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diff --git a/old/62783-0.txt b/old/62783-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6151dad..0000000 --- a/old/62783-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11751 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lob Lie-By-The-Fire, The Brownies and Other -Tales, by Juliana Horatia Gatty Ewing and Frances Henshaw Baden - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Lob Lie-By-The-Fire, The Brownies and Other Tales - -Author: Juliana Horatia Gatty Ewing - Frances Henshaw Baden - -Release Date: July 28, 2020 [EBook #62783] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOB LIE-BY-THE=FIRE *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net - - - - - - LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, - THE BROWNIES, - AND - OTHER TALES. - - BY - - JULIANA HORATIA EWING, - - - AUTHOR OF “JAN OF THE WINDMILL,” “SIX TO SIXTEEN,” “A GREAT - EMERGENCY,” “WE AND THE WORLD,” “MRS. OVERTHEWAY’S REMEMBRANCES,” - “JACKANAPES AND OTHER TALES,” “A FLAT - IRON FOR A FARTHING,” “MELCHIOR’S DREAM, BROTHERS - OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES.” - - - M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY - CHICAGO NEW YORK - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - Contents - - Page - LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, OR THE LUCK OF 5 - LINGBOROUGH - TIMOTHY’S SHOES 61 - OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS 85 - BENJY IN BEASTLAND 98 - THE PEACE-EGG 121 - THE BROWNIES 142 - THE LAND OF LOST TOYS 179 - THREE CHRISTMAS-TREES 204 - AN IDYL OF THE WOOD 213 - CHRISTMAS CRACKERS 224 - AMELIA AND THE DWARFS 244 - -Also included at the end of this book: SPOONS by Frances Henshaw Baden - - - - - LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE. - - - INTRODUCTORY. - -Lob Lie-by-the-fire—the Lubber-fiend, as Milton calls him—is a rough -kind of Brownie or House Elf, supposed to haunt some north-country -homesteads, where he does the work of the farm laborers, for no grander -wages than - - “—to earn his cream-bowl duly set.” - -Not that he is insensible of the pleasures of rest, for - - “—When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn, - His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn - That ten day-laborers could not end, - Then lies him down the Lubber-fiend, - And, stretched out all the chimney’s length, - Basks at the fire his hairy strength.” - -It was said that a Lob Lie-by-the-fire once haunted the little old Hall -at Lingborough. It was an old stone house on the Borders, and seemed to -have got its tints from the gray skies that hung above it. It was -cold-looking without, but cosy within, “like a north-country heart,” -said Miss Kitty, who was a woman of sentiment, and kept a common-place -book. - -It was long before Miss Kitty’s time that Lob Lie-by-the-fire first came -to Lingborough. Why and whence he came is not recorded, nor when and -wherefore he withdrew his valuable help, which, as wages rose, and -prices rose also, would have been more welcome than ever. - -This tale professes not to record more of him than comes within the -memory of man. - -Whether (as Fletcher says) he were the son of a witch, if curds and -cream won his heart, and new clothes put an end to his labors, it does -not pretend to tell. His history is less known than that of any other -sprite. It may be embodied in some oral tradition that shall one day be -found; but as yet the mists of forgetfulness hide it from the -story-teller of to-day as deeply as the sea frogs are wont to lie -between Lingborough and the adjacent coast. - - - THE LITTLE OLD LADIES.—ALMS DONE IN SECRET. - -The little old ladies of Lingborough were heiresses. - -Not, mind you, in the sense of being the children of some mushroom -millionaire, with more money than manners, and (as Miss Betty had seen -with her own eyes, on the daughter of a manufacturer who shall be -nameless) dresses so fine in quality and be-furbelowed in construction -as to cost a good quarter’s income (of the little old ladies), but -trailed in the dirt from “beggarly extravagance,” or kicked out behind -at every step by feet which fortune (and a very large fortune too) had -never taught to walk properly. - -“And how should she know how to walk?” said Miss Betty. “Her mother -can’t have taught her, poor body! that ran through the streets of Leith, -with a creel on her back, as a lassie; and got out of her coach (lined -with satin, you mind, sister Kitty?) to her dying day, with a bounce, -all in a heap, her dress caught, and her stockings exposed (among -ourselves, ladies!) like some good wife that’s afraid to be late for the -market. Aye, aye! Malcolm Midden—good man!—made a fine pocket of -silver in a dirty trade, but his women’ll jerk, and toss, and bounce, -and fuss, and fluster for a generation or two yet, for all the silks and -satins he can buy ’em.” - -From this it will be seen that the little old ladies inherited some -prejudices of their class, and were also endowed with a shrewdness of -observation common among all classes of north-country women. - -But to return to what else they inherited. They were heiresses, as the -last representatives of a family as old in that Border country as the -bold blue hills which broke its horizon. They were heiresses also in -default of heirs male to their father, who got the land from his uncle’s -dying childless—sons being scarce in the family. They were heiresses, -finally, to the place and the farm, to the furniture that was made when -folk seasoned their wood before they worked it, to a diamond brooch -which they wore by turns, besides two diamond rings, and two black lace -shawls, that had belonged to their mother and their Auntie Jean, long -since departed thither where neither moth nor rust corrupt the true -riches. - -As to the incomings of Lingborough, “It was nobody’s business but their -own,” as Miss Betty said to the lawyer who was their man of business, -and whom they consulted on little matters of rent and repairs at as much -length, and with as much formal solemnity, as would have gone elsewhere -to the changing hands of half a million of money. Without violating -their confidence, however, we may say that the estate paid its way, kept -them in silk stockings, and gave them new tabbinet dresses once in three -years. It supplied their wants the better that they had inherited house -plenishing from their parents, “which they thanked their stars was not -made of tag-rag, and would last their time,” and that they were quite -content with an old home and old neighbors, and never desired to change -the grand air that blew about their native hills for worse, in order to -be poisoned with bad butter, and make the fortunes of extortionate -lodging-house keepers. - -The rental of Lingborough did more. How much more the little old ladies -did not know themselves, and no one else shall know till that which was -done in secret is proclaimed from the housetops. - -For they had had a religious scruple, founded upon a literal reading of -the scriptural command that a man’s left hand should not know what his -right hand gives in alms, and this scruple had been ingeniously set at -rest by the parson, who, failing in an attempt to explain the force of -eastern hyperbole to the little ladies’ satisfaction, had said that Miss -Betty, being the elder, and the head of the house, might be likened to -the right hand, and Miss Kitty, as the younger, to the left, and that if -they pursued their good works without ostentation, or desiring the -applause even of each other, the spirit of the injunction would be -fulfilled. - -The parson was a good man and a clever. He had (as Miss Betty justly -said) a very spiritual piety. But he was also gifted with much -shrewdness in dealing with the various members of his flock. And his -work was law to the sisters. - -Thus it came about that the little ladies’ charities were not known to -each other—that Miss Betty turned her morning camlet twice instead of -once, and Miss Kitty denied herself in sugar, to carry out benevolent -little projects which were accomplished in secret and of which no record -appears in the Lingborough ledger. - - - AT TEA WITH MRS. DUNMAW. - -The little ladies of Lingborough were very sociable, and there was, as -they said, “as much gaiety as was good for anyone” within their reach. -There were at least six houses at which they drank tea from time to -time, all within a walk. As hosts or guests, you always met the same -people, which was a friendly arrangement, and the programmes of the -entertainments were so uniform, that no one could possibly feel awkward. -The best of manners and home-made wines distinguished these tea parties, -where the company was strictly genteel, if a little faded. Supper was -served at nine, and the parson and the lawyer played whist for love with -different partners on different evenings with strict impartiality. - -Small jealousies are apt to be weak points in small societies, but there -was a general acquiescence in the belief that the parson had a friendly -preference for the little ladies of Lingborough. - -He lived just beyond them, too, which led to his invariably escorting -them home. Miss Betty and Miss Kitty would not for worlds have been so -indelicate as to take this attention for granted, though it was a custom -of many years standing. The older sister always went through the form of -asking the younger to “see if the servant had come,” and at this signal -the parson always bade the lady of the house good night, and -respectfully proffered his services as an escort to Lingborough. - -It was a lovely evening in June, when the little ladies took tea with -the widow of General Dunmaw at her cottage, not quite two miles from -their own home. - -It was a memorable evening. The tea party was an agreeable one. The -little ladies had new tabbinets on, and Miss Kitty wore the diamond -brooch. Miss Betty had played whist with the parson, and the younger -sister (perhaps because of the brooch) had been favored with a good deal -of conversation with the lawyer. It was an honor, because the lawyer -bore the reputation of an _esprit fort_, and was supposed to have, as a -rule, a contempt for feminine intellects, which good manners led him to -veil under an almost officious politeness in society. But honors are apt -to be uneasy blessings, and this one was at least as harassing as -gratifying. For a somewhat monotonous vein of sarcasm, a painful power -of producing puns, and a dexterity in suggesting doubts of everything, -were the main foundation of his intellectual reputation, and Miss Kitty -found them hard to cope with. And it was a warm evening. - -But women have much courage, especially to defend a friend or a faith, -and the less Miss Kitty found herself prepared for the conflict the -harder she esteemed it her duty to fight. She fought for Church and -State, for parsons and poor people, for the sincerity of her friends, -the virtues of the Royal Family, the merit of Dr. Drugson’s -prescriptions, and for her favorite theory that there is some good in -everyone and some happiness to be found everywhere. - -She rubbed nervously at the diamond brooch with her thin little mittened -hands. She talked very fast; and if the lawyer were guilty of feeling -any ungallant indifference to her observations, she did not so much as -hear his, and her cheeks became so flushed that Mrs. Dunmaw crossed the -room in her China crape shawl and said, “My dear Miss Kitty, I’m sure -you feel the heat very much. Do take my fan, which is larger than -yours.” - -But Miss Kitty was saved a reply, for at this moment Miss Betty turned -on the sofa, and said, “Dear Kitty, will you kindly see if the -servant——” - -And the parson closed the volume of ‘Friendship’s Offering’ which lay -before him, and advanced towards Mrs. Dunmaw and took leave in his own -dignified way. - -Miss Kitty was so much flustered that she had not even presence of mind -to look for the servant, who had never been ordered to come, but the -parson relieved her by saying in his round, deep voice, “I hope you will -not refuse me the honor of seeing you home, since our roads happen to -lie together.” And she was glad to get into the fresh air, and beyond -the doubtful compliments of the lawyer’s nasal suavity—“You have been -very severe upon me to-night, Miss Kitty. I’m sure I had no notion I -should find so powerful an antagonist,” &c. - - - MIDSUMMER EVE—A LOST DIAMOND. - -It was Midsummer eve. The long light of the North was pale and clear, -and the western sky shone luminous through the fir-wood that bordered -the road. Under such dim lights colors deepen, and the great bushes of -broom, that were each one mass of golden blossom, blazed like fairy -watch-fires up the lane. - -Miss Kitty leaned on the left arm of the parson and Miss Betty on his -right. She chatted gaily, which left her younger sister at leisure to -think of all the convincing things she had not remembered to say to the -lawyer, as the evening breeze cooled her cheeks. - -“A grand prospect for the crops, sir,” said Miss Betty; “I never saw the -broom so beautiful.” But as she leaned forward to look at the yellow -blaze which foretells good luck to farmers, as it shone in the hedge on -the left-hand side of the road, she caught sight of the Brooch in Miss -Kitty’s lace shawl. Through a gap in the wood the light from the western -sky danced among the diamonds. But where one of the precious stones -should have been, there was a little black hole. - -“Sister, you’ve lost a stone out of your brooch!” screamed Miss Betty. -The little ladies were well-trained, and even in that moment of despair -Miss Betty would not hint that her sister’s ornaments were not her sole -property. - -When Miss Kitty burst into tears the parson was a little astonished as -well as distressed. Men are apt to be so, not perhaps because women cry -on such very small accounts, as because the full reason does not always -transpire. Tears are often the climax of nervous exhaustion, and this is -commonly the result of more causes than one. Ostensibly Miss Kitty was -“upset” by the loss of the diamond, but she also wept away a good deal -of the vexation of her unequal conflict with the sarcastic lawyer, and -of all this the parson knew nothing. - -Miss Betty knew nothing of that, but she knew enough of things in -general to feel sure the diamond was not all the matter. - -“What is amiss, sister Kitty?” said she. “Have you hurt yourself? Do you -feel ill? Did you know the stone was out?”—“I hope you’re not going to -be hysterical, sister Kitty,” added Miss Betty anxiously; “there never -was a hysterical woman in our family yet.” - -“Oh dear no, sister Betty,” sobbed Miss Kitty; “but it’s all my fault. I -know I was fidgeting with it whilst I was talking; and it’s a punishment -on my fidgety ways, and for ever presuming to wear it at all, when -you’re the head of the family, and solely entitled to it. And I shall -never forgive myself if it’s lost, and if it’s found I’ll never, never -wear it any more.” And as she deluged her best company -pocket-handkerchief (for the useful one was in a big pocket under her -dress, and could not be got at, the parson being present), Church, -State, the Royal Family, the family Bible, her highest principles, her -dearest affections, and the diamond brooch, all seemed to swim before -her disturbed mind in one sea of desolation. - -There was not a kinder heart than the parson’s towards women and -children in distress. He tucked the little ladies again under his arms, -and insisted upon going back to Mrs. Dunmaw’s, searching the lane as -they went. In the pulpit or the drawing-room a ready anecdote never -failed him, and on this occasion he had several. Tales of lost rings, -and even single gems, recovered in the most marvellous manner and the -most unexpected places—dug up in gardens, served up to dinner in -fishes, and so forth. “Never,” said Miss Kitty, afterwards, “never, to -her dying day, could she forget his kindness.” - -She clung to the parson as a support under both her sources of trouble, -but Miss Betty ran on and back, and hither and thither, looking for the -diamond. Miss Kitty and the parson looked too, and how many aggravating -little bits of glass and silica, and shining nothings and -good-for-nothings there are in the world, no one would believe who has -not looked for a lost diamond on a high road. - -But another story of found jewels was to be added to the parson’s stock. -He had bent his long back for about the eighteenth time, when such a -shimmer as no glass or silica can give flashed into his eyes, and he -caught up the diamond out of the dust, and it fitted exactly into the -little black hole. - -Miss Kitty uttered a cry, and at the same moment Miss Betty, who was -farther down the road, did the same, and these were followed by a third, -which sounded like a mocking echo of both. And then the sisters rushed -together. - -“A most miraculous discovery!” gasped Miss Betty. - -“You must have passed the very spot before,” cried Miss Kitty. - -“Though I’m sure, sister, what to do with it now we have found it I -don’t know,” said Miss Betty, rubbing her nose, as she was wont to do -when puzzled. - -“It shall be taken better care of for the future, sister Betty,” said -Miss Kitty, penitently. “Though how it got out I can’t think now.” - -“Why, bless my soul! you don’t suppose it got there of itself, sister?” -snapped Miss Betty. “How did it get there is another matter.” - -“I felt pretty confident about it, for my own part,” smiled the parson -as he joined them. - -“Do you mean to say, sir, that you knew it was there?” asked Miss Betty, -solemnly. - -“I didn’t know the precise spot, my dear madam, but——” - -“You didn’t see it, sir, I hope?” said Miss Betty. - -“Bless me, my dear madam, I found it!” cried the parson. - -Miss Betty bridled and bit her lip. - -“I never contradict a clergyman, sir,” said she, “but I can only say -that if you did see it, it was not like your usual humanity to leave it -lying there.” - - I’ve got it in my hand, ma’am! - “Why - He’s got it in his hand, sister!” - -cried the parson and Miss Kitty in one breath. Miss Betty was too much -puzzled to be polite. - -“What are you talking about?” she asked. - -“The diamond, oh dear, oh dear! _The Diamond!_” cried Miss Kitty. “But -what are you talking about, sister?” - -“_The Baby_,” said Miss Betty. - - - WHAT MISS BETTY FOUND. - -It was found under a broom-bush. Miss Betty was poking her nose near the -bank that bordered the wood, in her hunt for the diamond, when she -caught sight of a mass of yellow of a deeper tint that the mass of -broom-blossom above it, and this was the baby. - -This vivid color, less opaque than “deep chrome” and a shade more -orange, seems to have a peculiar attraction for wandering tribes. -Gipsies use it, and it is a favorite color with Indian squaws. To the -last dirty rag it is effective, whether it flutters near a tent on -Bagshot Heath, or in some wigwam doorway makes a point of brightness -against the gray shadows of the pine forest. - -A large kerchief of this, wound about its body, was the baby’s only -robe, but he seemed quite comfortable in it when Miss Betty found him, -sleeping on a pillow of deep hair moss, his little brown fists closed as -fast as his eyes, and a crimson toadstool grasped in one of them. - -When Miss Betty screamed the baby awoke, and his long black lashes -tickled his cheeks and made him wink and cry. But by the time she -returned with her sister and the parson, he was quite happy again, -gazing up with dark eyes full of delight into the glowing broom-bush, -and fighting the evening breeze with his feet, which were entangled in -the folds of the yellow cloth, and with the battered toadstool which was -still in his hand. - -“And, indeed, sir,” said Miss Betty, who had rubbed her nose till it -looked like the twin toadstool to that which the baby was flourishing in -her face, “you won’t suppose I would have left the poor little thing -another moment, to catch its death of cold on a warm evening like this; -but having no experience of such cases, and remembering that murder at -the inn in the Black Valley, and that the body was not allowed to be -moved till the constables had seen it, I didn’t feel to know how it -might be with foundlings, and——” - -But still Miss Betty did not touch the bairn. She was not accustomed to -children. But the parson had christened too many babies to be afraid of -them, and he picked up the little fellow in a moment, and tucked the -yellow rag round him, and then addressing the little ladies precisely as -if they were sponsors, he asked in his deep round voice, “Now where on -the face of earth are the vagabonds who have deserted this child?” - -The little ladies did not know, the broom-bushes were silent, and the -question has remained unanswered from that day to this. - - - THE BABY, THE LAWYER, AND THE PARSON. - -There were no railways near Lingborough at this time. The coach ran -three times a week, and a walking postman brought the letters from the -town to the small hamlets. Telegraph wires were unknown, and yet news -traveled quite as fast then as it does now, and in the course of the -following morning all the neighborhood knew that Miss Betty had found a -baby under a broom-bush, and the lawyer called in the afternoon to -inquire how the ladies found themselves after the tea party at Mrs. -General Dunmaw’s. - -Miss Kitty was glad on the whole. She felt nervous, but ready for a -renewal of hostilities. Several clinching arguments had occurred to her -in bed last night, and after hastily looking up a few lines from her -common-place book, which always made her cry when she read them, but -which she hoped to be able to hurl at the lawyer with a steady voice, -she followed Miss Betty to the drawing-room. - -It was half a relief and half a disappointment to find that the lawyer -was quite indifferent to the subject of their late contest. He -overflowed with compliments; was quite sure he must have had the worst -of the argument, and positively dying of curiosity to hear about the -baby. - -The little ladies were very full of the subject themselves. An active -search for the baby’s relations, conducted by the parson, the clerk, the -farm-bailiff, the constable, the cowherd, and several supernumeraries, -had so far proved quite vain. The country folk were most anxious to -assist, especially by word of mouth. Except a small but sturdy number -who had seen nothing, they had all seen “tramps,” but unluckily no two -could be got together whose accounts of the tramps themselves, of the -hour at which they were seen, or of the direction in which they went, -would tally with each other. - -The little ladies were quite alive to the possibility that the child’s -parents might never be traced, indeed the matter had been constantly -before their minds ever since the parson had carried the baby to -Lingborough, and laid it in the arms of Thomasina, the servant. - -Miss Betty had sat long before her toilette-table that evening, gazing -vacantly at the looking-glass. Not that the reflection of the eight -curl-papers she had neatly twisted up was conveyed to her brain. She was -in a brown study, during which the following thoughts passed through her -mind, and they all pointed one way: - -That that fine little fellow was not to blame for his people’s -misconduct. - -That they would never be found. - -That it would probably be the means of the poor child’s ruin, body and -soul, if they were. - -That the master of the neighboring workhouse bore a bad character. - -That a child costs nothing to keep—where cows are kept too—for years. - -That just at the age when a boy begins to eat dreadfully and wear out -his clothes, he is very useful on a farm (though not for these reasons). - -That Thomasina had taken to him. - -That there need be no nonsense about it, as he could be brought up in -his proper station in life in the kitchen and the farmyard. - -That tramps have souls. - -That he would be taught to say his prayers. - -Miss Betty said hers, and went to bed; but all through that midsummer -night the baby kept her awake, or flaunted his yellow robe and crimson -toadstool through her dreams. - -The morning brought no change in Miss Betty’s views, but she felt -doubtful as to how her sister would receive them. Would she regard them -as foolish and unpractical, and her respect for Miss Betty’s opinion be -lessened thenceforward? - -The fear was needless. Miss Kitty was romantic and imaginative. She had -carried the baby through his boyhood about the Lingborough fields whilst -she was dressing; and he was attending her own funeral in the capacity -of an attached and faithful servant, in black livery with worsted frogs, -as she sprinkled salt on her buttered toast at breakfast, when she was -startled from this affecting day-dream by Miss Betty’s voice. - -“Dear sister Kitty, I wish to consult you as to our plans in the event -of those wicked people who deserted the baby not being found.” - -The little ladies resolved that not an inkling of their benevolent -scheme must be betrayed to the lawyer. But they dissembled awkwardly, -and the tone in which they spoke of the tramp-baby roused the lawyer’s -quick suspicions. He had a real respect for the little ladies, and was -kindly anxious to save them from their own indiscretion. - -“My dear ladies,” said he, “I do hope your benevolence—may I say your -romantic benevolence?—of disposition is not tempting you to adopt this -gipsy waif?” - -“I hope we know what is due to ourselves, and to the estate—small as it -is—sir,” said Miss Betty, “as well as to Providence, too well to -attempt to raise any child, however handsome, from that station of life -in which he was born.” - -“Bless me, madam! I never dreamed you would adopt a beggar child as your -heir; but I hope you mean to send it to the workhouse, if the gipsy -tramps it belongs to are not to be found?” - -“We have not made up our minds, sir, as to the course we propose to -pursue,” said Miss Betty, with outward dignity proportioned to her -inward doubts. - -“My dear ladies,” said the lawyer anxiously, “let me implore you not to -be rash. To adopt a child in the most favorable circumstances is the -greatest of risks. But if your benevolence _will_ take that line, pray -adopt some little boy out of one of your tenants’ families. Even your -teaching will not make him brilliant, as he is likely to inherit the -minimum of intellectual capacity; but he will learn his catechism, -probably grow up respectable, and possibly grateful, since his -forefathers have (so Miss Kitty assures me) had all these virtues for -generations. But this baby is the child of a heathen, barbarous, and -wandering race. The propensities of the vagabonds who have deserted him -are in every drop of his blood. All the parsons in the diocese won’t -make a Christian of him, and when (after anxieties I shudder to foresee) -you flatter yourselves that he is civilized, he will run away and leave -his shoes and stockings behind him.” - -“He has a soul to be saved, if he is a gipsy,” said Miss Kitty, -hysterically. - -“The soul, my dear Miss Kitty”—began the lawyer, facing round upon her. - -“Don’t say anything dreadful about the soul, sir, I beg,” said Miss -Betty, firmly. And then she added in a conciliatory tone, “Won’t you -look at the little fellow, sir? I have no doubt his relations are -shocking people; but when you see his innocent little face and his -beautiful eyes, I think you’ll say yourself that if he were a duke’s son -he couldn’t be a finer child.” - -“My experience of babies is so limited, Miss Betty,” said the lawyer, -“that really—if you’ll excuse me—but I can quite imagine him. I have -before now been tempted myself to adopt stray—puppies, when I have seen -them in the round, soft, innocent, bright-eyed stage. And when they have -grown up in the hands of more credulous friends into lanky, -ill-conditioned, misconducted curs, I have congratulated myself that I -was not misled by the graces of an age at which ill-breeding is less -apparent than later in life.” - -The little ladies both rose. “If you see no difference, sir,” said Miss -Betsy in her stateliest manner, “between a babe with an immortal soul -and the beasts that perish, it is quite useless to prolong the -conversation.” - -“Reason is apt to be useless when opposed to the generous impulses of a -sex so full of sentiment as yours, madam,” said the lawyer, rising also. -“Permit me to take a long farewell, since it is improbable that our -friendship will resume its old position until your _protegé_ has—run -away.” - -The words “long farewell” and “old friendship” were quite sufficient to -soften wrath in the tender hearts of the little ladies. But the lawyer -had really lost his temper, and, before Miss Betty had decided how to -offer the olive branch without conceding her principles he was gone. - -The weather was warm. The little ladies were heated by discussion and -the parson by vain scouring of the country on foot, when they asked his -advice upon their project, and related their conversation with the -lawyer. The two gentlemen had so little in common that the parson felt -it his duty not to let his advice be prejudiced by this fact. For some -moments he sat silent, then he began to walk about as if he were -composing a sermon; then he stepped before the little ladies (who were -sitting as stiffly on the sofa as if it were a pew) and spoke as if he -were delivering one. - -“If you ask me, dear ladies, whether it is your duty to provide for this -child because you found him, I say that there is no such obligation. If -you ask if I think it wise in your own interests, and hopeful as to the -boy’s career, I am obliged to agree with your legal adviser. Vagabond -ways are seldom cured in one generation, and I think it is quite -probable that, after much trouble and anxiety spent upon him, he may go -back to a wandering life. But, Miss Betty,” continued the parson in -deepening tones, as he pounded his left palm with his right fist for -want of a pulpit, “If you ask me whether I believe any child of any race -is born incapable of improvement, and beyond benefit from the charities -we owe to each other, I should deny my faith if I could say yes. I shall -not, madam, confuse the end of your connection with him with the end of -your training in him, even if he runs away, or fancy that I see the one -because I see the other. I do not pretend to know how much evil he -inherits from his forefathers as accurately as our graphic friend; but I -do know that he has a Father whose image is also to be found in His -children—not quite effaced in any of them—and whose care of this one -will last when yours, madam, may seem to have been in vain.” - -As the little ladies rushed forward and each shook a hand of the parson, -he felt some compunction for his speech. - -“I fear I am encouraging you in grave indiscretion,” said he. “But, -indeed, my dear ladies, I am quite against your project, for you do not -realize the anxieties and disappointments that are before you, I am -sure. The child will give you infinite trouble. I think he will run -away. And yet I cannot in good conscience say that I believe love’s -labor must be lost. He may return to the woods and wilds; but I hope he -will carry something with him.” - -“Did the reverend gentleman mean Miss Betty’s teaspoons?” asked the -lawyer, stroking his long chin, when he was told what the person had -said. - - - BABYHOOD.—PRETTY FLOWERS.—THE ROSE-COLORED TULIPS. - -The matter of the baby’s cap disturbed the little ladies. It seemed so -like the beginning of a fulfilment of the lawyer’s croakings. - -Miss Kitty had made it. She had never seen a baby without a cap before, -and the sight was unusual, if not indecent. But Miss Kitty was a quick -needlewoman, and when the new cap was fairly tied over the thick crop of -silky black hair, the baby looked so much less like Puck, and so much -more like the rest of the baby world, that it was quite a relief. - -Miss Kitty’s feelings may therefore be imagined when going to the baby -just after the parson’s departure, she found him in open rebellion -against his cap. It had been tied on whilst he was asleep, and his eyes -were no sooner open than he commenced the attack. He pulled with one -little brown hand and tugged with the other; he dragged a rosette over -his nose and got the frills into his eyes; he worried it as a puppy -worries your handkerchief if you tie it round its face and tell it to -“look like a grandmother.” At last the strings gave way, and he cast it -triumphantly out of the clothes-basket which served him for cradle. - -Successive efforts to induce him to wear it proved vain, so Thomasina -said the weather was warm and his hair was very thick, and she parted -this and brushed it, and Miss Kitty gave the cap to the farm-bailiff’s -baby, who took to it as kindly as a dumpling to a pudding-cloth. - -How the boy was ever kept inside his christening clothes, Thomasina said -she did not know. But when he got into the parson’s arms he lay quite -quiet, which was a good omen. That he might lack no advantage, Miss -Betty stood godmother for him, and the parish clerk and the sexton were -his godfathers. - -He was named John. - -“A plain, sensible name,” said Miss Betty. “And while we are about it,” -she added, “we may as well choose his surname. For a surname he must -have, and the sooner it is decided upon the better.” - -Miss Kitty had made a list of twenty-seven of her favorite Christian -names which Miss Betty had sternly rejected, that everything might be -plain, practical, and respectable at the outset of the tramp-child’s -career. For the same reason she refused to adopt Miss Kitty’s -suggestions for a surname. - -“It’s so seldom there’s a chance of _choosing_ a surname for anybody, -sister,” said Miss Kitty, “it seems a pity not to choose a pretty one.” - -“Sister Kitty,” said Miss Betty, “don’t be romantic. The boy is to be -brought up in that station of life for which one syllable is ample. I -should have called him Smith if that had not been Thomasina’s name. As -it is, I propose to call him Broom. He was found under a bush of broom, -and it goes very well with John, and sounds plain and respectable.” - -So Miss Betty bought a Bible, and on the fly-leaf of it she wrote in her -fine, round, gentlewoman’s writing—“_John Broom. With good wishes for -his welfare, temporal and eternal. From a sincere friend._” And when the -inscription was dry the Bible was wrapped in brown paper, and put by in -Thomasina’s trunk till John Broom should come to years of discretion. - -He was slow to reach them, though in other respects he grew fast. - -When he began to walk he would walk barefoot. To be out of doors was his -delight, but on the threshold of the house he always sat down and -discarded his shoes and stockings. Thomasina bastinadoed the soles of -his feet with the soles of his shoes “to teach him the use of them,” so -she said. But Miss Kitty sighed and thought of the lawyer’s prediction. - -There was no blinking the fact that the child was as troublesome as he -was pretty. The very demon of mischief danced in his black eyes, and -seemed to possess his feet and fingers as if with quicksilver. And if, -as Thomasina said, you “never knew what he would be at next,” you might -also be pretty sure that it would be something he ought to have left -undone. - -John Broom early developed a taste for glass and crockery, and as the -china cupboard was in that part of the house to which he by social -standing also belonged, he had many chances to seize upon cups, jugs and -dishes. If detected with anything that he ought not to have had, it was -his custom to drop the forbidden toy and toddle off as fast as his -unpractised feet would carry him. The havoc which this caused amongst -the glass and china was bewildering in a household where tea-sets and -dinner-sets had passed from generation to generation, where slapdash, -giddy-pated kitchen-maids never came, where Miss Betty washed the best -teacups in the parlor, where Thomasina was more careful than her -mistress, and the breaking of a single plate was a serious matter, and -if beyond riveting, a misfortune. - -Thomasina soon found that her charge was safest, as he was happiest, out -of doors. A very successful device was to shut him up in the -drying-ground, and tell him to “pick the pretty flowers.” John Broom -preferred flowers even to china cups with gilding on them. He gathered -nosegays of daisies and buttercups, and the winning way in which he -would present these to the little ladies atoned, in their benevolent -eyes, for many a smashed teacup. - -But the tramp-baby’s restless spirit was soon weary of the drying -ground, and he set forth one morning in search of “fresh fields and -pastures new.” He had seated himself on the threshold to take off his -shoes, when he heard the sound of Thomasina’s footsteps, and, hastily -staggering to his feet, toddled forth without farther delay. The sky was -blue above him, the sun was shining, and the air was very sweet. He ran -for a bit and then tumbled, and picked himself up again, and got a fresh -impetus, and so on till he reached the door of the kitchen garden, which -was open. It was an old-fashioned kitchen-garden with flowers in the -borders. There were single rose-colored tulips which had been in the -garden as long as Miss Betty could remember, and they had been so -increased by dividing the clumps that they now stretched in two rich -lines of color down both sides of the long walk. And John Broom saw -them. - -“Pick the pretty f’owers, love,” said he, in imitation of Thomasina’s -patronising tone, and forthwith beginning at the end, he went steadily -to the top of the right-hand border mowing the rose-colored tulips as he -went. - -Meanwhile, when Thomasina came to look for him, he could not be found, -and when all the back premises and the drying-ground had been searched -in vain, she gave the alarm to the little ladies. - -Miss Kitty’s vivid imagination leaped at once to the conclusion that the -child’s vagabond relations had fetched him away, and she became rigid -with alarm. But Miss Betty rushed out into the shrubbery and Miss Kitty -took a whiff of her vinaigrette and followed her. - -When they came at last to the kitchen-garden, Miss Betty’s grief for the -loss of John Broom did not prevent her observing that there was -something odd about the borders, and when she got to the top, and found -that all the tulips had been picked from one side, she sank down on the -roller which happened to be lying beside her. - -And John Broom staggered up to her, and crying “For ’oo, Miss Betty,” -fell headlong with a sheaf of rose-colored tulips into her lap. - -As he did not offer any to Miss Kitty, her better judgment was not -warped, and she said, “You must slap him, sister Betty.” - -“Put out your hand, John Broom,” said Miss Betty, much agitated. - -And John Broom, who was quite composed, put out both his little grubby -paws so trustfully that Miss Betty had not the heart to strike him. But -she scolded him, “Naughty boy!” and she pointed to the tulips and shook -her head. John Broom looked thoughtfully at them, and shook his. - -“Naughty boy!” repeated Miss Betty, and she added in very impressive -tones, “John Broom’s a very naughty boy!” - -After which she took him to Thomasina, and Miss Kitty collected the -rose-colored tulips and put them into water in the best old china -punch-bowl. - -In the course of the afternoon she peeped into the kitchen, where John -Broom sat on the floor, under the window, gazing thoughtfully up into -the sky. - -“As good as gold, bless his little heart!” murmured Miss Kitty. For as -his feet were tucked under him, she did not know that he had just put -his shoes and stockings into the pig-tub, into which he all but fell -himself from the exertion. He did not hear Miss Kitty, and thought on. -He wanted to be out again, and he had a tantalising remembrance of the -ease with which the tender juicy stalks of the tulips went snap, snap, -in that new place of amusement he had discovered. Thomasina looked into -the kitchen and went away again. When she had gone, John Broom went away -also. - -He went both faster and steadier on his bare feet, and when he got into -the kitchen garden, it recalled Miss Betty to his mind. And he shook his -head, and said, “Naughty boy!” And then he went up the left-hand border, -mowing the tulips as he went; after which he trotted home, and met -Thomasina at the back door. And he hugged the sheaf of rose-colored -tulips in his arms, and said, “John Broom a very naughty boy!” - -Thomasina was not sentimental, and she slapped him well—his hands for -picking the tulips and his feet for going barefoot. - -But his feet had to be slapped with Thomasina’s slipper, for his own -shoes could not be found. - - - EDUCATION.—FIRESIDE TALES. - -In spite of all his pranks, John Broom did not lose the favor of his -friends. Thomasina spoiled him, and Miss Betty and Miss Kitty tried not -to do so. - -The parson had said, “Treat the child fairly. Bring him up as he will -have to live hereafter. Don’t make him half pet and half-servant.” And -following this advice, and her own resolve that there should be “no -nonsense” in the matter, Miss Betty had made it a rule that he should -not be admitted to the parlor. It bore more heavily on the tender hearts -of the little ladies than on the light heart of John Broom, and led to -their waylaying him in the passages and gardens with little gifts, -unknown to each other. And when Miss Kitty kissed his newly-washed -cheeks, and pronounced them “like ripe russets,” Miss Betty murmured, -“Be judicious, sister Kitty;” and Miss Kitty would correct any possible -ill effects by saying, “_Now_ make your bow to your betters, John Broom, -and say, ‘Thank you, ma’am!’” which was accomplished by the child’s -giving a tug to the forelock of his thick black hair, with a world of -mischief in his eyes. - -When he was old enough, the little ladies sent him to the village -school. - -The total failure of their hopes for his education was not the smallest -of the disappointments Miss Betty and Miss Kitty endured on his behalf. -The quarrel with the lawyer had been made up long ago, and though there -was always a touch of raillery in his inquiries after “the young gipsy,” -he had once said, “If he turns out anything of a genius at school, I -might find a place for him in the office, by-and-by.” The lawyer was -kind-hearted in his own fashion, and on this hint Miss Kitty built up -hopes, which unhappily were met by no responsive ambition in John Broom. - -As to his fitness to be an errand boy, he could not carry a message from -the kitchen to the cowhouse without stopping by the way to play with the -yard-dog, and a hedgehog in the path would probably have led him astray, -if Thomasina had had a fit and he had been dispatched for a doctor. - -During school hours he spent most of his time under the fool’s-cap when -he was not playing truant. With his school-mates he was good friends. If -he was seldom out of mischief, he was seldom out of temper. He could -beat any boy at a foot-race (without shoes); he knew the notes and nests -of every bird that sang, and whatever an old pocket-knife is capable of, -that John Broom could and would do with it for his fellows. - -Miss Betty had herself tried to teach him to read, and she continued to -be responsible for his religious instruction. She had tried to stir up -his industry by showing him the Bible, and promising that when he could -read it he should have it for his “very own.” But he either could not or -would not apply himself, so the prize lay unearned in Thomasina’s trunk. -But he would listen for any length of time to Scripture stories, if they -were read or told to him, especially to the history of Elisha, and the -adventures of the Judges. - -Indeed, since he could no longer be shut up in the drying-ground, -Thomasina had found that he was never so happy and so safe as when he -was listening to tales, and many a long winter evening he lay idle on -the kitchen hearth, with his head on the sheep dog, whilst the more -industrious Thomasina plied her knitting-needles, as she sat in the -ingle-nook, with the flickering firelight playing among the plaits of -her large cap, and told tales of the country side. - -Not that John Broom was her only hearer. Annie “the lass” sat by the -hearth also, and Thomasina took care that she did not “sit with her -hands before her.” And a little farther away sat the cowherd. - -He had a sleeping-room above the barn, and took his meals in the house. -By Miss Betty’s desire he always went in to family prayers after supper, -when he sat as close as possible to the door, under an uncomfortable -consciousness that Thomasina did not think his boots clean enough for -the occasion, and would find something to pick off the carpet as she -followed him out, however hardly he might have used the door-scraper -beforehand. - -It might be a difficult matter to decide which he liked best, beer or -John Broom. But next to these he liked Thomasina’s stories. - -Thomasina was kind to him. With all his failings and the dirt on his -boots, she liked him better than the farm-bailiff. The farm-bailiff was -thrifty and sensible and faithful, and Thomasina was faithful and -sensible and thrifty, and they each had a tendency to claim the monopoly -of those virtues. Notable people complain, very properly, of thriftless -and untidy ones, but they sometimes agree better with them than with -rival notabilities. And so Thomasina’s broad face beamed benevolently as -she bid the cowherd “draw up” to the fire, and he who (like Thomasina) -was a native of the country, would confirm the marvels she related, with -a proper pride in the wonderful district to which they both belonged. - -He would help her out sometimes with names and dates in a local -biography. By his own account he knew the man who was murdered at the -inn in the Black Valley so intimately that it turned Annie the lass as -white as a dish-cloth to sit beside him. If Thomasina said that folk -were yet alive who had seen the little green men dance in Dawborough -Croft, the cowherd would smack his knees and cry, “Scores on ’em!” And -when she whispered of the white figure which stood at the cross roads -after midnight, he testified to having seen it himself—tall beyond -mortal height, and pointing four ways at once. He had a legend of his -own too, which Thomasina sometimes gave him the chance of telling, of -how he was followed home one moonlight night by a black Something as big -as a young calf, which “wimmled and wammled” around him till he fell -senseless into the ditch, and being found there by the farm-bailiff on -his return from market, was unjustly accused of the vice of -intoxication. - -“Fault-finders should be free of flaws,” Thomasina would say with a prim -chin. She _had_ seen the farm-bailiff himself “the worse” for more than -his supper beer. - -But there was one history which Thomasina was always loth to relate, and -it was that which both John Broom and the cowherd especially -preferred—the history of Lob Lie-by-the-fire. - -Thomasina had a feeling (which was shared by Annie the lass) that it was -better not to talk of “anything” peculiar to the house in which you were -living. One’s neighbors’ ghosts and bogles are another matter. - -But to John Broom and the cowherd no subject was so interesting as that -of the Lubber-fiend. The cowherd sighed to think of the good old times -when a man might sleep on in spite of cocks, and the stables be cleaner, -and the beasts better tended than if he had been up with the lark. And -John Broom’s curiosity was never quenched about the rough, hairy -Good-fellow who worked at night that others might be idle by day, and -who was sometimes caught at his hard-earned nap, lying, “like a great -hurgin bear,” where the boy loved to lie himself, before the fire, on -this very hearth. - -Why and where he had gone, Thomasina could not tell. She had heard that -he had originally come from some other household, where he had been -offended. But whether he had gone elsewhere when he forsook Lingborough, -or whether “such things had left the country” for good, she did not -pretend to say. - -And when she had told, for the third or fourth time, how his porridge -was put into a corner of the cowhouse for him overnight, and how he had -been often overheard at his work, but rarely seen, and then only lying -before the fire, Miss Betty would ring for prayers, and Thomasina would -fold up her knitting and lead the way, followed by Annie the lass, whose -nerves John Broom would startle by treading on her heels, the rear being -brought up by the cowherd, looking hopelessly at his boots. - - - THE FARM-BAILIFF.—PRETTY COCKY.