foot deep. We put our clock-weights into this hole
and covered them over. We then ran back up upon the beach. The waves
that came up every moment over the place soon smoothed the surface of
the sand again, and made it look as if nothing had been done there. My
father measured the distance from the place where he had deposited his
treasure up to a certain great white rock upon the shore exactly
opposite to it, so as to be able to find the place again, and then we
went back to our company. They were collected on the rocks in little
groups, wet and tired, and in great confusion, but rejoiced at having
escaped with their lives. Some of the last of the sailors were then
coming over in the sling. The captain himself came last of all.
"There were some huts near the place on the shore, where the men made
good fires, and we warmed and dried ourselves. The storm abated a
great deal in a few hours, and the tide went down, so that we could go
off to the ship before night to get some provisions. The next morning
the men could work at the ship very easily, and they brought, all the
passengers' baggage on shore. My father got his trunk with the clock
in it. A day or two afterward some sloops came to the place, and took
us all away to carry us to Quebec. Just before we embarked on board
the sloops, my father and I, watching a good opportunity, dug up our
weights out of the sand, and put them back safely in their places in
the clock-box."
"Is that the end?" asked Phonny, when Beechnut paused.
"Yes," replied Beechnut, "I believe I had better make that the end."
"I think it is a very interesting and well-told story," said Madeline.
"And do you feel very tired?"
"No," said Beechnut. "On the contrary, I feel all the better for my
ride. I believe I will sit up a little while."
So saying, he raised himself in the waggon and sat up, and began to
look about him.
"What a wonderful voyage you had, Beechnut!" said Phonny. "But I never
knew before that you were shipwrecked."
"Well, in point of fact," replied Beechnut, "I never was shipwrecked."
"Never was!" exclaimed Phonny. "Why, what is all this story that you
have been telling us, then?"
"Embellishment," said Beechnut quietly.
"Embellishment!" repeated Phonny, more and more amazed.
"Yes," said Beechnut.
"Then you were not wrecked at all?" said Phonny.
"No," replied Beechnut.
"And how did you get to the land?" asked Phonny.
"Why, we sailed quietly up the St. Lawrence," replied Beechnut, "and
landed safely at Quebec, as other vessels do."
"And the clock-weights?" asked Phonny.
"All embellishment," said Beechnut. "My father had no such clock, in
point of fact. He put his money in a bag, his bag in his chest, and
his chest in the hold, and it came as safe as the captain's sextant."
"And the iceberg and the rainbow?" said Madeline.
"Embellishment, all embellishment," said Beechnut.
"Dear me!" said Phonny, "I thought it was all true."
"Did you?" said Beechnut. "I am sorry that you were so deceived, and
I am sure it was not my fault, for I gave you your choice of a true
story or an invention, and you chose the invention."
"Yes," said Phonny, "so we did."
THE GREAT STONE FACE
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little
boy sat at the door of their cottage, talking about the Great Stone
Face. They had but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be
seen, though miles away, with the sunshine brightening all its
features.
And what was the Great Stone Face?
Embosomed among a family of lofty mountains, there was a valley so
spacious that it contained many thousand inhabitants. Some of these
good people dwelt in log huts, with the black forest all around them,
on the steep and difficult hillsides. Others had their homes in
comfortable farmhouses, and cultivated the rich soil on the gentle
slopes or level surfaces of the valley. Others, again, were
congregated into populous villages, where some wild, highland rivulet,
tumbling down from its birthplace in the upper mountain region, had
been caught and tamed by human cunning, and compelled to turn the
machinery of cotton factories. The inhabitants of this valley, in
short, were numerous, and of many modes of life. But all of them,
grown people and children, had a kind of familiarity with the Great
Stone Face, although some possessed the gift of distinguishing this
grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many of their neighbors.
The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her mood of
majestic playfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain
by some immense rocks, which had been thrown together in such a
position as, when viewed at a proper distance, precisely to resemble
the features of the human countenance. It seemed as if an enormous
giant, or a Titan, had sculptured his own likeness on the precipice.