—IN THE WILLOW TREE. - -Miss Betty and Miss Kitty did really deny themselves the indulgence of -being indulgent, and treated John Broom on principles, and for his good. -But they did so in their own tremulous and spasmodic way, and got little -credit for it. Thomasina, on the other hand, spoiled him with such a -masterful managing air, and so much sensible talk, that no one would -have thought that the only system she followed was to conceal his -misdemeanors, and to stand between him and the just wrath of the -farm-bailiff. - -The farm-bailiff, or grieve, as he liked to call himself, was a -Scotchman, with a hard-featured face (which he washed on the Sabbath), a -harsh voice, a good heart rather deeper down in his body than is usual, -and a shrewd, money-getting head, with a speckled straw hat on the top -of it. No one could venture to imagine when that hat was new, or how -long ago it was that the farm-bailiff went to the expense of purchasing -those work-day clothes. But the dirt on his face and neck was an orderly -accumulation, such as gathers on walls, oil-paintings, and other places -to which soap is not habitually applied; it was not a matter of spills -and splashes, like the dirt John Broom disgraced himself with. And his -clothes, if old, fitted neatly about him; they never suggested -raggedness, which was the normal condition of the tramp-boy’s jackets. -They only looked as if he had been born (and occasionally buried) in -them. It is needful to make this distinction, that the good man may not -be accused of inconsistency in the peculiar vexation which John Broom’s -disorderly appearance caused him. - -In truth, Miss Betty’s _protegé_ had reached the age at which he was to -“eat dreadfully, wear out his clothes, and be useful on the farm;” and -the last condition was quite unfulfilled. At eleven years old he could -not be trusted to scare birds, and at half that age the farm-bailiff’s -eldest child could drive cattle. - -“And no’ just ruin the leddies in new coats and compliments, either, -like some ne’er-do-weels,” added the farm-bailiff, who had heard with a -jealous ear of six-pences given by Miss Betty and Miss Kitty to their -wasteful favorite. - -When the eleventh anniversary of John Broom’s discovery was passed, and -his character at school gave no hopes of his ever qualifying himself to -serve the lawyer, it was resolved that—“idleness being the mother of -mischief,” he should be put under the care of the farm-bailiff, to do -such odd jobs about the place as might be suited to his capacity and -love of out-door life. And now John Broom’s troubles began. By fair -means or foul, with here an hour’s weeding and there a day’s bird -scaring, and with errands perpetual, the farm-bailiff contrived to “get -some work out of” the idle little urchin. His speckled hat and grim face -seemed to be everywhere, and always to pop up when John Broom began to -play. - -They lived “at daggers drawn.” I am sorry to say that John Broom’s -fitful industry was still kept for his own fancies. To climb trees, to -run races with the sheep dog, to cut grotesque sticks, gather hedge -fruits, explore a bog, or make new friends among beasts and birds—at -such matters he would labor with feverish zeal. But so far from trying -to cure himself of his indolence about daily drudgery, he found a new -and pleasant excitement in thwarting the farm-bailiff at every turn. - -It would not sound dignified to say that the farm-bailiff took pleasure -in thwarting John Broom. But he certainly did not show his satisfaction -when the boy did do his work properly. Perhaps he thought that praise is -not good for young people; and the child did not often give him the -chance of trying. Of blame he was free enough. Not a good scolding to -clear the air, such as Thomasina would give to Annie the lass, but his -slow, caustic tongue was always growling, like muttered thunder, over -John Broom’s incorrigible head. - -He has never approved of the tramp-child, who had the overwhelming -drawbacks of having no pedigree and of being a bad bargain as to -expense. This was not altogether John Broom’s fault, but with his -personal failings the farm-bailiff had even less sympathy. It has been -hinted that he was born in the speckled hat, and whether this were so or -not, he certainly had worn an old head whilst his shoulders were still -young, and could not remember the time when he wished to waste his -energies on anything that did not earn or at least save something. - -Once only did anything like approval of the lad escape his lips. - -Miss Betty’s uncle’s second cousin had returned from foreign lands with -a good fortune and several white cockatoos. He kept the fortune himself, -but he gave the cockatoos to his friends, and he sent one of them to the -little ladies of Lingborough. - -He was a lovely creature (the cockatoo, not the cousin, who was plain), -and John Broom’s admiration of him was boundless. He gazed at the -sulphur-colored crest, the pure white wings with their deeper-tinted -lining, and even the beak and the fierce round eyes, as he had gazed at -the broom bush in his babyhood, with insatiable delight. - -The cousin did things handsomely. He had had a ring put around one of -the cockatoo’s ankles, with a bright steel chain attached and a fastener -to secure it to the perch. The cockatoo was sent in the cage by coach, -and the perch, made of foreign wood, followed by the carrier. - -Miss Betty and Miss Kitty were delighted both with the cockatoo and the -perch, but they were a good deal troubled as to how to fasten the two -together. There was a neat little ring on the perch, and the cockatoo’s -chain was quite complete, and he evidently wanted to get out, for he -shook the walls of his cage in his gambols. But he put up his crest and -snapped when any one approached, in a manner so alarming that Annie the -lass shut herself up in the dairy, and the farm-bailiff turned his -speckled hat in his hands, and gave cautious counsel from a safe -distance. - -“How he flaps!” cried Miss Betty. “I’m afraid he has a very vicious -temper.” - -“He only wants to get out, Miss Betty,” said John Broom. “He’d be all -right with his perch, and I think I can get him on it.” - -“Now heaven save us from the sin o’ presumption!” cried the -farm-bailiff, and putting on the speckled hat, he added, slowly: “I’m -thinking, John Broom, that if ye’re engaged wi’ the leddies this morning -it’ll be time I turned my hand to singling these few turnips ye’ve been -thinking about the week past.” - -On which he departed, and John Broom pressed the little ladies to leave -him alone with the bird. - -“We shouldn’t like to leave you alone with a wild creature like that,” -said Miss Betty. - -“He’s just frightened on ye, Miss Betty. He’ll be like a lamb when -you’re gone,” urged John Broom. - -“Besides, we should like to see you do it,” said Miss Kitty. - -“You can look in through the window, miss. I must fasten the door, or -he’ll be out.” - -“I should never forgive myself if he hurt you, John,” said Miss Betty, -irresolutely, for she was very anxious to have the cockatoo and perch in -full glory in the parlor. - -“He’ll none hurt me, miss,” said John, with a cheerful smile on his rosy -face. “I likes him, and he’ll like me.” - -This settled the matter. John was left with the cockatoo. He locked the -door, and the little ladies went into the garden and peeped through the -window. - -They saw John Broom approach the cage, on which the cockatoo put up his -crest, opened his beak slowly, and snarled, and Miss Betty tapped on the -window and shook her black satin workbag. - -“Don’t go near him!” she cried. But John Broom paid no attention. - -“What are you putting up that top-knot of yours at me for?” said he to -the cockatoo. “Don’t ye know your own friends? I’m going to let ye out, -I am. You’re going on to your perch, you are.” - -“Eh, but you’re a bonny creature!” he added, as the cockatoo filled the -cage with snow and sulphur flutterings. - -“Keep away, keep away!” screamed the little ladies, playing a duet on -the window panes. - -“Out with you!” said John Broom, as he unfastened the cage door. - -And just when Miss Betty had run round, and as she shouted through the -key-hole, “Open the door, John Broom, we’ve changed our minds; we’ve -decided to keep it in its cage,” the cockatoo strode solemnly forth on -his eight long toes. - -“Pretty Cocky!” said he. - -When Miss Betty got back to the window, John Broom had just made an -injudicious grab at the steel chain, on which Pretty Cocky flew fiercely -at him, and John, burying his face in his arms, received the attack on -his thick poll, laughing into his sleeves and holding fast to the chain, -whilst the cockatoo and the little ladies screamed against each other. - -“It’ll break your leg—you’ll tear its eyes out!” cried Miss Kitty. - -“Miss Kitty means that you’ll break its leg, and it will tear your eyes -out,” Miss Betty explained through the glass. “John Broom! Come away! -Lock it in! Let it go!” - -But Cocky was now waddling solemnly round the room, and John Broom was -creeping after him, with the end of the chain in one hand, and the perch -in the other, and in a moment more he had joined the chain and the ring, -and just as Miss Betty was about to send for the constable and have the -door broken open, Cocky—driven into a corner—clutched his perch, and -was raised triumphantly to his place in the bow-window. - -He was now a parlor pet, and John Broom saw little of him. This vexed -him, for he had taken a passionate liking for the bird. The little -ladies rewarded him well for his skill, but this brought him no favor -from the farm-bailiff, and matters went on as ill as before. - -One day the cockatoo got his chain entangled, and Miss Kitty promptly -advanced to put it right. She had unfastened that end which secured it -to the perch, when Cocky, who had been watching the proceeding with much -interest, dabbed at her with his beak. Miss Kitty fled, but with great -presence of mind shut the door after her. She forgot, however, that the -window was open, in front of which stood the cockatoo scanning the -summer sky with his fierce eyes, and flapping himself in the breeze. - -And just as the little ladies ran into the garden, and Miss Kitty was -saying, “One comfort is, sister Betty, that it’s quite safe in the room, -till we can think what to do next,” he bowed his yellow crest, spread -his noble wings, and sailed out into the ether. - -In ten minutes the whole able-bodied population of the place was in the -grounds of Lingborough, including the farm-bailiff. - -The cockatoo was on the top of a fir-tree, and a fragment of the chain -was with him, for he had broken it, and below on the lawn stood the -little ladies, who, with the unfailing courage of women in a hopeless -cause, were trying to dislodge him by waving their pocket-handkerchiefs -and crying “sh!” - -He looked composedly down out of one eye for some time, and then he -began to move. - -“I think it’s coming down now,” said Miss Kitty. - -But in a quarter of a minute, Cocky had sailed a quarter of a mile, and -was rocking himself on the top of an old willow tree. And at this moment -John Broom joined the crowd which followed him. - -“I’m thinking he’s got his chain fast,” said the farm-bailiff; “if -anybody that understood the beastie daured to get near him——” - -“I’ll get him,” said John Broom, casting down his hat. - -“Ye’ll get your neck thrawed,” said the farm-bailiff. - -“We won’t hear of it,” said the little ladies. - -But to their horror, John Broom kicked off his shoes after which he spat -upon his hands (a shock which Miss Kitty thought she never could have -survived), and away he went up the willow. - -It was not an easy tree to climb, and he had one or two narrow escapes, -which kept the crowd breathless, but he shook the hair from his eyes, -moistened his hands afresh, and went on. The farm-bailiff’s far-away -heart was stirred. No Scotchman is insensible to gallantry. And courage -is the only thing a “canny” Scot can bear to see expanded without -return. - -“John Broom,” screamed Miss Betty, “come down! I order, I command you to -come down.” - -The farm-bailiff drew his speckled hat forward to shade his upward gaze, -and folded his arms. - -“Dinna call on him, leddies,” he said, speaking more quickly than usual. -“Dinna mak him turn his head. Steady, lad! Grip wi’ your feet. Spit on -your pawms, man.” - -Once the boy trod on a rotten branch, and as he drew back his foot, and -it came crashing down, the farm-bailiff set his teeth, and Miss Kitty -fainted in Thomasina’s arms. - -“I’ll reward anyone who’ll fetch him down,” sobbed Miss Betty. But John -Broom seated himself on the same branch as the cockatoo, and undid the -chain and prepared his hands for the downward journey. - -“You’ve got a rare perch, this time,” said he. And Pretty Cocky crept -towards him, and rubbed its head against him and chuckled with joy. - -What dreams of liberty in the tree-tops, with John Broom for a -playfellow, passed through his crested head, who shall say? But when he -found that his friend meant to take him prisoner, he became very angry -and much alarmed. And when John Broom grasped him by both legs and began -to descend, Cocky pecked him vigorously. But the boy held the back of -his head towards him, and went steadily down. - -“Weel done!” roared the farm-bailiff. “Gently lad! Gude save us! ha’e a -care o’ yoursen. That’s weel. Keep your pow at him. Didna let the beast -get at your een.” - -But when John Broom was so near the ground as to be safe, the -farm-bailiff turned wrathfully upon his son, who had been gazing -open-mouthed at the sight which had so interested his father. - -“Ye look weel standing gawping here, before the leddies,” said he, -“wasting the precious hours, and bringing your father’s gray hairs wi’ -sorrow to the grave; and John Broom yonder shaming ye, and you not so -much as thinking to fetch the perch for him, ye lazy loon. Away wi’ ye -and get it before I lay a stick about your shoulders.” - -And when his son had gone for the perch, and John Broom was safely on -the ground, laughing, bleeding, and triumphant, the farm-bailiff said,— - -“Ye’re a bauld chil, John Broom, I’ll say that for ye.” - - - INTO THE MIST. - -Unfortunately the favorable impression produced by “the gipsy lad’s” -daring soon passed from the farm-bailiff’s mind. It was partly effaced -by the old jealousy of the little ladies’ favor. Miss Betty gave the boy -no less than four silver shillings, and he ungraciously refused to let -the farm-bailiff place them in a savings bank for him. - -Matters got from bad to worse. The farming man was not the only one who -was jealous, and John Broom himself was as idle and reckless as ever. -Though, if he had listened respectfully to the Scotchman’s counsels, or -shown any disposition to look up to and be guided by him, much might -have been overlooked. But he made fun of him and made a friend of the -cowherd. And this latter most manifest token of low breeding vexed the -respectable taste of the farm-bailiff. - -John Broom had his own grievances too, and he brooded over them. He -thought the little ladies had given him over to the farm-bailiff, -because they had ceased to care for him, and that the farm-bailiff was -prejudiced against him beyond any hope of propitiation. The village folk -taunted him, too, with being an outcast, and called him Gipsy John, and -this maddened him. Then he would creep into the cowhouse and lie in the -straw against the white cow’s warm back, and for a few of Miss Betty’s -coppers, to spend in beer or tobacco, the cowherd would hide him from -the farm-bailiff and tell him country-side tales. To Thomasina’s stories -of ghosts and gossip, he would add strange tales of smugglers on the -near-lying coast, and as John Broom listened, his restless blood -rebelled more and more against the sour sneers and dry drudgery that he -got from the farm-bailiff. - -Nor were sneers the sharpest punishment his misdemeanors earned. The -farm-bailiff’s stick was thick and his arm was strong, and he had a -tendency to believe that if a flogging was good for a boy, the more he -had of it the better it would be for him. - -And John Broom, who never let a cry escape him at the time would steal -away afterwards and sob out his grief into the long soft coat of the -sympathizing sheep dog. - -Unfortunately he never tried the effect of deserving better treatment as -a remedy for his woes. The parson’s good advice and Miss Betty’s -entreaties were alike in vain. He was ungrateful even to Thomasina. The -little ladies sighed and thought of the lawyer. And the parson preached -patience. - -“Cocky has been tamed,” said Miss Kitty, thoughtfully, “perhaps John -Broom will get steadier by-and-by.” - -“It seems a pity we can’t chain him to a perch, Miss Kitty,” laughed the -parson; “he would be safe then, at any rate.” - -Miss Betty said afterwards that it did seem so remarkable that the -parson should have made this particular joke on this particular -night—the night when John Broom did not come home. - -He had played truant all day. The farm-bailiff had wanted him, and he -had kept out of the way. - -The wind was from the east, and a white mist rolled in from the sea, -bringing a strange invigorating smell, and making your lips clammy with -salt. It made John Broom’s heart beat faster, and filled his head with -dreams of ships and smugglers; and rocking masts higher than the willow -tree, and winds wilder than this wind, and dancing waves. - -Then something loomed through the fog. It was the farm-bailiff’s -speckled hat. John Broom hesitated—the thick stick became visible. - -Then a cloud rolled between them, and the child turned, and ran, and -ran, and ran, coastwards, into the sea mist. - - - THE SEA.—THE ONE-EYED SAILOR.—THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD. - -John Broom was footsore when he reached the coast, but that keen, -life-giving smell had drawn him on and held him up. The fog had cleared -off, and he strained his black eyes through the darkness to see the sea. - -He had never seen it—that other world within this, on which one lived -out of doors, and climbed about all day, and no one blamed him. - -When he did see it, he thought he had got to the end of the world. If -the edge of the cliff were not the end, he could not make out where the -sky began; and if that darkness were the sea, the sea was full of stars. - -But this was because the sea was quiet and reflected the color of the -night sky, and the stars were the lights of the herring-boats twinkling -in the bay. - -When he got down by the water he saw the vessels lying alongside, and -they were dirtier than he had supposed. But he did not lose heart, and -remembering, from the cowherd’s tales, that people who cannot pay for -their passage must either work it out or hide themselves on board ship, -he took the easier alternative, and got on to the first vessel which had -a plank to the quay, and hid himself under some tarpaulin on the deck. - -The vessel was a collier bound for London, and she sailed with the -morning tide. - -When he was found out he was not ill-treated. Indeed, the rough skipper -offered to take him home again on his return voyage. He would have liked -to go, but pride withheld him, and home sickness had not yet eaten into -his very soul. Then an old sailor with one eye (but that a sly one) met -him, and told him tales more wonderful than the cowherd’s. And with him -he shipped as cabin-boy, on a vessel bound for the other side of the -world. - - * * * * * * - -A great many sins bring their own punishment in this life pretty -clearly, and sometimes pretty closely; but few more directly or more -bitterly than rebellion against the duties, and ingratitude for the -blessings, of home. - -There was no playing truant on board ship; and as to the master poor -John Broom served now, his cruelty made the memory of the farm-bailiff a -memory of tenderness and gentleness and indulgence. Till he was -half-naked and half-starved, and had only short snatches of sleep in -hard corners, it had never occurred to him that when one has got good -food and clothes, and sound sleep in a kindly home, he has got more than -many people, and enough to be thankful for. - -He did everything he was told now as fast as he could do it, in fear for -his life. The one-eyed sailor had told him that the captain always took -orphans and poor friendless lads to be his cabin-boys, and John Broom -thought what a nice kind man he must be, and how different from the -farm-bailiff, who thought nobody could be trustworthy unless he could -show parents and grandparents, and cousins to the sixth degree. But -after they had sailed, when John Broom felt very ill, and asked the -one-eyed sailor where he was to sleep, the one-eyed sailor pleasantly -replied that if he hadn’t brought a four-post bed in his pocket he must -sleep where he could, for that all the other cabin-boys were sleeping in -Davy’s Locker, and couldn’t be disturbed. And it was not till John Broom -had learned ship’s language that he found out that Davy’s Locker meant -the deep, and that the other cabin-boys were dead. “And as they’d nobody -belonging to ’em, no hearts was broke,” added the sailor, winking with -his one eye. - -John Broom slept standing sometimes for weariness, but he did not sleep -in Davy’s Locker. Young as he was he had dauntless courage, a careless -hopeful heart, and a tough little body; and that strong, life-giving sea -smell bore him up instead of food, and he got to the other side of the -world. - -Why he did not stay there, why he did not run away into the wilderness -to find at least some easier death than to have his bones broken by the -cruel captain, he often wondered afterwards. He was so much quicker and -braver than the boys they commonly got, that the old sailor kept a sharp -watch over him with his one eye whilst they were ashore; but one day he -was too drunk to see out of it, and John Broom ran away. - -It was Christmas day, and so hot that he could not run far, for it was -at the other side of the world, where things are upside down, and he sat -down by the roadside on the outskirts of the city; and as he sat, with -his thin, brown face resting on his hands, a familiar voice beside him -said, “Pretty Cocky!” and looking up he saw a man with several cages of -birds. The speaker was a cockatoo of the most exquisite shades of -cream-color, salmon, and rose, and he had a rose-colored crest. But -lovely as he was, John Broom’s eyes were on another cage, where, silent, -solemn and sulky, sat a big white one with sulphur-colored trimmings and -fierce black eyes; and he was so like Miss Betty’s pet, that the poor -child’s heart bounded as if a hand had been held out to him from home. - -“If you let him get at you, you’ll not do it a second time, mate,” said -the man. “He’s the nastiest-tempered beast I ever saw. I’d have wrung -his neck long ago if he hadn’t such a fine coat.” - -But John Broom said as he had said before, “I like him, and he’ll like -me.” - -When the cockatoo bit his finger to the bone, the man roared with -laughter, but John Broom did not draw his hand away. He kept it still at -the bird’s beak, and with the other he gently scratched him under the -crest and wings. And when the white cockatoo began to stretch out his -eight long toes, as cats clutch with their claws from pleasure, and -chuckled, and sighed, and bit softly without hurting, and laid his head -against the bars till his snow and sulphur feathers touched John Broom’s -black locks, the man was amazed. - -“Look here, mate,” said he, “you’ve the trick with birds, and no -mistake. I’ll sell you this one cheap, and you’ll be able to sell him -dear.” - -“I’ve not a penny in the world,” said John Broom. - -“You do look cleaned out, too,” said the man scanning him from head to -foot. “I tell you what, you shall come with me a bit and tame the birds, -and I’ll find you something to eat.” - -Ten minutes before, John Broom would have jumped at this offer, though -he now refused it. The sight of the cockatoo had brought back the fever -of home sickness in all its fierceness. He couldn’t stay out here. He -would dare anything, do anything, to see the hills about Lingborough -once more before he died; and even if he did not live to see them, he -might live to sleep in that part of Davy’s Locker which should rock him -on the shores of home. - -The man gave him a shilling for fastening a ring and chain on to the -cocky’s ankle, and with this he got the best dinner he had eaten since -he lost sight of the farm-bailiff’s speckled hat in the mist. - -And then he went back to the one-eyed sailor, and shipped as cabin-boy -again for the homeward voyage. - - - THE HIGHLANDER.—BARRACK LIFE.—THE GREAT CURSE—JOHN BROOM’S MONEY-BOX. - -When John Broom did get home he did not go to sea again. He lived from -hand to mouth in the seaport town, and slept, as he was well accustomed -to sleep, in holes and corners. - -Every day and every night, through the long months of the voyage, he had -dreamed of begging his way barefoot to Miss Betty’s door. But now he did -not go. His life was hard, but it was not cruel. He was very idle, and -there was plenty to see. He wandered about the country as of old. The -ships and shipping too had a fascination for him now that the past was -past, and here he could watch them from the shore; and, partly for shame -and partly for pride, he could not face the idea of going back. If he -had been taunted with being a vagrant boy before, what would be said now -if he presented himself, a true tramp, to the farm-bailiff? Besides, -Miss Betty and Miss Kitty could not forgive him. It was impossible! - -He was wandering about one day when he came to some fine high walls with -buildings inside. There was an open gateway, at which stood a soldier -with a musket. But a woman and some children went in, and he did not -shoot them; so when his back was turned, and he was walking stiffly to -where he came from, John Broom ran in through the gateway. - -The first man he saw was the grandest-looking man he had ever seen. -Indeed, he looked more like a bird than a man, a big bird, with a big -black crest. He was very tall. His feet were broad and white, like the -feathered feet of some plumy bird; his legs were bare and brown and -hairy. He was clothed in many colors. He had fur in front, which swung -as he walked, and silver and shining stones about him. He held his head -very high, and from it dropped great black plumes. His face looked as if -it had been cut—roughly but artistically—out of a block of old wood, -and his eyes were the color of a summer sky. And John Broom felt as he -had felt when he first saw Miss Betty’s cockatoo. - -In repose the Highlander’s eye was as clear as a cairngorm and as cold, -but when it fell upon John Broom it took a twinkle not quite unlike the -twinkle in the one eye of the sailor; and then, to his amazement, this -grand creature beckoned to John Broom with a rather dirty hand. - -“Yes, sir,” said John Broom, staring up at the splendid giant, with eyes -of wonder. - -“I’m saying,” said the Highlander, confidentially (and it had a pleasant -homely sound to hear him speak like the farm-bailiff)—“I’m saying, I’m -confined to barracks, ye ken; and I’ll gi’e ye a hawpenny if ye’ll get -the bottle filled wi’ whusky. Roun’ yon corner ye’ll see the ‘Britain’s -Defenders.’” - -But at this moment he erected himself, his turquoise eyes looked -straight before them, and he put his hand to his head and moved it -slowly away again, as a young man with more swinging grandeur of colors -and fur and plumes, and with greater glittering of gems and silver, -passed by, a sword clattering after him. - -Meanwhile John Broom had been round the corner and was back again. - -“What for are ye standin’ there ye fule?” asked his new friend. “What -for didna ye gang for the whusky?” - -“It’s here, sir.” - -“My certy, ye dinna let the grass grow under your feet,” said the -Highlander; and he added, “If ye want to run errands, laddie, ye can -come back again.” - -It was the beginning of a fresh life for John Broom. With many other -idle or homeless boys he now haunted the barracks, and ran errands for -the soldiers. His fleetness of foot and ready wit made him the favorite. -Perhaps, too, his youth and his bright face and eyes pleaded for him, -for British soldiers are a tender-hearted race. - -He was knocked about, but never cruelly, and he got plenty of coppers -and broken victuals, and now and then an old cap or a pair of a boots, a -world too large for him. His principal errands were to fetch liquor for -the soldiers. In arms and pockets he would sometimes carry a dozen -bottles at once, and fly back from the canteen or public-house without -breaking one. - -Before the summer was over he was familiar with every barrack-room and -guard-room in the place; he had food to eat and coppers to spare, and he -shared his bits with the mongrel dogs who lived, as he did, on the -good-nature of the garrison. - -It must be confessed that neatness was not among John Broom’s virtues. -He looped his rags together with bits of string, and wasted his pence or -lost them. The soldiers standing at the bar would often give him a drink -out of their pewter-pots. It choked him at first, and then he got used -to it, and liked it. Some relics of Miss Betty’s teaching kept him -honest. He would not condescend to sip by the way out of the soldiers’ -jugs and bottles as other errand-boys did, but he came to feel rather -proud of laying his twopence on the counter, and emptying his own pot of -beer with a grimace to the by-standers through the glass at the bottom. - -One day he was winking through the froth of a pint of porter at the -canteen sergeant’s daughter, who was in fits of laughing, when the -pewter was knocked out of his grasp, and the big Highlander’s hand was -laid on his shoulder and bore him twenty or thirty yards from the place -in one swoop. - -“I’ll trouble ye to give me your attention,” said the Highlander, when -they came to a standstill, “and to speak the truth. Did ye ever see me -the worse of liquor?” - -John Broom had several remembrances of the clearest kind to that effect, -so he put up his arms to shield his head from the probable blow, and -said, “Yes, McAlister.” - -“How often?” asked the Scotchman. - -“I never counted,” said John Broom; “pretty often.” - -“How many good-conduct stripes do ye ken me to have lost of your ain -knowledge?” - -“Three, McAlister.” - -“Is there a finer man than me in the regiment?” asked the Highlander, -drawing up his head. - -“That there’s not,” said John Broom, warmly. - -“Our sairgent, now,” drawled the Scotchman, “wad ye say he was a better -man than me?” - -“Nothing like so good,” said John Broom, sincerely. - -“And what d’ye suppose, man,” said the Highlander, firing with sudden -passion, till the light of his clear blue eyes seemed to pierce John -Broom’s very soul—“what d’ye suppose has hindered me that I’m not -sairgent, when yon man is? What has keepit me from being an officer, -that has served my country in twa battles when oor quartermaster hadn’t -enlisted? Wha gets my money? What lost me my stripes? What loses me -decent folks’ respect, and waur than that, my ain? What gars a hand that -can grip a broadsword tremble like a woman’s? What fills the canteen and -the kirkyard? What robs a man of health and wealth and peace? What ruins -weans and women, and makes mair homes desolate than war? Drink, man, -drink! The deevil of drink!” - -It was not till the glare in his eyes had paled that John Broom ventured -to speak. Then he said,— - -“Why don’t ye give it up, McAlister?” - -The man rose to his full height, and laid his hand heavily on the boy’s -shoulder, and his eyes seemed to fade with that pitiful, weary look, -which only such blue eyes show so well, “Because I _canna_,” said he; -“because, for as big as I am, I canna. But for as little as you are, -laddie, ye can, and, Heaven help me, ye shall.” - -That evening he called John Broom into the barrack-room where he slept. -He was sitting on the edge of his bed, and had a little wooden money-box -in his hands. - -“What money have ye, laddie?” he asked. - -John Broom pulled out three halfpence lately earned, and the Scotchman -dropped them slowly into the box. Then he turned the key, and put it -into his pocket, and gave the box to the boy. - -“Ye’ll put what you earn in there,” said he, “I’ll keep the key, and -ye’ll keep the box yourself; and when its opened we’ll open it together, -and lay out your savings in decent clothes for ye against the winter.” - -At this moment some men passing to the canteen shouted, “McAlister!” The -Highlander did not answer, but he started to the door. Then he stood -irresolute, and then turned and reseated himself. - -“Gang and bring me a bit o’ tobacco,” he said, giving John Broom a -penny. And when the boy had gone he emptied his pocket of the few pence -left, and dropped them into the box, muttering, “If he manna, I wunna.” - -And when the tobacco came, he lit his pipe, and sat on the bench, -outside and snarled at every one who spoke to him. - - - OUTPOST DUTY.—THE SERGEANT’S STORY.—GRAND ROUNDS. - -It was a bitterly cold winter. The soldiers drank a great deal, and John -Broom was constantly trotting up and down, and the box grew very heavy. - -Bottles were filled and refilled, in spite of greatly increased -strictness in the discipline of the garrison, for there were rumors of -invasion, and penalties were heavy, and sentry posts were increased, and -the regiments were kept in readiness for action. - -The Highlander had not cured himself of drinking, though he had cured -John Broom. But, like others, he was more wary just now, and had -hitherto escaped the heavy punishments inflicted in a time of probable -war; and John Broom watched over him with the fidelity of a sheep dog, -and more than once had roused him with a can of cold water when he was -all but caught by his superiors in a state of stupor, which would not -have been credited to the frost alone. - -The talk of invasion had become grave, when one day a body of men were -ordered for outpost duty, and McAlister was among them. The officer had -got a room for them in a farmhouse, where they sat round the fire, and -went out by turns to act as sentries at various posts for an hour or two -at a time. - -The novelty was delightful to John Broom. He hung about the farmhouse, -and warmed himself at the soldiers’ fire. - -In the course of the day McAlister got him apart, and whispered, “I’m -going on duty the night at ten, laddie. It’s fearsome cold, and I hav’na -had a drop to warm me the day. If ye could ha’ brought me a wee drappie -to the corner of the three roads—its twa miles from here I’m -thinking—” - -“It’s not the miles, McAlister,” said John Broom, “but you’re on outpost -duty, and——” - -“And you’re misdoubting what may be done to ye for bringing liquor to a -sentry on duty! Aye, aye, lad, ye do weel to be cautious,” said the -Highlander, and he turned away. - -But it was not the fear of consequences to himself which had made John -Broom hesitate, and he was stung by the implication. - -The night was dark and very cold, and the Highlander had been pacing up -and down his post for about half an hour, when his quick ear caught a -faint sound of footsteps. - -“Wha goes there?” said he. - -“It’s I, McAlister,” whispered John Broom. - -“Whisht, laddie,” said the sentry; “are ye there after all? Did no one -see ye?” - -“Not a soul; I crept by the hedges. Here’s your whisky, McAlister; but, -oh, be careful!” said the lad. - -The Scotchman’s eye glistened greedily at the bottle. - -“Never fear,” said he, “I’ll just rub a wee drappie on the pawms of my -hands to keep away the frost-bite, for it’s awsome cold, man. Now away -wi’ ye, and take tent, laddie, keep off the other sentries.” - -John Broom went back as carefully as he had come, and slipped in to warm -himself by the guard-room fire. - -It was a good one, and the soldiers sat close round it. The officer was -writing a letter in another room, and in a low, impressive voice, the -sergeant was telling a story which was listened to with breathless -attention. John Broom was fond of stories, and he listened also. - -It was of a friend of the sergeant’s, who had been a boy with him in the -same village at home, who had seen active service with him abroad, and -who had slept at his post on such a night as this, from the joint -effects of cold and drink. It was war time, and he had been tried by -court-martial, and shot for the offense. The sergeant had been one of -the firing party to execute his friend, and they had taken leave of each -other as brothers, before the final parting face to face in this last -awful scene. - -The man’s voice was faltering, when the tale was cut short by the -jingling of the field officer’s accoutrements as he rode by to visit the -outposts. In an instant the officer and men turned out to receive him; -and, after the usual formalities, he rode on. The officer went back to -his letter, and the sergeant and his men to their fireside. - -The opening of the doors had let in a fresh volume of cold, and one of -the men called to John Broom to mend the fire. But he was gone. - -John Broom was fleet of foot, and there are certain moments which lift -men beyond their natural powers, but he had set himself a hard task. - -As he listened to the sergeant’s tale, an agonizing fear smote him for -his friend McAlister. Was there any hope that the Highlander could keep -himself from the whisky? Officers were making their rounds at very short -intervals just now, and if drink and cold overcame him at his post! - -Close upon these thoughts came the jingling of the field officer’s -sword, and the turn out of the guard. “Who goes -there?”—“Rounds.”—“What rounds?”—“Grand rounds?”—“Halt, grand -rounds, advance one, and give the countersign!” The familiar words -struck coldly on John Broom’s heart, as if they had been orders to a -firing party, and the bandage were already across the Highlander’s blue -eyes. Would the grand rounds be challenged at the three roads to-night? -He darted out into the snow. - -He flew, as the crow flies, across the fields, to where McAlister was on -duty. It was a much shorter distance than by the road, which was -winding; but whether this would balance the difference between a horse’s -pace and his own was the question, and there being no time to question, -he ran on. - -He kept his black head down, and ran from his shoulders. The clatter, -clatter, jingle, jingle, on the hard road came to him through the still -frost on a level with his left ear. It was terrible, but he held on, -dodging under the hedges to be out of sight, and the sound lessened, and -by-and-by, the road having wound about, he could hear it faintly, _but -behind him_. - -And he reached the three roads, and McAlister was asleep in the ditch. - -But when, with jingle and clatter, the field officer of the day reached -the spot, the giant Highlander stood like a watch-tower at his post, -with a little snow on the black plumes that drooped upon his shoulders. - - - HOSPITAL.—“HAME.” - -John Broom did not see the Highlander again for two or three days. It -was Christmas week, and, in spite of the war panic, there was festivity -enough in the barracks to keep the errand-boy very busy. - -Then came New Year’s Eve—“Hogmenay,” as the Scotch call it—and it was -the Highland regiment’s particular festival. Worn-out with -whisky-fetching and with helping to deck barrack-rooms and carrying pots -and trestles, John Broom was having a nap in the evening, in company -with a mongrel deerhound, when a man shook him, and said, “I heard some -one asking for ye an hour or two back; McAlister wants ye.” - -“Where is he?” said John Broom, jumping to his feet. - -“In hospital; he’s been there a day or two. He got cold on out-post -duty, and it’s flown to his lungs, they say. Ye see he’s been a hard -drinker, has McAlister, and I expect he’s breaking up.” - -With which very just conclusion the speaker went on into the canteen, -and John Broom ran to the hospital. - -Stripped of his picturesque trappings, and with no plumes to shadow the -hollows in his temples, McAlister looked gaunt and feeble enough, as he -lay in the little hospital bed, which barely held his long limbs. Such a -wreck of giant powers of body, and noble qualities of mind as the -drink-shops are preparing for the hospitals every day! - -Since the quickly-reached medical decision that he was in a rapid -decline, and that nothing could be done for him, McAlister had been left -a good deal alone. His intellect (and it was no fool’s intellect,) was -quite clear, and if the long hours by himself, in which he reckoned with -his own soul, had hastened the death-damps on his brow, they had also -written there an expression which was new to John Broom. It was not the -old sour look, it was a kind of noble gravity. - -His light, blue eyes brightened as the boy came in, and he held out his -hand, and John Broom took it with both his, saying, - -“I never heard till this minute, McAlister. Eh, I do hope you’ll be -better soon.” - -“The Lord being merciful to me,” said the Highlander. “But _this_ -world’s nearly past, laddie, and I was fain to see ye again. Dinna -greet, man, for I’ve important business wi’ ye, and I should wish your -attention. Firstly, I’m aboot to hand ower to ye the key of your box. -Tak it, and put it in a pocket that’s no got a hole in it, if you’re -worth one. Secondly, there’s a bit bag I made mysel, and it’s got a -trifle o’ money in it that I’m giving and bequeathing to ye, under -certain conditions, namely, that ye shall spend the contents of the box -according to my last wishes and instructions, with the ultimate end of -your ain benefit, ye’ll understand.” - -A fit of coughing here broke McAlister’s discourse; but after drinking -from a cup beside him, he put aside John Broom’s remonstrances with a -dignified movement of his hand, and continued,— - -“When a body comes of decent folk, he won’t just care, maybe, to have -their names brought up in a barrack-room. Ye never heard me say aught of -my father or my mither?” - -“Never, McAlister.” - -“I’d a good hame,” said the Highlander, with a decent pride in his tone. -“It was a strict hame—I’ve no cause now to deceive mysel’, thinking it -was a wee bit ower strict—but it was a good hame. I left it, man—I ran -away.” - -The glittering blue eyes turned sharply on the lad, and he went on:— - -“A body doesna’ care to turn his byeganes oot for every fool to peck at. -Did I ever speer about your past life, and whar ye came from?” - -“Never, McAlister.” - -“But that’s no to say that, if I knew manners, I dinna obsairve. And -there’s been things now and again, John Broom, that’s gar’d me think -that ye’ve had what I had, and done as I did. Did ye rin awa’, laddie?” - -John Broom nodded his black head, but tears choked his voice. - -“Man!” said the Highlander, “ane word’s as gude’s a thousand. Gang back! -Gang hame! There’s the bit siller here that’s to tak ye, and the love -yonder that’s waiting ye. Listen to a dying man, laddie, and gang hame!” - -“I doubt if they’d have me,” sobbed John Broom, “I gave ’em a deal of -trouble, McAlister.” - -“And d’ye think, lad, that that thought has na’ cursed _me_, and keepit -me from them that loved me? Aye, lad, and till this week I never -overcame it.” - -“Weel may I want to save ye, bairn,” added the Highlander tenderly, “for -it was the thocht of a’ ye riskit for the like of me at the three roads, -that made me consider wi’ mysel’ that I’ve aiblins been turning my back -a’ my wilfu’ life on love that’s bigger than a man’s deservings. It’s -near done now, and it’ll never lie in my poor power so much as rightly -to thank ye. It’s strange that a man should set store by a good name -that he doesna’ deserve; but if ony blessings of mine could bring ye -good, they’re yours, that saved an old soldier’s honor, and let him die -respected in his regiment.” - -“Oh, McAlister, let me fetch one of the chaplains to write a letter to -fetch your father,” cried John Broom. - -“The minister’s been here this morning,” said the Highlander, “and I’ve -tell’t him mair than I’ve tell’t you. And he’s jest directed me to put -my sinful trust in the Father of us a’. I’ve sinned heaviest against -_Him_, laddie, but His love is stronger than the lave.” - -John Broom remained by his friend, whose painful fits of coughing, and -of gasping for breath, were varied by intervals of seeming stupor. When -a candle had been brought in and placed near the bed, the Highlander -roused himself and asked,— - -“Is there a Bible on yon table? Could ye read a bit to me, laddie?” - -There is little need to dwell on the bitterness of heart with which John -Broom confessed,— - -“I can’t read big words, McAlister.” - -“Did ye never go to school?” said the Scotchman. - -“I didn’t learn,” said the poor boy; “I played.” - -“Aye, aye. Weel, ye’ll learn, when ye gang hame,” said the Highlander, -in gentle tones. - -“I’ll never get home,” said John Broom, passionately. “I’ll never -forgive myself. I’ll never get over it, that I couldn’t read to ye when -ye wanted me, McAlister.” - -“Gently, gently,” said the Scotchman. “Dinna daunt yoursel’ owermuch wi’ -the past, laddie. And for me—I’m not that presoomptious to think that I -can square up a misspent life as a man might compound wi’s creditors. -’Gin He forgi’es me, He’ll forgi’e; but it’s not a prayer up or a -chapter down that’ll stan’ between me and the Almighty. So dinna fret -yoursel’, but let me think while I may.” - -And so, far into the night, the Highlander lay silent, and John Broom -watched by him. - -It was just midnight when he partly raised himself, and cried,— - -“Whist, laddie! do ye hear the pipes?” - -The dying ears must have been quick, for John Broom heard nothing; but -in a few moments he heard the bagpipes from the officers’ mess, where -they were keeping Hogmenay. They were playing the old year out with -“Auld lang syne,” and the Highlander beat the tune out with his hand, -and his eyes gleamed out of his rugged face in the dim light, as -cairngorms glitter in dark tartan. - -There was a pause after the first verse, and he grew restless, and -turning doubtfully to where John Broom sat, as if his sight were -failing, he said, “Ye’ll mind your promise, ye’ll gang hame?” And after -awhile he repeated the last word, - -“_Hame!_” - -But as he spoke there spread over his face a smile so tender and so full -of happiness, that John Broom held his breath as he watched him. As the -light of sunrise creeps over the face of some rugged rock, it crept from -chin to brow, and the pale blue eyes shone tranquil, like water that -reflects heaven. - -And when it had passed it left them still open, but gems that had lost -their ray. - - - LUCK GOES.—AND COMES AGAIN. - -The spirit does not always falter in its faith because the flesh is -weary with hope deferred. When week after week, month after month, and -year after year, went by and John Broom was not found, the -disappointment seemed to “age” the little ladies, as Thomasina phrased -it. But yet they said to the parson, “We do not regret it.” - -“God forbid that you should regret it,” said he. - -And even the lawyer (whose heart was kinder than his tongue) abstained -from taunting them with his prophecies, and said, “The force of the -habits of early education is a power as well as that of inherent -tendencies. It is only for your sake that I regret a too romantic -benevolence.” And Miss Betty and Miss Kitty tried to put the matter -quite away. But John Broom was very closely bound up with the life of -many years past. Thomasina mourned him as if he had been her son, and -Thomasina being an old and valuable servant, it is needless to say that -when she was miserable no one in the house was permitted to be quite at -ease. - -As to Pretty Cocky, he lived, but Miss Kitty fancied that he grew less -pretty and drooped upon his polished perch. - -There were times when the parson felt almost conscience-stricken because -he had encouraged the adoption of John Broom. Disappointments fall -heavily upon elderly people. They may submit better than the young, but -they do not so easily revive. The little old ladies looked grayer and -more nervous, and the little old house looked grayer and gloomier than -of old. - -Indeed there were other causes of anxiety. Times were changing, prices -were rising, and the farm did not thrive. The lawyer said that the -farm-bailiff neglected his duties, and that the cowherd did nothing but -drink; but Miss Betty trembled, and said they could not part with old -servants. - -The farm-bailiff had his own trouble, but he kept it to himself. No one -knew how severely he had beaten John Broom the day before he ran away, -but he remembered it himself with painful clearness. Harsh men are apt -to have consciences, and his was far from easy about the lad who had -been entrusted to his care. He could not help thinking of it when the -day’s work was over, and he had to keep filling up his evening -whisky-glass again and again to drown disagreeable thoughts. - -The whisky answered this purpose, but it made him late in the morning; -it complicated business on market days, not to the benefit of the farm, -and it put him at a disadvantage in dealing with the drunken cowherd. - -The cowherd was completely upset by John Broom’s mysterious -disappearance, and he comforted himself as the farm-bailiff did, but to -a larger extent. And Thomasina winked at many irregularities in -consideration of the groans of sympathy with which he responded to her -tears as they sat around the hearth where John Broom no longer lay. - -At the time that he vanished from Lingborough the gossips of the country -side said, “This comes of making pets of tramps’ brats, when honest -folk’s sons may toil and moil without notice.” But when it was proved -that the tramp-boy had stolen nothing, when all search for him was vain, -and when prosperity faded from the place season by season and year by -year, there were old folk who whispered that the gaudily-clothed child -Miss Betty had found under the broom-bush had something more than common -in him, and that whoever and whatever had offended the eerie creature, -he had taken the luck of Lingborough with him when he went away. - -It was early summer. The broom was shining in the hedges with uncommon -wealth of golden blossoms. “The lanes look for all the world as they did -the year that poor child was found,” said Thomasina, wiping her eyes. -Annie the lass sobbed hysterically, and the cowherd found himself so low -in spirits that after gazing dismally at the cow-stalls, which had not -been cleaned for days past, he betook himself to the ale-house to -refresh his energies for this and other arrears of work. - -On returning to the farm, however, he found his hands still feeble, and -he took a drop or two more to steady them, after which it occurred to -him that certain new potatoes which he had had orders to dig were yet in -the ground. The wood was not chopped for the next day’s use, and he -wondered what had become of a fork he had had in the morning and had -laid down somewhere. - -So he seated himself on some straw in the corner to think about it all, -and whilst he was thinking he fell fast asleep. - -By his own account many remarkable things had befallen him in the course -of his life, including that meeting with a Black Something to which -allusion has been made, but nothing so strange as what happened to him -that night. - -When he awoke in the morning and sat up on the straw, and looked around -him, the stable was freshly cleaned, the litter in the stalls was shaken -and turned, and near the door was an old barrel of newly-dug potatoes, -and the fork stood by it. And when he ran to the wood-house there lay -the wood neatly chopped and piled to take away. - -He kept his own counsel that day and took credit for the work, but when -on the morrow the farm-bailiff was at a loss to know who had thinned the -turnips that were left to do in the upper field, and Annie the lass -found the kitchen-cloths she had left overnight to soak, rubbed through -and rinsed, and laid to dry, the cowherd told his tale to Thomasina, and -begged for a bowl of porridge and cream to set in the barn, as one might -set a mouse-trap baited with cheese. - -“For,” said he, “the luck of Lingborough’s come back, missis. _It’s Lob -Lie-by-the-fire!_” - - - LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE. - -“It’s Lob Lie-by-the-fire!” - -So Thomasina whispered exultingly, and Annie the lass timidly. Thomasina -cautioned the cowherd to hold his tongue, and she said nothing to the -little ladies on the subject. She felt certain that they would tell the -parson, and he might not approve. The farm-bailiff knew of a farm on the -Scotch side of the Border where a brownie had been driven away by the -minister preaching his last Sunday’s sermon over again at him, and as -Thomasina said, “There’d been little enough luck at Lingborough lately, -that they should wish to scare it away when it came.” - -And yet the news leaked out gently, and was soon known all through the -neighborhood—as a secret. - -“The luck of Lingborough’s come back. Lob’s lying by the fire!” - -He could be heard at his work any night, and several people had seen -him, though this vexed Thomasina, who knew well that the Good People do -not like to be watched at their labors. - -The cowherd had not been able to resist peeping down through chinks in -the floor of the loft above the barn, where he slept, and one night he -had seen Lob fetching straw for the cowhouse. “A great, rough, black -fellow,” said he, and he certainly grew bigger and rougher and blacker -every time the cowherd told the tale. - -The Lubber-fiend appeared next to a boy who was loitering at a late hour -somewhere near the little ladies’ kitchen-garden, and whom he pursued -and pelted with mud till the lad nearly lost his wits with terror. (It -was the same boy who was put in the lock-up in the autumn for stealing -Farmer Mangel’s Siberian crabs.) - -For this trick, however, the rough elf atoned by leaving three pecks of -newly-gathered fruit in the kitchen the following morning. Never had -there been such a preserving season at Lingborough within the memory of -Thomasina. - -The truth is, hobgoblins, from Puck to Will-o’-the-wisp, are apt to play -practical jokes and knock people about whom they meet after sunset. A -dozen tales of such were rife, and folk were more amused than amazed by -Lob Lie-by-the-fire’s next prank. - -There was an aged pauper who lived on the charity of the little ladies, -and whom it was Miss Betty’s practice to employ to do light weeding in -the fields for heavy wages. This venerable person was toddling to his -home in the gloaming with a barrow-load of Miss Betty’s new potatoes, -dexterously hidden by an upper sprinkling of groundsel and hemlock, when -the Lubber-fiend sprang out from behind an elder-bush, ran at the old -man with his black head, and knocked him, heels uppermost into the -ditch. The wheel-barrow was afterwards found in Miss Betty’s farmyard, -quite empty. - -And when the cowherd (who had his own opinion of the aged pauper, and it -was a very poor one) went that evening, to drink Lob Lie-by-the-fire’s -health from a bottle he kept in the harness-room window, he was nearly -choked with the contents, which had turned into salt and water, as fairy -jewels turn to withered leaves. - -But luck had come to Lingborough. There had not been such crops for -twice seven years past. - -The lay-away hen’s eggs were brought regularly to the kitchen. - -The ducklings were not eaten by rats. - -No fowls were stolen. - -The tub of pig-meal lasted three times as long as usual. - -The cart-wheels and gate-hinges were oiled by unseen fingers. - -The mushrooms in the croft gathered themselves and lay down on a dish in -the larder. - -It is by small savings that a farm thrives, and Miss Betty’s farm -throve. - -Everybody worked with more alacrity. Annie, the lass, said the butter -came in a way that made it a pleasure to churn. - -The neighbors knew even more than those on the spot. They said—That -since Lob came back to Lingborough the hens laid eggs as large as -turkeys’ eggs, and the turkeys’ eggs were—oh, you wouldn’t believe the -size! - -That the cows gave nothing but cream, and that Thomasina skimmed butter -off it as less lucky folk skim cream from milk. - -That her cheeses were as rich as butter. - -That she sold all she made, for Lob took the fairy butter from the old -trees in the avenue, and made it up into pats for Miss Betty’s table. - -That if you bought Lingborough turnips, you might feed your cows on them -all the winter and the milk would be as sweet as new-mown hay. - -That horses foddered on Lingborough hay would have thrice the strength -of others, and that sheep who cropped Lingborough pastures would grow -three times as fat. - -That for as good a watch-dog as it was the sheep dog never barked at -Lob, a plain proof that he was more than human. - -That for all its good luck it was not safe to loiter near the place -after dark, if you wished to keep your senses. And if you took so much -as a fallen apple belonging to Miss Betty, you might look out for palsy -or St. Vitus’s dance, or to be carried off bodily to the underground -folk. - -Finally, that it was well that all the cows gave double, for that Lob -Lie-by-the-fire drank two gallons of the best cream every day, with -curds, porridge, and other dainties to match. But what did that matter, -when he had been overheard to swear that luck should not leave -Lingborough till Miss Betty owned half the country side? - - - MISS BETTY IS SURPRISED. - -Miss Betty and Miss Kitty having accepted a polite invitation from Mrs. -General Dunmaw, went down to tea with that lady one fine evening in this -eventful summer. - -Death had made a gap or two in the familiar circle during the last -fourteen years, but otherwise it was quite the same except that the -lawyer was married and not quite so sarcastic, and that Mrs. Brown Jasey -had brought a young niece with her dressed in the latest fashion, which -looked quite as odd as new fashions are wont to do, and with a -_coiffure_ “enough to frighten the French away,” as her aunt told her. - -It was while this young lady was getting more noise out of Mrs. Dunmaw’s -red silk and rosewood piano than had been shaken out of it during the -last thirty years, that the lawyer brought his cup of coffee to Miss -Betty’s side, and said, suavely, “I hear wonderful accounts of -Lingborough, dear Miss Betty.” - -“I am thankful to say, sir, that the farm is doing well this year. I am -very thankful, for the past few years have been unfavorable, and we had -begun to face the fact that it might be necessary to sell the old place. -And, I will not deny, sir, that it would have gone far to break my -heart, to say nothing of my sister Kitty’s.” - -“Oh, we shouldn’t have let it come to that,” said the lawyer, “I could -have raised a loan——” - -“Sir,” said Miss Betty, with dignity; “If we have our own pride, I hope -it’s an honest one. Lingborough will have passed out of our family when -it’s kept up on borrowed money.” - -“I _could_ live in lodgings,” added Miss Betty, firmly, “little as I’ve -been accustomed to it, but _not in debt_.” - -“Well, well, my dear madam, we needn’t talk about it now. But I’m dying -of curiosity as to the mainstay of all this good luck.” - -“The turnips—” began Miss Betty. - -“Bless my soul, Miss Betty!” cried the lawyer, “I’m not talking turnips. -I’m talking of Lob Lie-by-the-fire, as all the country side is for that -matter.” - -“The country people have plenty of tales of him,” said Miss Betty, with -some pride in the family goblin. “He used to haunt the old barns, they -say, in my great-grandfather’s time.” - -“And now you’ve got him back again,” said the lawyer. - -“Not that I know of,” said Miss Betty. - -On which the lawyer poured into her astonished ear all the latest news -on the subject, and if it had lost nothing before reaching his house in -the town, it rather gained in marvels as he repeated it to Miss Betty. - -No wonder that the little lady was anxious to get home to question -Thomasina, and that somewhat before the usual hour she said.— - -“Sister Kitty, if it’s not too soon for the servant——” - -And the parson, threading his way to where Mrs. Dunmaw’s china crape -shawl (dyed crimson) shone in the bow window, said, “The clergy should -keep respectable hours; especially when they are as old as I am. Will -you allow me to thank you for a very pleasant evening, and to say -good-night?” - - - THE PARSON AND THE LUBBER-FIEND. - -“Do you think there’d be any harm in leaving it alone, sister Betty?” -asked Miss Kitty, tremulously. - -They had reached Lingborough, and the parson had come in with them, by -Miss Betty’s request, and Thomasina had been duly examined: - -“Eh, Miss Betty, why should ye chase away good luck with the minister?” -cried she. - -“Sister Kitty! Thomasina!” said Miss Betty. “I would not accept good -luck from a doubtful quarter to save Lingborough. But if It can face -this excellent clergyman, the Being who haunted my great-grandfather’s -farm is still welcome to the old barns, and you, Thomasina, need not -grudge It cream or curds.” - -“You’re quite right, sister Betty,” said Miss Kitty, “you always are; -but oh dear, oh dear!”— - -“Thomasina tells me,” said Miss Betty, turning to the parson, “that on -chilly evenings It sometimes comes and lies by the kitchen fire after -they have gone to bed, and I can distinctly remember my grandmother -mentioning the same thing. Thomasina has of late left the kitchen door -on the latch for Its convenience, as they had to sit up late for us, she -and Annie have taken their work into the still-room to leave the kitchen -free for Lob Lie-by-the-fire. They have not looked into the kitchen this -evening, as such beings do not like to be watched. But they fancy that -they heard It come in. I trust, sir, that neither in myself nor my -sister Kitty does timidity exceed a proper feminine sensibility, where -duty is concerned. If you will be good enough to precede us, we will go -to meet the old friend of my great-grandfather’s fortunes, and we leave -it entirely to your valuable discretion to pursue what course you think -proper on the occasion.” - -“Is this the door?” said the parson, cheerfully, after knocking his head -against black beams and just saving his legs down shallow and unexpected -steps on his way to the kitchen—beams so unfelt and steps so familiar -to the women that it had never struck them that the long passage was not -the most straightforward walk a man could take—“I think you said It -generally lies on the hearth?” - -The happy thought struck Thomasina that the parson might be frightened -out of his unlucky interference. - -“Aye, aye, sir,” said she from behind. “We’ve heard him rolling by the -fire, and growling like thunder to himself. They say he’s an awful size, -too, with the strength of four men, and a long tail, and eyes like coals -of fire.” - -But Thomasina spoke in vain, for the parson opened the door, and as they -pressed in, the moonlight streaming through the lattice window showed -Lob lying by the fire. - -“There’s his tail! Ay——k!” screeched Annie the lass, and away she -went, without drawing breath, to the top garret, where she locked and -bolted herself in, and sat her bandbox flat, screaming for help. - -But it was the plumy tail of the sheep dog, who was lying there with the -Lubber-fiend. And Lob was asleep, with his arms round the sheep dog’s -neck, and the sheep dog’s head lay on his breast, and his own head -touched the dog’s. - -And it was a smaller head than the parson had been led to expect, and it -had thick black hair. - -As the parson bent over the hearth, Thomasina took Miss Kitty round the -waist, and Miss Betty clutched her black velvet bag till the steel beads -ran into her hands, and they were quite prepared for an explosion, and -sulphur, and blue lights, and thunder. - -And then the parson’s deep round voice broke the silence, saying,— - -“Is that you, lad? God bless you, John Broom. You’re welcome home!” - - - THE END. - -Some things—such as gossip—gain in the telling, but there are others -before which words fail, though each heart knows its own power of -sympathy. And such was the joy of the little ladies and of Thomasina at -John Broom’s return. - -The sheep dog had his satisfaction out long ago, and had kept it to -himself, but how Pretty Cocky crowed, and chuckled, and danced, and -bowed his crest, and covered his face with his amber wings, and kicked -his seed-pot over, and spilt his water-pot on to the Derbyshire marble -chess-table, and screamed till the room rang again, and went on -screaming, with Miss Kitty’s pocket-handkerchief over his head to keep -him quiet, my poor pen can but imperfectly describe. - -The desire to atone for the past which had led John Broom to act the -part of one of those Good-Fellows who have, we must fear, finally -deserted us, will be easily understood. And to a nature of his type, the -earning of some self-respect, and of a new character before others, was -perhaps a necessary prelude to future well-doing. - -He did do well. He became “a good scholar,” as farmers were then. He -spent as much of his passionate energies on the farm as the farm would -absorb, and he restrained the rest. It is not cockatoos only who have -sometimes to live and be happy in this unfinished life with one wing -clipped. - -In fine weather, when the perch was put into the garden, Miss Betty was -sometimes startled by stumbling on John Broom in the dusk, sitting on -his heels, the unfastened chain in his hand, with his black head -lovingly laid against Cocky’s white and yellow poll, talking in a low -voice, and apparently with the sympathy of his companion; and, as Miss -Betty justly feared, of that “other side of the world,” which they both -knew, and which both at times had cravings to revisit. - -Even after the sobering influences of middle age had touched him, and a -wife and children bound him with the quiet ties of home, he had (at long -intervals) his “restless times,” when his good “missis” would bring out -a little store laid by in one of the children’s socks, and would bid him -“Be off, and get a breath of the sea-air,” but on condition that the -sock went with him as his purse. John Broom always looked ashamed to go, -but he came back the better, and his wife was quite easy in his absence -with that confidence in her knowledge of “the master,” which is so -mysterious to the unmarried, and which Miss Betty looked upon as “want -of feeling” to the end. She always dreaded that he would not return, and -a little ruse which she adopted of giving him money to make bargains for -foreign articles of _vertu_ with the sailors, is responsible for many of -the choicest ornaments in the Lingborough parlor. - -“The sock’ll bring him home,” said Mrs. Broom, and home he came, and -never could say what he had been doing. Nor was the account given by -Thomasina’s cousin, who was a tide-waiter down yonder, particularly -satisfying to the women’s curiosity. He said that John Broom was always -about; that he went aboard of all the craft in the bay, and asked whence -they came and whither they were bound. That, being once taunted to it, -he went up the rigging of a big vessel like a cat, and came down it -looking like a fool. That, as a rule, he gossipped and shared his -tobacco with sailors and fishermen, and brought out the sock much -oftener than was prudent for the benefit of the ragged boys who haunt -the quay. - -He had two other weaknesses, which a faithful biographer must chronicle. - -A regiment on the march would draw him from the ploughtail itself, and -“With daddy to see the soldiers” was held to excuse any of Mrs. Broom’s -children from household duties. - -The other shall be described in the graphic language of that acute -observer the farm-bailiff. - -“If there cam’ an Irish beggar, wi’ a stripy cloot roond him and a -bellows under’s arm, and ca’d himself a Hielander, the lad wad gi’e him -his silly head off his shoulders.” - -As to the farm-bailiff, perhaps no one felt more or said less than he -did on John Broom’s return. But the tones of his voice had tender -associations for the boy’s ears as he took off his speckled hat, and -after contemplating the inside for some moments, put it on again, and -said,— - -“Aweel, lad, sae ye’ve cam hame?” - -But he listened with quivering face when John Broom told the story of -McAlister, and when it was ended he rose and went out, and “took the -pledge” against drink, and—kept it. - -Moved by similar enthusiasm, the cowherd took the pledge also, and if he -didn’t keep it, he certainly drank less, chiefly owing to the vigilant -oversight of the farm-bailiff, who now exercised his natural severity -almost exclusively in the denunciation of all liquors whatsoever, from -the cowherd’s whisky to Thomasina’s elder-flower wine. - -The plain cousin left his money to the little old ladies, and -Lingborough continued to flourish. - -Partly perhaps because of this, it is doubtful if John Broom was ever -looked upon by the rustics as quite “like other folk.” - -The favorite version of his history is that he was Lob under the guise -of a child; that he was driven away by new clothes; that he returned -from unwillingness to see an old family go to ruin “which he had served -for hundreds of years;” that the parson preached his last Sunday’s -sermon at him; and that having stood that test, he took his place among -Christian people. - -Whether a name invented off-hand, however plain and sensible, does not -stick to a man as his father’s does, is a question. But John Broom was -not often called by his. - -With Scotch caution, the farm-bailiff seldom exceeded the safe title of -“Man!” and the parson was apt to address him as “My dear boy” when he -had certainly outgrown the designation. - -Miss Betty called him John Broom, but the people called him by the name -that he had earned. - -And long after his black hair lay white and thick on his head, like snow -on the old barn roof, and when his dark eyes were dim in an honored old -age, the village children would point him out to each other, crying, -“There goes Lob Lie-by-the-fire, the Luck of Lingborough!” - - - - - TIMOTHY’S SHOES. - - - THE FAIRY GODMOTHER. - -Timothy’s mother was very conscientious. When she was quite a young -woman, just after the birth of her first baby, and long before Timothy -saw the light, she was very much troubled about the responsibilities of -having a family. - -“Suppose,” she murmured, “they catch measles, whooping cough, -chicken-pox, scarlatina, croup, or inflammation of the lungs, when I -might have prevented it; and either die, or have weak eyes, weak lungs -or a chronic sore throat to the end of their days. Suppose they have -bandy legs from walking too soon, or crooked spines from being carried -too long. Suppose, too, that they grow up bad—that they go wrong, do -what one will to keep them right. Suppose I cannot afford to educate -them properly, or that they won’t learn if I can afford to have them -taught. Suppose that they die young, when I might have kept them alive; -or live only to make me think they had better have died young. Oh dear, -it’s a terrible responsibility having a family!” - -“It’s too late to talk about that now, my dear,” said her godmother (a -fairy godmother, too!); “the baby is a very fine boy, and if you will -let me know when the christening-day is fixed, I will come and give him -a present. I can’t be godmother, though; I’m too old, and you’ve talked -about responsibilities till I’m quite alarmed.” With which the old lady -kissed her goddaughter, and nearly put out the baby’s eye with the point -of her peaked hat, after which she mounted her broomstick and rode away. - -“A very fine boy,” continued the young mother. “Ah! that’s just where it -is; if it had only been a girl I shouldn’t have felt so much afraid. -Girls are easily managed. They have got consciences, and they mend their -own clothes. You can make them work, and they can amuse themselves when -they’re not working. Now with boys it is quite different. And yet I -shouldn’t wonder if I have a large family of boys, just because I feel -it to be such a responsibility.” - -She was quite right. Years went by; one baby after another was added to -the family, and they were all boys. “Twenty feet that want socks,” -sighed the good woman, “and not a hand that can knit or darn!” - -But we must go back to the first christening. The godmother arrived, -dressed in plum-colored satin, with a small brown-paper parcel in her -hand. - -“Fortunatus’s purse!” whispered one of the guests, nudging his neighbor -with his elbow. “The dear child will always be welcome in my poor -establishment,” he added aloud to the mother. - -“A mere trifle, my love,” said the fairy godmother, laying the -brown-paper parcel beside her on the table and nodding kindly to her -goddaughter. - -“That means a mug,” said one of the godfathers, decidedly. “Rather -shabby! I’ve gone as far as a knife, fork, and spoon myself.” - -“Doubtless ’tis of the more precious metal,” said Dr. Dixon Airey, the -schoolmaster (and this was his way of saying that it was a gold mug), -“and not improbably studded with the glittering diamond. Let us not be -precipitate in our conclusions.” - -At this moment the fairy spoke again. “My dear goddaughter,” she began, -laying her hand upon the parcel, “I have too often had reason to observe -that the gift of beauty is far from invariably proving a benefit to its -possessor.” (“I told you it was a purse,” muttered the guest.) “Riches,” -continued the fairy, “are hardly a less doubtful boon; and the youth who -is born to almost unlimited wealth is not always slow to become a -bankrupt. Indeed, I fear that the experience of many centuries has -almost convinced us poor fairies that extraordinary gifts are not -necessarily blessings. This trifle,” she continued, beginning to untie -the string of the parcel, “is a very common gift to come from my hands, -but I trust it will prove useful.” - -“There!” cried the godfather, “didn’t I say it was a mug? Common? Why -there’s nothing so universal except, indeed, the knife, fork, and -spoon.” - -But before he had finished his sentence the parcel was opened, and the -fairy presented the young mother with—_a small pair of strong leather -shoes, copper tipped and heeled_. “They’ll never wear out, my dear,” she -said; “rely upon it, you’ll find them a ‘mother’s blessing,’ and however -large a family you may have, your children will step into one another’s -shoes just at the age when little feet are the most destructive.” With -which the old lady carefully wound the string on her finger into a neat -twist, and folding the bit of brown paper put both in her pocket, for -she was a very economical dame. - -I will not attempt to describe the scandalized buzz in which the -visitors expressed their astonishment at the meanness of the fairy’s -gift. As for the young mother, she was a sensible, sweet-tempered woman, -and very fond of her old godmother, so she set it down to a freak of -eccentricity; and, dismissing a few ambitious day-dreams from her mind, -she took the shoes, and thanked the old lady pleasantly enough. - -When the company had departed, the godmother still lingered, and kissed -her goddaughter affectionately. “If your children inherit your good -sense and good temper, my love, they will need nothing an old woman like -me can give them,” said she; “but, all the same, my little gift is not -_quite_ so shabby as it looks. These shoes have another quality besides -that of not wearing out. The little feet that are in them cannot very -easily go wrong. If, when your boy is old enough, you send him to school -in these shoes, should he be disposed to play truant, they will pinch -and discomfit him so that it is probable he will let his shoes take him -the right way; they will in like manner bring him home at the proper -time. And——” - -“Mrs. Godmother’s broomstick at the door!” shouted the farming man who -was acting as footman on this occasion. - -“Well, my dear,” said the old lady, “you will find out their virtues all -in good time, and they will do for the whole family in turn; for I -really can come to no more christenings. I am getting old—besides, our -day is over. Farewell, my love.” And mounting her broomstick, the fairy -finally departed. - - - KINGCUPS. - -As years went by, and her family increased, the mother learned the full -value of the little shoes. Her nine boys wore them in turn, but they -never wore them out. So long as the fairy shoes were on their feet they -were pretty sure to go where they were sent and to come back when they -were wanted, which, as all parents know, is no light matter. Moreover, -during the time that each boy wore them, he got into such good habits -that he was thenceforward comparatively tractable. At last they -descended to the ninth and youngest boy, and became—Timothy’s shoes. - -Now the eighth boy had very small feet, so he had worn the shoes rather -longer, and Timothy got them somewhat later than usual. Then, despite -her conscientiousness, Timothy’s mother was not above the weakness of -spoiling the youngest of the family; and so, for one reason or another, -Master Timothy was wilful, and his little feet pretty well used to -taking their own way before he stepped into the fairy shoes. But he -played truant from the dame’s school and was late for dinner so often, -that at length his mother resolved to bear it no longer; and one morning -the leather shoes were brightly blacked and the copper tips polished, -and Master Tim was duly shod, and dismissed to school with many a wise -warning from his fond parent. - -“Now, Tim, dear, I know you will be a good boy,” said his mother, a -strong conviction that he would be no such thing pricking her -conscience. “And mind you don’t loiter or play truant, for if you do, -these shoes will pinch you horribly, and you’ll be sure to be found -out.” - -Tim’s mother held him by his right arm, and Tim’s left arm and both his -legs were already as far away as he could stretch them, and Tim’s face -looked just as incredulous as yours would look if you were told that -there was a bogy in the store-closet who would avenge any attack upon -the jam-pots with untold terrors. At last the good woman let go her -hold, and Tim went off like an arrow from a bow, and he gave not one -more thought to what his mother had said. - -The past winter had been very cold, the spring had been fitful and -stormy, and May had suddenly burst upon the country with one broad -bright smile of sunshine and flowers. If Tim had loitered on the school -path when the frost nipped his nose and numbed his toes, or when the -trees were bare and the ground muddy, and the March winds crept up his -jacket-sleeves, one can imagine the temptations to delay when every nook -had a flower and every bush a bird. It is very wrong to play truant, but -still it was very tempting. Twirr-r-r-r-r—up into the blue sky went the -larks; hedge-birds chirped and twittered in and out of the bushes, the -pale milkmaids opened their petals, and down in the dark marsh below the -kingcups shone like gold. - -Once or twice Tim loitered to pick milkmaids and white starflowers and -speedwell; but the shoes pinched him, and he ran on all the more -willingly that a newly fledged butterfly went before him. But when the -path ran on above the marsh, and he looked down and saw the kingcups, he -dismissed all thoughts of school. True, the bank was long and steep, but -that only added to the fun. Kingcups he must have. The other flowers he -flung away. Milkmaids are wan-looking at the best; starflowers and -speedwell are ragged; but those shining things that he had not seen for -twelve long months, with cups of gold and leaves like water-lilies—Tim -flung his satchel on to the grass, and began to scramble down the bank. -But though he turned his feet towards the kingcups, the shoes seemed -resolved to go to school; and as he persisted in going towards the -marsh, he suffered such twitches and twinges that he thought his feet -must have been wrenched off. But Tim was a very resolute little fellow, -and though his ankles bid fair to be dislocated at every step, he -dragged himself, shoes and all, down to the marsh. And now, provokingly -enough, he could not find a kingcup within reach; in very perversity, as -it seemed, not one would grow on the safe edge, but, like so many -Will-o’-the-wisps, they shone out of the depths of the treacherous bog. -And as Tim wandered round the marsh, jerk, wrench—oh, dear! every step -was like a galvanic shock. At last, desperate with pain and -disappointment, he fairly jumped into a brilliant clump that looked -tolerable near, and was at once ankle-deep in water. Then, to his -delight, the wet mud sucked the shoes off his feet, and he waded about -among the rushes, reeds, and kingcups, sublimely happy. - -And he was none the worse, though he ought to have been. He moved about -very cautiously, feeling his way with a stick from tussock to tussock of -reedy grass, and wondering how his eight brothers had been so -feeble-minded as never to think of throwing the obnoxious shoes into a -bog and so getting rid of them once for all. True, in fairy stories, the -youngest brother always does accomplish what his elders had failed to -do: but fairy tales are not always true. At last Tim began to feel -tired; he hurt his foot with a sharp stump. A fat yellow frog jumped up -in his face and so startled him that he nearly fell backwards into the -water. He was frightened, and had culled more kingcups than he could -carry. So he scrambled out, and climbed the bank, and cleaned himself up -as well as he could with a small cotton pocket handkerchief, and thought -he would go on to school. - -Now, with all his faults, Tim was no coward and no liar, so with a -quaking heart and a stubborn face he made up his mind to tell the dame -that he had played truant; but even when one has resolved to confess, -the words lag behind, and Tim was still composing a speech in his mind, -and had still got no farther than, “Please, ma’am,” when he found -himself in the school and under the dame’s very eye. - -But Tim heeded not her frown, nor the subdued titters of the children; -his eyes were fixed on the schoolroom floor, where—in Tim’s proper -place in the class—stood the little leather shoes, very muddy, and with -a kingcup in each. - -“You’ve been in the marsh, Timothy,” said the dame. “_Put on your -shoes._” - -It will be believed that when his punishment and his lessons were over, -Tim allowed his shoes to take him quietly home. - - - THE SHOES AT SCHOOL. - -When Timothy’s mother heard how he had been in the marsh, she decided to -send him at once to a real boys’ school, as he was quite beyond dame’s -management. So he went to live with Dr. Dixon Airey, who kept a school -on the moors, assisted by one Usher, a gentleman who had very long legs -and used very long words, and who wore common spectacles of very high -power on work days, and green ones on Sundays and holidays. - -And Timothy’s shoes went with him. - -On the whole he liked being at school. He liked the boys, he did not -hate Dr. Airey much, and he would have felt kindly towards the Usher but -for certain exasperating circumstances. The Usher was accustomed to -illustrate his lessons by examples from familiar objects, and as he -naturally had not much imagination left after years of grinding at the -rudiments of everything with a succession of lazy little boys, he took -the first familiar objects that came to hand, and his examples were apt -to be tame. Now though Timothy’s shoes were well-known in his native -village, they created quite a sensation in Dr. Dixon Airey’s -establishment, and the Usher brought them into his familiar examples -till Timothy was nearly frantic. Thus: “If Timothy’s shoes cost 8_s._ -7_d._ without the copper tips, &c.” or, illustrating the genitive case, -“Timothy’s shoes, or the shoes of Timothy,” or again: “The shoes. Of the -shoes. To or for the shoes. The shoes. O shoes! By, with, or from the -shoes.” - -“I’ll run away by, with, or from the shoes shortly,” groaned Timothy, -“see if I don’t. I can’t stand it any longer.” - -“I wouldn’t mind it, if I were you,” returned Bramble minor. “They all -do it. Look at the fellow who wrote the Latin Grammar! He looks around -the schoolroom, and the first thing that catches his eyes goes down for -the first declension, _forma_, a form. They’re all alike.” - -But when the fruit season came round, and boys now and then smuggled -cherries into school, which were forfeited by the Usher, he sometimes -used these for illustrations instead of the shoes, thus (in the -arithmetic class): “Two hundred and fifty-four cherries added to one -thousand six hundred and seventy-five will make——?” - -“A _very_ big pie!” cried Tim on one of these occasions. He had been -sitting half asleep in the sunshine, his mind running on the coming -enjoyments of the fruit season, cooked and uncooked; the Usher had -appealed to him unexpectedly, and the answer was out of his lips before -he could recollect himself. Of course he was sent to the bottom of the -class; and the worst of going down in class for Timothy was that his -shoes were never content to rest there. They pinched his poor feet till -he shuffled them off in despair, and then they pattered back to his -proper place where they stayed till, for very shame, Tim was obliged to -work back to them: and if he kept down in his class for two or three -days, for so long he had to sit in his socks, for the shoes always took -the place that Tim ought to have filled. - -But, after all, it was pleasant enough at that school upon the moors, -from the time when the cat heather came out upon the hills to the last -of the blackberries; and even in winter, when the northern snow lay -deep, and the big dam was “safe” for skaters, and there was a slide from -the Doctor’s gate to the village post-office—one steep descent of a -quarter of a mile on the causeway, and as smooth as the glass mountain -climbed by the princes in the fairy tale. Then Saturday was a -half-holiday, and the boys were allowed to ramble off on long country -walks, and if they had been particularly good they were allowed to take -out Nardy. - -This was the Doctor’s big dog, a noble fellow of St. Bernard breed. The -Doctor called him Bernardus, but the boys called him Nardy. - -Sometimes, too, the Usher would take one or two boys for a treat to the -neighboring town, and when the Usher went out holidaying, he always wore -the green spectacles, through which he never saw anything amiss, and -indeed (it was whispered) saw very little at all. - -Altogether Timothy would have been happy but for the shoes. They did him -good service in many ways, it is true. When Timothy first came the -little boys groaned under the tyranny of a certain big bully of whom all -were afraid. One day when he was maltreating Bramble minor in a shameful -and most unjust fashion, Timothy rushed at him and with the copper tips -of his unerring shoes he kicked him so severely that the big bully did -not get over it for a week, and no one feared him any more. Then in -races, and all games of swift and skilful chase, Timothy’s shoes won him -high renown. But they made him uncomfortable whenever he went wrong, and -left him no peace till he went right, and he grumbled loudly against -them. - -“There is a right way and a wrong way in all sublunary affairs,” said -the Usher. “Hereafter, young gentleman, you will appreciate your -singular felicity in being incapable of taking the wrong course without -feeling uncomfortable.” - -“What’s the use of his talking like that?” said Timothy, kicking the -bench before him with his “copper tips.” “I don’t want to go the wrong -way, I only want to go my own way, that’s all.” And night and day he -beat his brains for a good plan to rid himself of the fairy shoes. - - - THE SHOES AT CHURCH. - -On Sunday, Dr. Dixon Airey’s school went to the old church in the -valley. It was a venerable building with a stone floor, and when Dr. -Dixon Airey’s young gentlemen came in they made such a clattering with -their feet that everybody looked round. So the Usher very properly made -a point of being punctual that they might not disturb the congregation. - -The Usher always went to church with the boys, and he always wore his -green spectacles. It has been hinted that on Sundays and holidays he was -slow to see anything amiss. Indeed if he were directly told of -misconduct he would only shake his head and say: - -“_Humanum est errare_, my dear boy, as Dr. Kerchever Arnold truly -remarks in one of the exercises.” - -And the boys liked him all the better, and did not on the whole behave -any the worse for this occasional lenity. - -Four times in the year, on certain Sunday afternoons, the young people -of the neighborhood were publicly catechised in the old church after the -second lesson at Evening Prayer, and Dr. Dixon Airey’s young gentlemen -with the rest. They all filed down on the nave in a certain order, and -every boy knew beforehand which question and answer would fall to his -share. Now Timothy’s mother had taught him the Catechism very -thoroughly, and so on a certain Sunday he found that the lengthy answer -to the question, “What is thy duty towards thy neighbor?” had been given -to him. He knew it quite well; but a stupid, half-shy, and wholly -aggravating fit came upon him, and he resolved that he would not stand -up with the others to say his Catechism in church. So when they were -about half-way there, Timothy slipped off unnoticed, and the Usher—all -confidence and green spectacles—took the rest of the party on without -him. - -Oh, how the shoes pinched Tim’s feet as he ran away over the heather, -and how Tim vowed in his heart never to rest till he got rid of them! At -last the wrenching became so intolerable that Tim tore them off his -feet, and kicked them for very spite. Fortunately for Tim’s shins the -shoes did not kick back again, but they were just setting off after the -Usher, when Tim snatched them up and put them in his pocket. At last he -found among the gray rocks that peeped out of the heather and bracken, -one that he could just move, and when he had pushed it back, he popped -the shoes under it, and then rolled the heavy boulder back on them to -keep them fast. After which he ate bilberries till his teeth were blue, -and tried to forget the shoes and to enjoy himself. But he could hot do -either. - -As to the Usher, when he found that Timothy was missing, he was very -much vexed; and when the Psalms were ended and still he had not come, -the Usher took off his green spectacles and put them into his pocket. -And Bramble minor, who came next to Timothy, kept his Prayer-Book open -at the Church Catechism and read his Duty to his Neighbor instead of -attending to the service. At last the time came, and all the boys filed -down the nave. First the Parish schools and then Doctor Dixon Airey’s -young gentlemen; and just as they took their places between Bramble -minor and the next boy—in the spot where Timothy should have -been—stood Timothy’s shoes. - -After service the shoes walked home with the boys, and followed the -Usher into Dr. Dixon Airey’s study. - -“I regret, sir,” said the Usher, “I deeply regret to have to report to -you that Timothy was absent from Divine worship this evening.” - -“And who did his Duty to his Neighbor?” asked the Doctor, anxiously. - -“Bramble minor, sir.” - -“And how did he do it?” asked the Doctor. - -“Perfectly, sir.” - -“Mrs. Airey and I,” said the Doctor, “shall have much pleasure in seeing -Bramble minor at tea this evening. I believe there are greengage -turnovers. We hope also for the honor of _your_ company, sir,” added the -Doctor. “And when Timothy retraces his erring steps, _tell him to come -and fetch his shoes_.” - - - THE POOR PERSON. - -I regret to say that the events just related only confirmed Timothy in -his desire to get rid of his shoes. He took Bramble minor into his -confidence, and they discussed the matter seriously after they went to -bed. - -What a gift it is to be able to dispose in one trenchant sentence of a -question that has given infinite trouble to those principally concerned! -Most journalists have this talent, and Bramble minor must have had some -of it, for when Timothy had been stating his grievance in doleful and -hopeless tones, his friend said: - -“What’s the use of putting them under stones and leaving them in bogs? -Give your shoes to some one who wants ’em, my boy, and they’ll be kept -fast enough, you may be sure!” - -“But where am I to find any one who wants them?” asked Timothy. - -“Why, bless your life!” said Bramble minor, “go to the first poor -person’s cottage you come to, and offer them to the first person you -see. Strong shoes with copper tips and heels will not be refused in a -hurry, and will be taken very good care of, you’ll find.” - -With which Bramble minor rolled over in his little bed and went to -sleep, and Timothy turned over in his, and thought what a thing it was -to have a practical genius—like Bramble minor! And the first -half-holiday he borrowed a pair of shoes, and put his own in his pocket, -and set forth for the nearest poor person’s cottage. - -He did not go towards the village (it was too public he thought); he -went over the moors, and when he had walked about half a mile, down by a -sandy lane just below him, he saw a poor person’s cottage. The cottage -was so tumble-down and so old and inconvenient, there could be no doubt -but that it belonged to a poor person, and to a very poor person indeed! - -When Timothy first rapped at the door he could hear no answer, but after -knocking two or three times he accepted a faint sound from within as a -welcome, and walked into the cottage. Though more comfortable within -than without, it was unmistakably the abode of a “poor person,” and the -poor person himself was sitting crouched over a small fire, coughing -after a manner that shook the frail walls of the cottage and his own -frailer body. He was an old man and rather deaf. - -“Good afternoon,” said Timothy, for he did not know what else to say. - -“Good day to ye,” coughed the old man. - -“And how are you this afternoon?” asked Tim. - -“No but badly, thank ye,” said the old man; “but I’m a long age, and -it’s what I mun expect.” - -“You don’t feel as if a small pair of strong leather shoes would be of -any use to you?” asked Tim in his ear. - -“Eh? Shoes? It’s not many shoes I’m bound to wear out now. These’ll last -my time, I expect. I’m a long age, sir. But thank ye kindly all the -same.” - -Tim was silent, partly because the object of his visit had failed, -partly with awe of the old man, whose time was measured by the tattered -slippers on his feet. - -“You be one of Dr. Airey’s young gentlemen, I reckon,” said the old man -at last. Tim nodded. - -“And how’s the old gentleman? He wears well, do the Doctor. And I expect -he’s a long age, too?” - -“He’s about sixty, I believe,” said Timothy. - -“I thowt he’d been better nor seventy,” said the old man, in almost an -injured tone, for he did not take much interest in any one younger than -threescore years and ten. - -“Have you any children?” asked Tim, still thinking of the shoes. - -“Four buried and four living,” said the old man. - -“Perhaps _they_ might like a pair——” began Timothy; but the old man -had gone on without heeding him. - -“And all four on ’em married and settled, and me alone; for my old woman -went Home twenty years back, come next fift’ o’ March.” - -“I daresay you have grandchildren, then?” said Tim. - -“Ay, ay. Tom’s wife’s brought him eleven, _so_ fur; and six on ’em -boys.” - -“They’re not very rich, I daresay,” said Tim. - -“Rich!” cried the old man; “Why, bless ye, last year Tom were out o’ -work six month, and they were a’most clemmed.” - -“I’m so sorry,” said Tim; “and will you please give them these shoes? -They’re sure to fit one of the boys, and they are very very strong -leather, and copper-tipped and heeled, and——.” - -But as Tim enumerated the merits of his shoes the old man tried to -speak, and could not for a fit of coughing, and as he choked and -struggled he put back the shoes with his hand. At last he found voice to -gasp,—“Lor’, bless you, Tom’s in Osstraylee.” - -“Whatever did he go there for?” cried Tim, impatiently, for he saw no -prospect of getting rid of his tormentors. - -“He’d nowt to do at home, and he’s doing well out yonder. He says he’ll -send me some money soon, but I doubt it won’t be in time for my burying. -I’m a long age,” muttered the old man. - -Tim put the shoes in his pocket again, and pulled out a few coppers, the -remains of his pocket-money. These the old man gratefully accepted, and -Tim departed. And as he was late, he took off the borrowed shoes and put -on his own once more, for they carried him quicker over the ground. - -And so they were still Timothy’s shoes. - - - THE DIRTY BOY. - -One day the Usher invited Timothy to walk to the town with him. It was a -holiday. The Usher wore his green spectacles; Tim had a few shillings of -pocket-money, and plums were in season. Altogether the fun promised to -be good. - -Timothy and the Usher had so much moor breeze and heather scents every -day, that they quite enjoyed the heavier air of the valley and the smell -and smoke of town life. Just as they entered the first street a dirty -little boy, in rags and with bare feet, ran beside them, and as he ran -he talked. And it was all about his own trouble and poverty, and hunger -and bare feet, and he spoke very fast, with a kind of whine. - -“I feel quite ashamed, Timothy,” said the Usher (who worked hard for -twelve hours a day, and supported a blind mother and two sisters),—“I -feel quite ashamed to be out holidaying when a fellow-creature is -barefooted and in want.” And as he spoke the Usher gave a sixpence to -the dirty little boy (who never worked at all, and was supported by kind -people out walking). And when the dirty little boy had got the sixpence, -he bit it with his teeth and rang it on the stones, and then danced -catherine-wheels on the pavement till somebody else came by. But the -Usher did not see this through his green spectacles. - -And Timothy thought, “My shoes would fit that barefooted boy.” - -After they had enjoyed themselves very much for some time, the Usher had -to pay a business visit in the town, and he left Timothy to amuse -himself alone for a while. And Timothy walked about, and at last he -stopped in front of a bootmaker’s shop, and in the window he saw a -charming little pair of boots just his own size. And when he turned away -from the window, he saw something coming very fast along the pavement -like the three legs on an Isle of Man halfpenny, and when it stood still -it was the barefooted boy. - -Then Timothy went into the shop, and bought the boots, and this took all -his money to the last farthing. - -And when he came out of the shop the dirty little boy was still there. - -“Come here, my poor boy,” said Tim, speaking like a young gentleman out -of ‘Sanford and Merton.’ “You look very poor, and your feet must be very -cold.” - -The dirty boy whined afresh, and said his feet were so bad he could -hardly walk. They were frost-bitten, sun-blistered, sore, and rheumatic; -and he expected shortly to become a cripple like his parents and five -brothers, all from going barefoot. And Timothy stooped down and took off -the little old leather shoes. - -“I will give you these shoes, boy,” said he, “on one condition. You must -promise not to lose them, nor to give them away.” - -“Catch me!” cried the dirty boy, as he took the shoes. And his voice -seemed quite changed, and he put one of his dirty fingers by the side of -his nose. - -“I could easily catch you if I wished,” said Tim. (For slang was not -allowed in Dr. Dixon Airey’s establishment, and he did not understand -the remark.) - -“Well, you _are_ green!” said the dirty boy, putting on the shoes. - -“It’s no business of yours what color I am,” said Tim, angrily. “You’re -black, and that’s your own fault for not washing yourself. And if you’re -saucy or ungrateful, I’ll kick you—at least, I’ll try,” he added, for -he remembered that he no longer wore the fairy shoes, and could not be -sure of kicking or catching anybody now. - -“Walker!” cried the dirty boy. But he did not walk, he ran, down the -street as fast as he could go, and Timothy was parted from his shoes. - -He gave a sigh, just one sigh, and then he put on the new boots, and -went to meet the Usher. - -The Usher was at the door of a pastrycook’s shop, and he took Tim in, -and they had veal-pies and ginger-wine; and the Usher paid the bill. And -all this time he beamed affably through his green spectacles, and never -looked at Timothy’s feet. - -Then they went out into the street, where there was an interesting smell -of smoke, and humanity, and meat, and groceries, and drapery, and drugs, -quite different to the moor air, and the rattling and bustling were most -stimulating. And Tim and the Usher looked in at all the shop-windows -gratis, and choose the things they would have bought if they had had the -money. At last the Usher went into a shop and bought for Tim a kite -which he had admired; and Tim would have given everything he possessed -to have been able to buy some small keep-sake for the Usher, but he -could not, for he had spent all his pocket-money on the new boots. - -When they reached the bottom of the street, the Usher said, “Suppose we -go up the other side and look at the shops there.” And when they were -half way up the other side, they found a small crowd round the window of -a print-seller, for a new picture was being exhibited in the window. And -outside the crowd was the dirty boy, but Tim and the Usher did not see -him. And they squeezed in through the crowd and saw the picture. It was -a historical subject with a lot of figures, and they were all dressed so -like people on the stage of a theatre that Tim thought it was a scene -out of Shakespeare. But the Usher explained that it was the signing of -the Magna Charta, or the Foundation Stone of our National Liberties, and -he gave quite a nice little lecture about it, and the crowd said, “Hear, -hear!” But as everybody wanted to look at King John at the same moment -when the Usher called him “treacherous brother and base tyrant,” there -was a good deal of pushing, and Tim and he had to stand arm-in-arm to -keep together at all. And thus it was that when the dirty boy from -behind put his hand in the Usher’s waistcoat pocket, and took out the -silver watch that had belonged to his late father, the Usher thought it -was Tim’s arm that seemed to press his side, and Tim thought it was the -Usher’s arm that _he_ felt. But just as the dirty boy had secured the -watch the shoes gave him such a terrible twinge, that he started in -spite of himself. And in his start he jerked the Usher’s waistcoat, and -in one moment the Usher forgot what he was saying about our national -liberties, and recalled (as with a lightning flash) the connection -between crowds and our national pickpockets. And when he clapped his -hand to his waistcoat—his watch was gone! - -“My watch has been stolen!” cried the Usher, and, as he turned round, -the dirty boy fled, and Tim, the Usher, and the crowd ran after him -crying, “Stop thief!” and every one they met turned round and ran with -them, and at the top of the street they caught a policeman, and were -nearly as glad as if they had caught the thief. - -Now if the dirty boy had still been barefoot no one could ever have -stopped _him_. But the wrenching and jerking of the shoes made running -most difficult, and just as he was turning a corner they gave one -violent twist that turned him right round, and he ran straight into the -policeman’s arms. - -Then the policeman whipped out the watch as neatly as if he had been a -pickpocket himself, and gave it back to the Usher. And the dirty boy -yelled, and bit the policeman’s hand, and butted him in the chest with -his head, and kicked his shins; but the policeman never lost his temper, -and only held the dirty boy fast by the collar of his jacket, and shook -him slightly. When the policeman shook him, the dirty boy shook himself -violently, and went on shaking in the most ludicrous way, pretending -that it was the policeman’s doing, and he did it so cleverly that Tim -could not help laughing. And then the dirty boy danced, and shook -himself faster and faster, as a conjuror shakes his chains of iron -rings. And as he shook, he shook the shoes off his feet, and drew his -arms in, and ducked his head, and, as the policeman was telling the -Usher about a pickpocket he had caught the day before yesterday, the -dirty boy gave one wriggle, dived, and leaving his jacket in the -policeman’s hand, fled a way like the wind on his bare feet. - -The policeman looked seriously annoyed; but the Usher said he was very -glad, as he shouldn’t like to prosecute anybody, and had never been in a -police-court in his life. And he gave the policeman a shilling for his -trouble, and the policeman said the court “wouldn’t be no novelty to -him,”—meaning to the dirty boy. - -And when the crowd had dispersed, Timothy told the Usher about the -boots, and said he was very sorry; and the Usher accepted his apologies, -and said, “_Humanum est errare_, my dear boy, as Dr. Kerchever Arnold -truly remarks in one of the exercises.” Then Timothy went to the -bootmaker, who agreed to take back the boots “for a consideration.” And -with what was left of his money, Tim bought some things for himself and -for Bramble minor and for the Usher. - -And the shoes took him very comfortably home. - - - THE CHILDREN’S PARTY. - -When Timothy went home for the Christmas holidays, his mother thought -him greatly improved. His friends thought so too, and when Tim had been -at home about a week, a lady living in the same town invited him to a -children’s party and dance. It was not convenient for any one to go with -him; but his mother said, “I think you are to be trusted now, Timothy, -especially in the shoes. So you shall go, but on one condition. The -moment ten o’clock strikes, you must start home at once. Now remember!” - -“I can come home in proper time without those clod-hopping shoes,” said -Timothy to himself. “It is really too bad to expect one to go to a party -in leather shoes with copper tips and heels!” - -And he privately borrowed a pair of pumps belonging to his next brother, -made of patent leather and adorned with neat little bows, and he put a -bit of cotton wool into each toe to make them fit. And he went by a -little by-lane at the back of the house, to avoid passing under his -mother’s window, for he was afraid she might see the pumps. - -Now the little by-lane was very badly lighted, and there were some -queer-looking people loitering about, and one of them shouted something -at him, and Timothy felt frightened, and walked on pretty fast. And then -he heard footsteps behind him, and walked faster, and still the -footsteps followed him, and at last he ran. Then they ran too, and he -did not dare to look behind. And the footsteps followed him all down the -by-lane and into the main street and up to the door of the lady’s house, -where Tim pulled the bell and turned to face his pursuer. - -But nothing was to be seen save Timothy’s little old leather shoes, -which stood beside him on the steps. - -“Your shoes, sir?” said the very polite footman who opened the door. And -he carried the shoes inside, and Tim was obliged to put them on and -leave the pumps with the footman, for (as he said) “they’ll be coming up -stairs, and making a fool of me in the ball-room.” - -Tim had no reason to regret the exchange. Other people are not nearly so -much interested in one’s appearance as one is oneself; and then they -danced so beautifully that every little girl in the room wanted Tim for -her partner, and he was perfectly at home, even in the Lancers. He went -down twice to supper, and had lots of gooseberry-fool; and they were -just about to dance Sir Roger de Coverley, when the clock struck ten. - -Tim knew he ought to go, but a very nice little girl wanted to dance -with him, and Sir Roger is the best of fun, and he thought he would just -stay till it was over. But though he secured his partner and began, the -shoes made dancing more a pain than a pleasure to him. They pinched him, -they twitched him, they baulked his _glissades_, and once when he should -have gone down the room they fairly turned him around and carried him -off towards the door. The other dancers complained, and Tim kicked off -the shoes in a pet, and resolved to dance it out in his socks. - -But when the shoes were gone, Tim found how much the credit of his -dancing was due to them. He could not remember the figure. He swung the -little lady round when he should have bowed, and bowed when he should -have taken her hand, and led the long line of boys the wrong way, and -never made a triumphal arch at all. The boys scolded and squabbled, the -little ladies said he had had too much gooseberry-fool, and at last -Timothy left them and went down stairs. Here he got the little pumps -from the footman and started home. He ran to make up for lost time, and -as he turned out of the first street he saw the leather shoes running -before him, the copper tips shining in the lamplight. - -And when he reached his own door the little shoes were waiting on the -threshold. - - - THE SNOW STORM. - -When Timothy went back to school in the beginning of the year, the snow -lay deep upon the moors. The boys made colossal snow men and buried -things deep under drifts, for the dog Bernardus to fetch out. On the ice -Timothy’s shoes were invaluable. He was the best skater and slider in -the school, and when he was going triumphantly down a long slide with -his arms folded and his friends cheering, Tim was very glad he had not -given away his shoes. - -One Saturday the Usher took him and Bramble minor for a long walk over -the hills. They had tea with a friendly farmer, whose hospitality would -hardly let them go. So they were later than they had intended, and about -the time that they set out to return a little snow began to fall. It was -small snow, and fell very quietly. But though it fell so quietly, it was -wonderful how soon the walls and gates got covered; and though the -flakes were small they were so dense that in a short time no one could -see more than a few yards in front of him. The Usher thought it was -desirable to get home as quickly as possible, and he proposed to take a -short cut across the moors, instead of following the high road all the -way. So they climbed a wall, and ploughed their way through the -untrodden snow, and their hands and feet grew bitterly painful and then -numb, and the soft snow lodged in their necks and drifted on to their -eyelashes and into their ears, and at last Timothy fairly cried. For he -said, that besides the biting of the frost his shoes pinched and pulled -his feet. - -“It’s because we are not on the high road,” said the Usher; “but this -will take half an hour off our journey, and in five minutes we shall -strike the road again, and then the shoes will be all right. Bear it for -a few minutes longer if you can, Tim.” - -But Tim found it so hard to bear, that the Usher took him on to his back -and took his feet into his hands, and Bramble minor carried the shoes. -And five minutes passed but they did not strike the road, and five more -minutes passed, and though Tim lay heavy upon the Usher’s shoulder (for -he was asleep) the Usher’s heart was heavier still. And five minutes -more passed, and Bramble minor was crying, and the Usher said, “Boys, -we’ve lost our way. I see nothing for it but to put Timothy’s shoes down -and follow them.” - -So Bramble minor put down the shoes, and they started off to the left, -and the Usher and the boys followed them. - -But the shoes tripped lightly over the top of the snow, and went very -fast, and the Usher and Bramble minor waded slowly through it, and in a -few seconds the shoes disappeared into the snowstorm, and they lost -sight of them altogether, and Bramble minor said—“I _can’t_ go any -further. I don’t mind being left, but I must lie down, I am so very, -very tired.” - -Then the Usher woke Timothy, and made him put on Bramble minor’s boots -and walk, and he took Bramble minor on to his back, and made Timothy -take hold of his coat, and they struggled on through the storm, going as -nearly as they could in the way that the shoes had gone. - -“How are you getting on, Timothy?” asked the Usher after a long silence. -“Don’t be afraid of holding on to me, my boy.” - -But Timothy gave no answer. - -“Keep a brave heart, laddie!” cried the Usher, as cheerfully as his numb -and languid lips could speak. - -Still there was silence, and when he looked round, _Timothy was not -there_. - -When and where he had lost his hold the distracted Usher had no idea. He -shouted in vain. - -“How could I let him take off the shoes?” groaned the poor man. “Oh! -what shall I do? Shall I struggle on to save this boy’s life, or risk -all our lives by turning back after the other?” - -He turned round as he spoke, and the wild blast and driving snow struck -him in the face. The darkness fell rapidly, the drifts grew deeper, and -yet the Usher went after Timothy. - -And he found him, but too late—for his own strength was exhausted, and -the snow was three feet deep all round him. - - - BERNARDUS ON DUTY. - -When the snow first began to fall, Dr. Dixon Airey observed,—“Our -friends will get a sprinkling of sugar this evening;” and the boys -laughed, for this was one of Dr. Dixon Airey’s winter jokes. - -When it got dusk, and the storm thickened, Dr. Dixon Airey said—“I hope -they will come home soon.” - -But when the darkness fell, and they did not come, Dr. Dixon Airey said, -“I think they must have remained at the farm.” And when an hour passed -and nothing was to be seen or heard without but the driving wind and -snow, the Doctor said, “Of course they are at the farm. Very wise and -proper.” And he drew the study curtains, and took up a newspaper, and -rang for tea. But the Doctor could not eat his tea, and he did not read -his paper, and every five minutes he opened the front door and looked -out, and all was dark and silent, only a few snow-flakes close to him -looked white as they fell through the light from the open door. And the -Doctor said, “There can’t be the slightest doubt they are at the farm.” - -But when Dr. Dixon Airey opened the door for the seventh time, Timothy’s -shoes ran in, and they were filled with snow. And when the Doctor saw -them he covered his face with his hands. - -But in a moment more he had sent his man-servant to the village for -help, and Mrs. Airey was filling his flask with brandy, and he was tying -on his comforter and cap, and fastening his leggings and great-coat. -Then he took his lantern and went out in the yard. - -And there lay Bernardus with his big nose at the door of his kennel -smelling the storm. And when he saw the light and heard footsteps, his -great, melancholy, human eyes brightened, and he moaned with joy. And -when the men came up from the village and moved about with shovels and -lanterns, he was nearly frantic, for he thought, “This looks like -business;” and he dragged at his kennel, as much as to say, “If you -don’t let me off the chain now, of all moments, I’ll come on my own -responsibility and bring the kennel with me.” - -Then the Doctor unfastened the chain, and he tied Timothy’s shoes round -the dog’s neck, saying, “Perhaps they will help to lead their wearer -aright.” And either the shoes did pull in the right direction, or the -sagacity of Bernardus sufficed him, for he started off without a -moment’s hesitation. The men followed him as fast as they were able, and -from time to time Bernardus would look round to see if they were coming, -and would wait for them. But if he saw the lanterns he was satisfied and -went on. - -“It’s a rare good thing there’s some dumb animals cleverer than we are -ourselves,” observed one of the laborers as they struggled blindly -through the snow, the lanterns casting feeble and erratic patches of -light for a yard or two before their feet. To Bernardus his own -wonderful gift was light, and sight, and guide, its own sufficient -stimulus, and its own reward. - -“There’s some’at amiss,” said another man presently; “t’dog’s whining; -he’s stuck fast.” - -“Or perhaps he has found something,” said the Doctor trembling. - -The Doctor was right. He had found Timothy and Bramble minor, and the -Usher: and they were still alive. - - * * * * * * - -“Mrs. Airey,” said the Doctor, as an hour later, they sat round the -study fire wrapped in blankets, and drinking tumblers of hot -compounds—“Mrs. Airey, that is a creature above kennels. From this -eventful evening I wish him to sleep under our roof.” - -And Mrs. Airey began, “Bless him!” and then burst into tears. - -And Bernardus, who lay with his large eyes upon the fire, rejoiced in -the depths of his doggish heart. - - - THE SHOES GO HOME. - -It is hardly needful to say that Timothy was reconciled to his shoes. As -to being ashamed of them—he would as soon have been ashamed of that -other true friend of his, the Usher. He would no more have parted with -them now than Dr. Dixon Airey would have parted with the dog Bernardus. - -But, alas! how often it happens that we do not fully value our best -friends till they are about to be taken from us! It was a painful fact, -but Timothy was outgrowing his shoes. - -He was at home when the day came on which the old leather shoes into -which he could no longer squeeze his feet were polished for the last -time, and put away in a cupboard in his mother’s room: Timothy blacked -them with his own hands, and the tears were in his eyes as he put them -on the shelf. - -“Good-bye, good little friends;” said he; “I will try and walk as you -have taught me.” - -Timothy’s mother was much affected by this event. She could not sleep -that night for thinking of the shoes in the cupboard. She seemed to live -over again all the long years of her married life. Her first anxieties, -the good conduct of all her boys, the faithful help of those good -friends to her nine sons in turn—all passed through her mind as she -knitted her brows under the frill of her nightcap and gazed at the -cupboard door with sleepless eyes. “Ah!” she thought, “how wise the good -godmother was! No money, no good luck, would have done for my boys what -the early training of these shoes has done. That early discipline which -makes the prompt performance of duty a habit in childhood, is indeed the -quickest relief to parental anxieties, and the firmest foundation for -the fortunes of one’s children.” - -Such, and many more, were the excellent reflections of this -conscientious woman; but excellent as they were, they shall not be -recorded here. One’s own experience preaches with irresistible -eloquence; but the second-hand sermons of other people’s lives are apt -to seem tedious and impertinent. - -Her meditations kept her awake till dawn. The sun was just rising, and -the good woman was just beginning to feel sleepy, and had once or twice -lost sight of the bed-room furniture in a half-dream, when she was -startled by the familiar sound as of a child jumping down from some -height to the floor. The habit of years was strong on her, and she -cried, “Bless the boy! He’ll break his neck!” as she had had reason to -exclaim about one or other of her nine sons any day for the last twenty -years. - -But as she spoke the cupboard door swung slowly open, and Timothy’s -shoes came out and ran across the floor. They paused for an instant by -his mother’s bed, as if to say farewell, and then the bed-room door -opened also and let them pass. Down the stairs they went, and they ran -with that music of a childish patter that no foot in the house could -make now; and the mother sobbed to hear it for the last time. Then she -thought, “The house door’s locked, they can’t go right away yet.” - -But in that moment she heard the house door turn slowly on its hinges. -Then she jumped out of bed, and ran to the window, pushed it open, and -leaned out. - -In front of the house was a little garden, and the little garden was -kept by a gate, and beyond the gate was a road, and beyond the road was -a hill, and on the grass of the hill the dew lay thick and white, and -morning mists rested on the top. The little shoes pattered through the -garden, and the gate opened for them and snecked after them. And they -crossed the road, and went over the hill, leaving little footprints in -the dew. And they passed into the morning mists, and were lost to sight. - -And when the sun looked over the hill and dried the dew, and sent away -the mists, Timothy’s Shoes were gone. - - * * * * * * - -“If they never come back,” said Timothy’s mother, “I shall know that I -am to have no more children!” and though she had certainly had her -share, she sighed. - -But they never did come back; and Timothy remained the youngest of the -family. - - - - - OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS. - - - CHAPTER I. - -“Can you fancy, young people,” said Godfather Garbel, winking with his -prominent eyes, and moving his feet backwards and forwards in his square -shoes, so that you could hear the squeak-leather, half a room off—“can -you fancy my having been a very little boy, and having a godmother? But -I had, and she sent me presents on my birthdays too. And young people -did not get presents when I was a child as they get them now. We had not -half so many toys as you have, but we kept them twice as long. I think -we were fonder of them too, though they were neither so handsome, nor so -expensive as these new-fangled affairs you are always breaking about the -house. - -“You see, middle-class folk were more saving then. My mother turned and -dyed her dresses, and when she had done with them, the servant was very -glad to have them; but, bless me! your mother’s maids dress so much -finer than their mistress, I do not think they would say ‘thank you’ for -her best Sunday silk. The bustle’s the wrong shape. - -“What’s that you are laughing at, little miss? It’s _pannier_, is it? -Well, well, bustle or pannier, call it what you like; but only donkeys -wore panniers in my young days, and many’s the ride I’ve had in them. - -“Now, as I say, my relations and friends thought twice before they -pulled out five shillings in a toy-shop, but they didn’t forget me, all -the same. On my eighth birthday my mother gave me a bright blue -comforter of her own knitting. My little sister gave me a ball. My -mother had cut out the divisions from various bits in the rag bag, and -my sister had done some of the seaming. It was stuffed with bran, and -had a cork inside which had broken from old age, and would no longer fit -the pickle jar it belonged to. This made the ball bound when we played -‘prisoner’s base.’ My father gave me the riding-whip that had lost the -lash and the top of the handle, and an old pair of his gloves, to play -coachman with; these I had long wished for. Kitty the servant gave me a -shell that she had had by her for years. How I had coveted that shell! -It had this remarkable property: when you put it to your ear you could -hear the roaring of the sea. I had never seen the sea, but Kitty was -born in a fisherman’s cottage, and many an hour have I sat by the -kitchen fire whilst she told me strange stories of the mighty ocean, and -ever and anon she would snatch the shell from the mantelpiece and clap -it to my ear, crying, ‘There child, you couldn’t hear it plainer than -that. It’s the very moral!’ - -“When Kitty gave me that shell for my very own I felt that life had -little more to offer. I held it to every ear in the house, including the -cat’s; and, seeing Dick the sexton’s son go by with an armful of straw -to stuff Guy Fawkes, I ran out, and in my anxiety to make him share the -treat, and learn what the sea is like, I clapped the shell to his ear so -smartly and unexpectedly, that he, thinking me to have struck him, -knocked me down then and there with his bundle of straw. When he -understood the rights of the case, he begged my pardon handsomely, and -gave me two whole treacle sticks and part of a third out of his -breeches’ pocket, in return for which I forgave him freely, and promised -to let him hear the sea roar on every Saturday half-holiday till farther -notice. - -“And, speaking of Dick and the straw reminds me that my birthday falls -on the fifth of November. From this it came about that I always had to -bear a good many jokes about being burnt as a Guy Fawkes; but, on the -other hand, I was allowed to make a small bonfire of my own, and to have -six potatoes to roast therein, and eight-pennyworth of crackers to let -off in the evening. - -“On this eighth birthday, having got all the above-named gifts, I cried, -in the fulness of my heart, ‘There never was such a day!’ And yet there -was more to come, for the evening coach brought me a parcel, and the -parcel was my godmother’s picture book. - -“My godmother was a woman of small means; but she was accomplished. She -could make very spirited sketches, and knew how to color them after they -were outlined and shaded in India ink. She had a pleasant talent for -versifying. She was very industrious. I have it from her own lips that -she copied the figures in my picture-book from prints in several -different houses at which she visited. They were fancy portraits of -characters, most of which were familiar to my mind. There were Guy -Fawkes, Punch, his then Majesty the King, Bogy, the Man in the Moon, the -Clerk of the Weather Office, a Dunce, and Old Father Christmas. Beneath -each sketch was a stanza of my godmother’s own composing. - -“My godmother was very ingenious. She had been mainly guided in her -choice of these characters by the prints she happened to meet with, as -she did not trust herself to design a figure. But if she could not get -exactly what she wanted, she had a clever knack of tracing an outline of -the attitude from some engraving, and altering the figure to suit her -purpose in the finished sketch. She was the soul of truthfulness, and -the notes she added to the index of contents in my picture-book spoke at -once for her honesty in avowing obligations, and her ingenuity in -availing herself of opportunities. They ran thus:— - - No. 1.—Guy Fawkes. Outlined from a figure of a warehouse man - rolling a sherry cask into Mr. Rudd’s wine vaults. I added the - hat, the cloak, and boots in the finished drawing. - - No. 2.—Punch. I sketched him from the life. - - No. 3.—His Most Gracious Majesty the King. On a quart jug - bought in Cheapside. - - No. 4.—Bogy, _with bad boys in the bag on his back_. Outlined - from Christian bending under his burden, in my mother’s old copy - of the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ The face from Giant Despair. - - No. 5 and No. 6.—The Man in the Moon, and The Clerk of the - Weather Office. From a book of caricatures belonging to Dr. - James. - - No. 7.—A Dunce. From a steel engraving framed in rosewood that - hangs in my Uncle Wilkinson’s parlor. - - No. 8.—Old Father Christmas. From a German book at Lady - Littleham’s. - - - CHAPTER II. - -“My sister Patty was six years old. We loved each other dearly. The -picture-book was almost as much hers as mine. We sat so long together on -one big foot-stool by the fire, with our arms around each other, and the -book resting on our knees, that Kitty called down blessings on my -godmother’s head for having sent a volume that kept us both so long out -of mischief. - -“‘If books was allus as useful as that, they’d do for me,’ said she; and -though this speech did not mean much, it was a great deal for Kitty to -say; since, not being herself an educated person, she naturally thought -that ‘little enough good comes of larning.’ - -“Patty and I had our favorites amongst the pictures. Bogy, now, was a -character one did not care to think about too near bed-time. I was tired -of Guy Fawkes, and thought he looked more natural made of straw, as Dick -did him. The Dunce was a little too personal; but old Father Christmas -took our hearts by storm; we had never seen anything like him, though -now-a-days you may get a plaster figure of him in any toy-shop at -Christmas-time, with hair and beard like cotton wool, and a -Christmas-tree in his hand. - -“The custom of Christmas-trees came from Germany. I can remember when -they were first introduced into England, and what wonderful things we -thought them. Now, every village school has its tree, and the scholars -openly discuss whether the presents have been ‘good,’ or ‘mean’ as -compared with other trees in former years. The first one that I ever saw -I believed to have come from good Father Christmas himself; but little -boys have grown too wise now to be taken in for their own amusement. -They are not excited by secret and mysterious preparations in the back -drawing-room; they hardly confess to the thrill—which I feel to this -day—when the folding-doors are thrown open, and amid the blaze of -tapers, mamma, like a Fate, advances with her scissors to give every one -what falls to his lot. - -“Well, young people, when I was eight years old I had not seen a -Christmas-tree, and the first picture of one I ever saw was the picture -of that held by Old Father Christmas in my godmother’s picture book. - -“‘What are those things on the tree?’ I asked. - -“‘Candles,’ said my father. - -“‘No, father, not the candles; the other things?’ - -“‘Those are toys, my son.’ - -“‘Are they ever taken off?’ - -“‘Yes, they are taken off, and given to the children who stand around -the tree.’ - -“Patty and I grasped each other by the hand, and with one voice -murmured, ‘How kind of Old Father Christmas!’ - -“By-and-by I asked, ‘How old is Father Christmas?’ - -“My father laughed, and said, ‘One thousand eight hundred and thirty -years, child,’ which was then the year of our Lord, and thus one -thousand eight hundred and thirty years since the first great Christmas -Day. - -“‘He _looks_ very old,’ whispered Patty. - -“And I, who was, for my age, what Kitty called ‘Bible-learned,’ said -thoughtfully, and with some puzzledness of mind, ‘Then he’s older than -Methusaleh.’ - -“But my father had left the room, and did not hear my difficulty. - -“November and December went by, and still the picture-book kept all its -charm for Patty and me; and we pondered on and loved Old Father -Christmas as children can love and realize a fancy friend. To those who -remember the fancies of their childhood I need say no more. - -“Christmas week came, Christmas Eve came. My father and mother were -mysteriously and unaccountably busy in the parlor (we had only one -parlor), and Patty and I were not allowed to go in. We went into the -kitchen, but even here was no place of rest for us. Kitty was ‘all over -the place,’ as she phrased it, and cakes, mince-pies, and puddings were -with her. As she justly observed, ‘There was no place there for children -and books to sit with their toes in the fire, when a body wanted to be -at the oven all along. The cat was enough for _her_ temper,’ she added. - -“As to puss, who obstinately refused to take a hint which drove her out -into the Christmas frost, she returned again and again with soft steps, -and a stupidity that was, I think, affected, to the warm hearth, only to -fly at intervals, like a football, before Kitty’s hasty slipper. - -“We had more sense, or less courage. We bowed to Kitty’s behests, and -went to the back door. - -“Patty and I were hardy children, and accustomed to ‘run out’ in all -weathers, without much extra wrapping up. We put Kitty’s shawl over our -two heads, and went outside. I rather hoped to see something of Dick, -for it was holiday time; but no Dick passed. He was busy helping his -father bore holes in the carved seats of the church, which were to hold -sprigs of holly for the morrow—That was the idea of church decoration -in my young days. You have improved on your elders there, young people, -and I am candid enough to allow it. Still, the sprigs of red and green -were better than nothing, and, like your lovely wreaths and pious -devices, they made one feel as if the old black wood were bursting into -life and leaf again for very Christmas joy; and, if one only knelt -carefully, they did not scratch his nose. - -“Well, Dick was busy, and not to be seen. We ran across the little yard -and looked over the wall at the end to see if we could see anything or -anybody. From this point there was a pleasant meadow field sloping -prettily away to a little hill about three-quarters of a mile distant; -which, catching some fine breezes from the moors beyond, was held to be -a place of cure for whooping-cough, or ‘kincough,’ as it was vulgarly -called. Up to the top of this Kitty had dragged me, and carried Patty, -when we were recovering from the complaint, as I well remember. It was -the only ‘change of air’ we could afford, and I dare say it did as well -as if we had gone into badly-drained lodgings at the seaside. - -“This hill was now covered with snow and stood off against the gray sky. -The white fields looked vast and dreary in the dusk. The only gay things -to be seen were the berries on the holly hedge, in the little -lane—which, running by the end of our back-yard, led up to the -Hall—and the fat robin, that was staring at me. I was looking at the -robin, when Patty, who had been peering out of her corner of Kitty’s -shawl, gave a great jump that dragged the shawl from our heads, and -cried, - -“‘Look!’” - - - CHAPTER III. - -“I looked. An old man was coming along the lane. His hair and beard were -as white as cotton-wool. He had a face like the sort of apple that keeps -well in winter; his coat was old and brown. There was snow about him in -patches, and he carried a small fir-tree. - -“The same conviction seized upon us both. With one breath we exclaimed, -‘_It’s old Father Christmas!_’ - -“I know now that it was only an old man of the place, with whom we did -not happen to be acquainted, and that he was taking a little fir-tree up -to the Hall, to be made into a Christmas tree. He was a very -good-humored old fellow, and rather deaf, for which he made up by -smiling and nodding his head a good deal, and saying, ‘Aye, aye, _to_ be -sure!’ at likely intervals. - -“As he passed us and met our earnest gaze, he smiled and nodded so -earnestly that I was bold enough to cry, ‘Good-evening, Father -Christmas!’ - -“‘Same to you!’ said he, in a high-pitched voice. - -“‘Then you _are_ Father Christmas,’ said Patty. - -“‘And a happy New Year,’ was Father Christmas’ reply, which rather put -me out. But he smiled in such a satisfactory manner, that Patty went on, -‘You’re very old, aren’t you?’ - -“‘So I be, miss, so I be,’ said Father Christmas, nodding. - -“‘Father says you’re eighteen hundred and thirty years old,’ I muttered. - -“‘Aye, aye, to be sure,’ said Father Christmas, ‘I’m a very long age.’ - -“A _very_ long age, thought I, and I added, ‘You’re nearly twice as old -as Methusaleh, you know,’ thinking that this might not have struck him. - -“‘Aye, aye,’ said Father Christmas; but he did not seem to think -anything of it. After a pause he held up the tree, and cried, ‘D’ye know -what this is, little miss?’ - -“‘A Christmas tree,’ said Patty. - -“And the old man smiled and nodded. - -“I leant over the wall, and shouted, ‘But there are no candles.’ - -“‘By-and-by,’ said Father Christmas nodding as before. ‘When it’s dark -they’ll all be lighted up. That’ll be a fine sight!’ - -“‘Toys too, there’ll be, won’t there?’ said Patty. - -“Father Christmas nodded his head. ‘And sweeties,’ he added, -expressively. - -“I could feel Patty trembling, and my own heart beat fast. The thought -which agitated us both, was this—‘Was Father Christmas bringing the -tree to us?’ But very anxiety, and some modesty also, kept us from -asking outright. - -“Only when the old man shouldered his tree, and prepared to move on, I -cried in despair, ‘Oh, are you going?’ - -“‘I’m coming back by-and-by,’ said he. - -“‘How soon?’ cried Patty. - -“‘About four o’clock,’ said the old man smiling, ‘I’m only going up -yonder.’ - -“And, nodding and smiling as he went, he passed away down the lane. - -“‘Up yonder.’ This puzzled us. Father Christmas had pointed, but so -indefinitely, that he might have been pointing to the sky, or the -fields, or the little wood at the end of the Squire’s grounds. I thought -the latter, and suggested to Patty that perhaps he had some place -underground like Aladdin’s cave, where he got the candles, and all the -pretty things for the tree. This idea pleased us both, and we amused -ourselves by wondering what Old Father Christmas would choose for us -from his stores in that wonderful hole where he dressed his -Christmas-trees. - -“‘I wonder, Patty,’ said I, ‘why there’s no picture of Father -Christmas’s dog in the book.’ For at the old man’s heels in the lane -there crept a little brown and white spaniel, looking very dirty in the -snow. - -“‘Perhaps it’s a new dog that he’s got to take care of his cave,’ said -Patty. - -“When we went in-doors we examined the picture afresh by the dim light -from the passage window, but there was no dog there. - -“My father passed us at this moment, and patted my head. ‘Father,’ said -I, ‘I don’t know, but I do think Old Father Christmas is going to bring -us a Christmas-tree to-night.’ - -“‘Who’s been telling you that?’ said my father. But he passed on before -I could explain that we had seen Father Christmas himself, and had had -his word for it that he would return at four o’clock, and that the -candles on his tree would be lighted as soon as it was dark. - -“We hovered on the outskirts of the rooms till four o’clock came. We sat -on the stairs and watched the big clock, which I was just learning to -read; and Patty made herself giddy with constantly looking up and -counting the four strokes, towards which the hour hand slowly moved. We -put our noses into the kitchen now and then, to smell the cakes and get -warm, and anon we hung about the parlor door, and were most unjustly -accused of trying to peep. What did we care what our mother was doing in -the parlor?—we, who had seen Old Father Christmas himself, and were -expecting him back again every moment! - -“At last the church clock struck. The sounds boomed heavily through the -frost, and Patty thought there were four of them. Then, after due -choking and whirring, our own clock struck, and we counted the strokes -quite clearly—one! two! three! four! Then we got Kitty’s shawl once -more, and stole out into the back-yard. We ran to our old place, and -peeped, but could see nothing. - -“‘We’d better get up on to the wall,’ I said; and with some difficulty -and distress from rubbing her bare knees against the cold stones, and -getting the snow up her sleeves, Patty got on to the coping of the -little wall. I was just struggling after her, when something warm and -something cold coming suddenly against the bare calves of my legs, made -me shriek with fright. I came down ‘with a run,’ and bruised my knees, -my elbows, and my chin; and the snow that hadn’t gone up Patty’s -sleeves, went down my neck. Then I found that the cold thing was a dog’s -nose and the warm thing was his tongue; and Patty cried from her post of -observation, ‘It’s Father Christmas’s dog and he’s licking your legs.’ - -“It really was the dirty little brown and white spaniel; and he -persisted in licking me, and jumping on me, and making curious little -noises, that must have meant something if one had known his language. I -was rather harassed at the moment. My legs were sore, I was a little -afraid of the dog and Patty was very much afraid of sitting on the wall -without me. - -“‘You won’t fall,’ I said to her. ‘Get down, will you?’ I said to the -dog. - -“‘Humpty Dumpty fell off a wall,’ said Patty. - -“‘Bow! wow!’ said the dog. - -“I pulled Patty down, and the dog tried to pull me down; but when my -little sister was on her feet, to my relief, he transferred his -attentions to her. When he had jumped at her, and licked her several -times, he turned round and ran away. - -“‘He’s gone,’ said I; ‘I’m so glad.’ - -“But even as I spoke he was back again, crouching at Patty’s feet, and -glaring at her with eyes the color of his ears. - -“Now, Patty was very fond of animals, and when the dog looked at her she -looked at the dog, and then she said to me, ‘He wants us to go with -him.’ - -“On which (as if he understood our language, though we were ignorant of -his) the spaniel sprang away, and went off as hard as he could; and -Patty and I went after him, a dim hope crossing my mind—‘Perhaps Father -Christmas had sent him for us.’ - -“The idea was rather favored by the fact that the dog led us up the -lane. Only a little way; then he stopped by something lying in the -ditch—and once more we cried in the same breath, ‘It’s Old Father -Christmas!’ - - - CHAPTER IV. - -“Returning from the Hall, the old man had slipped upon a bit of ice, and -lay stunned in the snow. - -“Patty began to cry. ‘I think he’s dead,’ she sobbed. - -“‘He is so very old, I don’t wonder,’ I murmured; ‘but perhaps he’s not. -I’ll fetch father.’ - -“My father and Kitty were soon on the spot. Kitty was as strong as a -man; and they carried Father Christmas between them into the kitchen. -There he quickly revived. - -“I must do Kitty the justice to say that she did not utter a word of -complaint at this disturbance of her labors; and that she drew the old -man’s chair close up to the oven with her own hand. She was so much -affected by the behavior of his dog, that she admitted him even to the -hearth; on which puss, being acute enough to see how matters stood, lay -down with her back so close to the spaniel’s that Kitty could not expel -one without kicking both. - -“For our parts, we felt sadly anxious about the tree; otherwise we could -have wished for no better treat than to sit at Kitty’s round table -taking tea with Father Christmas. Our usual fare of thick bread and -treacle was to-night exchanged for a delicious variety of cakes, which -were none the worse to us for being ‘tasters and wasters’—that is, -little bits of dough, or shortbread, put in to try the state of the -oven, and certain cakes that had got broken or burnt in the baking. - -“Well, there we sat, helping Old Father Christmas to tea and cake, and -wondering in our hearts what could have become of the tree. But you see, -young people, when I was a child parents were stricter than they are -now. Even before Kitty died (and she has been dead many a long year) -there was a change, and she said that ‘children got to think anything -became them.’ I think we were taught more honest shame about certain -things than I often see in little boys and girls now. We were ashamed of -boasting, or being greedy, or selfish; we were ashamed of asking for -anything that was not offered to us, and of interrupting grown-up -people, or talking about ourselves. Why, papas and mammas now-a-days -seem quite proud to let their friends see how bold and greedy and -talkative their children can be! A lady said to me the other day, ‘You -wouldn’t believe, Mr. Garbel, how forward dear little Harry is for his -age. He has his word in everything, and is not a bit shy; and his papa -never comes home from town but Harry runs to ask if he’s brought him a -present. Papa says he’ll be the ruin of him!’ - -“‘Madam,’ said I, ‘even without your word for it, I am quite aware that -your child is forward. He is forward and greedy and intrusive, as you -justly point out, and I wish you joy of him when those qualities are -fully developed. I think his father’s fears are well founded.’ - -“But, bless me! now-a-days, it’s ‘Come and tell Mr. Smith what a fine -boy you are, and how many houses you can build with your bricks,’ or, -‘The dear child wants everything he sees,’ or ‘Little pet never lets -mamma alone for a minute; does she, love?’ But in my young days it was, -‘Self-praise is no recommendation’ (as Kitty used to tell me), or, -‘You’re knocking too hard at No. One’ (as my father said when we talked -about ourselves), or, ‘Little boys should be seen but not heard’ (as a -rule of conduct ‘in company’), or ‘Don’t ask for what you want, but take -what’s given you, and be thankful.’ - -“And so you see, young people, Patty and I felt a delicacy in asking Old -Father Christmas about the tree. It was not till we had had tea three -times round, with tasters and wasters to match, that Patty said very -gently, ‘It’s quite dark now.’ And then she heaved a deep sigh. - -“Burning anxiety overcame me. I leaned towards Father Christmas, and -shouted—I had found out that it was needful to shout,— - -“‘I suppose the candles are on the tree now?’ - -“‘Just about putting of ’em on,’ said Father Christmas. - -“‘And the presents, too?’ said Patty. - -“‘Aye, aye, _to_ be sure,’ said Father Christmas, and he smiled -delightfully. - -“I was thinking what farther questions I might venture upon, when he -pushed his cup towards Patty, saying, ‘Since you are so pressing, miss, -I’ll take another dish.’ - -“And Kitty, swooping on us from the oven, cried ‘Make yourself at home, -sir; there’s more where these came from. Make a long arm, Miss Patty, -and hand them cakes.’ - -“So we had to devote ourselves to the duties of the table; and Patty, -holding the lid with one hand and pouring with the other, supplied -Father Christmas’s wants with a heavy heart. - -“At last he was satisfied. I said grace, during which he stood, and -indeed he stood for some time afterwards with his eyes shut—I fancy -under the impression that I was still speaking. He had just said a -fervent ‘Amen,’ and reseated himself, when my father put his head into -the kitchen, and made this remarkable statement,— - -“‘Old Father Christmas has sent a tree to the young people.’ - -“Patty and I uttered a cry of delight, and we forthwith danced round the -old man, saying, ‘Oh, how nice! Oh, how kind of you!’ which I think must -have bewildered him, but he only smiled and nodded. - -“‘Come along,’ said my father, ‘Come children. Come Reuben. Come Kitty.’ - -“And he went into the parlor, and we all followed him. - -“My godmother’s picture of a Christmas-tree was very pretty; and the -flames of the candles were so naturally done in red and yellow, that I -always wondered that they did not shine at night. But the picture was -nothing to the reality. We had been sitting almost in the dark, for, as -Kitty said, ‘Firelight was quite enough to burn at meal-times.’ And when -the parlor door was thrown open, and the tree, with lighted tapers on -all the branches, burst upon our view, the blaze was dazzling, and threw -such a glory round the little gifts, and the bags of colored muslin, -with acid drops and pink rose drops and comfits inside, as I shall never -forget. We all got something; and Patty and I, at any rate, believed -that the things came from the stores of Old Father Christmas. We were -not undeceived even by his gratefully accepting a bundle of old clothes -which had been hastily put together to form his present. - -“We were all very happy; even Kitty, I think, though she kept her -sleeves rolled up, and seemed rather to grudge enjoying herself (a weak -point in some energetic characters). She went back to her oven before -the lights were out and the angel on the top of the tree taken down. She -locked up her present (a little work-box) at once. She often showed it -off afterwards, but it was kept in the same bit of tissue paper till she -died. Our presents certainly did not last so long! - -“The old man died about a week afterwards, so we never made his -acquaintance as a common personage. When he was buried, his little dog -came to us. I suppose he remembered the hospitality he had received. -Patty adopted him, and he was very faithful. Puss always looked on him -with favor. I hoped during our rambles together in the following summer -that he would lead us at last to the cave where Christmas-trees are -dressed. But he never did. - -“Our parents often spoke of his late master as ‘old Reuben,’ but -children are not easily disabused of a favorite fancy, and in Patty’s -thoughts and in mine the old man was long gratefully remembered as Old -Father Christmas.” - - - - - BENJY IN BEASTLAND. - - - A BAD BOY. - -Benjy was a bad boy. His name was Benjamin, but he was always called -Benjy. He looked like something ending in jy or gy, or rather dgy, such -as _podgy_. Indeed he was podgy, and moreover smudgy, having that -cloudy, slovenly look (like a slate _smudged_ instead of washed) which -is characteristic of people whose morning toilet is not so thorough as -it should be. - -Boys are very nice creatures. Far be it from us to think, with some -people, that they are nuisances to be endured as best may be till they -develop into men. An intelligent and modest boy is one of the most -charming of companions. As to an obliging boy (that somewhat rare but -not extinct animal), there is hardly a limit to his powers of -usefulness; or anything—from emigrating to a desert island to cleaning -the kitchen clock—that one would not feel justified in undertaking with -his assistance, and free access to his pocket stores. - -Then boys’ wholesale powers of accumulation and destruction render their -dens convenient storehouses of generally useless and particularly useful -lumber. If you want string or wire, or bottles or flower-pots, or a -bird-cage, or an odd glove or shoe, or anything of any kind to patch up -something of a similar kind, or missing property of your own or -another’s—go to a boy’s room! There one finds abundance of everything, -from cobbler’s wax to the carmine from one’s own water-color box. - -(One is apt to recognize old acquaintances, and one occasionally -reclaims their company!) - -All things are in a more or less serviceable condition, and at the same -time sufficiently damaged to warrant appropriation to the needs of the -moment. One suffers much loss at boys’ hands from time to time, and it -is trying to have dainty feminine bowers despoiled of their treasures; -but there are occasions when one spoils the spoiler! - -Then what admirable field naturalists boys can make! They are none the -worse for nocturnal moth hunts, or for wading up a stream for a -Batrachosperma, or for standing in a pond pressing recruits for the -fresh-water aquarium. A “collection” more or less is as nothing in the -vast chaos of their possessions, though some scrupulous sister might be -worried to find “a place for it.” And Fortune (capricious dame!) is -certainly fond of boys, and guides some young “harum-scarum” to a -_habitat_ that has eluded the spectacles of science. And their cuttings -always grow! - -Then as to boys’ fun; within certain limits, there is no rough-and-ready -wit to be compared with it. - -Thus it is a pity that some boys bring a delightful class into -disrepute—boys who are neither intelligent, modest, obliging, nor blest -with cultivated tastes—boys who kick animals, tease children, sneer at -feminine society, and shirk any company that is better than their -own—boys, in short, like Benjy, who at one period of his career did all -this, and who had a taste for low company, too, and something about his -general appearance which made you think how good for him it would be if -he could be well scrubbed with hot and soft soap both inside and out. - -But Benjy’s worst fault, _the_ vice of his character, was cruelty to -animals. He was not merely cruel with the thoughtless cruelty of -childhood, nor with the cruelty which is a secondary part of sport, nor -with the occasional cruelty of selfishness or ill-temper. But he had -that taste for torture, that pleasure in other creatures’ pain, which -does seem to be born with some boys. It is incomprehensible by those who -have never felt the hateful temptation, and it certainly seems more like -a fiendish characteristic than a human infirmity. - -Benjy was one of three children, and the only boy. He had two little -sisters, but they were younger than himself, and he held them in supreme -contempt. They were nice, merry little things, and many boys (between -teasing, petting, patronizing, and making them useful) would have found -them companionable enough, at any rate for the holidays. But Benjy, as I -have said, liked low company, and a boy with a taste for low company -seldom cares for the society of his sisters. Benjy thought games stupid; -he never touched his garden (though his sisters kept it religiously in -order during his absence at school); and as to natural history, or -reading, or any civilizing pursuit, such matters were not at all in -Benjy’s line. - -But he was proud of being patronized by Tom, the coachman’s scapegrace -son—a coarse, cruel, and uneducated lad, whose ideas of “fun” Benjy -unfortunately made his own. With him he went to see pigs killed, helped -to drown supernumerary pups and kittens, and became learned in -dog-fights, cock-fights, rat-hunting, cat-hunting, and so forth. - -Benjy’s father was an invalid, and he had no brothers, so that he was -without due control and companionship. His own lack of nice pursuits -made the excitement of cruelty an acceptable amusement for his idleness, -and he would have thought it unmanly to be more scrupulous and -tender-hearted than the coachman’s son. - -The society of this youth did not tend to improve Benjy’s manners, and -indeed he was very awkward in the drawing-room. But he was talkative -enough in the stable, and rather a hero amongst the village boys who -stoned frogs by the riverside, in the sweet days of early summer. - -Truly Benjy had little in common with those fair, grey-eyed, demure -little maidens, his sisters. As one of them pathetically said, “Benjy -does not care for us, you know, because we are only girls, so we have -taken Nox for our brother.” - - - NOX, - -so called because he was (as poets say) “as black as night,” was a big, -curly dog, partly retriever and partly of Newfoundland breed. He was -altogether black, except his paws, which were brown, and for a grey spot -under his tail. Now as the grey-eyed, gentle little sisters elected him -for their brother in the room of Benjy it is but fair to compare the two -together. - -Benjy, to look at, was smudgy and slovenly, and not at all handsome, for -he hated tubs, and brushes, and soap, and cold water, and he liked to -lie late in a morning, and then was apt to shuffle on his clothes and -come down after very imperfect ablutions, having forgotten to brush his -teeth, and with his hair still in dusky “cockatoos” from tossing about -in bed. - -Nox rose early, delighted in cold water, and had teeth like ivory and -hair as glossy as a raven’s wing; his face beamed with intelligence and -trustfulness, and his clear brown eyes looked straight into yours when -you spoke to him, as if he would say, “Let my eyes speak for me, if you -please; I have not the pleasure of understanding your language.” - -Benjy’s waistcoat and shirt-front were untidy and spotted with dirt. - -The covering of Nox’s broad chest was always glossy and in good order. - -Benjy came into the drawing room with muddy boots and dirty hands. - -Nox, if he had been out in the mud, would lie down on his return and -lick his broad, soft, brown paws, like a cat, till they were clean. - -It has been said that Benjy did not care for the society of girls; but -when Nox was petted by his lady-sisters, he put his big head on their -shoulders, and licked their faces with his big red tongue (which was his -way of kissing). And he would put up his brown feet in the most -insinuating manner, and shake paws over and over again, pressing tightly -with his strong toes, but never hurting the little girls’ hands. - -Benjy destroyed lives with much wanton cruelty. - -Nox saved lives at the risk of his own. - -The ruling idea of his life, and what he evidently considered his most -important pursuit, in fact, his duty, or vocation, must be described at -some length. - -Near the dog’s home ran a broad deep river. Here one could bathe and -swim most delightfully. Here also many an unfortunate animal found a -watery grave. There was one place from which (the water being deep and -the bank convenient at this spot) the poor wretches were generally -thrown. A good deal of refuse and worn-out articles of various sorts -also got flung in here, for at this point the river skirted the back -part of the town. - -Hither at early morning Nox would come, in conformity with his own -peculiar code of duty, which may be summed up in these words: “_Whatever -does not properly or naturally belong to the water should be fetched -out._” - -Now near the River Seine, in Paris, there is a building called the -_Morgue_, where the bodies of the drowned are laid out for recognition -by their friends. There was no such institution in the town where Nox -lived, so he established a Morgue for himself. Not far from the spot I -have mentioned, an old willow tree spread its branches widely over the -bank, and here and there stretched a long arm, and touched the river -with its pointed fingers. Under the shadow of this tree was the Morgue, -and here Nox brought the bodies he rescued from the river and laid them -down. - -I use the word bodies in its most scientific sense, for it was not alone -the bodies of men or animals that Nox felt himself bound to reclaim. He -would strive desperately for the rescue of an old riding boot, the rung -of a chair, a worn-out hearthbrush, or anything obviously out of place -in the deep waters. Whatever the prize might be, when he had -successfully brought it ashore, he would toss his noble head, arch his -neck, paw with his forefeet, and twist and stick out his curly back, as -much as to say, “Will no one pat me as I deserve?” Though he held his -prize with all the delicacy of his retriever instincts, he could seldom -resist the temptation to give it one proud shake, after which he would -hurry with it to the willow tree, as if conscious that it was high time -it should be properly attended to. - -There the mother whose child had fallen into the river, and the mother -whose child had thrown her broom into the water, might come to reclaim -their property, with equal chances of success. - -Now it is hardly needful to say that between Benjy and Nox there was -very little in common. And if there were two things about Nox which -Benjy disliked more than others, they were his talent for rescue and the -institution of the Morgue. - -There was a reason for this. Benjy had more than once been concerned in -the death of animals belonging to other people, and the owners had made -an inconvenient fuss and inquiry. In such circumstances Benjy and Tom -were accustomed to fasten a stone to the corpse and drop it into the -river, and thus, as they hoped, get rid of all testimony to the true -reason of the missing favorite’s disappearance. - -But of all the fallacies which shadow the half-truths of popular -proverbs, none is greater than that of the saying, “Dead men tell no -tales.” For, to begin with, the dead body is generally the first witness -to a murder, and that despite the most careful hiding. And so the stones -which had been tied with hurried or nervous fingers were apt to come -off, and then the body of Neighbor Goodman’s spaniel, or old Lady -Dumble’s Angola cat, would float on the river, and tell their own true -and terrible tale. - -But even then the current might have favored Benjy, and carried the -corpses away, had it not been for Nox’s early rounds whilst Benjy was -still in bed, and for that hateful and too notorious Morgue. - - - MISTER ROUGH, - -was another dog belonging to Benjy’s father, and commonly regarded as -the property of Benjy himself. He was a wiry-haired terrier, with -clipped ears and tail, and a chain collar that jingled as he trotted -about on his bent legs. He was of a grizzled brown color excepting his -shirt-front, which was white, and his toe-tips, which were like the -light-colored toes of woolen socks. His eyes had been scratched by -cats—though not quite out—his lean little body bore marks of all kinds -of rough usage, and his bark was hoarse from a long imprisonment in a -damp outhouse in winter. Much training (to encounter rats and cats), -hard usage, short commons, and a general preponderance of kicks over -halfpence in his career had shortened his temper and his bark, and -caused both to be exhibited more often than would probably have been the -case in happier circumstances. He had been characterized as “rough, -tough, gruff, and up to snuff,” and the description fitted well. - -If Benjy had a kind feeling for any animal, it was for Mister Rough, -though it might more truly be called admiration. And yet he treated him -worse than Nox, to whom he bore an unmitigated dislike. But Nox was a -large dog and could not be ill-treated with impunity. So Benjy feared -him and hated him doubly. - -Next to an animal too strong to be ill-used at all Benjy disliked an -animal too weak to be ill-used much or long. Now as to this veteran -Mister Rough, there was no saying what he had not borne, and would not -bear. He seemed to absorb the nine lives of every cat he killed into his -own constitution, and only to grow leaner, tougher, more scarred, more -grizzled, and more “game” as time went on. - -And so there grew up in Benjy an admiration for his powers of endurance -which almost amounted to regard. - - - MORE MISCHIEF. - -Benjy had got a bad fit on him. He was in a mood for mischief. Perhaps -he was not well; he certainly was intolerable by all about him. He even -ventured to play a trick on Nox. Thus: - -Nox was a luxurious, comfort-loving old fellow, and after a good deal of -exercise in the fresh air he thoroughly enjoyed the drowsy effect of a -plentiful meal, a warm room, and a comfortable hearth-rug. - -If anything in the events of the day had disturbed his composure, or -affected his feelings, how he talked it all over to himself, with -curious, expressive little noises, marvellously like human speech, till -by degrees the remarks came few and far between, the velvety eyelids -closed, and with one expressive grunt Nox was asleep! But in a few -moments, though the handsome black body was at rest on the crimson -sheep-skin that was so becoming to his beauty, his—whatever you please -to allow in the shape of an “inner consciousness”—was in the land of -dreams. He was talking once more, this time with short, muffled barks -and whines, and twitching violently with his legs. Perhaps he fancied -himself accomplishing a rescue. But a whistle from his master would -pierce his dream, and quiet without awaking him. - -In his most luxurious moments he would roll on to his back, and -stretching his neck and his four legs to their uttermost, would abandon -himself to sleep and enjoyment. - -It was one of these occasions which Benjy chose for teasing poor Nox. As -he sat near him he kept lightly pricking his sensitive lips with a fine -needle. Nox would half awake, shake his head, rub his lips with his paw -in great disgust, and finally drop off again. When he was fairly asleep, -Benjy recommenced, for he did dearly love to tease and torment, and this -evening he was in a restless, mischievous mood. At last one prick was a -little too severe; Nox jumped up with a start, and the needle went -deeply in, the top breaking off with the jerk, but the remainder was -fast in the flesh, where his little sisters discovered it. - -Oh! how they wept for the sufferings of their pet! _They_ were not -afraid of Nox, and had no scruple in handling the powerful mouth whose -sharp white teeth had so often pretended to bite their hands, with a -pretence as gentle as if they had been made of eggshell. At last the -braver of the two held his lips and extracted the needle, whilst the -other wiped the tears from her sister’s eyes that she might see what she -was about. Nox himself sat still and moaned faintly, and wagged his tail -very feebly; but when the operation was over he fairly knocked the -little sisters down in his gratitude, and licked their faces till he was -out of breath. - -Then he talked to himself for a full half-hour about the injury, and who -could have been the culprit. - -And then he fell asleep and dreamed of his enemy, and growled at him. - -But Benjy went out and threw a stick at Mister Rough. And when Mister -Rough caught it he swung him by it violently round and round. But Mister -Rough’s teeth were beginning to be the worse for wear, and at the fifth -round he lost his hold for the first time in his career. - -Then Benjy would have caught him to punish him, but either unnerved by -his failure, or suspicious of the wicked look in Benjy’s eye, Mister -Rough for the first time “feared his fate,” and took to his heels. - -Benjy could not find him, but he found Tom, who was chasing a Scotch -terrier with stones. So Benjy joined the sport, which would have been -very good fun, but that one of the stones perversely hit the poor beast -on the head, and put an end to the chase. - -And that night a neighbor’s dog was lost, and there was another corpse -in the river. - - - FROM THE MORGUE TO THE MOON. - -Benjy went to bed, but he could not sleep. He wished he had not put that -dog in the river—it would get him into a scrape. He had been flogged -for Mr. Goodman’s spaniel, and though Mister Rough had been flogged for -Lady Dumble’s cat, Benjy knew on whose shoulders the flogging should by -rights have descended. Then Nox seemed all right, in spite of the -needle, and would no doubt pursue his officious charities with sunrise. -Benjy could not trust himself to get up early in the morning, but he -could go out that night, and he would—with a hayfork—and get the body -out of the water, and hide or bury it. - -When Benjy came to the river-side a sort of fascination drew him to the -Morgue. What if the body were already there! But it was not. There were -only a kitten, part of an old basket, and the roller of a jack-towel. -And when Benjy looked up into the willow, the moon was looking down at -him through the forked limbs of the tree, and it looked so large and so -near, that Benjy thought that if he were sitting upon a certain branch -he could touch it with his hand. - -Then he bethought him of a book which had been his mother’s and now -belonged to his sisters, in which it was amusingly pretended that dogs -went to the moon after their existence on earth was over. The book had a -frontispiece representing the dogs sitting in the moon and relating -their former experiences. - -“It would be odd if the one we killed last were up there now,” said -Benjy to himself. And he fancied that as he said it the man in the moon -winked at him. - -“I wonder if it is really true,” said Benjy, aloud. - -“Not exactly,” said the man in the moon, “but something like it. This is -Beastland. Won’t you come up?” - -“Well, I never did!” cried Benjy, whose English was not of the refined -order. - -“Oh, yes, you have,” said the man in the moon, waggishly. “Now, are you -coming up? But perhaps you can’t climb.” - -“Can’t I?” said Benjy, and in three minutes he was on the branch, and -close to the moon. The higher he climbed the larger the moon looked, -till it was like the biggest disc of light ever thrown by a magic -lantern, and when he was fairly seated on the branch close by, he could -see nothing but a blaze of white light all round him. - -“Walk boldly in,” he heard the man in the moon say. “Put out your feet, -and don’t be afraid; it’s not so bright inside.” So Benjy put his feet -down, and dropped, and thought he was certainly falling into the river. -But he only fell upon his feet, and found himself in Beastland. It was -an odd place, truly! - -As Cerberus guarded the entrance to Pluto’s domains, so there sat at the -going in to Beastland a black dog—the very black dog who gets on to -sulky children’s backs. And on the back of the black dog sat a crow—the -crow that people pluck when they quarrel; and though it has been plucked -so often it has never been plucked bare, but is in very good feather -yet, unfortunately. And in a field behind was an Irish bull, a mad bull, -but quite harmless. The old cow was there too, but not the tune she died -of, for being still popular on earth, it could not be spared. Near these -the nightmare was grazing, and in a corner of the field was the mare’s -nest, on which sat a round-robin, hatching plots. - -And about the mare’s nest flew a tell-tale-tit—the little bird who -tells tales and carries news. And it has neither rest nor nest of its -own, for gossips are always gadding, and mischief is always being made. -And in a cat’s cradle swung from the sky slept the cat who washes the -dishes, with a clean dishcloth under her head, ready to go down by the -first sunbeam to her work. Whilst the bee that gets into Scotchmen’s -bonnets went buzzing restlessly up and down with nothing to do, for all -the lunatics in North Britain happened to be asleep that evening. And on -the head of the right nail hung a fancy portrait of the cat who “does -it,” when careless or dishonest servants waste and destroy things. I -need hardly say that the cat could not be there herself, because (like -Mrs. Gamp’s friend, Mrs. Harris) “there ain’t no such a person.” - -Benjy stared about him for a bit, and then he began to feel -uncomfortable. - -“Where is the man in the moon?” he inquired. - -“Gone to Norwich,” said the tell-tale-tit. - -“And have you anything to say against that?” asked the crow. “Caw, caw, -caw! pluck me, if you dare!” - -“It’s very odd,” thought Benjy; “but I’ll go on.” - -The black dog growled, but let him pass; the bee buzzed about, and the -cat in the cradle swung and slept serenely through it all. - -“I should get on quicker if I rode instead of walking,” thought Benjy; -so he went up to the nightmare and asked if she would carry him a few -miles. - -“You must be the victim of a very singular delusion,” said the -nightmare, coolly. “It is for me to be carried by you, not for you to -ride on me.” And as Benjy looked, her nose grew longer and longer, and -her eyes were so hideous, they took Benjy’s breath away; and he fled as -fast as his legs would carry him. And so he got deep, deep into -Beastland. - -Oh! it was a beautiful place. There were many more beasts than there are -in the Zoölogical Garden; and they were all free. They did not devour -each other, for a peculiar kind of short grass grew all over Beastland, -which was eaten by all alike. - -If by chance there were any quarrelling, or symptoms of misbehavior, the -man in the moon would cry “Manners!” and all was quiet at once. - -Talking of manners, the civility of the beasts in Beastland was most -conspicuous. They came in crowds and welcomed Benjy, each after his own -fashion. The cats rubbed their heads against his legs and held their -tails erect, as if they were presenting arms. The dogs wagged theirs, -and barked and capered round him; except one French poodle, who “sat up” -during the whole visit, as an act of politeness. The little birds sang -and chirruped. The pigeons sat on his shoulders and cooed; two little -swallows clung to the eaves of his hat, and twitched their tails, and -said “Kiwit! kiwit!” A peacock with a spread tail went before him; and a -flock of rose-colored cockatoos brought up the rear. Presently a wise -and solemn old elephant came and knelt before Benjy; and Benjy got on to -his back and rode in triumph, the other beasts following. - -“Let us show him the lions!” cried all the beasts, and on they went. - -But when Benjy found that they meant real lions—like the lions in a -menagerie, but not in cages—he was frightened, and would not go on. And -he explained that by the “lions” of a place _he_ meant the “sights” that -are exhibited to strangers, whether natural curiosities or local -manufactures. When the beasts understood this, they were most anxious to -show him “lions” of his own kind. - -So the wise-eyed beavers, whose black faces were as glossy as that of -Nox, took him to their lodges, and showed him how they fell or collect -wood “up stream” with their sharp teeth, and so float it down to the -spot where they have decided to build, as the “logs” from American -forests float down the rivers in spring. And as they displayed the -wonderous forethought and ingenuity of their common dwellings, a little -caddis worm, in the water hard by, begged Benjy to observe that, on a -smaller scale, his own house bore witness to similar patience and skill, -with its rubble walls of motley variety. - -In another stream a doughty little stickleback sailing round and round -the barrel-shaped nest, over which he was keeping watch, displayed its -construction with pardonable pride. - -Then Benjy saw, with an interest it was impossible not to feel, the -wonderful galleries in the earth cities of the ants; the nest of the -large hornet, the wasp, and the earwig, where hive as well as comb is -the work of the industrious proprietors; and whilst he was looking at -these, a message came from three patches of lepraliæ on the back of an -old oyster-shell by the sea, to beg that Benjy would come and see their -dwelling, where the cells were not of one uniform pattern, but in all -varieties of exquisite shapes, each tribe or family having its own -proper style of architecture. And it must not be supposed that, because -lepralæ cells can only be seen under a microscope with us, that it was -so in Beastland; for there all the labors and exquisite performances of -every small animal were equally manifest to sight. - -But invitations came in fast. The “social grosbecks” requested him to -visit their city of nests in a distant wood; the “prairie dogs” wished -to welcome him to their village of mounds, where each dog, sitting on -his own little hut, eagerly awaited the honor of his visit. The rooks -bade him to a solemn conference; and a sentinel was posted on every -alternate tree, up to the place of meeting, to give notice of his -approach. A spider (looking very like some little, old, hard-headed, -wizen-faced, mechanical genius!) was really anxious to teach Benjy to -make webs. - -“Look here,” said he; “we will suppose that you are ready and about to -begin. Well. You look—anywhere, in fact—down into space, and decide to -what point you wish to affix your first line. Then—you have a ball of -thread in your inside, of course?” - -“I can’t say that I have,” said Benjy; “but I have a good deal of string -in my pocket.” - -“That’s all right,” said the spider; “I call it thread; you call it -string. Pocket or stomach, it’s all the same, I suppose. Well——” - -But just as the spider was at the crisis of his lesson, and all was -going on most pleasantly—whizz!—the tell-tale-tit made its appearance, -and soon whispered, first to one animal and then to another, who and -what Benjy was. The effect was magical. “Scandalous!” cried all the -beasts; “the monster!” An old tabby cat puffed out her tail, and ran up -a tree. “Boy!” she exclaimed, in a tone of the deepest disgust; for in -Beastland they say “boy” as a term of reproach where we should say -“beast.” - -The confusion was great, and the tell-tale-tit revelled in it, hopping -and flitting about, and adding a word here or there if the excitement -seemed to flag. - -“To think what he might do to us, if we were down yonder!” cried an old -pug. (She was a great-grand-mother and so fat that she could hardly -waddle.) - -“He is in _your_ power up here, you know,” said the tell-tale-tit, -suggestively. - -“So he is!” cried the beasts; and with one voice they -shouted—“Punishment! Punishment! Bring him to the lion!” And to the -lion he was brought, the beasts still crying, “Punishment! Punishment!” - -“I’ll punish him!” cried a donkey, who trotted up on hearing of the -matter. “Let me get a lump of cold iron between his teeth, and tug and -jerk it against the corners of his mouth. Let me pull in and flog at the -same moment. Let me knock him over the head, and kick him in the ribs, -and thwack his back, and prod his side; and I’ll soon make him run, and -take his nasty temper out of him, and teach him to carry any weight, and -go gaily in harness.” - -“Gently, gently, my friend,” said the lion. “You speak under a very -natural feeling of irritation; but if I am to be judge of this case, the -prisoner must have fair play.” - -Accordingly the beasts placed themselves in a sort of circle, Benjy -being put in the middle; and a bull-frog who lived in a ditch hard by -was appointed to watch the case on his behalf. The bull-frog had big, -watchful eyes, and was cool and cautious. As the case proceeded he -occasionally said “Omph!” which sounded thoughtful, and committed him to -nothing. - -“What is the prisoner accused of?” asked the lion. - -At this question everybody looked round for the tell-tale-tit; but, like -most mischief-makers, the good gossip liked nothing less than being -brought to book, and had taken advantage of the confusion to fly away. -So the other animals had to recall what they had heard as best they -might. - -“He ill-uses and drowns dogs, hunts and kills cats——” - -“Rough kills the cats,” interrupted Benjy, for he was becoming alarmed. - -“Omph!” said the bull-frog. - -“Send for Mr. Rough,” said the lion; and a messenger was despatched. (It -is not always needful to disturb yourself, dear reader, when your pet -dog is absent without leave: he may have gone on business to Beastland.) - -“Cock-a-doodle-do! Flap, flap! send for more whilst you are about it,” -cried a handsome gamecock, strutting into the midst. “Cock-a-doodle-do! -when I crow, let no other cock open his beak. There’s a -nice-cock-fighting, good-for-nothing young scapegrace! I know a pullet -of the same breed down yonder: his name is Tom. Let him be fetched up, -and we will fasten spurs to their heels, and set them to kick each other -and tear each other’s eyes out. It will be rare sport, and sport is a -noble taste, and should be encouraged. Flap, flap! cock-a-doodle-do!” - -The cock was just stretched on his tiptoes, in the act of crowing, when -a pattering of feet and the jingling of a chain collar was heard, and -Mister Rough trotted brusquely into the circle, with his clipped ears -and his stumpy tail erect. - -“Mister Rough,” said the lion; “the prisoner says it is you and not he -who torment the cats.” - -“Bowf, bowf, bowf!” replied the terrier, jumping wildly about in his -stocking feet. “Whose fault is it? Wowf, wowf, wowf who taught me to do -it? Bowf, wowf! that bad boy there. Rowf, rowf! let me get hold of him -by the small of the back, and I’ll shake him as I would shake a rat. -Rowf, wowf, bowf!” - -“_Manners!_” cried the man in the moon, and there was silence at once. - -“Then he has not gone to Norwich, after all!” said Benjy to himself. - -After a short pause the examination was resumed. Mister Rough deposed -that he hunted cats by the teaching and imperative orders of Benjy and -other human beings. That he could not now see a cat without a feeling -which he could only describe as madness seizing him, which obliged him -to chase and despatch puss without any delay. He never felt this -sensation towards the cat of his own house, in her own kitchen. They -were quite friendly, and ate from the same dish. In cross examination he -admitted that he had a natural taste for tearing things, and preferred -fur to any other material. But he affirmed that an occasional slipper or -other article would have served the purpose, but for his unfortunate -education, especially if the slipper or other article were hairy or -trimmed with fur. - -“But all that is as nothing,” cried the old tabby, indignantly; “he has -been guilty of the most horrible cruelties, and they ought to be paid -back to him in kind. Sss, spt, he’s a boy, I say, a regular boy!” - -“Omph!” said the bull-frog, and went below to consider the case. - -“Gentlebeasts,” said the lion, “I consider it unnecessary to hear more -evidences against the prisoner, especially as no attempt is made to deny -his cruelties, though in the matter of cat-hunting he implicates Mister -Rough. There are not two opinions as to his guilt; the only open -question is that of punishment. As you have placed the matter in my -hands, I will beg you to wait until I have taken three turns and given -the subject my serious consideration.” - -But instead of three turns the lion took seven, pacing majestically -round and round, and now and then lashing his tail. At last he resumed -his seat; the bull-frog put his green head up again, and the lion gave -judgment. - -“Gentlebeasts, birds, and fishes, I have given this subject my most -serious consideration, and I trust that my decision will not give -offense. Our friend, Madame Tabby, declares that the prisoner should be -punished with a like cruelty to that which he has inflicted. Friend -Donkey is ready to ride or drive him with all the kicking, beating, and -pulling which soured his own temper, and stunted his faculties in their -early development. I must frankly roar that I am not in favor of this. -My friends, let us not degrade ourselves to the level of men. We know -what they are. Too often stupid in their kindness, vindictive in their -anger, and not seldom wantonly cruel. Is this our character as a class? -Do we even commonly retaliate? Ask friend Donkey himself. Does the -treatment (even more irrational than unkind) which blunts the -intelligence, and twists the temper of so many of his race, prevent -their rendering on the whole the largest labor for the roughest usage of -any servant of man? Need I speak of dogs? Do they bear malice towards a -harsh master? Are they unfaithful because he is unkind? Would Mister -Rough himself permit any one to touch an article of his master’s -property, or grudge his own life in his defense? No, my friends, we are -beasts, remember—not boys. We have our own ideas of chase and sport, -like men; but cruelty is not one of our vices. I believe, gentlebeasts, -that it is a principle with the human race to return good for evil; but -according to my experience the practice is more common amongst -ourselves. Gentlebeasts, we _cannot_ treat this boy as he has treated -us: but he is unworthy of our society, and I condemn him to be expelled. -Some of our dog-friends have taken refuge here with tin-kettles at their -tails. Let one of these be fastened to Benjy, and let him be chased from -Beastland.” - -This was no sooner said than done. And with an old tin pan cutting his -heels at every step, Benjy was hunted from the moon. The lion gave one -terrific roar as the signal for starting, and all the beasts, with -Mister Rough at their head, gave chase. - -Dear readers, did you ever wonder—as I used to wonder—if one could get -to the end of the world _and jump off_? One is bound to confess that, as -regards our old earth, it is not feasible; but permit me (in a story) to -state that Benjy ran and ran till he got to the end of the moon and -jumped off, Mister Rough jumping after him. Down, down they went through -space; past the Great Bear (where were all the ghosts of the big wild -beasts); past the Little Bear (where were the ghosts of all the small -wild beasts); close by the Dog Star, where good dogs go to when they -die, and where “the dog in the manger” sat outside and must never go in -till all the dogs are assembled. This they passed so close that they -could see the dog of Montargis and the hound Gelert affably licking each -other’s noses, and telling stories of old times to the latest comer. -This was a white poodle, whose days on earth had been prolonged by -tender care till he outlived almost every faculty and sense but the -power to eat, and a strange intuitive knowledge of his master’s -presence, surviving every other instinct. There he sat now, no longer -the blind, deaf, feeble, shrunken heap of bones and matted wool, that -died of sheer old age, and was buried on the garden side of the -church-yard wall, as near as permissible to the family vault; but the -snowy, fluffy, elegant poodle of his youth, with graceful ears raised in -respectful attention to the hero of Montargis. - -Down, down they went, on, on! How far and long it seemed! And now it was -no longer night but morning, and the sun shone, and still they went on, -on, down, down: Benjy crying “Oh! oh!” and Rough and his chain collar -going “Bowf, wowf, jingle, jingle,” till they came close above the -river, and before Benjy could give an extra shriek the two were -floundering in the water. Rough soon swam ashore, but Benjy could not -swim, and the water sucked him down as it had sucked down many a dog in -that very spot. Then Benjy choked, and gasped, and struggled as his -victims had so often choked, and gasped, and struggled under his eyes. -And he fought with the intolerable suffocation till it seemed as if his -head must burst, yet he could not cry out, for the cold water gagged -him. Then he grasped at something that floated by, but it gave him no -help, for it was a dead dog—the one he had thrown into the river the -evening before. And horror chilled him more than the cold water had -done, as he thought that now he himself must be drowned, and rot among -these ghastly relics of his cruelty. And a rook on a tree hard by cried, -“Serve him right! serve him right!” whilst the frogs on the river’s -brink sat staring at the crushed bodies of their relatives, and croaked, -“Stone him! stone him!” - -A pike hovering near could owe him no grudge, for the creatures he had -drowned had afforded it many a meal. But, like most accomplices, the -pike was selfish, and only waited for the time when it could eat Benjy -too. - -Meanwhile, some one on the bank was giving short barks, like minute guns -of distress, that had quite a different meaning. - -And then Benjy sank; and as he went down the remembrance of all his -cruelties rushed over his mind, as the water rushed over his body. All, -from the first bumble-bee he had tortured, to the needle in Nox’s lip, -came together in one hideous crowd to his remembrance, till even the -callous soul of Benjy sickened, and he loathed himself. - -And now he rose again for a moment to the surface, and caught a breath -of air, and saw the blue sky, and heard a corn-crake in the field where -his sisters had wanted him to go cowslip-gathering; and he fancied that -he saw the beautiful black head of Nox also in the water, and found -himself saying in his heart, “No, no! thank God I didn’t kill _him_.” - -And then he sank again. And he thought of his home, and his father and -mother, and the little sisters whom he had teased; and how he had got -them into scrapes, and killed their pets, and laughed at their tears. -And he remembered how they had come to meet him last midsummer holidays, -with flowers in their hats and flowers round the donkey’s ears; and how -he had prodded poor Neddy with a stick having a sliding spike, which he -had brought with him. And what fun he had found in the starts of the -donkey and the terror and astonishment of the children. Oh! how often -had he not skulked from the society of these good and dear ones, to be -proud of being noticed and instructed in evil by some untaught village -blackguard! And then he thought of the cosy bed and his mother’s nightly -blessing, never more to be his, who must now lie amongst dead dogs as if -he himself were such another! - -And then he rose again, and there was the noble head of old Nox not -three feet from him. He could see the clear brown eyes fixed eagerly -upon him, and he thought, “He is coming to revenge himself on me.” But -he did not mind, for he was almost past feeling any new pain. Only he -gave one longing, wistful look towards the home that had been his. And -as he looked a lark rose and went up into the summer sky. And as the -lark went, up, up, Benjy went down, down. - -Now as he sank there came into his mind a memory of something he had -once read, comparing the return of a Christian soul to God to the -soaring of a lark into the heavens. And no animal that he had seized in -his pitiless grasp ever felt such despair and helplessness as Benjy felt -when the strong, pitiless thought seized his soul that though his body -might decay among dead dogs, he could not die as the dogs had -died—irresponsible for the use of life. And many a sin, besides sins of -cruelty came back to poor Benjy’s mind—known sins, for which he had -been punished, but not penitent; sins that were known to no human being -but himself, and sins, that he had forgotten until now. And he -remembered one day at school, when the head master had given some -serious warnings and advice to himself and a few other boys in private. -And how he had sat mum and meek, with his smudgy and secretive face, -till the old doctor had departed, and how he had then delivered a not -very clever mimic address in the doctor’s style, to the effectual -dissipation of all serious thought. And now—opportunities, advice, and -time of amendment were all but gone, and what had he to look forward to? -From the depths of his breaking heart Benjy prayed he might somehow or -other be spared to do better. And for the third and last time he rose to -the surface. - -The lark was almost out of sight; but close to Benjy’s pallid face was a -soft black nose, and large brown eyes met his with an expression neither -revengeful nor affectionate. It was business-like, earnest, and somewhat -eager and proud. And then the soft, sensitive mouth he had wounded -seized Benjy with a hold as firm and as gentle as if he had been a rare -water-fowl, and Nox paddled himself round with his broad, brown paws, -and made gallantly for shore. Benjy was much heavier than a dead cat, -and the big brave beast had hard work of it; so that by the time he had -dragged the body to land, Nox was too far spent to toss his head and -carry his prize about as usual. He dropped Benjy, and lay down by him, -with one paw on the body, as much as to say, “Let no unauthorized person -meddle in this matter.” - -But when he had rested, he took up Benjy in his mouth, and—not deigning -so much as a glance in the direction of some men who were shouting and -running towards him—he trotted with his burden to the Morgue under the -willow tree, where he laid Benjy down side by side with two dead dogs, a -kitten, and an old hat. - -After which he shook himself, and went home to breakfast. - - * * * * * * - - - WHAT BECAME OF BENJY. - -Benjy was duly found under the willow tree, and taken home. For a long -time he was very ill, though at last he recovered; and I am bound to -state that some of his relatives consider his visit to Beastland to be -entirely mythical. They believe that he fell from the willow tree into -the water, and that his visit to the moon is a fanciful conceit woven -during illness by his fevered brain. - -However that may be, Benjy and beasts were thenceforward on very -different terms. Some other causes may have helped towards this. Perhaps -when the boys of a family are naturally disagreeable, the fact is apt to -be too readily acquiesced in. They have a license which no one would -dream of according to “the girls,” but it may sometimes be too readily -decided that “boys will be boys,” in the most obnoxious sense of the -phrase, and a “bad name” is unfavorable to them as well as to dogs. - -Now, during long weeks of convalescence, Benjy’s only companions were -his parents and the little sisters whose sympathy with beastkind had -always been in such manifest contrast with his own tastes. And as the -little maids could only amuse him with their own amusements, and as, -moreover, there is no occupation so soothing, healing, and renovating to -mind and body, so full of interest without hurtful excitement, as the -study of Nature, it came about that Benjy’s sick-room was so decorated -with plants, aquariums, and so forth, that it became a sort of miniature -Beastland. From watching his sisters, Benjy took to feeding the -fresh-water beasts himself; and at last became so tenderly interested in -their fate, that he privately “tipped” the house-maid with his last -half-crown, to induce her to come up the stairs in the morning with -great circumspection. For the cray-fish was given to escaping from his -tank for an early stroll, and had once been all but trodden on at the -bottom of the first flight of stairs. - -But it was a very sad event which finally and fully softened Benjy’s -heart. - -As Benjy was being carried into the house after his accident, Mister -Rough caught sight of his master in this doleful position, and was -anxious to follow and see what became of him. But as he was in the way, -a servant was ordered to fasten him up in his own out-house; and to this -man’s care he was confided through Benjy’s illness. The little girls -often asked after him, and received satisfactory reports of his health, -but as the terrier’s temper was supposed to be less trustworthy than -that of Nox, they were not allowed to play with him, or take him out -with them. Hence it came about that he was a good deal neglected at this -time, Benjy’s parents being so absorbed by the anxiety of his illness, -and the sisters not being allowed to make the dog their companion. Once -or twice the servant took him out for a run; but Mister Rough would not -take a proper “constitutional.” The instant he was free, he fled to the -house to see what had become of Benjy. As he did this every time, and it -was inconvenient, the servant finally left him alone, and did not take -him out at all. Food was put within his reach, but Mister Rough’s -appetite failed daily. A cat crept in under the roof and looked at her -old enemy with impunity. A rat stole his crusts; and Mister Rough never -moved his eyes nor his nose from the opening under the barn-door. Oh, -for one sniff of Benjy passing by! Oh, to be swung round a dozen times -by the teeth or tail! Oh, for a kicking, a thrashing—for _anything_ -from Benjy! So the gentle heart within that rough little body pined day -by day in its loving anxiety for a harsh master. - -But the first time that Benjy came downstairs he begged that Mister -Rough might be brought into the drawing-room; for, as I have said, if he -had a regard for any animal, it was for the wiry terrier. So the servant -opened the barn-door; and Mister Rough thought of Benjy, and darted into -the house. And when he got into the front hall, he smelt Benjy, and ran -into the drawing-room; and when he got into the drawing-room, he saw -Benjy, who had heard the jingle of his collar, and stood up to receive -him with outstretched arms. Then with one wild sound, that was neither a -bark nor a whine, Mister Rough sprang to Benjy’s arms, and fell at his -feet. - -Dead? Yes dead; with one spasm of unspeakable joy! - -Benjy’s grief for his faithful friend was not favorable to his bodily -health just then, but it was good for him in other ways. And as the -bitter tears poured over his cheeks and dropped on to the scarred, -grizzled little face that could feel cruelty or kindness no more, the -smudginess seemed to be washed away from him body and soul. - -Yes, in spite of all past sins, Benjy lived to amend, and to become, -eventually, a first-rate naturalist and a good friend to beasts. For -there is no doubt that some most objectionable boys do get scrubbed, and -softened, and ennobled into superior men. And Benjy was one of these. - -By the time he was thoroughly strong again, he and his little sisters -had a common interest in the animals under their care—their own private -Beastland. He tried to pet another terrier, but in vain. So the new -“Rough” was given to the sisters, and Benjy adopted Nox. For he said, “I -should like a dog who knew Mister Rough;” and, “If Nox likes, me in -spite of old times, I shall believe I am fit to keep a pet.” And no one -who knows dogs needs to be told that not the ghost of a bit of malice -lessened the love which the benevolent retriever bore to his new master. - -The savings of Benjy’s pocket-money for some time were expended on a -tombstone for the terrier’s grave, with this inscription: - - TO A FAITHFUL FRIEND, - ROUGH WITHOUT AND GENTLE WITHIN, - WHO DIED OF JOY, - APRIL 3, 18— - ON HIS MASTER’S RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. - -And that true and tender beast, who bore so much hard usage for so long, -but died of his one great happiness—— - -Dear reader, do you not think he is in the Dog Star? - - - - - THE PEACE-EGG. - - - A CHRISTMAS TALE. - -Every one ought to be happy at Christmas. But there are many things -which ought to be, and yet are not; and people are sometimes sad even in -the Christmas holidays. - -The Captain and his wife were sad, though it was Christmas Eve. Sad, -though they were in the prime of life, blessed with good health, devoted -to each other and to their children, with competent means, a comfortable -house on a little freehold property of their own, and, one might say, -everything the heart could desire. Sad, though they were good people, -whose peace of mind had a firmer foundation than their earthly goods -alone; contented people, too, with plenty of occupation for mind and -body. Sad—and in the nursery this was held to be past all -reason—though the children were performing that ancient and most -entertaining play or Christmas mystery of Good St. George of England, -known as _The Peace-Egg_, for their benefit and behoof alone. - -The play was none the worse that most of the actors were too young to -learn parts, so that there was very little of the rather tedious -dialogue, only plenty of dress and ribbons, and of fighting with the -wooden swords. But though St. George looked bonny enough to warm any -father’s heart, as he marched up and down with an air learned by -watching many a parade in barrack-square and drill-ground, and though -the Valiant Slasher did not cry in spite of falling hard and the Doctor -treading accidentally on his little finger in picking him up, still the -Captain and his wife sighed nearly as often as they smiled, and the -mother dropped tears as well as pennies into the cap which the King of -Egypt brought round after the performance. - - - THE CAPTAIN’S WIFE. - -Many many years back the Captain’s wife had been a child herself, and -had laughed to see the village mummers act the Peace-Egg, and had been -quite happy on Christmas Eve. Happy, though she had no mother. Happy, -though her father was a stern man, very fond of his only child, but with -an obstinate will that not even she dared thwart. She had lived to -thwart it, and he had never forgiven her. It was when she married the -Captain. The old man had a prejudice against soldiers which was quite -reason enough, in his opinion, for his daughter to sacrifice the -happiness of her future life by giving up the soldier she loved. At last -he gave her her choice between the Captain and his own favor and money. -She chose the Captain, and was disowned and disinherited. - -The Captain bore a high character, and was a good and clever officer, -but that went for nothing against the old man’s whim. He made a very -good husband, too; but even this did not move his father-in-law, who had -never held any intercourse with him or his wife since the day of their -marriage, and who had never seen his own grandchildren. Though not so -bitterly prejudiced as the old father, the Captain’s wife’s friends had -their doubts about the marriage. The place was not a military station, -and they were quiet country folk who knew very little about soldiers, -whilst what they imagined was not altogether favorable to “red-coats,” -as they called them. Soldiers are well-looking generally, it is true -(and the Captain was more than well-looking—he was handsome); brave, of -course, it is their business (and the Captain had V.C. after his name -and several bits of ribbon on his patrol jacket). But then, thought the -good people, they are here to-day and gone to-morrow, you “never know -where you have them;” they are probably in debt, possibly married to -several women in several foreign countries, and, though they are very -courteous in society, who knows how they treat their wives when they -drag them off from their natural friends and protectors to distant lands -where no one can call them to account? - -“Ah, poor thing!” said Mrs. John Bull, junior, as she took off her -husband’s coat on his return from business, a week after the Captain’s -wedding, “I wonder how she feels? There’s no doubt the old man behaved -disgracefully; but it’s a great risk marrying a soldier. It stands to -reason, military men aren’t domestic; and I wish—Lucy Jane, fetch your -papa’s slippers, quick!—she’d had the sense to settle down comfortably -amongst her friends with a man who would have taken care of her.” - -“Officers are a wild set, I expect,” said Mr. Bull, complacently, as he -stretched his limbs in his own particular arm-chair, into which no -member of his family ever intruded. “But the red-coats carry the day -with plenty of girls who ought to know better. You women are always -caught by a bit of finery. However, there’s no use our bothering _our_ -heads about it. As she has brewed she must bake.” - -The Captain’s wife’s baking was lighter and more palatable than her -friends believed. The Captain (who took off his own coat when he came -home, and never wore slippers but in his dressing-room) was domestic -enough. A selfish companion must, doubtless, be a great trial amid the -hardships of military life, but when a soldier is kind-hearted he is -often a much more helpful and thoughtful and handy husband than an -equally well-meaning civilian. Amid the ups and downs of their -wanderings, the discomforts of shipboard and of stations in the -colonies, bad servants, and unwonted sicknesses, the Captain’s -tenderness never failed. If the life was rough the Captain was ready. He -had been, by turns, in one strait or another, sick-nurse, doctor, -carpenter, nurse-maid, and cook to his family, and had, moreover, an -idea that nobody filled these offices quite so well as himself. Withal, -his very profession kept him neat, well-dressed, and active. In the -roughest of their ever-changing quarters he was a smarter man, more like -the lover of his wife’s young days, than Mr. Bull amid his stationary -comforts. Then if the Captain’s wife was—as her friends said—“never -settled,” she was also for ever entertained by new scenes; and domestic -mischances do not weigh very heavily on people whose possessions are few -and their intellectual interests many. It is true that there were ladies -in the Captain’s regiment who passed by sea and land from one quarter of -the globe to another, amid strange climates and customs, strange trees -and flowers, beasts and birds; from the glittering snows of North -America to the orchids of the Cape, from beautiful Pera to the -lily-covered hills of Japan, and who in no place rose above the fret of -domestic worries, and had little to tell on their return but of the -universal misconduct of servants, from Irish “helps” in the colonies, to -_compradors_ and China-boys at Shanghai. But it was not so with the -Captain’s wife. Moreover, one becomes accustomed to one’s fate, and she -moved her whole establishment from the Curragh to Corfu with less -anxiety than that felt by Mrs. Bull over a port-wine stain on the best -table-cloth. - -And yet, as years went and children came, the Captain and his wife grew -tired of travelling. New scenes were small comfort when they heard of -the death of old friends. One foot of murky English sky was dearer, -after all, than miles of the unclouded heavens of the South. The gray -hills and over-grown lanes of her old home haunted the Captain’s wife by -night and day, and home-sickness (that weariest of all sicknesses) began -to take the light out of her eyes before their time. It preyed upon the -Captain too. Now and then he would say, fretfully, “_I should_ like an -English resting-place, however small, before _everybody_ is dead! But -the children’s prospects have to be considered.” The continued -estrangement from the old man was an abiding sorrow also, and they had -hopes that, if only they could get to England, he might be persuaded to -peace and charity this time. - -At last they were sent home. But the hard old father still would not -relent. He returned their letters unopened. This bitter disappointment -made the Captain’s wife so ill that she almost died, and in one month -the Captain’s hair became an iron gray. He reproached himself for having -ever taken the daughter from her father, “to kill her at last,” as he -said. And (thinking of his own children) he even reproached himself for -having robbed the old widower of his only child. After two years at home -his regiment was ordered to India. He failed to effect an exchange, and -they prepared to move once more—from Chatham to Calcutta. Never before -had the packing to which she was so well accustomed been so bitter a -task to the Captain’s wife. - -It was at the darkest hour of this gloomy time that the Captain came in, -waving above his head a letter which changed all their plans. - -Now close by the old home of the Captain’s wife there had lived a man, -much older than herself, who yet had loved her with a devotion as great -as that of the young Captain. She never knew it, for when he saw that -she had given her heart to his younger rival, he kept silence, and he -never asked for what he knew he might have had—the old man’s authority -in his favor. So generous was the affection which he could never -conquer, that he constantly tried to reconcile the father to his -children whilst he lived, and, when he died, he bequeathed his house and -small estate to the woman he had loved. - -“It will be a legacy of peace,” he thought, on his death-bed. “The old -man cannot hold out when she and her children are constantly in sight. -And it may please God that I shall know of the reunion I have not been -permitted to see with my eyes.” - -And thus it came about that the Captain’s regiment went to India without -him, and that the Captain’s wife and her father lived on opposite sides -of the same road. - - - MASTER ROBERT. - -The eldest of the Captain’s children was a boy. He was named Robert, -after his grandfather, and seemed to have inherited a good deal of the -old gentleman’s character, mixed with gentler traits. He was a fair, -fine boy, tall and stout for his age, with the Captain’s regular -features, and (he flattered himself) the Captain’s firm step and martial -bearing. He was apt—like his grandfather—to hold his own will to be -other people’s law, and (happily for the peace of the nursery) this -opinion was devoutly shared by his brother Nicholas. Though the Captain -had sold his commission, Robin continued to command an irregular force -of volunteers in the nursery, and never was Colonel more despotic. His -brothers and sisters were by turns infantry, cavalry, engineers, and -artillery, according to his whim, and when his affections finally -settled upon the Highlanders of “The Black Watch,” no female power could -compel him to keep his stockings above his knees or his knickerbockers -below them. - -The Captain alone was a match for his strong-willed son. - -“If you please, sir,” said Sarah, one morning, flouncing in upon the -Captain, just as he was about to start for the neighboring town,—“If -you please, sir, I wish you’d speak to Master Robert. He’s past my -powers.” - -“I’ve no doubt of it,” thought the Captain, but he only said, “Well, -what’s the matter?” - -“Night after night do I put him to bed,” said Sarah, “and night after -night does he get up as soon as I’m out of the room, and says he’s -orderly officer for the evening, and goes about in his night-shirt and -his feet as bare as boards.” - -The Captain fingered his heavy moustache to hide a smile, but he -listened patiently to Sarah’s complaints. - -“It ain’t so much _him_ I should mind, sir,” she continued, “but he goes -round the beds and wakes up the other young gentlemen and Miss Dora, one -after another, and when I speak to him, he gives me all the sauce he can -lay his tongue to, and says he’s going round the guards. The other night -I tried to put him back into his bed, but he got away and ran all over -the house, me hunting him everywhere, and not a sign of him till he -jumps out on me from the garret-stairs and nearly knocks me down. ‘I’ve -visited the outposts, Sarah,’ says he; ‘all’s well.’ And off he goes to -bed as bold as brass.” - -“Have you spoken to your mistress?” asked the Captain. - -“Yes, sir,” said Sarah. “And missis spoke to him, and he promised not to -go round the guards again.” - -“Has he broken his promise?” asked the Captain, with a look of anger, -and also of surprise. - -“When I opened the door last night, sir,” continued Sarah, in her shrill -treble, “what should I see in the dark but Master Robert a-walking up -and down with the carpet-brush stuck in his arm. ‘Who goes there?’ says -he. ‘You owdacious boy!’ says I, ‘Didn’t you promise your ma you’d leave -off them tricks?’ ‘I’m not going round the guards,’ says he; ‘I promised -not. But I’m for sentry duty to-night.’ And say what I would to him, all -he had for me was, ‘You mustn’t speak to a sentry on duty.’ So I says, -‘As sure as I live till morning, I’ll go to your pa,’ for he pays no -more attention to his ma than to me, nor to any one else.” - -“Please to see that the chair-bed in my dressing-room is moved into your -mistress’s bed-room,” said the Captain. “I will attend to Master -Robert.” - -With this Sarah had to content herself, and she went back to the -nursery. Robert was nowhere to be seen, and made no reply to her -summons. On this the unwary nurse-maid flounced into the bed-room to -look for him, when Robert, who was hidden beneath a table, darted forth, -and promptly locked her in. - -“You’re under arrest,” he shouted, through the key-hole. - -“Let me out!” shrieked Sarah. - -“I’ll send a file of the guard to fetch you to the orderly-room, -by-and-by,” said Robert, “for ‘preferring frivolous complaints.’” And he -departed to the farm-yard to look at the ducks. - -That night, when Robert went up to bed, the Captain quietly locked him -into his dressing-room, from which the bed had been removed. - -“You’re for sentry duty, to-night,” said the Captain. “The carpet-brush -is in the corner. Good-evening.” - -As his father anticipated, Robert was soon tired of the sentry game in -these new circumstances, and long before the night had half worn away he -wished himself safely undressed and in his own comfortable bed. At -half-past twelve o’clock he felt as if he could bear it no longer, and -knocked at the Captain’s door. - -“Who goes there?” said the Captain. - -“Mayn’t I go to bed, please?” whined poor Robert. - -“Certainly not,” said the Captain. “You’re on duty.” - -And on duty poor Robert had to remain, for the Captain had a will as -well as his son. So he rolled himself up in his father’s railway rug, -and slept on the floor. - -The next night he was very glad to go quietly to bed, and remain there. - - - IN THE NURSERY. - -The Captain’s children sat at breakfast in a large, bright nursery. It -was the room where the old bachelor had died, and now _her_ children -made it merry. This was just what he would have wished. - -They all sat round the table, for it was breakfast-time. There were five -of them, and five bowls of boiled bread-and-milk smoked before them. -Sarah (a foolish, gossiping girl, who acted as nurse till better could -be found) was waiting on them, and by the table sat Darkie, the black -retriever, his long, curly back swaying slightly from the difficulty of -holding himself up, and his solemn hazel eyes fixed very intently on -each and all of the breakfast bowls. He was as silent and sagacious as -Sarah was talkative and empty-headed. The expression of his face was -that of King Charles I. as painted by Vandyke. Though large, he was -unassuming. Pax, the pug, on the contrary, who came up to the first -joint of Darkie’s leg, stood defiantly on his dignity (and his short -stumps). He always placed himself in front of the bigger dog, and made a -point of hustling him in doorways and of going first downstairs. He -strutted like a beadle, and carried his tail more tightly curled than a -bishop’s crook. He looked as one may imagine the frog in the fable would -have looked had he been able to swell himself rather nearer to the size -of the ox. This was partly due to his very prominent eyes, and partly to -an obesity favored by habits of lying inside the fender and of eating -meals proportioned more to his consequence than to his hunger. They were -both favorites of two years’ standing, and had very nearly been given -away, when the good news came of an English home for the family, dogs -and all. - -Robert’s tongue was seldom idle, even at meals. “Are you a -Yorkshirewoman, Sarah?” he asked, pausing, with his spoon full in his -hand. - -“No, Master Robert,” said Sarah. - -“But you understand Yorkshire, don’t you? I can’t, very often; but mamma -can, and can speak it, too. Papa says mamma always talks Yorkshire to -servants and poor people. She used to talk Yorkshire to Themistocles, -papa said, and he said it was no good; for though Themistocles knew a -lot of langages, he didn’t know that. And mamma laughed, and said she -didn’t know she did.”—“Themistocles was our man-servant in Corfu,” -Robin added, in explanation. “He stole lots of things, Themistocles did; -but papa found him out.” - -Robin now made a rapid attack on his bread-and-milk, after which he -broke out again. - -“Sarah, who is that tall old gentleman at church, in the seat near the -pulpit? He wears a cloak like what the Blues wear, only all blue, and is -tall enough for a Life-guardsman. He stood up while we were kneeling, -and said, _Almighty and most merciful Father_ louder than anybody.” - -Sarah knew who the old gentleman was, and knew also that the children -did not know, and that their parents did not see fit to tell them as -yet. But she had a passion for telling and hearing news, and would -rather gossip with a child than not gossip at all. “Never you mind, -Master Robin,” she said, nodding sagaciously. “Little boys aren’t to -know everything.” - -“Ah, then, I know you don’t know,” replied Robert; “if you did, you’d -tell. Nicholas, give some of your bread to Darkie and Pax. I’ve done -mine. _For what we have received the Lord make us truly thankful._ Say -your grace and put your chair away, and come along. I want to hold a -court-martial.” And seizing his own chair by the seat, Robin carried it -swiftly to its corner. As he passed Sarah he observed tauntingly, “You -pretend to know, but you don’t.” - -“I do,” said Sarah. - -“You don’t,” said Robin. - -“Your ma’s forbid you to contradict, Master Robin,” said Sarah; “and if -you do, I shall tell her. I know well enough who the old gentleman is, -and perhaps I might tell you, only you’d go straight off and tell -again.” - -“No, no, I wouldn’t!” shouted Robin. “I can keep a secret, indeed I can! -Pinch my little finger, and try. Do, do tell me, Sarah, there’s a dear -Sarah, and then I shall know you know.” And he danced round her, -catching at her skirts. - -To keep a secret was beyond Sarah’s powers. - -“Do let my dress be, Master Robin,” she said, “you’re ripping out all -the gathers, and listen while I whisper. As sure as you’re a living boy, -that gentleman’s your own grandpapa.” - -Robin lost his hold on Sarah’s dress; his arms fell by his side, and he -stood with his brows knit for some minutes, thinking. Then he said, -emphatically, “What lies you do tell, Sarah!” - -“Oh, Robin!” cried Nicholas, who had drawn near, his thick curls -standing stark with curiosity, “mamma said ‘lies’ wasn’t a proper word, -and you promised not to say it again.” - -“I forgot,” said Robin. “I didn’t mean to break my promise. But she does -tell—ahem!—_you know what_.” - -“You wicked boy!” cried the enraged Sarah; “how dare you to say such a -thing, and everybody in the place knows he’s your ma’s own pa.” - -“I’ll go and ask her,” said Robin, and he was at the door in a moment; -but Sarah, alarmed by the thought of getting into a scrape herself, -caught him by the arm. - -“Don’t you go, love; it’ll only make your ma angry. There; it was all my -nonsense.” - -“Then it’s not true?” said Robin, indignantly. “What did you tell me so -for?” - -“It was all my jokes and nonsense,” said the unscrupulous Sarah. “But -your ma wouldn’t like to know I’ve said such a thing. And Master Robert -wouldn’t be so mean as to tell tales, would he love?” - -“I’m not mean,” said Robin, stoutly; “and I don’t tell tales; but you -do, and you tell _you know what_, besides. However, I won’t go this -time; but I’ll tell you what—if you tell tales of me to papa any more, -I’ll tell him what you said about the old gentleman in the blue coat.” -With which parting threat Robin strode off to join his brothers and -sisters. - -Sarah’s tale had put the court-martial out of his head, and he leaned -against the tall fender, gazing at his little sister, who was tenderly -nursing a well-worn doll. Robin sighed. - -“What a long time that doll takes to wear out, Dora!” said he. “When -will it be done?” - -“Oh, not yet, not yet!” cried Dora, clasping the doll to her, and -turning away. “She’s quite good, yet.” - -“How miserly you are,” said her brother; “and selfish, too; for you know -I can’t have a military funeral till you’ll let me bury that old thing.” - -Dora began to cry. - -“There you go, crying!” said Robin, impatiently. “Look here; I won’t -take it till you get the new one on your birthday. You can’t be so mean -as not to let me have it then?” - -But Dora’s tears still fell. “I love this one so much,” she sobbed. “I -love her better than the new one.” - -“You want both; that’s it,” said Robin, angrily. “Dora, you’re the -meanest girl I ever knew!” - -At which unjust and painful accusation Dora threw herself and the doll -upon their faces, and wept bitterly. The eyes of the soft hearted -Nicholas began to fill with tears, and he squatted down before her -looking most dismal. He had a fellow-feeling for her attachment to an -old toy, and yet Robin’s will was law to him. - -“Couldn’t we make a coffin, and pretend the body was inside?” he -suggested. - -“No, we couldn’t,” said Robin. “I wouldn’t play the Dead March after an -empty candle-box. It’s a great shame—and I promised she should be -chaplain in one of my night-gowns, too.” - -“Perhaps you’ll get just as fond of the new one,” said Nicholas, turning -to Dora. - -But Dora only cried, “No, no! He shall have the new one to bury, and -I’ll keep my poor, dear, darling Betsy.” And she clasped Betsy tighter -than before. - -“That’s the meanest thing you’ve said yet,” retorted Robin; “for you -know mamma wouldn’t let me bury the new one.” And, with an air of great -disgust, he quitted the nursery. - - - “A MUMMING WE WILL GO.” - -Nicholas had sore work to console his little sister, and Betsy’s -prospects were in a very unfavorable state, when a diversion was caused -in her favor by a new whim which put the military funeral out of Robin’s -head. - -After he left the nursery he strolled out of doors, and, peeping through -the gate at the end of the drive, he saw a party of boys going through -what looked like a military exercise with sticks and a good deal of -stamping; but, instead of mere words of command, they all spoke by turns -as in a play. In spite of their strong Yorkshire accent, Robin overheard -a good deal, and it sounded very fine. Not being at all shy, he joined -them, and asked so many questions that he soon got to know all about it. -They were practising a Christmas mumming-play, called “The Peace-Egg.” -Why it was called thus they could not tell him, as there was nothing -whatever about eggs in it, and so far from being a play of peace, it was -made up of a series of battles between certain valiant knights and -princes, of whom St. George of England was the chief and conqueror. The -rehearsal being over, Robin went with the boys to the sexton’s house (he -was father to the “King of Egypt”), where they showed him the dresses -they were to wear. These were made of gay-colored materials, and covered -with ribbons, except that of the “Black Prince of Paradine,” which was -black, as became his title. The boys also showed him the book from which -they learned their parts, and which was to be bought for one penny at -the post-office shop. - -“Then are you the mummers who come round at Christmas, and act in -people’s kitchens, and people give them money, that mamma used to tell -us about?” said Robin. - -St. George of England looked at his companions as if for counsel as to -how far they might commit themselves, and then replied, with Yorkshire -caution, “Well, I suppose we are.” - -“And do you go out in the snow from one house to another at night; and -oh, don’t you enjoy it?” cried Robin. - -“We like it well enough,” St. George admitted. - -Robin bought a copy of “The Peace-Egg.” He was resolved to have a -nursery performance, and to act the part of St. George himself. The -others were willing for what he wished, but there were difficulties. In -the first place, there are eight characters in the play, and there were -only five children. They decided among themselves to leave out “the -Fool,” and mamma said that another character was not to be acted by any -of them, or indeed mentioned; “the little one who comes in at the end,” -Robin explained. Mamma had her reasons, and these were always good. She -had not been altogether pleased that Robin had bought the play. It was a -very old thing, she said, and very queer; not adapted for a child’s -play. If mamma thought the parts not quite fit for the children to -learn, they found them much too long; so in the end she picked out some -bits for each, which they learned easily, and which, with a good deal of -fighting, made quite as good a story of it as if they had done the -whole. What may have been wanting otherwise was made up for by the -dresses, which were charming. - -Robin was St. George, Nicholas the Valiant Slasher, Dora the Doctor, and -the other two Hector and the King of Egypt. “And now we’ve no Black -Prince!” cried Robin in dismay. - -“Let Darkie be the Black Prince,” said Nicholas. “When you wave your -stick he’ll jump for it, and then you can pretend to fight with him.” - -“It’s not a stick, it’s a sword,” said Robin. “However, Darkie may be -the Black Prince.” - -“And what’s Pax to be?” asked Dora; “for you know he will come if Darkie -does, and he’ll run in before everybody else too.” - -“Then he must be the Fool,” said Robin, “and it will do very well, for -the Fool comes in before the rest, and Pax can have his red coat on, and -the collar with the little bells.” - - - CHRISTMAS EVE. - -Robin thought that Christmas would never come. To the Captain and his -wife it seemed to come too fast. They had hoped it might bring -reconciliation with the old man, but it seemed they had hoped in vain. - -There were times now when the Captain almost regretted the old -bachelor’s bequest. The familiar scenes of her old home sharpened his -wife’s grief. To see her father every Sunday in church, with marks of -age and infirmity upon him, but with not a look of tenderness for his -only child, this tried her sorely. - -“She felt it less abroad,” thought the Captain. “An English home in -which she frets herself to death is, after all, no great boon.” - -Christmas eve came. - -“I’m sure it’s quite Christmas enough now,” said Robin. “We’ll have ‘The -Peace-Egg’ to-night.” - -So as the Captain and his wife sat sadly over their fire, the door -opened, and Pax ran in shaking his bells, and followed by the nursery -mummers. The performance was most successful. It was by no means -pathetic, and yet, as has been said, the Captain’s wife shed tears. - -“What is the matter, mamma?” said St. George, abruptly dropping his -sword and running up to her. - -“Don’t tease mamma with questions,” said the Captain; “she’s not very -well, and rather sad. We must all be very kind and good to poor dear -mamma;” and the Captain raised his wife’s hand to his lips as he spoke. -Robin seized the other hand and kissed it tenderly. He was very fond of -his mother. At this moment Pax took a little run, and jumped on to -mamma’s lap, where, sitting facing the company, he opened his black -mouth and yawned, with a ludicrous inappropriateness worthy of any -clown. It made everybody laugh. - -“And now we’ll go and act in the kitchen,” said Nicholas. - -“Supper at nine o’clock, remember,” shouted the Captain. “And we are -going to have real frumenty and yule cakes, such as mamma used to tell -us of when we were abroad.” - -“Hurray!” shouted the mummers, and they ran off, Pax leaping from his -seat just in time to hustle the Black Prince in the doorway. When the -dining-room door was shut, St. George raised his hand, and said “Hush!” - -The mummers pricked their ears, but there was only a distant harsh and -scraping sound, as of stones rubbed together. - -“They’re cleaning the passages,” St. George went on, “and Sarah told me -they meant to finish the mistletoe, and have everything cleaned up by -supper-time. They don’t want us, I know. Look here, we’ll go _real -mumming_ instead. That _will_ be fun!” - -The Valiant Slasher grinned with delight. - -“But will mamma let us?” he inquired. - -“Oh, it will be all right if we’re back by supper-time,” said St. -George, hastily. “Only of course we must take care not to catch cold. -Come and help me to get some wraps.” - -The old oak chest in which spare shawls, rugs, and coats were kept was -soon ransacked, and the mummers’ gay dresses hidden by motley wrappers. -But no sooner did Darkie and Pax behold the coats, &c., than they at -once began to leap and bark, as it was their custom to do when they saw -any one dressing to go out. Robin was sorely afraid that this would -betray them; but though the Captain and his wife heard the barking they -did not guess the cause. - -So the front door being very gently opened and closed, the nursery -mummers stole away. - - - THE NURSERY MUMMERS AND THE OLD MAN. - -It was a very fine night. The snow was well-trodden on the drive, so -that it did not wet their feet, but on the trees and shrubs it hung soft -and white. - -“It’s much jollier being out at night than in the daytime,” said Robin. - -“Much,” responded Nicholas, with intense feeling. - -“We’ll go a wassailing next week,” said Robin. “I know all about it, and -perhaps we shall get a good lot of money, and then we’ll buy tin swords -with scabbards for next year. I don’t like these sticks. Oh, dear, I -wish it wasn’t so long between one Christmas and another.” - -“Where shall we go first?” asked Nicholas, as they turned into the high -road. But before Robin could reply, Dora clung to Nicholas, crying, “Oh, -look at those men!” - -The boys looked up the road, down which three men were coming in a very -unsteady fashion, and shouting as they rolled from side to side. - -“They’re drunk,” said Nicholas; “and they’re shouting at us.” - -“Oh, run, run!” cried Dora; and down the road they ran, the men shouting -and following them. They had not run far, when Hector caught his foot in -the Captain’s great-coat, which he was wearing, and came down head-long -in the road. They were close by a gate, and when Nicholas had set Hector -upon his legs, St. George hastily opened it. - -“This is the first house,” he said. “We’ll act here;” and all, even the -Valiant Slasher, pressed in as quickly as possible. Once safe within the -grounds, they shouldered their sticks, and resumed their composure. - -“You’re going to the front door,” said Nicholas. “Mummers ought to go to -the back.” - -“We don’t know where it is,” said Robin, and he rang the front door -bell. There was a pause. Then lights shone, steps were heard, and at -last a sound of much unbarring, unbolting, and unlocking. It might have -been a prison. Then the door was opened by an elderly, timid-looking -woman, who held a tallow candle above her head. - -“Who’s there?” she said, “at this time of night.” - -“We’re Christmas mummers,” said Robin, stoutly; “we didn’t know the way -to the back door, but——” - -“And don’t you know better than to come here?” said the woman. “Be off -with you, as fast as you can.” - -“You’re only the servant,” said Robin. “Go and ask your master and -mistress if they wouldn’t like to see us act. We do it very well.” - -“You impudent boy, be off with you!” repeated the woman. “Master’d no -more let you nor any other such rubbish set foot in this house——” - -“Woman!” shouted a voice close behind her, which made her start as if -she had been shot, “who authorizes you to say what your master will or -will not do, before you’ve asked him? The boy is right. You _are_ the -servant, and it is not your business to choose for me whom I shall or -shall not see.” - -“I meant no harm, sir, I’m sure,” said the housekeeper; “but I thought -you’d never——” - -“My good woman,” said her master, “if I had wanted somebody to think for -me, you’re the last person I should have employed. I hire you to obey -orders, not to think.” - -“I’m sure, sir,” said the housekeeper, whose only form of argument was -reiteration, “I never thought you would have seen them——” - -“Then you were wrong,” shouted her master. “I will see them. Bring them -in.” - -He was a tall, gaunt old man, and Robin stared at him for some minutes, -wondering where he could have seen somebody very like him. At last he -remembered. It was the old gentleman of the blue cloak. - -The children threw off their wraps, the housekeeper helping them, and -chattering ceaselessly, from sheer nervousness. - -“Well, to be sure,” said she, “their dresses are pretty, too. And they -seem quite a better sort of children, they talk quite genteel. I might -ha’ knowed they weren’t like common mummers, but I was so flustrated -hearing the bell go so late, and——” - -“Are they ready?” said the old man, who had stood like a ghost in the -dim light of the flaring tallow candle, grimly watching the proceedings. - -“Yes, sir. Shall I take them to the kitchen, sir?” - -“—— for you and the other idle hussies to gape and grin at? No. Bring -them to the library,” he snapped, and then stalked off, leading the way. - -The housekeeper accordingly led them to the library, and then withdrew, -nearly falling on her face as she left the room by stumbling over -Darkie, who slipped in last like a black shadow. - -The old man was seated in a carved oak chair by the fire. - -“I never said the dogs were to come in,” he said. - -“But we can’t do without them, please,” said Robin, boldly. “You see -there are eight people in ‘The Peace-Egg,’ and there are only five of -us; and so Darkie has to be the Black Prince, and Pax has to be the -fool, and so we have to have them.” - -“Five and two make seven,” said the old man, with a grim smile; “what do -you do for the eighth?” - -“Oh, that’s the little one at the end,” said Robin, confidentially. -“Mamma said we weren’t to mention him, but I think that’s because we’re -children.”—“You’re grown up, you know, so I’ll show you the book, and -you can see for yourself,” he went on, drawing ‘The Peace-Egg’ from his -pocket: “there, that’s the picture of him, on the last page; black, with -horns and a tail.” - -The old man’s stern face relaxed into a broad smile as he examined the -grotesque woodcut; but when he turned to the first page the smile -vanished in a deep frown, and his eyes shone like hot coals with anger. -He had seen Robin’s name. - -“Who sent you here?” he asked, in a hoarse voice. “Speak, and speak the -truth! Did your mother send you here?” - -Robin thought the old man was angry with them for playing truant. He -said, slowly “N—no. She didn’t exactly send us; but I don’t think -she’ll mind our having come if we get back in time for supper. Mamma -never _forbid_ our going mumming, you know.” - -“I don’t suppose she ever thought of it,” Nicholas said, candidly, -wagging his curly head from side to side. - -“She knows we’re mummers,” said Robin, “for she helped us. When we were -abroad, you know, she used to tell us about the mummers acting at -Christmas, when she was a little girl; and so we thought we’d be -mummers, and so we acted to papa and mamma, and so we thought we’d act -to the maids, but they were cleaning the passages, and so we thought -we’d really go mumming; and we’ve got several other houses to go to -before supper-time; we’d better begin, I think,” said Robin; and without -more ado he began to march round and round, raising his sword and -shouting,— - - “I am St. George, who from Old England sprung, - My famous name throughout the world hath rung.” - -And the performance went off quite as creditably as before. - -As the children acted the old man’s anger wore off. He watched them with -an interest he could not express. When Nicholas took some hard thwacks -from St. George without flinching, the old man clapped his hands; and -after the encounter between St. George and the Black Prince, he said he -would not have had the dogs excluded on any consideration. It was just -at the end, when they were all marching round and round, holding on by -each other’s swords “over the shoulder,” and singing “A mumming we will -go, &c.,” that Nicholas suddenly brought the circle to a standstill by -stopping dead short, and staring up at the wall before him. - -“What _are_ you stopping for?” said St. George, turning indignantly -round. - -“Look there!” cried Nicholas, pointing to a little painting which hung -above the old man’s head. - -Robin looked, and said, abruptly, “It’s Dora.” - -“Which is Dora?” asked the old man, in a strange sharp tone. - -“Here she is,” said Robin and Nicholas in one breath, as they dragged -her forward. - -“She’s the Doctor,” said Robin; “and you can’t see her face for her -things. Dor, take off your cap and pull back that hood. There! Oh, it -_is_ like her!” - -It was a portrait of her mother as a child; but of this the nursery -mummers knew nothing. The old man looked as the peaked cap and hood fell -away from Dora’s face and fair curls, and then he uttered a sharp cry, -and buried his head upon his hands. The boys stood stupefied, but Dora -ran up to him, and, putting her little hands on his arms, said, in -childish pitying tones, “Oh, I am so sorry! Have you got a headache? May -Robin put the shovel in the fire for you? Mamma has hot shovels for her -headaches.” And, though the old man did not speak or move, she went on -coaxing him, and stroking his head, on which the hair was white. At this -moment Pax took one of his unexpected runs, and jumped on to the old -man’s knee, in his own particular fashion, and then yawned at the -company. The old man was startled and lifted his face suddenly. It was -wet with tears. - -“Why, you’re crying!” exclaimed the children with one breath. - -“It’s very odd,” said Robin, fretfully. “I can’t think what’s the matter -to-night. Mamma was crying too when we were acting, and papa said we -weren’t to tease her with questions, and he kissed her hand, and I -kissed her hand too. And papa said we must all be very good and kind to -poor dear mamma, and so I mean to be, she’s so good. And I think we’d -better go home, or perhaps she’ll be frightened,” Robin added. - -“She’s so good, is she?” asked the old man. He had put Pax off his knee, -and taken Dora on to it. - -“Oh, isn’t she!” said Nicholas, swaying his curly head from side to side -as usual. - -“She’s always good,” said Robin emphatically; “and so’s papa. But I’m -always doing something I oughtn’t to,” he added, slowly. “But then, you -know, I don’t pretend to obey Sarah. I don’t care a fig for Sarah; and I -won’t obey any woman but mamma.” - -“Who’s Sarah?” asked the grandfather. - -“She’s our nurse,” said Robin, “and she tells—I mustn’t say what she -tells—but it’s not the truth. She told one about _you_ the other day,” -he added. - -“About me?” said the old man. - -“She said you were our grandpapa. So then I knew she was telling _you -know what_.” - -“How did you know it wasn’t true?” the old man asked. - -“Why, of course,” said Robin, “if you were our mamma’s father, you’d -know her, and be very fond of her, and come and see her. And then you’d -be our grandfather, too, and you’d have us to see you, and perhaps give -us Christmas-boxes. I wish you were,” Robin added with a sigh. “It would -be very nice.” - -“Would _you_ like it?” asked the old man of Dora. - -And Dora, who was half asleep and very comfortable, put her little arms -about his neck as she was wont to put them round the Captain’s, and -said, “Very much.” - -He put her down at last, very tenderly, almost unwillingly, and left the -children alone. By-and-by he returned, dressed in the blue cloak, and -took Dora up again. - -“I will see you home,” he said. - -The children had not been missed. The clock had only just struck nine -when there came a knock on the door of the dining-room, where the -Captain and his wife still sat by the yule-log. She said “Come in,” -wearily, thinking it was frumenty and the Christmas cakes. - -But it was her father, with her child in her arms! - - - PEACE AND GOODWILL. - -Lucy Jane Bull and her sisters were quite old enough to understand a -good deal of grown-up conversation when they overheard it. Thus, when a -friend of Mrs. Bull’s observed during an afternoon call that she -believed that “officers’ wives were very dressy,” the young ladies were -at once resolved to keep a sharp look-out for the Captain’s wife’s -bonnet in church on Christmas Day. - -The Bulls had just taken their seats when the Captain’s wife came in. -They really would have hid their faces, and looked at the bonnet -afterwards, but for the startling sight that met the gaze of the -congregation. The old grandfather walked into church abreast of the -Captain. - -“They’ve met in the porch,” whispered Mr. Bull under the shelter of his -hat. - -“They can’t quarrel publicly in a place of worship,” said Mrs. Bull, -turning pale. - -“She’s gone into his seat,” cried Lucy Jane in a shrill whisper. - -“And the children after her,” added the other sister, incautiously -aloud. - -There was now no doubt about the matter. The old man in his blue cloak -stood for a few moments, politely disputing the question of precedence -with his handsome son-in-law. Then the Captain bowed and passed in, and -the old man followed him. - -By the time that the service was ended everybody knew of the happy -peacemaking, and was glad. One old friend after another came up with -blessings and good wishes. This was a proper Christmas, indeed, they -said. There was a general rejoicing. - -But only the grandfather and his children knew that it was hatched from -“The Peace-Egg.” - - - - - THE BROWNIES. - - -A little girl sat sewing and crying on a garden seat. She had fair -floating hair, which the breeze blew into her eyes; and between the -cloud of hair, and the mist of tears, she could not see her work very -clearly. She neither tied up her locks, nor dried her eyes, however; for -when one is miserable, one may as well be completely so. - -“What is the matter?” said the Doctor, who was a friend of the Rector’s, -and came into the garden whenever he pleased. - -The Doctor was a tall stout man, with hair as black as crows’ feathers -on the top, and gray underneath, and a bushy beard. When young, he had -been slim and handsome, with wonderful eyes, which were wonderful still; -but that was many years past. He had a great love for children, and this -one was a particular friend of his. - -“What is the matter?” said he. - -“I’m in a row,” murmured the young lady through her veil; and the needle -went in damp, and came out with a jerk, which is apt to result in what -ladies called “puckering.” - -“You are like London in a yellow fog,” said the Doctor, throwing himself -on to the grass, “and it is very depressing to my feelings. What is the -row about, and how came you to get into it?” - -“We’re all in it,” was the reply; and apparently the fog was thickening, -for the voice grew less and less distinct—“the boys and everybody. It’s -all about forgetting, and not putting away, and leaving about, and -borrowing, and breaking, and that sort of thing. I’ve had father’s new -pocket-handkerchiefs to hem, and I’ve been out climbing with the boys, -and kept forgetting and forgetting, and mother says I always forget; and -I can’t help it. I forget to tidy his newspapers for him, and I forget -to feed Puss, and I forgot these; besides, they’re a great bore, and -mother gave them to Nurse to do, and this one was lost, and we found it -this morning tossing about in the toy-cupboard.” - -“It looks as if it had been taking violent exercise,” said the Doctor. -“But what have the boys to do with it?” - -“Why, then there was a regular turn out of the toys,” she explained, -“and they’re all in a regular mess. You know, we always go on till the -last minute, and then things get crammed in anyhow. Mary and I did tidy -them once or twice; but the boys never put anything away, you know, so -what’s the good?” - -“What, indeed!” said the Doctor. “And so you have complained of them?” - -“Oh! no!” answered she. “We don’t get them into rows, unless they are -very provoking; but some of the things were theirs, so everybody was -sent for, and I was sent out to finish this, and they are all tidying. I -don’t know when it will be done, for I have all this side to hem; and -the soldier’s box is broken, and Noah is lost out of the Noah’s Ark, and -so is one of the elephants and a guinea-pig, and so is the -rocking-horse’s nose; and nobody knows what has become of Rutlandshire -and the Wash, but they’re so small, I don’t wonder; only North America -and Europe are gone too.” - -The Doctor started up in affected horror. “Europe gone, did you say? -Bless me! what will become of us!” - -“Don’t!” said the young lady, kicking petulantly with her dangling feet, -and trying not to laugh. “You know I mean the puzzles; and if they were -yours, you wouldn’t like it.” - -“I don’t half like it as it is,” said the Doctor. “I am seriously -alarmed. An earthquake is one thing: you have a good shaking, and settle -down again. But Europe gone—lost— Why, here comes Deordie, I declare, -looking much more cheerful than we do; let us humbly hope that Europe -has been found. At present I feel like Aladdin when his palace had been -transported by the magician; I don’t know where I am.” - -“You’re here, Doctor; aren’t you?” asked the slow curly-wigged brother, -squatting himself on the grass. - -“_Is_ Europe found?” said the Doctor tragically. - -“Yes,” laughed Deordie. “I found it.” - -“You will be a great man,” said the Doctor. “And—it is only common -charity to ask—how about North America?” - -“Found too,” said Deordie. “But the Wash is completely lost.” - -“And my six shirts in it!” said the Doctor. “I sent them last Saturday -as ever was. What a world we live in! Any more news? Poor Tiny here has -been crying her eyes out.” - -“I’m so sorry, Tiny,” said the brother. “But don’t bother about it. It’s -all square now, and we’re going to have a new shelf put up.” - -“Have you found everything?” asked Tiny. - -“Well, not the Wash, you know. And the elephant and the guinea-pig are -gone for good; so the other elephant and the other guinea-pig must walk -together as a pair now. Noah was among the soldiers, and we have put the -cavalry into a night-light box. Europe and North America were behind the -book-case; and, would you believe it? the rocking-horse’s nose has -turned up in the nursery oven?” - -“I can’t believe it,” said the Doctor. “The rocking-horse’s nose -couldn’t turn up, it was the purest Grecian, modelled from the Elgin -marbles. Perhaps it was the heat that did it, though. However, you seem -to have got through your troubles very well, Master Deordie. I wish poor -Tiny were at the end of her task.” - -“So do I,” said Deordie ruefully. “But I tell you what I’ve been -thinking, Doctor. Nurse is always knagging at us, and we’re always in -rows of one sort or another, for doing this, and not doing that, and -leaving our things about. But, you know, it’s a horrid shame, for there -are plenty of servants, and I don’t see why we should be always -bothering to do little things, and—” - -“Oh! come to the point, please,” said the Doctor; “you do go round the -square so, in telling your stories, Deordie. What have you been thinking -of?” - -“Well,” said Deordie, who was as good tempered as he was slow, “the -other day Nurse shut me up in the back nursery for borrowing her -scissors and losing them; but I’d got ‘Grimm’ inside one of my -knickerbockers, so when she locked the door, I sat down to read. And I -read the story of the Shoemaker and the little Elves who came and did -his work for him before he got up; and I thought it would be so jolly if -we had some little Elves to do things instead of us.” - -“That’s what Tommy Trout said,” observed the Doctor. - -“Who’s Tommy Trout?” asked Deordie. - -“Don’t you know, Deor?” said Tiny. “It’s the good boy who pulled the cat -out of the what’s-his-name. - - ‘Who pulled her out? - Little Tommy Trout.’ - -Is it the same Tommy Trout, Doctor? I never heard anything else about -him except his pulling the cat out; and I can’t think how he did that.” - -“Let down the bucket for her, of course,” said the Doctor. “But listen -to me. If you will get that handkerchief done, and take it to your -mother with a kiss, and not keep me waiting, I’ll have you all to tea, -and tell you the story of Tommy Trout.” - -“This very night?” shouted Deordie. - -“This very night.” - -“Every one of us?” inquired the young gentleman with rapturous -incredulity. - -“Every one of you.—Now Tiny, how about that work?” - -“It’s just done,” said Tiny.—“Oh! Deordie, climb up behind, and hold -back my hair, there’s a darling, while I fasten off. Oh! Deor, you’re -pulling my hair out. Don’t.” - -“I want to make a pig-tail,” said Deor. - -“You can’t,” said Tiny, with feminine contempt, “You can’t plait. What’s -the good of asking boys to do anything? There! it’s done at last. Now go -and ask mother if we may go.—Will you let me come, doctor,” she -inquired, “if I do as you said?” - -“To be sure I will,” he answered. “Let me look at you. Your eyes are -swollen with crying. How can you be such a silly little goose?” - -“Did you never cry?” asked Tiny. - -“When I was your age? Well, perhaps so.” - -“You’ve never cried since, surely,” said Tiny. - -The Doctor absolutely blushed. - -“What do you think?” said he. - -“Oh, of course not,” she answered. “You’ve nothing to cry about. You’re -grown up, and you live all alone in a beautiful house, and you do as you -like, and never get into rows, or have anybody but yourself to think -about; and no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem.” - -“Very nice; eh, Deordie?” said the Doctor. - -“Awfully jolly,” said Deordie. - -“Nothing else to wish for, eh?” - -“I should keep harriers, and not a poodle, if I were a man,” said -Deordie; “but I suppose you could, if you wanted to.” - -“Nothing to cry about, at any rate?” - -“I should think not!” said Deordie.—“There’s mother, though; let’s go -and ask her about the tea;” and off they ran. - -The Doctor stretched his six feet of length upon the sward, dropped his -gray head on a little heap of newly-mown grass, and looked up into the -sky. - -“Awfully jolly—no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem,” said he laughing -to himself. “Nothing else to wish for; nothing to cry about.” - -Nevertheless, he lay still, staring at the sky, till the smile died -away, and tears came into his eyes. Fortunately, no one was there to -see. - -What could this “awfully jolly” Doctor be thinking of to make him cry? -He was thinking of a grave-stone in the church-yard close by, and of a -story connected with this grave-stone which was known to everybody in -the place who was old enough to remember it. This story has nothing to -do with the present story, so it ought not to be told. - -And yet it has to do with the Doctor, and is very short, so it shall be -put in, after all. - - - THE STORY OF A GRAVE-STONE. - -One early spring morning about twenty years before, a man, going to his -work at sunrise through the church-yard, stopped by a flat stone which -he had lately helped to lay down. The day before, a name had been cut on -it, which he stayed to read; and below the name some one had scrawled a -few words in pencil, which he read also—_Pitifully behold the sorrows -of our hearts_. On the stone lay a pencil, and a few feet from it lay -the Doctor, face downwards, as he had lain all night, with the hoar -frost on his black hair. - -Ah! these grave-stones (they were ugly things in those days; not the -light, hopeful, pretty crosses we set up now) how they seem -remorselessly to imprison and keep our dear dead friends away from us! -And yet they do not lie with a feather’s weight upon the souls that are -gone, while God only knows how heavily they press upon the souls that -are left behind. Did the spirit whose body was with the dead, stand that -morning by the body whose spirit was with the dead and pity him? Let us -only talk about what we know. - -After this it was said that the Doctor had got a fever, and was dying, -but he got better of it; and then that he was out of his mind, but he -got better of that, and came out looking much as usual, except that his -hair never seemed quite so black again, as if a little of that night’s -hoar frost still remained. And no further misfortune happened to him -that I ever heard of; and as time went on he grew a beard, and got -stout, and kept a German poodle, and gave tea parties to other people’s -children. As to the grave-stone story, whatever it was to him at the end -of twenty years; it was a great convenience to his friends; for when he -said anything they didn’t agree with, or did anything they couldn’t -understand, or didn’t say or do what was expected of him, what could be -easier or more conclusive than to shake one’s head and say, - -“The fact is, our Doctor has been a little odd, _ever since_—!” - - - THE DOCTOR’S TEA PARTY. - -There is one great advantage attendant upon invitations to tea with a -doctor. No objections can be raised on the score of health. It is -obvious that it must be fine enough to go out when the doctor asks you, -and that his tea-cakes may be eaten with perfect impunity. - -Those tea-cakes were always good; to-night they were utterly delicious; -there was a perfect _abandon_ of currants, and the amount of citron peel -was enervating to behold. Then the housekeeper waited in awful splendor, -and yet the Doctor’s authority over her seemed as absolute as if he were -an Eastern despot. Deordie must be excused for believing in the charms -of living alone. It certainly has its advantages. The limited sphere of -duty conduces to discipline in the household, demand does not exceed -supply in the article of waiting, and there is not that general -scrimmage of conflicting interests which besets a large family in the -most favored circumstances. The housekeeper waits in black silk, and -looks as if she had no meaner occupation than to sit in a rocking-chair, -and dream of damson cheese. - -Rustling, hospitable, and subservient, this one retired at last, and— - -“Now,” said the Doctor, “for the verandah; and to look at the moon.” - -The company adjourned with a rush, the rear being brought up by the -poodle, who seemed quite used to the proceedings; and there under the -verandah, framed with passion flowers and geraniums, the Doctor had -gathered mats, rugs, cushions, and arm-chairs, for the party; while far -up in the sky, a yellow-faced harvest moon looked down in awful -benignity. - -“Now!” said the Doctor. “Take your seats. Ladies first, and gentlemen -afterwards. Mary and Tiny race for the American rocking-chair. Well -done! Of course it will hold both. Now boys, shake down. No one is to -sit on the stone, or put their feet on the grass; and when you’re ready, -I’ll begin.” - -“We’re ready,” said the girls. - -The boys shook down in a few minutes more, and the Doctor began the -story of - - - “THE BROWNIES.” - -“Bairns are a burden,” said the Tailor to himself as he sat at work. He -lived in a village on some of the glorious moors of the north of -England; and by bairns he meant children, as every Northman knows. - -“Bairns are a burden,” and he sighed. - -“Bairns are a blessing,” said the old lady in the window. “It is the -family motto. The Trouts have had large families and good luck for -generations; that is, till your grandfather’s time. He had one only son. -I married him. He was a good husband, but he had been a spoilt child. He -had always been used to be waited upon, and he couldn’t fash to look -after the farm when it was his own. We had six children. They are all -dead but you, who were the youngest. You were bound to a tailor. When -the farm came into your hands, your wife died, and you have never looked -up since. The land is sold now, but not the house. No! no! you’re right -enough there; but you’ve had your troubles, son Thomas, and the lads -_are_ idle!” - -It was the Tailor’s mother who spoke. She was a very old woman, and -helpless. She was not quite so bright in her intellect as she had been, -and got muddled over things that had lately happened; but she had a -clear memory for what was long past, and was very pertinacious in her -opinions. She knew the private history of almost every family in the -place, and who of the Trouts were buried under which old stones in the -church-yard; and had more tales of ghosts, doubles, warnings, fairies, -witches, hobgoblins, and such like, than even her grandchildren had ever -come to the end of. Her hands trembled with age, and she regretted this -for nothing more than for the danger it brought her into of spilling the -salt. She was past housework, but all day she sat knitting hearth-rugs -out of the bits and scraps of cloth that were shred in the tailoring. -How far she believed in the wonder-tales she told, and the odd little -charms she practised, no one exactly knew; but the older she grew, the -stranger were the things she remembered, and the more testy she was if -any one doubted their truth. - -“Bairns are a blessing!” said she. “It is the family motto.” - -“_Are they?