There was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet in height;
the nose, with its long bridge; and the vast lips, which, if they
could have spoken, would have rolled their thunder accents from one
end of the valley to the other. True it is, that if the spectator
approached too near, he lost the outline of the gigantic visage, and
could discern only a heap of ponderous and gigantic rocks, piled in
chaotic ruin one upon another. Retracing his steps, however, the
wondrous features would again be seen; and the further he withdrew
from them, the more like a human face, with all its original divinity
intact, did they appear; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with
the clouds and glorified vapor of the mountains clustering about it,
the Great Stone Face seemed positively to be alive.
It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood
with the Great Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were
noble, and the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were
the glow of a vast, warm heart, that embraced all mankind in its
affections, and had room for more. It was an education only to look at
it. According to the belief of many people, the valley owed much of
its fertility to this benign aspect that was continually beaming over
it, illuminating the clouds, and infusing its tenderness into the
sunshine.
As we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at their
cottage-door, gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking about it.
The child's name was Ernest.
"Mother," said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, "I wish
that it could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must
needs be pleasant. If I were to see a man with such a face, I should
love him dearly."
"If an old prophecy should come to pass," answered his mother, "we may
see a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as that."
"What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?" eagerly inquired Ernest.
"Pray tell me all about it!"
So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her,
when she herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of
things that were past, but of what was yet to come; a story,
nevertheless, so very old, that even the Indians, who formerly
inhabited this valley, had heard it from their forefathers, to whom,
as they affirmed, it had been murmured by the mountain streams, and
whispered by the wind among the tree-tops. The purport was that, at
some future day, a child should be born hereabouts, who was destined
to become the greatest and noblest personage of his time, and whose
countenance, in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the Great
Stone Face. Not a few old-fashioned people, and young ones likewise,
in the ardor of their hopes, still cherished an enduring faith in this
old prophecy. But others, who had seen more of the world, had watched
and waited till they were weary, and had beheld no man with such a
face, nor any man that proved to be much greater or nobler than his
neighbors, concluded it to be nothing but an idle tale. At all events,
the great man of the prophecy had not yet appeared.
"O mother, dear mother!" cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his
head, "I do hope that I shall live to see him!"
His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and felt that it
was wisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy. So
she only said to him, "Perhaps you may."
And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. It was
always in his mind, whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He
spent his childhood in the log-cottage where he was born, and was
dutiful to his mother, and helpful to her in many things, assisting
her much with his little hands, and more with his loving heart. In
this manner, from a happy yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a
mild, quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with labor in the
fields, but with more intelligence brightening his aspect than is seen
in many lads who have been taught at famous schools. Yet Ernest had
had no teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him.
When the toil of day was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he
began to imagine that those vast features recognized him, and gave him
a smile of kindness and encouragement, responsive to his own look of
veneration. We must not take upon us to affirm that this was a
mistake, although the Face may have looked no more kindly at Ernest
than at all the world besides. But the secret was, that the boy's
tender and confiding simplicity discerned what other people could not
see; and thus the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar
portion.
About this time, there went a rumor throughout the valley, that the
great man, foretold from ages ago, who was to bear a resemblance to
the Great Stone Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, many years
before, a young man had migrated from the valley and settled at a
distant seaport, where, after getting together a little money, he had
set up as a shopkeeper. His name--but I could never learn whether it
was his real one, or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and
success in life--was Gathergold. Being shrewd and active, and endowed
by Providence with that inscrutable faculty which develops itself in
what the world calls luck, he became an exceedingly rich merchant, and
owner of a whole fleet of bulky-bottomed ships. All the countries of
the globe appeared to join hands for the mere purpose of adding heap
after heap to the mountainous accumulation of this one man's wealth.
The cold regions of the north, almost within the gloom and shadow of
the Arctic Circle, sent him their tribute in the shape of furs; hot
Africa sifted for him the golden sands of her rivers, and gathered up
the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of the forests; the East
came bringing him the rich shawls, and spices, and teas, and the
effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming purity of large pearls. The
ocean, not to be behindhand with the earth, yielded up her mighty
whales, that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and make a profit on
it. Be the original commodity what it might, it was gold within his
grasp. It might be said of him, as of Midas in the fable, that
whatever he touched with his finger immediately glistened, and grew
yellow, and was changed at once into sterling metal, or, which suited
him still better, into piles of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold had
become so very rich that it would have taken him a hundred years only
to count his wealth, he bethought himself of his native valley, and
resolved to go back thither, and end his days where he was born. With
this purpose in view, he sent a skilful architect to build him such a
palace as should be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in.