_” said the Tailor, emphatically. - -He had a high respect for his mother, and did not like to contradict -her, but he held his own opinion, based upon personal experience; and -not being a metaphysician, did not understand that it is safer to found -opinions on principles than on experience, since experience may alter, -but principles cannot. - -“Look at Tommy,” he broke out suddenly. “That boy does nothing but -whittle sticks from morning till night. I have almost to lug him out of -bed o’ mornings. If I send him an errand, he loiters; I’d better have -gone myself. If I set him to do anything, I have to tell him everything; -I could sooner do it myself. And if he does work, it’s done so -unwillingly, with such a poor grace; better, far better, to do it -myself. What housework do the boys ever do but looking after the baby? -And this afternoon she was asleep in the cradle, and off they went, and -when she awoke, _I_ must leave my work to take her. _I_ gave her her -supper, and put her to bed. And what with what they want and I have to -get, and what they take out to play with and lose, and what they bring -in to play with and leave about, bairns give some trouble, Mother, and -I’ve not an easy life of it. The pay is poor enough when one can get the -work, and the work is hard enough when one has a clear day to do it in; -but housekeeping and bairn-minding don’t leave a man much time for his -trade. No! no! Ma’am, the luck of the Trouts is gone and ‘Bairns are a -burden,’ is the motto now. Though they are one’s own,” he muttered to -himself, “and not bad ones and I did hope once would have been a -blessing.” - -“There’s Johnnie,” murmured the old lady, dreamily. “He has a face like -an apple.” - -“And is about as useful,” said the Tailor. “He might have been -different, but his brother leads him by the nose.” - -His brother led him in as the Tailor spoke, not literally by his snub, -though, but by the hand. They were a handsome pair, this lazy couple. -Johnnie especially had the largest and roundest of foreheads, the -reddest of cheeks, the brightest of eyes, the quaintest and most twitchy -of chins, and looked altogether like a gutta percha cherub in a chronic -state of longitudinal squeeze. They were locked together by two grubby -paws, and had each an armful of moss, which they deposited on the floor -as they came in. - -“I’ve swept this floor once to-day,” said the father, “and I’m not going -to do it again. Put that rubbish outside.” - -“Move it Johnnie!” said his brother, seating himself on a stool, and -taking out his knife and a piece of wood, at which he cut and sliced; -while the apple cheeked Johnnie stumbled and stamped over the moss, and -scraped it out on to the door-step, leaving long trails of earth behind -him, and then sat down also. - -“And those chips the same,” added the Tailor; “I will _not_ clear up the -litter you lads make.” - -“Pick ’em up, Johnnie,” said Thomas Trout, junior, with an exasperated -sigh; and the apple tumbled up, rolled after the flying chips, and -tumbled down again. - -“Is there any supper, Father?” asked Tommy. - -“No, there is not, Sir, unless you know how to get it,” said the Tailor; -and taking his pipe, he went out of the house. - -“Is there really nothing to eat Granny?” asked the boy. - -“No, my bairn, only some bread for breakfast to-morrow.” - -“What makes Father so cross, Granny?” - -“He’s wearied, and you don’t help him, my dear.” - -“What could I do, Grandmother?” - -“Many little things, if you tried,” said the old lady. “He spent -half-an-hour to-day while you were on the moor, getting turf for the -fire, and you could have got it just as well, and he been at his work.” - -“He never told me,” said Tommy. - -“You might help me a bit just now, if you would, my laddie,” said the -old lady coaxingly; “these bits of cloth want tearing into lengths, and -if you get ’em ready, I can go on knitting. There’ll be some food when -this mat is done and sold.” - -“I’ll try,” said Tommy, lounging up with desperate resignation. “Hold my -knife, Johnnie. Father’s been cross, and everything has been miserable, -ever since the farm was sold. I wish I were a big man, and could make a -fortune.—Will that do, Granny?” - -The old lady put down her knitting and looked. “My dear, that’s too -short. Bless me! I gave the lad a piece to measure by.” - -“I thought it was the same length. Oh, dear! I am so tired;” and he -propped himself against the old lady’s chair. - -“My dear! don’t lean so! you’ll tipple me over!” she shrieked. - -“I beg your pardon, Grandmother. Will _that_ do?” - -“It’s that much too long.” - -“Tear that bit off. Now it’s all right.” - -“But, my dear, that wastes it. Now that bit is of no use. There goes my -knitting, you awkward lad!” - -“Johnnie, pick it up!—Oh! Grandmother, I _am_ so hungry.” - -The boy’s eyes filled with tears, and the old lady was melted in an -instant. - -“What can I do for you, my poor bairns?” said she. “There, never mind -the scraps, Tommy.” - -“Tell us a tale, Granny. If you told us a new one, I shouldn’t keep -thinking of that bread in the cupboard.—Come Johnny, and sit against -me. Now then!” - -“I doubt if there’s one of my old-world cracks I haven’t told you,” said -the old lady, “unless it’s a queer ghost story was told me years ago of -that house in the hollow with the blocked-up windows.” - -“Oh! not ghosts!” Tommy broke in; “we’ve had so many. I know it was a -rattling, or a scratching, or a knocking, or a figure in white; and if -it turns out a tombstone or a white petticoat, I hate it.” - -“It was nothing of the sort as a tombstone,” said the old lady with -dignity. “It’s a good half-mile from the church-yard. And as to white -petticoats, there wasn’t a female in the house; he wouldn’t have one; -and his victuals came in by the pantry window. But never mind! Though -it’s as true as a sermon.” - -Johnnie lifted his head from his brother’s knee. - -“Let Granny tell what she likes, Tommy. It’s a new ghost, and I should -like to know who he was, and why his victuals came in by the window.” - -“I don’t like a story about victuals,” sulked Tommy. “It makes me think -of the bread. O Granny dear! do tell us a fairy story. You never will -tell us about the Fairies, and I know you know.” - -“Hush! hush!” said the old lady. “There’s Miss Surbiton’s Love Letter, -and her Dreadful End.” - -“I know Miss Surbiton, Granny. I think she was a goose. Why won’t you -tell us about the Fairies?” - -“Hush! hush! my dears. There’s the Clerk and the Corpse-candles.” - -“I know the Corpse-candles, Granny. Besides, they make Johnnie dream and -he wakes me to keep him company. _Why_ won’t you tell us about the -Fairies?” - -“My dear, they don’t like it,” said the old lady. - -“O Granny dear, why don’t they? Do tell! I shouldn’t think of the bread -a bit, if you told us about the Fairies. I know nothing about them.” - -“He lived in this house long enough,” said the old lady. “But it’s not -lucky to name him.” - -“Oh, Granny, we are so hungry and miserable, what can it matter?” - -“Well, that’s true enough,” she sighed. “Trouts’ luck is gone; it went -with the Brownie, I believe.” - -“Was that _he_, Granny?” - -“Yes, my dear, he lived with the Trouts for several generations.” - -“What was he like, Granny?” - -“Like a little man, they say, my dear.” - -“What did he do?” - -“He came in before the family were up, and swept up the hearth, and -lighted the fire, and set out the breakfast, and tidied the room, and -did all sorts of house-work. But he never would be seen, and was off -before they could catch him. But they could hear him laughing and -playing about the house sometimes.” - -“What a darling! Did they give him any wages, Granny?” - -“No! my dear. He did it for love. They set a pancheon of clear water for -him over night, and now and then a bowl of bread and milk, or cream. He -liked that, for he was very dainty. Sometimes he left a bit of money in -the water. Sometimes he weeded the garden or threshed the corn. He saved -endless trouble, both to men and maids.” - -“O Granny! why did he go?” - -“The maids caught sight of him one night, my dear, and his coat was so -ragged, that they got a new suit, and a linen shirt for him, and laid -them by the bread and milk bowl. But when Brownie saw the things, he put -them on, and dancing round the kitchen, sang, - - ‘What have we here? Hemten hamten! - Here will I never more tread nor stampen,’ - -and so danced through the door and never came back again.” - -“O Grandmother! But why not? Didn’t he like the new clothes?” - -“The Old Owl knows, my dear; I don’t.” - -“Who’s the Old Owl, Granny?” - -“I don’t exactly know, my dear. It’s what my mother used to say when we -asked anything that puzzled her. It was said that the Old Owl was Nancy -Besom, (a witch, my dear!) who took the shape of a bird, but couldn’t -change her voice, and that that’s why the owl sits silent all day for -fear she should betray herself by speaking, and has no singing voice -like other birds. Many people used to go and consult the Old Owl at -moon-rise, in my young days.” - -“Did you ever go, Granny?” - -“Once, very nearly, my dear.” - -“Oh! tell us, Granny dear.—There are no Corpse-candles, Johnnie; it’s -only moonlight,” he added consolingly, as Johnnie crept closer to his -knee and pricked his little red ears. - -“It was when your grandfather was courting me, my dears,” said the old -lady, “and I couldn’t quite make up my mind. So I went to my mother, and -said, ‘He’s this on the one side, but then he’s that on the other, and -so on. Shall I say yes or no?’ And my mother said, ‘The Old Owl knows,’ -for she was fairly puzzled. So says I, ‘I’ll go and ask her to-night, as -sure as the moon rises.’ - -“So at moon-rise I went, and there in the white light by the gate stood -your grandfather. ‘What are you doing here at this time o’ night?’ says -I. ‘Watching your window,’ says he. ‘What are _you_ doing here at this -time o’ night?’ ‘The Old Owl knows,’ said I, and burst out crying.” - -“What for?” said Johnnie. - -“I can’t rightly tell you, my dear,” said the old lady, “but it gave me -such a turn to see him. And without more ado your grandfather kissed me. -‘How dare you?’ said I. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘The Old Owl knows,’ said -he. So we never went.” - -“How stupid!” said Tommy. - -“Tell us more about Brownie, please,” said Johnnie. “Did he ever live -with anybody else?” - -“There are plenty of Brownies,” said the old lady, “or used to be in my -mother’s young days. Some houses had several.” - -“Oh! I wish ours would come back!” cried both the boys in chorus. -“He’d— - -“tidy the room,” said Johnnie; -“fetch the turf,” said Tommy; -“pick up the chips,” said Johnnie; -“sort your scraps,” said Tommy; -“and do everything. Oh! I wish he hadn’t gone away.” - -“What’s that?” said the Tailor coming in at this moment. - -“It’s the Brownie, Father,” said Tommy. “We are so sorry he went, and do -so wish we had one.” - -“What nonsense have you been telling them, Mother?” asked the Tailor. - -“Heighty teighty,” said the old lady, bristling. “Nonsense, indeed! As -good men as you, Son Thomas, would as soon have jumped off the crags, as -spoken lightly of _them_, in my mother’s young days.” - -“Well, well,” said the Tailor, “I beg their pardon. They never did aught -for me, whatever they did for my forbears; but they’re as welcome to the -old place as ever, if they choose to come. There’s plenty to do.” - -“Would you mind our setting a pan of water, Father?” asked Tommy very -gently. “There’s no bread and milk.” - -“You may set what you like, my lad,” said the Tailor; “and I wish there -were bread and milk for your sakes, Bairns. You should have it, had I -got it. But go to bed now.” - -They lugged out a pancheon, and filled it with more dexterity than -usual, and then went off to bed, leaving the knife in one corner, the -wood in another, and a few splashes of water in their track. - -There was more room than comfort in the ruined old farm-house, and the -two boys slept on a bed of cut heather, in what had been the old malt -loft. Johnnie was soon in the land of dreams, growing rosier and rosier -as he slept, a tumbled apple among the gray heather. But not so lazy -Tommy. The idea of a domesticated Brownie had taken full possession of -his mind; and whither Brownie had gone, where he might be found, and -what would induce him to return, were mysteries he longed to solve. -“There’s an owl living in the old shed by the mere,” he thought. “It may -be the Old Owl herself, and she knows, Granny says. When father’s gone -to bed, and the moon rises I’ll go.” Meanwhile he lay down. - - * * * * * * - -The moon rose like gold, and went up into the heavens like silver, -flooding the moors with a pale ghostly light, taking the color out of -the heather, and painting black shadows under the stone walls. Tommy -opened his eyes, and ran to the window. “The moon has risen,” said he, -and crept softly down the ladder, through the kitchen, where was the pan -of water, but no Brownie, and so out on the moor. The air was fresh, not -to say chilly; but it was a glorious night, though everything but the -wind and Tommy seemed asleep. The stones, the walls, the gleaming lanes, -were so intensely still; the church tower in the valley seemed awake and -watching, but silent; the houses in the village round it all had their -eyes shut, that is, their window blinds down; and it seemed to Tommy as -if the very moors had drawn white sheets over them, and lay sleeping -also. - -“Hoot! hoot!” said a voice from the fir plantation behind him. Somebody -else was awake, then. “It’s the Old Owl,” said Tommy; and there she -came, swinging heavily across the moor with a flapping stately flight, -and sailed into the shed by the mere. The old lady moved faster than she -seemed to do, and though Tommy ran hard she was in the shed some time -before him. When he got in, no bird was to be seen, but he heard a -crunching sound from above, and looking up, there sat the Old Owl, -pecking and tearing and munching at some shapeless black object, and -blinking at him—Tommy—with yellow eyes. - -“Oh dear!” said Tommy, for he didn’t much like it. - -The Old Owl dropped the black mass on to the floor; and Tommy did not -care somehow to examine it. - -“Come up! come up!” said she, hoarsely. - -She could speak, then! Beyond all doubt it was _the_ Old Owl and none -other. Tommy shuddered. - -“Come up here! come up here!” said the Old Owl. - -The Old Owl sat on a beam that ran across the shed. Tommy had often -climbed up for fun; and he climbed up now, and sat face to face with -her, and thought her eyes looked as if they were made of flame. - -“Kiss my fluffy face,” said the Owl. - -Her eyes were going round like flaming catherine wheels, but there are -certain requests which one has not the option of refusing. Tommy crept -nearer, and put his lips to the round face out of which the eyes shone. -Oh! it was so downy and warm, so soft, so indescribably soft. Tommy’s -lips sank into it, and couldn’t get to the bottom. It was unfathomable -feathers and fluffyness. - -“Now, what do you want?” said the Owl. - -“Please,” said Tommy, who felt rather re-assured, “can you tell me where -to find the Brownies, and how to get one to come and live with us?” - -“Oohoo!” said the Owl, “that’s it, is it? I know of three Brownies.” - -“Hurrah!” said Tommy. “Where do they live?” - -“In your house,” said the Owl. - -Tommy was aghast. - -“In our house!” he exclaimed. “Whereabouts? Let me rummage them out. Why -do they do nothing?” - -“One of them is too young,” said the Owl. - -“But why don’t the others work?” asked Tommy. - -“They are idle, they are idle,” said the Old Owl, and she gave herself -such a shake as she said it, that the fluff went flying through the -shed, and Tommy nearly tumbled off the beam in his fright. - -“Then we don’t want them,” said he. “What is the use of having Brownies -if they do nothing to help us?” - -“Perhaps they don’t know how, as no one has told them,” said the Owl. - -“I wish you would tell me where to find them,” said Tommy; “I could tell -them.” - -“Could you?” said the Owl. “Oohoo! Oohoo!” and Tommy couldn’t tell -whether she were hooting or laughing. - -“Of course I could,” he said. “They might be up and sweep the house, and -light the fire, and spread the table, and that sort of thing, before -father came down. Besides, they could _see_ what was wanted. The -Brownies did all that in Granny’s mother’s young days. And then they -could tidy the room, and fetch the turf, and pick up my chips, and sort -Granny’s scraps. Oh! there’s lots to do.” - -“So there is,” said the Owl. “Oohoo! Well, I can tell you where to find -one of the Brownies; and if you find him, he will tell you where his -brother is. But all this depends upon whether you feel equal to -undertaking it, and whether you will follow my directions.” - -“I am quite ready to go,” said Tommy, “and I will do as you shall tell -me. I feel sure I could persuade them. If they only knew how every one -would love them if they made themselves useful!” - -“Oohoo! ohoo!” said the Owl. “Now pay attention. You must go to the -north side of the mere when the moon is shining—(‘I know Brownies like -water,’ muttered Tommy)—and turn yourself around three times, saying -this charm: - - ‘Twist me and turn me, and show me the Elf— - I looked in the water, and saw—’ - -When you have got so far, look into the water, and at the same moment -you will see the Brownie, and think of a word that will fill up the -couplet, and rhyme with the first line. If either you do not see the -Brownie, or fail to think of the word, it will be of no use.” - -“Is the Brownie a mermaid,” said Tommy, wriggling himself along the -beam, “that he lives under water?” - -“That depends on whether he has a fish’s tail,” said the Owl, “and this -you can discover for yourself.” - -“Well, the moon is shining, so I shall go,” said Tommy. “Good-bye, and -thank you, Ma’am;” and he jumped down and went, saying to himself as he -ran, “I believe he is a merman all the same, or else how could he live -in the mere? I know more about Brownies than Granny does, and I shall -tell her so;” for Tommy was somewhat opinionated, like other young -people. - -The moon shone very brightly on the centre of the mere. Tommy knew the -place well for there was a fine echo there. Round the edge grew rushes -and water plants, which cast a border of shadow. Tommy went to the north -side, and turning himself three times, as the old Owl had told him, he -repeated the charm— - - ‘Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf— - I looked in the water, and saw—’ - -Now for it. He looked in, and saw—the reflection of his own face. - -“Why, there’s no one but myself!” said Tommy. “And what can the word be? -I must have done it wrong.” - -“Wrong!” said the Echo. - -Tommy was almost surprised to find the echo awake at this time of night. - -“Hold your tongue!” said he. “Matters are provoking enough of -themselves. Belf! Celf! Delf! Felf! Gelf! Helf! Jelf! What rubbish! -There can’t be a word to fit it. And then to look for Brownie, and see -nothing but myself!” - -“Myself!” said the Echo. - -“Will you be quiet?” said Tommy. “If you would tell one the word there -would be some sense in your interference; but to roar ‘Myself!’ at one, -which neither rhymes nor runs—it does rhyme though, as it happens,” he -added; “and how very odd! it runs too— - - ‘Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf; - I looked in the water, and saw myself,’ - -which I certainly did. What can it mean? The Old Owl knows, as Granny -would say; so I shall go back and ask her.” - -“Ask her!” said the Echo. - -“Didn’t I say I should?” said Tommy. “How exasperating you are! It is -very strange. _Myself_ certainly does rhyme, and I wonder I did not -think of it long ago.” - -“Go,” said the Echo. - -“Will you mind your own business, and go to sleep?” said Tommy. “I am -going; I said I should.” - -And back he went. There sat the Old Owl as before. - -“Oohoo!” said she, as Tommy climbed up. “What did you see in the mere?” - -“I saw nothing but myself,” said Tommy indignantly. - -“And what did you expect to see?” asked the Owl. - -“I expected to see a Brownie,” said Tommy; “you told me so.” - -“And what are Brownies like, pray?” inquired the Owl. - -“The one Granny knew was a useful little fellow, something like a little -man,” said Tommy. - -“Ah!” said the Owl, “but you know at present this one is an idle little -fellow, something like a little man. Oohoo! oohoo! Are you quite sure -you didn’t see him?” - -“Quite,” answered Tommy sharply. “I saw no one but myself.” - -“Hoot! toot! How touchy we are! And who are you, pray?” - -“I am not a Brownie,” said Tommy. - -“Don’t be too sure,” said the Owl. “Did you find out the word?” - -“No,” said Tommy. “I could find no word with any meaning that would -rhyme but ‘myself.’” - -“Well, that runs and rhymes,” said the Owl. “What do you want? Where’s -your brother now?” - -“In bed in the malt-loft,” said Tommy. - -“Then now all your questions are answered,” said the Owl, “and you know -what wants doing, so go and do it. Good-night, or rather good-morning, -for it is long past midnight;” and the old lady began to shake her -feathers for a start. - -“Don’t go yet, please,” said Tommy humbly. “I don’t understand it. You -know I’m not a Brownie, am I?” - -“Yes, you are,” said the Owl, “and a very idle one too. All children are -Brownies.” - -“But I couldn’t do work like a Brownie,” said Tommy. - -“Why not?” inquired the Owl. “Couldn’t you sweep the floor, light the -fire, spread the table, tidy the room, fetch the turf, pick up your own -chips, and sort your grandmother’s scraps? You know ‘there’s lots to -do.’” - -“But I don’t think I should like it,” said Tommy. “I’d much rather have -a Brownie to do it for me.” - -“And what would you do meanwhile?” asked the Owl. “Be idle, I suppose; -and what do you suppose is the use of a man’s having children if they do -nothing to help him? Ah! if they only knew how every one would love them -if they made themselves useful!” - -“But is it really and truly so?” asked Tommy, in a dismal voice. “Are -there no Brownies but children?” - -“No, there are not,” said the owl. “And pray do you think that the -Brownies, whoever they may be, come into a house to save trouble for the -idle healthy little boys who live in it? Listen to me, Tommy,” said the -old lady, her eyes shooting rays of fire in the dark corner where she -sat. “Listen to me, you are a clever boy, and can understand when one -speaks; so I will tell you the whole history of the Brownies, as it has -been handed down in our family from my grandmother’s great-grandmother, -who lived in the Druid’s Oak, and was intimate with the fairies. And -when I have done you shall tell me what you think they are, if they are -not children. It’s the opinion I have come to at any rate, and I don’t -think that wisdom died with our great-grandmothers.” - -“I should like to hear if you please,” said Tommy. - -The Old Owl shook out a tuft or two of fluff, and set her eyes a-going, -and began: - -“The Brownies, or as they are sometimes called, the Small Folk, the -Little People, or the Good People, are a race of tiny beings who -domesticate themselves in a house of which some grown-up human being -pays the rent and taxes. They are like small editions of men and women, -they are too small and fragile for heavy work; they have not the -strength of a man, but are a thousand times more fresh and nimble. They -can run and jump, and roll and tumble, with marvellous agility and -endurance, and of many of the aches and pains which men and women groan -under, they do not even know the names. They have no trade or -profession, and as they live entirely upon other people, they know -nothing of domestic cares; in fact, they know very little upon any -subject, though they are often intelligent and highly inquisitive. They -love dainties, play, and mischief. They are apt to be greatly beloved, -and are themselves capriciously affectionate. They are little people, -and can only do little things. When they are idle and mischievous, they -are called Boggarts, and are a curse to the house they live in. When -they are useful and considerate, they are Brownies, and are a -much-coveted blessing. Sometimes the Blessed Brownies will take up their -abode with some worthy couple, cheer them with their romp and merry -laughter, tidy the house, find things that have been lost, and take -little troubles out of hands full of great anxieties. Then in time these -Little People are Brownies no longer. They grow up into men and women. -They do not care so much for dainties, play, or mischief. They cease to -jump and tumble, and roll about the house. They know more, and laugh -less. Then, when their heads begin to ache with anxiety, and they have -to labor for their own living, and the great cares of life come on, -other Brownies come and live with them, and take up their little cares, -and supply their little comforts, and make the house merry once more.” - -“How nice!” said Tommy. - -“Very nice,” said the Old Owl. “But what”—and she shook herself more -fiercely than ever, and glared so that Tommy expected nothing less than -her eyes would set fire to her feathers and she would be burnt alive. -“But what must I say of the Boggarts? Those idle urchins who eat the -bread and milk, and don’t do the work, who lie in bed without an ache or -pain to excuse them, who untidy instead of tidying, cause work instead -of doing it, and leave little cares to heap on big cares, till the old -people who support them are worn out altogether.” - -“Don’t!” said Tommy. “I can’t bear it.” - -“I hope when Boggarts grow into men,” said the Old Owl, “that their -children will be Boggarts too, and then they’ll know what it is!” - -“Don’t!” roared Tommy. “I won’t be a Boggart. I’ll be a Brownie.” - -“That’s right,” nodded the Old Owl. “I said you were a boy who could -understand when one spoke. And remember that the Brownies never are seen -at their work. They get up before the household, and get away before any -one can see them. I can’t tell you why. I don’t think my grandmother’s -great-grandmother knew. Perhaps because all good deeds are better done -in secret.” - -“Please,” said Tommy, “I should like to go home now, and tell Johnnie. -It’s getting cold, and I am so tired!” - -“Very true,” said the Old Owl, “and then you will have to be up early -to-morrow. I think I had better take you home.” - -“I know the way, thank you,” said Tommy. - -“I didn’t say _shew_ you the way, I said _take_ you—carry you,” said -the Owl. “Lean against me.” - -“I’d rather not thank you,” said Tommy. - -“Lean against me,” screamed the Owl. “Oohoo! how obstinate boys are to -be sure!” - -Tommy crept up, very unwillingly. - -“Lean your full weight, and shut your eyes,” said the Owl. - -Tommy laid his head against the Old Owl’s feathers, had a vague idea -that she smelt of heather, and thought it must be from living on the -moor, shut his eyes, and leant his full weight, expecting that he and -the Owl would certainly fall off the beam together. -Down—feathers—fluff—he sank and sank, could feel nothing solid, -jumped up with a start to save himself, opened his eyes, and found that -he was sitting among the heather in the malt-loft, with Johnny sleeping -by his side. - -“How quickly we came!” said he; “that is certainly a very clever Old -Owl. I couldn’t have counted ten whilst my eyes were shut. How very -odd!” - -But what was odder still was, that it was no longer moonlight but early -dawn. - -“Get up, Johnnie,” said his brother, “I’ve got a story to tell you.” - -And while Johnnie sat up, and rubbed his eyes open, he related his -adventures on the moor. - -“Is all that true?” said Johnnie; “I mean, did it really happen?” - -“Of course it did,” said his brother; “don’t you believe it?” - -“Oh yes,” said Johnny. “But I thought it was perhaps only a true story, -like Granny’s true stories. I believe all these, you know. But if you -were there, you know, it is different—” - -“I was there,” said Tommy, “and it’s all just as I tell you: and I tell -you what, if we mean to do anything we must get up: though, oh dear! I -should like to stay in bed. I say,” he added, after a pause, “suppose we -do. It can’t matter being Boggarts for one night more. I mean to be a -Brownie before I grow up, though. I couldn’t stand boggarty children.” - -“I won’t be a Boggart at all,” said Johnnie, “it’s horrid. But I don’t -see how we can be Brownies, for I’m afraid we can’t do the things. I -wish I were bigger!” - -“I can do it well enough,” said Tommy, following his brother’s example -and getting up. “Don’t you suppose I can light a fire? Think of all the -bonfires we have made! And I don’t think I should mind having a regular -good tidy-up either. It’s that stupid -putting-away-things-when-you’ve-done-with-them that I hate so!” - -The Brownies crept softly down the ladder and into the kitchen. There -was the blank hearth, the dirty floor, and all the odds and ends lying -about, looking cheerless enough in the dim light, Tommy felt quite -important as he looked round. There is no such cure for untidiness as -clearing up after other people; one sees so clearly where the fault -lies. - -“Look at that door-step, Johnnie,” said the Brownie-elect, “what a mess -you made of it! If you had lifted the moss carefully, instead of -stamping and struggling with it, it would have saved us ten minutes’ -work this morning.” - -This wisdom could not be gainsaid, and Johnnie only looked meek and -rueful. - -“I am going to light the fire,” pursued his brother;—“the next turfs, -you know _we_ must get—you can tidy a bit. Look at the knife I gave you -to hold last night, and that wood—that’s my fault though, and so are -those scraps by Granny’s chair. What are you grubbing at that rat-hole -for?” - -Johnnie raised his head somewhat flushed and tumbled. - -“What do you think I have found?” said he triumphantly. “Father’s -measure that has been lost for a week!” - -“Hurrah!” said Tommy, “put it by his things. That’s just a sort of thing -for a Brownie to have done. What will he say? And I say, Johnnie, when -you’ve tidied, just go and grub up a potato or two in the garden, and -I’ll put them to roast for breakfast. I’m lighting such a bonfire!” - -The fire was very successful. Johnnie went after the potatoes, and Tommy -cleaned the door-step, swept the room, dusted the chairs and the old -chest, and set out the table. There was no doubt he could be handy when -he chose. - -“I’ll tell you what I have thought of, if we have time,” said Johnnie, -as he washed the potatoes in the water that had been set for Brownie. -“We might run down to the South Pasture for some mushrooms. Father said -the reason we found so few was that people go by sunrise for them to -take to market. The sun’s only just rising, we should be sure to find -some, and they would do for breakfast.” - -“There’s plenty of time,” said Tommy; so they went. The dew lay heavy -and thick upon the grass by the road side, and over the miles of network -that the spiders had woven from blossom to blossom of the heather. The -dew is the Sun’s breakfast; but he was barely up yet, and had not eaten -it, and the world felt anything but warm. Nevertheless, it was so sweet -and fresh as it is at no later hour of the day, and every sound was like -the returning voice of a long absent friend. Down to the pastures, where -was more network and more dew, but when one has nothing to speak of in -the way of boots, the state of the ground is of the less consequence. - -The Tailor had been right, there was no lack of mushrooms at this time -of the morning. All over the pasture they stood, of all sizes, some like -buttons, some like tables; and in the distance one or two ragged women, -stopping over them with baskets, looked like huge fungi also. - -“This is where the fairies feast,” said Tommy. “They had a large party -last night. When they go, they take away the dishes and cups, for they -are made of gold; but they leave their tables, and we eat them.” - -“I wonder whether giants would like to eat our tables,” said Johnnie. - -This was beyond Tommy’s capabilities of surmise; so they filled a -handkerchief, and hurried back again for fear the Tailor should have -come down-stairs. - -They were depositing the last mushroom in a dish on the table, when his -footsteps were heard descending. - -“There he is!” exclaimed Tommy. “Remember, we mustn’t be caught. Run -back to bed.” - -Johnnie caught up the handkerchief, and smothering their laughter, the -two scrambled back up the ladder, and dashed straight into the heather. - -Meanwhile the poor Tailor came wearily down-stairs. Day after day, since -his wife’s death, he had come down every morning to the same desolate -sight—yesterday’s refuse and an empty hearth. This morning task of -tidying was always a sad and ungrateful one to the widowed father. His -awkward struggles with the house-work in which _she_ had been so -notable, chafed him. The dirty kitchen was dreary, the labor lonely, and -it was an hour’s time lost to his trade. But life does not stand still -while one is wishing, and so the Tailor did that for which there was -neither remedy nor substitute; and came down this morning as other -mornings to the pail and broom. When he came in he looked round, and -started, and rubbed his eyes; looked round again, and rubbed them -harder; then went up to the fire and held out his hand, (warm -certainly)—then up to the table and smelt the mushrooms, (esculent -fungi beyond a doubt) handled the loaf, stared at the open door and -window, the swept floor, and the sunshine pouring in, and finally sat -down in stunned admiration. Then he jumped up and ran to the foot of the -stairs, shouting,— - -“Mother! Mother! Trout’s luck has come again.” “And yet, no!” he -thought, “the old lady’s asleep, it’s a shame to wake her, I’ll tell -those idle rascally lads, they’ll be more pleased than they deserve. It -was Tommy after all that set the water and caught him.” “Boys! boys!” he -shouted at the foot of the ladder, “the Brownie has come!—and if he -hasn’t found my measure!” he added on returning to the kitchen, “this is -as good as a day’s work to me.” - -There was great excitement in the small household that day. The boys -kept their own counsel. The old Grandmother was triumphant, and tried -not to seem surprised. The Tailor made no such vain effort, and remained -till bed-time in a state of fresh and unconcealed amazement. - -“I’ve often heard of the Good People,” he broke out towards the end of -the evening. “And I’ve heard folk say they’ve known those that have seen -them capering round the gray rocks on the moor at midnight: but this is -wonderful! To come and do the work for a pan of cold water! Who could -have believed it?” - -“You might have believed it if you’d believed me, Son Thomas,” said the -old lady tossily. “I told you so. But young people always know better -than their elders!” - -“I didn’t see him,” said the Tailor, beginning his story afresh; “but I -thought as I came in I heard a sort of laughing and rustling.” - -“My mother said they often heard him playing and laughing about the -house,” said the old lady. “I told you so.” - -“Well, he shan’t want for a bowl of bread and milk to-morrow, anyhow,” -said the Tailor, “if I have to stick to Farmer Swede’s waistcoat till -midnight.” - -But the waistcoat was finished by bed-time, and the Tailor set the bread -and milk himself, and went to rest. - -“I say,” said Tommy, when both the boys were in bed, “the Old Owl was -right, and we must stick to it. But I’ll tell you what I don’t like, and -that is, father thinking we’re idle still. I wish he knew we were the -Brownies.” - -“So do I,” said Johnnie; and he sighed. - -“I tell you what,” said Tommy, with the decisiveness of elder -brotherhood, “we’ll keep quiet for a bit for fear we should leave off; -but when we’ve gone on a good while, I shall tell him. It was only the -Old Owl’s grandmother’s great-grandmother who said it was to be kept -secret, and the Old Owl herself said grandmothers were not always in the -right.” - -“No more they are,” said Johnnie; “look at Granny about this.” - -“I know,” said Tommy. “She’s in a regular muddle.” - -“So she is,” said Johnnie. “But that’s rather fun, I think.” - -And they went to sleep. - -Day after day went by, and still the Brownies “stuck to it,” and did -their work. It is no such very hard matter after all to get up early -when one is young and light-hearted, and sleeps upon heather in a loft -without window-blind, and with so many broken window-panes that the air -comes freely in. In old times the boys used to play at tents among the -heather, while the Tailor did the house-work; now they came down and did -it for him. - -Size is not everything, even in this material existence. One has heard -of dwarfs who were quite as clever, (not to say as powerful,) as giants, -and I do not fancy that Fairy Godmothers are ever very large. It is -wonderful what a comfort Brownies may be in the house that is fortunate -enough to hold them! The Tailor’s Brownies were the joy of his life; and -day after day they seemed to grow more and more ingenious in finding -little things to do for his good. - -Now-a-days Granny never picked a scrap for herself. One day’s shearings -were all neatly arranged the next morning, and laid by her -knitting-pins; and the Tailor’s tape and shears were no more absent -without leave. - -One day a message came to him to offer him two or three days’ tailoring -in a farmhouse some miles up the valley. This was pleasant and -advantageous sort of work; good food, sure pay, and a cheerful change; -but he did not know how he could leave his family, unless, indeed, the -Brownie might be relied upon to “keep the house together,” as they say. -The boys were sure that he would, and they promised to set his water, -and to give as little trouble as possible; so, finally, the Tailor took -up his shears and went up the valley, where the green banks sloped up -into purple moor, or broke into sandy rocks, crowned with nodding oak -fern. On to the prosperous old farm, where he spent a very pleasant -time, sitting level with the window geraniums on a table set apart for -him, stitching and gossiping, gossiping and stitching, and feeling -secure of honest payment when his work was done. The mistress of the -house was a kind good creature, and loved a chat; and though the Tailor -kept his own secret as to the Brownies, he felt rather curious to know -if the Good People had any hand in the comfort of this flourishing -household, and watched his opportunity to make a few careless inquiries -on the subject. - -“Brownies?” laughed the dame. “Ay, Master, I have heard of them. When I -was a girl, in service at the old hall, on Cowberry Edge, I heard a good -deal of one they said had lived there in former times. He did housework -as well as a woman, and a good deal quicker, they said. One night one of -the young ladies (that were then, they’re all dead now,) hid herself in -a cupboard, to see what he was like.” - -“And what was he like?” inquired the Tailor, as composedly as he was -able. - -“A little fellow, they said;” answered the Farmer’s wife, knitting -calmly on. “Like a dwarf, you know, with a largish head for his body. -Not taller than—why, my Bill, or your eldest boy, perhaps. And he was -dressed in rags, with an old cloak on, and stamping with passion at a -cobweb he couldn’t get at with his broom. They’ve very uncertain -tempers, they say. Tears one minute and laughing the next.” - -“You never had one here, I suppose?” said the Tailor. - -“Not we,” she answered; “and I think I’d rather not. They’re not canny -after all; and my master and me have always been used to work, and we’ve -sons, and daughters to help us, and that’s better than meddling with the -Fairies, to my mind. No! no!” she added, laughing, “If we had had one -you’d have heard of it, whoever didn’t, for I should have had some -decent clothes made for him. I couldn’t stand rags and old cloaks, -messing and moth-catching in my house.” - -“They say it’s not lucky to give them clothes, though,” said the Tailor; -“they don’t like it.” - -“Tell me!” said the dame, “as if any one that liked a tidy room, -wouldn’t like tidy clothes, if they could get them. No! no! when we have -one, you shall take his measure, I promise you.” - -And this was all the Tailor got out of her on the subject. When his work -was finished, the Farmer paid him at once; and the good dame added half -a cheese, and a bottle-green coat. - -“That has been laid by for being too small for the master now he’s so -stout,” she said; “but except for a stain or two it’s good enough, and -will cut up like new for one of the lads.” - -The Tailor thanked them, and said farewell, and went home. Down the -valley, where the river, wandering between the green banks and the sandy -rocks, was caught by giant mosses, and bands of fairy fern, and there -choked and struggled, and at last barely escaped with an existence, and -ran away in a diminished stream. On up the purple hills to the old -ruined house. As he came in at the gate he was struck by some idea of -change, and looking again, he saw that the garden had been weeded, and -was comparatively tidy. The truth is, that Tommy and Johnnie had taken -advantage of the Tailor’s absence to do some Brownie’s work in the -daytime. - -“It’s that Blessed Brownie!” said the Tailor. “Has he been as usual?” he -asked, when he was in the house. - -“To be sure,” said the old lady; “all has been well, Son Thomas.” - -“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the Tailor, after a pause. “I’m a needy -man, but I hope I’m not ungrateful. I can never repay the Brownie for -what he has done for me and mine; but the mistress up yonder has given -me a bottle-green coat that will cut up as good as new; and as sure as -there’s a Brownie in this house, I’ll make him a suit of it.” - -“You’ll _what_?” shrieked the old lady. “Son Thomas, Son Thomas, you’re -mad! Do what you please for the Brownies, but never make them clothes.” - -“There’s nothing they want more,” said the Tailor, “by all accounts. -They’re all in rags, as well they may be, doing so much work.” - -“If you make clothes for this Brownie, he’ll go for good,” said the -Grandmother, in a voice of awful warning. - -“Well, I don’t know,” said her son. “The mistress up at the farm is -clever enough, I can tell you; and as she said to me, fancy any one that -likes a tidy room, not liking a tidy coat!” For the Tailor, like most -men, was apt to think well of the wisdom of woman-kind in other houses. - -“Well, well,” said the old lady, “go your own way. I’m an old woman, and -my time is not long. It doesn’t matter much to me. But it was new -clothes that drove the Brownie out before, and Trout’s luck went with -him.” - -“I know, Mother,” said the Tailor, “and I’ve been thinking of it all the -way home; and I can tell you why it was. Depend upon it, _the clothes -didn’t fit_. But I’ll tell you what I mean to do. I shall measure them -by Tommy—they say the Brownies are about his size—and if ever I turned -out a well-made coat and waistcoat, they shall be his.” - -“Please yourself,” said the old lady, and she would say no more. - -“I think you’re quite right, Father,” said Tommy, “and if I can, I’ll -help you to make them.” - -Next day the father and son set to work, and Tommy contrived to make -himself so useful, that the Tailor hardly knew how he got through so -much work. - -“It’s not like the same thing,” he broke out at last, “to have some one -a bit helpful about you; both for the tailoring and for company’s sake. -I’ve not done such a pleasant morning’s work since your poor mother -died. I’ll tell you what it is, Tommy,” he added, “if you were always -like this, I shouldn’t much care whether Brownie stayed or went. I’d -give up his help to have yours.” - -“I’ll be back directly,” said Tommy, who burst out of the room in search -of his brother. - -“I’ve come away,” he said squatting down, “because I can’t bear it. I -very nearly let it all out, and I shall soon. I wish the things weren’t -going to come to me,” he added, kicking a stone in front of him. “I wish -he’d measured you, Johnnie.” - -“I’m very glad he didn’t,” said Johnnie. “I wish he’d kept them -himself.” - -“Bottle-green, with brass buttons,” murmured Tommy, and therewith fell -into a reverie. - -The next night the suit was finished, and laid by the bread and milk. - -“We shall see,” said the old lady, in a withering tone. There is not -much real prophetic wisdom in this truism, but it sounds very awful, and -the Tailor went to bed somewhat depressed. - -Next morning the Brownies came down as usual. - -“Don’t they look splendid?” said Tommy, feeling the cloth. “When we’ve -tidied the place I shall put them on.” - -But long before the place was tidy, he could wait no longer, and dressed -up. - -“Look at me!” he shouted; “bottle-green and brass buttons! Oh, Johnnie, -I wish you had some.” - -“It’s a good thing there are two Brownies,” said Johnnie, laughing, “and -one of them in rags still. I shall do the work this morning.” And he -went flourishing round with a broom, while Tommy jumped madly about in -his new suit. “Hurrah!” he shouted, “I feel just like the Brownie. What -was it Grannie said he sang when he got his clothes? Oh, I know— - - ‘What have we here? Hemten hamten, - Here will I never more tread nor stampen.’” - -And on he danced, regardless of the clouds of dust raised by Johnnie, as -he drove the broom indiscriminately over the floor, to the tune of his -own laughter. - -It was laughter which roused the Tailor that morning, laughter coming -through the floor from the kitchen below. He scrambled on his things and -stole down stairs. - -“It’s the Brownie,” he thought; “I must look, if it’s for the last -time.” - -At the door he paused and listened. The laughter was mixed with singing, -and he heard the words— - - “What have we here? Hemten hamten, - Here will I never more tread nor stampen.” - -He pushed in, and this was the sight that met his eyes. - -The kitchen in its primeval condition of chaos, the untidy particulars -of which were the less apparent, as everything was more or less obscured -by the clouds of dust, where Johnnie reigned triumphant, like a witch -with her broomstick; and, to crown all, Tommy capering and singing in -the Brownie’s bottle-green suit, brass buttons and all. - -“What’s this?” shouted the astonished Tailor, when he could find breath -to speak. - -“It’s the Brownies,” sang the boys; and on they danced, for they had -worked themselves up into a state of excitement from which it was not -easy to settle down. - -“Where _is_ Brownie?” shouted the father. - -“He’s here,” said Tommy; “we are the Brownies.” - -“Can’t you stop that fooling?” cried the Tailor, angrily. “This is past -a joke. Where is the real Brownie, I say?” - -“We are the only Brownies, really, father,” said Tommy, coming to a full -stop, and feeling strongly tempted to run down from laughing to crying. -“Ask the Old Owl. It’s true, really.” - -The Tailor saw the boy was in earnest, and passed his hand over his -forehead. - -“I suppose I’m getting old,” he said; “I can’t see daylight through -this. If you are the Brownie, who has been tidying the kitchen lately?” - -“We have,” said they. - -“But who found my measure?” - -“I did,” said Johnnie. - -“And who sorts your grandmother’s scraps?” - -“We do,” said they. - -“And who sets breakfast, and puts my things in order?” - -“We do,” said they. - -“But when do you do it?” asked the Tailor. - -“Before you come down,” said they. - -“But I always have to call you,” said the Tailor. - -“We get back to bed again,” said the boys. - -“But how was it you never did it before!” asked the Tailor doubtfully. - -“We were idle, we were idle,” said Tommy. - -The Tailor’s voice rose to a pitch of desperation— - -“But if you do the work,” he shouted, “_Where is the Brownie?_” - -“Here!” cried the boys, “and we are very sorry we were Boggarts so -long.” - -With which the father and sons fell into each other’s arms and fairly -wept. - - * * * * * * - -It will be believed that to explain all this to the Grandmother was not -the work of a moment. She understood it all at last, however, and the -Tailor could not restrain a little good-humored triumph on the subject. -Before he went to work he settled her down in the window with her -knitting, and kissed her. - -“What do you think of it all, Mother?” he inquired. - -“Bairns are a blessing,” said the old lady, tartly. “_I told you so._” - - * * * * * - -“That’s not the end, is it?” asked one of the boys in a tone of dismay, -for the Doctor had paused here. - -“Yes it is,” said he. - -“But couldn’t you make a little more end?” asked Deordie, “to tell us -what became of them all?” - -“I don’t see what there is to tell,” said the Doctor. - -“Why, there’s whether they ever saw the Old Owl again, and whether Tommy -and Johnnie went on being Brownies,” said the children. - -The Doctor laughed. - -“Well, be quiet for five minutes,” he said. - -“We’ll be as quiet as mice,” said the children. - -And as quiet as mice they were. Very like mice, indeed. Very like mice -behind a wainscot at night, when you have just thrown something to -frighten them away. Death-like stillness for a few seconds, and then all -the rustling and scuffling you please. So the children sat holding their -breath for a moment or two, and then shuffling feet and smothered bursts -of laughter testified to their impatience, and to the difficulty of -understanding the process of story-making as displayed by the Doctor, -who sat pulling his beard, and staring at his boots, as he made up “a -little more end.” - -“Well,” he said, sitting up suddenly, “the Brownies went on with their -work in spite of the bottle-green suit, and Trout’s luck returned to the -old house once more. Before long Tommy began to work for the farmers, -and Baby grew up into a Brownie, and made (as girls are apt to make) the -best house-sprite of all. For, in the Brownie habits of self-denial, -thoughtfulness, consideration, and the art of little kindnesses, boys -are, I am afraid, as a general rule, somewhat behindhand with their -sisters. Whether this altogether proceeds from constitutional deficiency -on these points in the masculine character, or is one result among many -of the code of by-laws which obtains in men’s moral education from the -cradle, is a question on which everybody has their own opinion. For the -present the young gentlemen may appropriate whichever theory they -prefer, and we will go back to the story. The Tailor lived to see his -boy-Brownies become men, with all the cares of a prosperous farm on -their hands, and his girl-Brownie carry her fairy talents into another -home. For these Brownies—young ladies!