As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that
Mr. Gathergold had turned out to be the prophetic personage so long
and vainly looked for, and that his visage was the perfect and
undeniable similitude of the Great Stone Face. People were the more
ready to believe that this must needs be the fact, when they beheld
the splendid edifice that rose, as if by enchantment, on the site of
his father's old weather-beaten farmhouse. The exterior was of marble,
so dazzlingly white that it seemed as though the whole structure might
melt away in the sunshine, like those humbler ones which Mr.
Gathergold, in his young play-days, before his fingers were gifted
with the touch of transmutation, had been accustomed to build of snow.
It had a richly ornamented portico, supported by tall pillars, beneath
which was a lofty door, studded with silver knobs, and made of a kind
of variegated wood that had been brought from beyond the sea. The
windows, from the floor to the ceiling of each stately apartment, were
composed, respectively, of but one enormous pane of glass, so
transparently pure that it was said to be a finer medium than even the
vacant atmosphere. Hardly anybody had been permitted to see the
interior of this palace; but it was reported, and with good semblance
of truth, to be far more gorgeous than the outside, insomuch that
whatever was iron or brass in other houses was silver or gold in this;
and Mr. Gathergold's bedchamber, especially, made such a glittering
appearance that no ordinary man would have been able to close his eyes
there. But, on the other hand, Mr. Gathergold was now so inured to
wealth, that perhaps he could not have closed his eyes unless where
the gleam of it was certain to find its way beneath his eyelids.
In due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers,
with magnificent furniture; then a whole troop of black and white
servants, the harbingers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic
person, was expected to arrive at sunset. Our friend Ernest,
meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the idea that the great man, the
noble man, the man of prophecy, after so many ages of delay, was at
length to be made manifest to his native valley. He knew, boy as he
was, that there were a thousand ways in which Mr. Gathergold, with his
vast wealth, might transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and
assume a control over human affairs as wide and benignant as the smile
of the Great Stone Face. Full of faith and hope, Ernest doubted not
that what the people said was true, and that now he was to behold the
living likeness of those wondrous features on the mountain side. While
the boy was still gazing up the valley, and fancying, as he always
did, that the Great Stone Face returned his gaze and looked kindly at
him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approaching swiftly along the
winding road.
"Here he comes!" cried the group of people who were assembled to
witness the arrival. "Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!"
A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road.
Within it, thrust partly out of the window, appeared the physiognomy
of a little old man, with a skin as yellow as if his own Midas-hand
had transmuted it. He had a low forehead, small, sharp eyes, puckered
about with innumerable wrinkles, and very thin lips, which he made
still thinner by pressing them forcibly together.
"The very image of the Great Stone Face!" shouted the people. "Sure
enough, the old prophecy is true; and here we have the great man come,
at last!"
And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe
that here was the likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside there
chanced to be an old beggar-woman and two little beggar-children,
stragglers from some far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled
onward, held out their hands and lifted up their doleful voices, most
piteously beseeching charity. A yellow claw--the very same that had
clawed together so much wealth--poked itself out of the coach window,
and dropped some copper coins upon the ground; so that, though the
great man's name seems to have been Gathergold, he might just as
suitably have been nicknamed Scattercopper. Still, nevertheless, with
an earnest shout, and evidently with as much good faith as ever, the
people bellowed--
"He is the very image of the Great Stone Face!"
But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that sordid
visage, and gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded
by the last sunbeams, he could still distinguish those glorious
features which had impressed themselves into his soul. Their aspect
cheered him. What did the benign lips seem to say?
"He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come!"
The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. He had grown to be a
young man now. He attracted little notice from the other inhabitants
of the valley; for they saw nothing remarkable in his way of life,
save that, when the labor of the day was over, he still loved to go
apart and gaze and meditate upon the Great Stone Face. According to
their idea of the matter, it was a folly, indeed, but pardonable,
inasmuch as Ernest was industrious, kind, and neighborly, and
neglected no duty for the sake of indulging this idle habit. They knew
not that the Great Stone Face had become a teacher to him, and that
the sentiment which was expressed in it would enlarge the young man's
heart, and fill it with wider and deeper sympathies than other hearts.
They knew not that thence would come a better wisdom than could be
learned from books, and a better life than could be molded on the
defaced example of other human lives. Neither did Ernest know that the
thoughts and affections which came to him so naturally, in the fields
and at the fireside, and wherever he communed with himself, were of a
higher tone than those which all men shared with him. A simple
soul--simple as when his mother first taught him the old prophecy--he
beheld the marvellous features beaming adown the valley, and still
wondered that their human counterpart was so long in making his
appearance.
By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and buried; and the oddest
part of the matter was, that his wealth, which was the body and spirit
of his existence, had disappeared before his death, leaving nothing of
him but a living skeleton, covered over with a wrinkled, yellow skin.
Since the melting away of his gold, it had been very generally
conceded that there was no such striking resemblance, after all,
between the ignoble features of the ruined merchant and that majestic
face upon the mountain-side. So the people ceased to honor him during
his lifetime, and quietly consigned him to forgetfulness after his
decease. Once in a while, it is true, his memory was brought up in
connection with the magnificent palace which he had built, and which
had long ago been turned into a hotel for the accommodation of
strangers, multitudes of whom came, every summer, to visit that famous
natural curiosity, the Great Stone Face. Thus, Mr. Gathergold being
discredited and thrown into the shade, the man of prophecy was yet to
come.
It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years
before, had enlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard
fighting, had now become an illustrious commander. Whatever he may be
called in history, he was known in camps and on the battle-field under
the nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder. This war-worn veteran, being
now infirm with age and wounds, and weary of the turmoil of a military
life, and of the roll of the drum and the clangor of the trumpet, that
had so long been ringing in his ears, had lately signified a purpose
of returning to his native valley, hoping to find repose where he
remembered to have left it. The inhabitants, his old neighbors and
their grown-up children, were resolved to welcome the renowned warrior
with a salute of cannon and a public dinner; and all the more
enthusiastically, it being affirmed that now, at last, the likeness of
the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. An aid-de-camp of Old
Blood-and-Thunder, travelling through the valley, was said to have
been struck with the resemblance. Moreover the schoolmates and early
acquaintances of the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, to
the best of their recollection, the aforesaid general had been
exceedingly like the majestic image, even when a boy, only that the
idea had never occurred to them at that period. Great, therefore, was
the excitement throughout the valley; and many people, who had never
once thought of glancing at the Great Stone Face for years before, now
spent their time in gazing at it, for the sake of knowing exactly how
General Blood-and-Thunder looked.
On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with all the other people of
the valley, left their work, and proceeded to the spot where the
sylvan banquet was prepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the
Rev. Dr. Battleblast was heard, beseeching a blessing on the good
things set before them, and on the distinguished friend of peace in
whose honor they were assembled. The tables were arranged in a cleared
space of the woods, shut in by the surrounding trees, except where a
vista opened eastward, and afforded a distant view of the Great Stone
Face. Over the general's chair, which was a relic from the home of
Washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs, with the laurel
profusely intermixed, and surmounted by his country's banner, beneath
which he had won his victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on
his tip-toes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated guest; but
there was a mighty crowd about the tables anxious to hear the toasts
and speeches, and to catch any word that might fall from the general
in reply; and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard, pricked
ruthlessly with their bayonets at any particularly quiet person among
the throng. So Ernest, being of an unobtrusive character, was thrust
quite into the background, where he could see no more of Old
Blood-and-Thunder's physiognomy than if it had been still blazing on
the battle-field. To console himself, he turned toward the Great Stone
Face, which, like a faithful and long-remembered friend, looked back
and smiled upon him through the vista of the fores |