—are much desired as wives, -whereas a man might as well marry an old witch as a young Boggartess.” - -“And about the Owl?” clamored the children, rather resentful of the -Doctor’s pausing to take breath. - -“Of course,” he continued, “the Tailor heard the whole story, and being -both anxious to thank the Old Owl for her friendly offices, and also -rather curious to see and hear her, he went with the boys one night at -moon-rise to the shed by the mere. It was earlier in the evening than -when Tommy went, for before daylight had vanished—and at the first -appearance of the moon, the impatient Tailor was at the place. There -they found the Owl, looking very solemn and stately on the beam. She was -sitting among the shadows with her shoulders up, and she fixed her eyes -so steadily on the Tailor, that he felt quite overpowered. He made her a -civil bow, however, and said— - -“I’m much obliged to you, Ma’am, for your good advice to my Tommy.” - -The Owl blinked sharply, as if she grudged shutting her eyes for an -instant, and then stared on, but not a word spoke she. - -“I don’t mean to intrude, Ma’am,” said the Tailor; “but I was wishful to -pay my respects and gratitude.” - -Still the Owl gazed in determined silence. - -“Don’t you remember me?” said Tommy pitifully. “I did everything you -told me. Won’t you even say good-bye?” and he went up towards her. - -The Owl’s eyes contracted, she shuddered a few tufts of fluff into the -shed, shook her wings, and shouting “Oohoo!” at the top of her voice, -flew out upon the moor. The Tailor and his sons rushed out to watch her. -They could see her clearly against the green twilight sky, flapping -rapidly away with her round face to the pale moon. “Good-bye!” they -shouted as she disappeared; first the departing owl, then a shadowy body -with flapping sails, then two wings beating the same measured time, then -two moving lines still to the old tune, then a stroke, a fancy, and -then—the green sky and the pale moon, but the Old Owl was gone. - -“Did she never come back?” asked Tiny in subdued tones, for the Doctor -had paused again. - -“No,” said he; “at least not to the shed by the mere. Tommy saw many -owls after this in the course of his life; but as none of them would -speak, and as most of them were addicted to the unconventional customs -of staring and winking, he could not distinguish his friend, if she were -among them. And now I think that is all.” - -“Is that the very very end?” asked Tiny. - -“The very very end,” said the Doctor. - -“I suppose there might be more and more ends,” speculated -Deordie—“about whether the Brownies had any children when they grew -into farmers, and whether the children were Brownies, and whether _they_ -had other Brownies, and so on and on.” And Deordie rocked himself among -the geraniums, in the luxurious imagination of an endless fairy tale. - -“You insatiable rascal!” said the Doctor. “Not another word. Jump up, -for I’m going to see you home. I have to be off early to-morrow.” - -“Where?” said Deordie. - -“Never mind. I shall be away all day, and I want to be at home in good -time in the evening, for I mean to attack that crop of groundsel between -the sweet-pea hedges. You know, no Brownies come to my homestead!” - -And the Doctor’s mouth twitched a little till he fixed it into a stiff -smile. - -The children tried hard to extract some more ends out of him on the way -to the Rectory; but he declined to pursue the history of the Trout -family through indefinite generations. It was decided on all hands, -however, that Tommy Trout was evidently one and the same with Tommy -Trout who pulled the cat out of the well, because “it was just a sort of -thing for a Brownie to do, you know!” and that Johnnie Green (who, of -course, was not Johnnie Trout,) was some unworthy village acquaintance, -and “a thorough Boggart.” - -“Doctor!” said Tiny, as they stood by the garden-gate, “how long do you -think gentlemen’s pocket-handkerchiefs take to wear out?” - -“That, my dear Madam,” said the Doctor, “must depend, like other -terrestrial matters, upon circumstances; whether the gentleman bought -fine cambric, or coarse cotton with pink portraits of the reigning -Sovereign, to commence with; whether he catches many colds, has his -pocket picked, takes snuff, or allows his washerwoman to use washing -powders. But why do you want to know?” - -“I shan’t tell you that,” said Tiny, who was spoilt by the Doctor, and -consequently tyrannized in proportion; “but I will tell you what I mean -to do. I mean to tell Mother that when Father wants any more pocket -handkerchiefs hemmed, she had better put them by the bath in the -nursery, and perhaps some Brownie will come and do them.” - -“Kiss my fluffy face!” said the Doctor in sepulchral tones. - -“The owl is too high up,” said Tiny, tossing her head. - -The Doctor lifted her four feet or so, obtained his kiss, and set her -down again. - -“You’re not fluffy at all,” said she in a tone of the utmost contempt; -“you’re tickly and bristly. Puss is more fluffy, and Father is scrubby -and scratchy, because he shaves.” - -“And which of the three styles do you prefer?” said the Doctor. - -“Not tickly and bristly,” said Tiny with firmness, and she strutted up -the walk for a pace or two, and then turned round to laugh over her -shoulder. - -“Good-night!” shouted her victim, shaking his fist after her. - -The other children took a noisy farewell, and they all raced into the -house, to give joint versions of the fairy tale, first to the parents in -the drawing-room, and then to nurse in the nursery. - -The Doctor went home also, with his poodle at his heels, but not by the -way he came. He went out of his way, which was odd; but then the Doctor -was “a little odd,” and moreover this was always the end of his evening -walk. Through the church-yard, where spreading cedars and stiff yews -rose from the velvet grass, and where among tombstones and crosses of -various devices lay one of older and uglier date, by which he stayed. It -was framed by a border of the most brilliant flowers, and it would seem -as if the Doctor must have been the gardener, for he picked off some -dead ones, and put them absently in his pocket. Then he looked round, as -if to see that he was alone. Not a soul was to be seen, and the -moonlight and shadow lay quietly side by side, as the dead do in their -graves. The Doctor stooped down and took off his hat. - -“Good-night, Marcia,” he said, in a low quiet voice. “Good-night, my -darling!” The dog licked his hand, but there was no voice to answer, nor -any that regarded. - -Poor foolish Doctor! Most foolish to speak to the departed with his face -earthwards. But we are weak mortals, the best of us; and this man (one -of the very best) raised his head at last, and went home like a lonely -owl with his face to the moon and the sky. - - - A BORROWED BROWNIE. - -“I can’t imagine,” said the Rector, walking into the drawing-room the -following afternoon; “I can’t imagine where Tiny is. I want her to drive -to the other end of the parish with me.” - -“There she comes,” said his wife, looking out of the window, “by the -garden-gate, with a great basket; what has she been after?” - -The Rector went out to discover, and met his daughter looking decidedly -earthy, and seemingly much exhausted by the weight of a basketful of -groundsel plants. - -“Where have you been?” said he. - -“In the Doctor’s garden,” said Tiny triumphantly; “and look what I have -done? I’ve weeded his sweet-peas, and brought away the groundsel; so -when he gets home to-night he’ll think a Brownie has been in the garden, -for Mrs. Pickles has promised not to tell him.” - -“But look here!” said the Rector, affecting a great appearance of -severity, “you’re my Brownie, not his. Supposing Tommy Trout had gone -and weeded Farmer Swede’s garden, and brought back his weeds to go to -seed on the Tailor’s flower-beds, how do you think he would have liked -it?” - -Tiny looked rather crestfallen. When one has fairly carried through a -splendid benevolence of this kind, it is trying to find oneself in the -wrong. She crept up to the Rector, however, and put her golden head upon -his arm. - -“But, Father dear,” she pleaded, “I didn’t mean not to be your Brownie; -only, you know, you had got five left at home, and it was only for a -short time, and the Doctor hasn’t any Brownie at all. Don’t you pity -him?” - -And the Rector, who was old enough to remember that grave-stone story we -wot of, hugged his Brownie in his arms, and answered— - -“My Darling, I do pity him!” - - - - - THE LAND OF LOST TOYS. - - - AN EARTHQUAKE IN THE NURSERY. - -It was certainly an aggravated offence. It is generally understood in -families that “boys will be boys,” but there is a limit to the -forbearance implied in the extenuating axiom. Master Sam was condemned -to the back nursery for the rest of the day. - -He always had had the knack of breaking his own toys,—he not -unfrequently broke other people’s; but accidents will happen, and his -twin sister and factotum, Dot, was long-suffering. - -Dot was fat, resolute, hasty, and devotedly unselfish. When Sam scalped -her new doll, and fastened the glossy black curls to a wigwam improvised -with the curtains of the four-post bed in the best bedroom, Dot was -sorely tried. As her eyes passed from the crownless doll on the floor to -the floss-silk ringlets hanging from the bed-furniture, her round rosy -face grew rounder and rosier, and tears burst from her eyes. But in a -moment more she clenched her little fists, forced back the tears, and -gave vent to her favorite saying, “I don’t care.” - -That sentence was Dot’s bane and antidote; it was her vice and her -virtue. It was her standing consolation, and it brought her into all her -scrapes. It was her one panacea for all the ups and downs of her life -(and in the nursery where Sam developed his organ of destructiveness -there were ups and downs not a few); and it was the form her naughtiness -took when she was naughty. - -“Don’t care fell into a goose-pond, Miss Dot,” said nurse, on one -occasion of the kind. - -“I don’t care if he did,” said Miss Dot; and as nurse knew no further -feature of the goose-pond adventure which met this view of it, she -closed the subject by putting Dot into the corner. - -In the strength of _Don’t care_, and her love for Sam, Dot bore much and -long. Her dolls perished by ingenious but untimely deaths. Her toys were -put to purposes for which they were never intended, and suffered -accordingly. But Sam was penitent, and Dot was heroic. Florinda’s scalp -was mended with a hot knitting-needle and a perpetual bonnet, and Dot -rescued her paint-brushes from the glue-pot, and smelt her India-rubber -as it boiled down in Sam’s water-proof manufactory, with long-suffering -forbearance. - -There are, however, as we have said, limits to everything. An earthquake -celebrated with the whole contents of the toy cupboard is not to be -borne. - -The matter was this. Early one morning Sam announced that he had a -glorious project on hand. He was going to give a grand show and -entertainment, far surpassing all the nursery imitations of circuses, -conjurors, lectures on chemistry, and so forth, with which they had ever -amused themselves. He refused to confide his plans to the faithful Dot; -but he begged her to lend him all the toys she possessed, in return for -which she was to be the sole spectator of the fun. He let out that the -idea had suggested itself to him after the sight of a Diorama to which -they had been taken, but he would not allow that it was anything of the -same kind; in proof of which she was at liberty to keep back her -paint-box. Dot tried hard to penetrate the secret, and to reserve some -of her things from the general conscription. But Sam was obstinate. He -would tell nothing, and he wanted everything. The dolls, the bricks -(especially the bricks), the tea-things, the German farm, the Swiss -cottages, the animals, and all the dolls’ furniture. Dot gave them with -a doubtful mind, and consoled herself as she watched Sam carrying pieces -of board and a green table cover into the back nursery, with the -prospect of a show. At last, Sam threw open the door and ushered her -into the nursery rocking-chair. - -The boy had certainly some constructive as well as destructive talent. -Upon a sort of impromptu table covered with green cloth he had arranged -all the toys in rough imitation of a town, with its streets and -buildings. The relative proportion of the parts was certainly not good; -but it was not Sam’s fault that the doll’s house and the German farm, -his own brick buildings, and the Swiss cottages, were all on totally -different scales of size. He had ingeniously put the larger things in -the foreground, keeping the small farm-buildings from the German box at -the far end of the streets, yet after all the perspective was extreme. -The effect of three large horses from the toy stables in front, with the -cows from the small Noah’s Ark in the distance, was admirable; but the -big dolls seated in an unroofed building, made with the wooden bricks on -no architectural principle but that of a pound, and taking tea out of -the new china tea-things, looked simply ridiculous. - -Dot’s eyes, however, saw no defects, and she clapped vehemently. - -“Here, ladies and gentlemen,” said Sam, waving his hand politely towards -the rocking-chair, “you see the great city of Lisbon, the capital of -Portugal——” - -At this display of geographical accuracy Dot fairly cheered, and rocked -herself to and fro in unmitigated enjoyment. - -“——as it appeared,” continued the showman, “on the morning of November -1st, 1755.” - -Never having had occasion to apply Mangnall’s Questions to the -exigencies of every-day life, this date in no way disturbed Dot’s -comfort. - -“In this house,” Sam proceeded, “a party of Portuguese ladies of rank -may be seen taking tea together.” - -“_Breakfast_, you mean,” said Dot; “you said it was in the morning, you -know.” - -“Well, they took tea to their breakfast,” said Sam. “Don’t interrupt me. -You are the audience, and you mustn’t speak. Here you see the horses of -the English ambassador out airing with his groom. There you see two -peasants—no! they are _not_ Noah and his wife, Dot, and if you go on -talking I shall shut up. I say they are peasants peacefully driving -cattle. At this moment a rumbling sound startles every one in the -city”—here Sam rolled some croquet balls up and down in a box, but the -dolls sat as quiet as before, and Dot alone was startled,—“this was -succeeded by a slight shock”—here he shook the table, which upset some -of the buildings belonging to the German farm.—“Some houses fell.”—Dot -began to look anxious.—“This shock was followed by several -others.”—“Take care,” she begged—“of increasing magnitude”—“Oh, Sam!” -Dot shrieked, jumping up, “you’re breaking the china!”—“The largest -buildings shook to their foundations,”—“Sam! Sam! the doll’s house is -falling,” Dot cried, making wild efforts to save it: but Sam held her -back with one arm, whilst with the other he began to pull at the boards -which formed his table—“Suddenly the ground split and opened with a -fearful yawn”—Dot’s shrieks shamed the impassive dolls, as Sam jerked -out the boards by a dextrous movement, and doll’s house, brick -buildings, the farm, the Swiss cottages, and the whole toy-stock of the -nursery, sank together in ruins. Quite unabashed by the evident damage, -Sam continued—“and in a moment the whole magnificent city of Lisbon was -swallowed up. Dot! Dot! don’t be a muff! What’s the matter? It’s -splendid fun. Things must be broken sometime, and I’m sure it was -exactly like the real thing. Dot! why don’t you speak? Dot! my dear Dot! -You don’t care, do you? I didn’t think you’d mind it so. It was such a -splendid earthquake. Oh! try not to go on like that!” - -But Dot’s feelings were far beyond her own control, much more that of -Master Sam, at this moment. She was gasping and choking, and when at -last she found breath it was only to throw herself on her face upon the -floor with bitter and uncontrollable sobbing. - -It was certainly a mild punishment that condemned Master Sam to the back -nursery for the rest of the day. It had, however, this additional -severity, that during the afternoon Aunt Penelope was expected to -arrive. - - - AUNT PENELOPE. - -Aunt Penelope was one of those dear, good souls, who, single themselves, -have, as real or adopted relatives, the interests of a dozen families, -instead of one, at heart. There are few people whose youth has not owned -the influence of at least one such friend. It may be a good habit, the -first interest in some life-loved pursuit or favorite author, some -pretty feminine art, or delicate womanly counsel enforced by those -narratives of real life that are more interesting than any fiction: it -may be only the periodical return of gifts and kindness, and the store -of family histories that no one else can tell; but we all owe something -to such an aunt or uncle—the fairy godmothers of real life. - -The benefits which Sam and Dot reaped from Aunt Penelope’s visits, may -be summed up under the heads of presents and stories, with a general -leaning to indulgence in the matters of punishment, lessons, and going -to bed, which perhaps is natural to aunts and uncles who have no -positive responsibilities in the young people’s education, and are not -the daily sufferers by the lack of due discipline. - -Aunt Penelope’s presents were lovely. Aunt Penelope’s stories were -charming. There was generally a moral wrapped up in them, like the motto -in a cracker-bonbon; but it was quite in the inside, so to speak, and -there was abundance of smart paper and sugar-plums. - -All things considered, it was certainly most proper that the -much-injured Dot should be dressed out in her best, and have access to -dessert, the dining-room, and Aunt Penelope, whilst Sam was kept -upstairs. And yet it was Dot who (her first burst of grief being over), -fought stoutly for his pardon all the time she was being dressed, and -was afterwards detected in the act of endeavoring to push fragments of -raspberry tart through the nursery key-hole. - -“You GOOD thing!” Sam emphatically exclaimed, as he heard her in fierce -conflict on the other side of the door with the nurse who found -her—“You GOOD thing! leave me alone, for I deserve it.” - -He really was very penitent. He was too fond of Dot not to regret the -unexpected degree of distress he had caused her; and Dot made much of -his penitence in her intercessions in the drawing-room. - -“Sam is so very sorry,” she said, “he says he knows he deserves it. I -think he ought to come down. He is so _very_ sorry!” - -Aunt Penelope, as usual, took the lenient side, joining her entreaties -to Dot’s, and it ended in Master Sam’s being hurriedly scrubbed and -brushed, and shoved into his black velvet suit, and sent downstairs, -rather red about the eyelids, and looking very sheepish. - -“Oh, Dot!” he exclaimed, as soon as he could get her into a corner, “I -am so very, very sorry! particularly about the tea-things.” - -“Never mind,” said Dot, “I don’t care; and I’ve asked for a story, and -we’re going into the library.” As Dot said this, she jerked her head -expressively in the direction of the sofa, where Aunt Penelope was just -casting on stitches preparatory to beginning a pair of her famous ribbed -socks for Papa, whilst she gave to Mamma’s conversation that sympathy, -which (like her knitting-needles) was always at the service of her large -circle of friends. Dot anxiously watched the bow on the top of her cap -as it danced and nodded with the force of Mamma’s observations. At last -it gave a little chorus of jerks, as one should say, “Certainly, -undoubtedly.” And then the story came to an end, and Dot, who had been -slowly creeping nearer, fairly took Aunt Penelope by the hand, and -carried her off, knitting and all, to the library. - -“Now, please,” said Dot, when she had struggled into a chair that was -too tall for her. - -“Stop a minute!” cried Sam, who was perched in the opposite one, “the -horsehair tickles my legs.” - -“Put your pocket-handkerchief under them, as I do,” said Dot. “_Now_, -Aunt Penelope.” - -“No, wait,” groaned Sam; “it isn’t big enough; it only covers one leg.” - -Dot slid down again, and ran to Sam. - -“Take my handkerchief for the other.” - -“But what will you do?” said Sam. - -“Oh, I don’t care,” said Dot, scrambling back into her place. “Now, -Aunty, please.” - -And Aunt Penelope began. - - - THE LAND OF LOST TOYS. - -“I suppose people who have children transfer their childish follies and -fancies to them, and become properly sedate and grown-up. Perhaps it is -because I am an old maid, and have none, that some of my nursery whims -stick to me, and I find myself liking things, and wanting things, quite -out of keeping with my cap and time of life. For instance. Anything in -the shape of a toy-shop (from a London bazaar to a village window, with -Dutch dolls, leather balls, and wooden battle-dores) quite unnerves me, -so to speak. When I see one of those boxes containing a jar, a churn, a -kettle, a pan, a coffee-pot, a cauldron on three legs, and sundry -dishes, all of the smoothest wood, and with the immemorial red flower on -one side of each vessel, I fairly long for an excuse for playing with -them, and for trying (positively for the last time) if the lids _do_ -come off, and whether the kettle will (literally, as well as -metaphorically) hold water. Then if, by good or ill luck, there is a -child flattening its little nose against the window with longing eyes, -my purse is soon empty; and as it toddles off with a square parcel under -one arm, and a lovely being in black ringlets and white tissue paper in -the other, I wish that I were worthy of being asked to join the ensuing -play. Don’t suppose there is any generosity in this. I have only done -what we are all glad to do. I have found an excuse for indulging a pet -weakness. As I said, it is not merely the new and expensive toys that -attract me; I think my weakest corner is where the penny boxes lie, the -wooden tea-things (with the above-named flower in miniature), the -soldiers on their lazy tongs, the nine-pins, and the tiny farm. - -“I need hardly say that the toy booth in a village fair tries me very -hard. It tried me in childhood, when I was often short of pence, and -when ‘the Feast’ came once a year. It never tried me more than on one -occasion, lately, when I was revisiting my old home. - -“It was deep Midsummer, and the Feast. I had children with me of course -(I find children, somehow, wherever I go), and when we got into the -fair, there were children of people whom I had known as children, with -just the same love for a monkey going up one side of a yellow stick and -coming down the other, and just as strong heads for a giddy-go-round on -a hot day and a diet of peppermint lozenges, as their fathers and -mothers before them. There were the very same names—and here and there -it seemed the very same faces—I knew so long ago. A few shillings were -indeed well expended in brightening those familiar eyes: and then there -were the children with me. . . . Besides, there really did seem to be an -unusually nice assortment of things, and the man was very intelligent -(in reference to his wares: . . . . Well, well! It was two o’clock P. M. -when we went in at one end of that glittering avenue of drums, dolls, -trumpets, accordions, work-boxes and what not; but what o’clock it was -when I came out at the other end, with a shilling and some coppers in my -pocket, and was cheered, I can’t say, though I should like to have been -able to be accurate about the time, because of what followed.) - -“I thought the best thing I could do was to get out of the fair at once, -so I went up the village and struck off across some fields into a little -wood that lay near. (A favorite walk in old times.) As I turned out of -the booth, my foot struck against one of the yellow sticks of the -climbing monkeys. The monkey was gone, and the stick broken. It set me -thinking as I walked along. - -“What an untold number of pretty and ingenious things one does (not wear -out in honorable wear and tear, but) utterly lose, and wilfully destroy, -in one’s young days—things that would have given pleasure to so many -more young eyes, if they had been kept a little longer—things that one -would so value in later years, if some of them had survived the -dissipating and destructive days of Nurserydom. I recalled a young lady -I knew, whose room was adorned with knick-knacks of a kind I had often -envied. They were not plaster figures, old china, wax-work flowers under -a glass, or ordinary ornaments of any kind. They were her old toys. -Perhaps she had not had many of them, and had been the more careful of -those she had. She had certainly been very fond of them, and had kept -more of them than any one I ever knew. A faded doll slept in its cradle -at the foot of her bed. A wooden elephant stood on the dressing-table, -and a poodle that had lost his bark put out a red-flannel tongue with -quixotic violence at a windmill on the opposite corner of the -mantelpiece. Everything had a story of its own. Indeed the whole room -must have been redolent with the sweet story of childhood, of which the -toys were the illustrations, or like a poem of which the toys were the -verses. She used to have children to play with them sometimes, and this -was a high honor. She is married now, and has children of her own, who -on birthdays and holidays will forsake the newest of their own -possessions to play with ‘mamma’s toys.’ - -“I was roused from these recollections by the pleasure of getting into -the wood. - -“If I have a stronger predilection than my love for toys, it is my love -for woods, and, like the other, it dates from childhood. It was born and -bred with me, and I fancy will stay with me till I die. The soothing -scents of leaf mould, moss, and fern (not to speak of flowers)—the pale -green veil in spring, the rich shade in summer, the rustle of the dry -leaves in autumn, I suppose an old woman may enjoy all these, my dears, -as well as you. But I think I could make ‘fairy jam’ of hips and haws in -acorn cups now, if any child would be condescending enough to play with -me. - -“_This_ wood, too, had associations. - -“I strolled on in leisurely enjoyment, and at last seated myself at the -foot of a tree to rest. I was hot and tired; partly with the mid-day -heat and the atmosphere of the fair, partly with the exertion of -calculating change in the purchase of articles ranging in price from -three farthings upwards. The tree under which I sat was an old friend. -There was a hole at its base that I knew well. Two roots covered with -exquisite moss ran out from each side, like the arms of a chair, and -between them there accumulated year after year a rich, though tiny store -of dark leaf-mould. We always used to say that fairies lived within, -though I never saw anything go in myself but wood beetles. There was one -going in at that moment. - -“How little the wood was changed! I bent my head for a few seconds, and, -closing my eyes, drank in the delicious and suggestive scents of earth -and moss about the dear old tree. I had been so long parted from the -place that I could hardly believe that I was in the old familiar spot. -Surely it was only one of the many dreams in which I had played again -beneath those trees! But when I reopened my eyes there was the same -hole, and, oddly enough, the same beetle or one just like it. I had not -noticed till that moment how much larger the hole was than it used to be -in my young days. - -“‘I suppose the rain and so forth wears them away in time,’ I said -vaguely. - -“‘Suppose it does,’ said the beetle politely; ‘will you walk in?’ - -“I don’t know why I was not so overpoweringly astonished as you would -imagine. I think I was a good deal absorbed in considering the size of -the hole, and the very foolish wish that seized me to do what I had -often longed to do in childhood, and creep in. I _had_ so much regard -for propriety as to see that there was no one to witness the escapade. -Then I tucked my skirts round me, put my spectacles into my pocket for -fear they should get broken, and in I went. - -“I must say one thing. A wood is charming enough (no one appreciates it -more than myself), but, if you have never been there, you have no idea -how much nicer it is inside than on the surface. Oh, the mosses—the -gorgeous mosses! The fretted lichens! The fungi like flowers for beauty, -and the flowers like nothing you have ever seen! - -“Where the beetle went to I don’t know. I could stand up now quite well, -and I wandered on till dusk in unwearied admiration. I was among some -large beeches as it grew dark, and was beginning to wonder how I should -find my way (not that I had lost it, having none to lose), when suddenly -lights burst from every tree, and the whole place was illuminated. The -nearest approach to this scene that I ever witnessed above ground was in -a wood near the Hague in Holland. There, what look like tiny glass -tumblers holding floating wicks, are fastened to the trunks of the fine -old trees, at intervals of sufficient distance to make the light and -shade mysterious, and to give effect to the full blaze when you reach -the spot where the hanging chains of lamps illuminate the ‘Pavilion’ and -the open space where the band plays, and where the townsfolk assemble by -hundreds to drink coffee and enjoy the music. I was the more reminded of -the Dutch ‘bosch’ because, after wandering some time among the lighted -trees, I heard distant sounds of music, and came at last upon a glade -lit up in a similar manner, except that the whole effect was -incomparably more brilliant. - -“As I stood for a moment doubting whether I should proceed, and a good -deal puzzled about the whole affair, I caught sight of a large spider -crouched up in a corner with his stomach on the ground and his knees -above his head, as some spiders do sit, and looking at me, as I fancied, -through a pair of spectacles. (About the spectacles I do not feel sure. -It may have been two of his bent legs in apparent connection with his -prominent eyes.) I thought of the beetle, and said civilly, ‘Can you -tell me, sir, if this is Fairyland?’ The spider took off his spectacles -(or untucked his legs), and took a sideways run out of his corner. - -“‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s a Providence. The fact is, it’s the Land of Lost -Toys. You haven’t such a thing as a fly anywhere about you, have you?’ - -“‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry to say I have not.’ This was not strictly -true, for I was not at all sorry; but I wished to be civil to the old -gentleman, for he projected his eyes at me with such an intense (I had -almost said greedy) gaze, that I felt quite frightened. - -“‘How did you pass the sentries?’ he inquired. - -“‘I never saw any,’ I answered. - -“‘You couldn’t have seen anything if you didn’t see them,’ he said; ‘but -perhaps you don’t know. They’re the glow-worms. Six to each tree, so -they light the road, and challenge the passers-by. Why didn’t they -challenge you?’ - -“‘I don’t know,’ I began, ‘unless the beetle——’ - -“‘I don’t like beetles,’ interrupted the spider, stretching each leg in -turn by sticking it up above him, ‘all shell and no flavor. You never -tried walking on anything of that sort, did you?’ and he pointed with -one leg to a long thread that fastened a web above his head. - -“‘Certainly not,’ said I. - -“‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t bear you,’ he observed slowly. - -“‘I’m quite sure it wouldn’t,’ I hastened to reply. ‘I wouldn’t try for -worlds. It would spoil your pretty work in a moment. Good-evening.’ - -“And I hurried forward. Once I looked back, but the spider was not -following me. He was in his hole again, on his stomach, with his knees -above his head, and looking (apparently through his spectacles) down the -road up which I came. - -“I soon forgot him in the sight before me. I had reached the open place -with the lights and the music; but how shall I describe the spectacle -that I beheld? - -“I have spoken of the effect of a toy-shop on my feelings. Now imagine a -toy-fair, brighter and gayer than the brightest bazaar ever seen, held -in an open glade, where forest-trees stood majestically behind the -glittering stalls, and stretched their gigantic arms above our heads, -brilliant with a thousand hanging lamps. At the moment of my entrance -all was silent and quiet. The toys lay in their places looking so -incredibly attractive that I reflected with disgust that all my ready -cash, except one shilling and some coppers, had melted away amid the -tawdry fascinations of a village booth. I was counting the coppers -(sevenpence halfpenny), when all in a moment a dozen sixpenny fiddles -leaped from their places and began to play, accordions of all sizes -joined them, the drumsticks beat upon the drums, the penny trumpets -sounded, and yellow flutes took up the melody on high notes, and bore it -away through the trees. It was weird fairy-music but quite delightful. -The nearest approach to it that I know of above ground is to hear a wild -dreamy air very well whistled to a pianoforte accompaniment. - -“When the music began, all the toys rose. The dolls jumped down and -began to dance. The poodles barked, the pannier donkeys wagged their -ears, the windmills turned, the puzzles put themselves together, the -bricks built houses, the balls flew from side to side, the battle-doors -and shuttle-cocks kept it up among themselves, and the skipping-ropes -went round, the hoops ran off, and the sticks went after them, the -cobbler’s wax at the tails of all the green frogs gave way, and they -jumped at the same moment, whilst an old-fashioned go-cart ran madly -about with nobody inside. It was most exhilarating. - -“I soon became aware that the beetle was once more at my elbow. - -“‘There are some beautiful toys here,’ I said. - -“‘Well, yes,’ he replied, ‘and some odd-looking ones, too. You see, -whatever has been really used by any child as a plaything gets a right -to come down here in the end; and there is some very queer company, I -assure you. Look there.’ - -“I looked, and said, ‘It seems to be a potato.’ - -“‘So it is,’ said the beetle. ‘It belonged to an Irish child in one of -your great cities. But to whom the child belonged I don’t know, and I -don’t think he knew himself. He lived in a corner of a dirty, -over-crowded room, and into this corner, one day, the potato rolled. It -was the only plaything he ever had. He stuck two cinders into it for -eyes, scraped a nose and mouth, and loved it. He sat upon it during the -day, for fear it should be taken from him, but in the dark he took it -out and played with it. He was often hungry, but he never ate that -potato. When he died it rolled out of the corner, and was swept into the -ashes. Then it came down here.’ - -“‘What a sad story!’ I exclaimed. - -“The beetle seemed in no way affected. - -“‘It is a curious thing,’ he rambled on, ‘that potato takes quite a good -place among the toys. You see, rank and precedence down here is entirely -a question of age; that is, of the length of time that any plaything has -been in the possession of a child; and all kinds of ugly old things hold -the first rank; whereas the most costly and beautiful works of art have -often been smashed or lost, by the spoilt children of rich people, in -two or three days. If you care for sad stories, there is another queer -thing belonging to a child who died.’ - -“It appeared to be a large sheet of canvas with some strange kind of -needlework upon it. - -“‘It belonged to a little girl in a rich household,’ the beetle -continued; ‘she was an invalid, and difficult to amuse. We have lots of -her toys, and very pretty ones too. At last some one taught her to make -caterpillars in wool-work. A bit of work was to be done in a certain -stitch and then cut with scissors, which made it look like a hairy -caterpillar. The child took to this, and cared for nothing else. Wool of -every shade was procured for her, and she made caterpillars of all -colors. Her only complaint was that they did not turn into butterflies. -However, she was a sweet, gentle-tempered child, and she went on, hoping -that they would do so, and making new ones. One day she was heard -talking and laughing in her bed for joy. She said that all the -caterpillars had become butterflies of many colors, and that the room -was full of them. In that happy fancy she died.’ - -“‘And the caterpillars came down here?’ - -“‘Not for a long time,’ said the beetle; ‘her mother kept them while -_she_ lived, and then they were lost and came down. No toys come down -here till they are broken or lost.’ - -“‘What are those sticks doing here?’ I asked. - -“The music had ceased, and all the toys were lying quiet. Up in a corner -leaned a large bundle of walking-sticks. They are often sold in -toy-shops, but I wondered on what grounds they came here. - -“‘Did you ever meet with a too benevolent old gentleman wondering where -on earth his sticks go to?’ said the beetle. ‘Why do they lend them to -their grandchildren? The young rogues use them as hobby-horses and lose -them, and down they come, and the sentinels cannot stop them. The real -hobby-horses won’t allow them to ride with them, however. There was a -meeting on the subject. Every stick was put through an examination. -‘Where is your nose? Where is your mane? Where are your wheels?’ The -last was a poser. Some of them had got noses, but none of them had got -wheels. So they were not true hobby-horses. Something of the kind -occurred with the elder whistles.’ - -“‘The what?’ I asked. - -“‘Whistles that boys make of elder sticks with the pith scooped out,’ -said the beetle. ‘The real instruments would not allow them to play with -them. The elder-whistles said they would not have joined had they been -asked. They were amateurs, and never played with professionals. So they -have private concerts with the combs and curl-papers. But, bless you, -toys of this kind are endless here! Teetotums made of old cotton reels, -tea-sets of acorn cups, dinner-sets of old shells, monkeys made of bits -of sponge, all sorts of things made of breastbones and merrythoughts, -old packs of cards that are always building themselves into houses and -getting knocked down when the band begins to play, feathers, rabbits’ -tails——’ - -“‘Ah! I have heard about rabbits’ tails,’ I said. - -“‘There they are,’ the beetle continued; ‘and when the band plays you -will see how they skip and run. I don’t believe you would find out that -they had no bodies, for my experience of a warren is, that when rabbits -skip and run it is the tails chiefly that you do see. But of all the -amateur toys the most successful are the boats. We have a lake for our -craft, you know, and there’s quite a fleet of boats made out of old cork -floats in fishing villages. Then, you see, the old bits of cork have -really been to sea, and seen a good deal of service on the herring nets, -and so they quite take the lead of the smart shop ships, that have never -been beyond a pond or a tub of water. But that’s an exception. Amateur -toys are mostly very dowdy. Look at that box.’ - -“I looked, thought I must have seen it before, and wondered why a very -common-looking box without a lid should affect me so strangely, and why -my memory should seem struggling to bring it back out of the past. -Suddenly it came to me—it was our old Toy Box. - -“I had completely forgotten that nursery institution till recalled by -the familiar aspect of the inside, which was papered with proof-sheets -of some old novel on which black stars had been stamped by way of -ornament. Dim memories of how these stars, and the angles of the box, -and certain projecting nails interfered with the letter-press and -defeated all attempts to trace the thread of the nameless narrative, -stole back over my brain; and I seemed once more, with my head in the -Toy Box, to beguile a wet afternoon by apoplectic endeavors to follow -the fortunes of Sir Charles and Lady Belinda, as they took a favorable -turn in the left-hand corner at the bottom of the trunk. - -“‘What are you staring at?’ said the beetle. - -“‘It’s my old Toy Box!’ I exclaimed. - -“The beetle rolled on to his back, and struggled helplessly with his -legs: I turned him over. (Neither the first nor the last time of my -showing that attention to beetles.) - -“‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘set me on my legs. What a turn you gave me! -You don’t mean to say you have any toys here? If you have, the sooner -you make your way home the better.’ - -“‘Why?’ I inquired. - -“‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s a very strong feeling in the place. The toys -think that they are ill-treated, and not taken care of by children in -general. And there is some truth in it. Toys come down here by scores -that have been broken the first day. And they are all quite resolved -that if any of their old masters or mistresses come this way they shall -be punished.’ - -“‘How will they be punished?’ I inquired. - -“‘Exactly as they did to their toys, their toys will do to them. All is -perfectly fair and regular.’ - -“‘I don’t know that I treated mine particularly badly,’ I said; ‘but I -think I would rather go.’ - -“‘I think you’d better,’ said the beetle. ‘Good-evening!’ and I saw him -no more. - -“I turned to go, but somehow I lost the road. At last, as I thought, I -found it, and had gone a few steps when I came on a detachment of wooden -soldiers, drawn up on their lazy tongs. I thought it better to wait till -they got out of the way, so I turned back, and sat down in a corner in -some alarm. As I did so, I heard a click, and the lid of a small box -covered with mottled paper burst open, and up jumped a figure in a blue -striped shirt and a rabbit-skin beard, whose eyes were intently fixed on -me. He was very like my old Jack-in-a-box. My back began to creep, and I -wildly meditated escape, frantically trying at the same time to recall -whether it were I or my brother who originated the idea of making a -small bonfire of our own one 5th of November, and burning the old -Jack-in-a-box for Guy Fawkes, till nothing was left of him but a -twirling bit of red-hot wire and a strong smell of frizzled fur. At this -moment he nodded to me and spoke. - -“‘Oh! that’s you, is it?’ he said. - -“‘No, it is not,’ I answered, hastily; for I was quite demoralized by -fear and the strangeness of the situation. - -“‘Who is it, then?’ he inquired. - -“‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ I said; and really I was so confused that I -hardly did. - -“‘Well, _we_ know,’ said the Jack-in-a-box, ‘and that’s all that’s -needed. Now, my friends,’ he continued, addressing the toys who had -begun to crowd round us, ‘whoever recognizes a mistress and remembers a -grudge—the hour of our revenge has come. Can we any of us forget the -treatment we received at her hands? No! When we think of the ingenious -fancy, the patient skill, that went to our manufacture; that fitted the -delicate joints and springs, laid on the paint and varnish, and gave -back-hair combs, and ear-rings to our smallest dolls, we feel that we -deserved more care than we received. When we reflect upon the kind -friends who bought us with their money, and gave us away in the -benevolence of their hearts, we know that for their sakes we ought to -have been longer kept and better valued. And when we remember that the -sole object of our own existence was to give pleasure and amusement to -our possessors, we have no hesitation in believing that we deserved a -handsomer return than to have had our springs broken, our paint dirtied, -and our earthly careers so untimely shortened by wilful mischief or -fickle neglect. My friends, the prisoner is at the bar.’ - -“‘I am not,’ I said; for I was determined not to give in as long as -resistance was possible. But as I said it I became aware, to my -unutterable amazement, that I was inside the go-cart. How I got there is -to this moment a mystery to me—but there I was. - -“There was a great deal of excitement about the Jack-in-a-box’s speech. -It was evident that he was considered an orator, and, indeed, I have -seen counsel in a real court look wonderfully like him. Meanwhile, my -old toys appeared to be getting together. I had no idea that I had had -so many. I had really been very fond of most of them, and my heart beat -as the sight of them recalled scenes long forgotten, and took me back to -childhood and home. There were my little gardening tools, and my slate, -and there was the big doll’s bedstead, that had a real mattress, and -real sheets and blankets, all marked with the letter D, and a workbasket -made in the blind school, and a shilling School of Art paint box, and a -wooden doll we used to call the Dowager, and innumerable other toys -which I had forgotten till the sight of them recalled them to my memory, -but which have again passed from my mind. Exactly opposite to me stood -the Chinese mandarin, nodding as I had never seen him nod since the day -when I finally stopped his performances by ill-directed efforts to -discover how he did it. - -“And what was that familiar figure among the rest, in a yellow silk -dress and maroon velvet cloak and hood trimmed with black lace? How -those clothes recalled the friends who gave them to me! And surely this -was no other than my dear doll Rosa—the beloved companion of five years -of my youth, whose hair I wore in a locket after I was grown up. No one -could say I had ill-treated _her_. Indeed, she fixed her eyes on me with -a most encouraging smile—but then she always smiled, her mouth was -painted so. - -“‘All whom it may concern, take notice,’ shouted the Jack-in-a-box, at -this point, ‘that the rule of this honorable court is tit for tat.’ - -“‘Tit, tat, tumble two,’ muttered the slate in a cracked voice. (How -well I remembered the fall that cracked it, and the sly games of tit tat -that varied the monotony of our long multiplication sums!) - -“‘What are you talking about?’ said the Jack-in-a-box, sharply; ‘if you -have grievances, state them, and you shall have satisfaction, as I told -you before.’ - -“‘——and five make nine,’ added the slate promptly, ‘and six are -fifteen, and eight are twenty-seven—there we go again! I wonder why I -never get up to the top of a line of figures right. It will never prove -at this rate.’ - -“‘His mind is lost in calculations,’ said the Jack-in-a-box, -‘besides—between ourselves—he has been “cracky” for some time. Let -some one else speak, and observe that no one is at liberty to pass a -sentence on the prisoner heavier than what he has suffered from her. I -reserve _my_ judgment to the last.’ - -“‘I know what that will be,’ thought I; ‘oh dear! oh dear! that a -respectable maiden lady should live to be burnt as a Guy Fawkes!’ - -“‘Let the prisoner drink a gallon of iced water at once, and then be -left to die of thirst.’ - -“The horrible idea that the speaker might possibly have the power to -enforce his sentence diverted my attention from the slate, and I looked -round. In front of the Jack-in-a-box stood a tiny red flower-pot and -saucer, in which was a miniature cactus. My thoughts flew back to a -bazaar in London where, years ago, a stand of these fairy plants had -excited my warmest longings, and where a benevolent old gentleman whom I -had not seen before, and never saw again, bought this one and gave it to -me. Vague memories of his directions for re-potting and tending it -reproached me from the past. My mind misgave me that after all it had -died a dusty death for lack of water. True, the cactus tribe being -succulent plants do not demand much moisture, but I had reason to fear -that, in this instance, the principle had been applied too far, and that -after copious baths of cold spring water in the first days of its -popularity it had eventually perished by drought. I suppose I looked -guilty, for it nodded its prickly head towards me, and said, ‘Ah! you -know me. You remember what I was, do you? Did you ever think of what I -might have been? There was a fairy rose which came down here not long -ago—a common rose enough, in a broken pot patched with string and white -paint. It had lived in a street where it was the only pure beautiful -thing your eyes could see. When the girl who kept it died there were -eighteen roses upon it. She was eighteen years old, and they put the -roses in the coffin with her when she was buried. That was worth living -for. Who knows what I might have done? And what right had you to cut -short a life that might have been useful?’ - -“Before I could think of a reply to these too just reproaches, the -flower-pot enlarged, the plant shot up, putting forth new branches as it -grew; then buds burst from the prickly limbs, and in a few moments there -hung about it great drooping blossoms of lovely pink, with long white -tassels in their throats. I had been gazing at it some time in silent -and self-reproachful admiration when I became aware that the business of -this strange court was proceeding, and that the other toys were -pronouncing sentence against me. - -“‘Tie a string round her neck and take her out bathing in the brooks,’ I -heard an elderly voice say in severe tones. It was the Dowager Doll. She -was inflexibly wooden, and had been in the family for more than one -generation. - -“‘It’s not fair,’ I exclaimed, ‘the string was only to keep you from -being carried away by the stream. The current is strong, and the bank -steep by the Hollow Oak Pool, and you had no arms or legs. You were old -and ugly, but you would wash, and we loved you better than many waxen -beauties.’ - -“‘Old and ugly!’ shrieked the Dowager. ‘Tear her wig off! Scrub the -paint off her face! Flatten her nose on the pavement! Saw off her legs -and give her no crinoline! Take her out bathing, I say, and bring her -home in a wheel-barrow with fern roots on the top of her.’ - -“I was about to protest again, when the paint-box came forward, and -balancing itself in an artistic, undecided kind of way on two -camel’s-hair brushes which seemed to serve it for feet, addressed the -Jack-in-a-box. - -“‘Never dip your paint into the water. Never put your brush into your -mouth——’ - -“‘That’s not evidence,’ said the Jack-in-a-box. - -“‘Your notions are crude,’ said the paint-box loftily; ‘it’s in print, -and here, all of it, or words to that effect;’ with which he touched the -lid, as a gentleman might lay his hand upon his heart. - -“‘It’s not evidence,’ repeated the Jack-in-a-box. ‘Let us proceed.’ - -“‘Take her to pieces and see what she’s made of, if you please,’ -tittered a pretty German toy that moved to a tinkling musical -accompaniment. ‘If her works are available after that it will be an era -in natural science.’ - -“The idea tickled me, and I laughed. - -“‘Hard-hearted wretch!’ growled the Dowager Doll. - -“‘Dip her in water and leave her to soak on a white soup plate,’ said -the paint-box; ‘if that doesn’t soften her feelings, deprive me of my -medal from the School of Art.’ - -“‘Give her a stiff neck!’ muttered the mandarin. ‘Ching Fo! give her a -stiff neck.’ - -“‘Knock her teeth out,’ growled the rake in a scratchy voice; and then -the tools joined in chorus. - -“‘Take her out when its fine and leave her out when it’s wet, and lose -her in——’ - -“‘The coal hole,’ said the spade. - -“‘The hay field,’ said the rake. - -“‘The shrubbery,’ said the hoe. - -“This difference of opinion produced a quarrel, which in turn seemed to -affect the general behavior of toys, for a disturbance arose which the -Jack-in-a-box vainly endeavored to quell. A dozen voices shouted for a -dozen different punishments and (happily for me) each toy insisted upon -its own wrongs being the first to be avenged, and no one would hear of -the claims of any one else being attended to for an instant. Terrible -sentences were passed, which I either failed to hear through the clamor -then, or have forgotten now. I have a vague idea that several voices -cried that I was to be sent to wash in somebody’s pocket; that the -work-basket wished to cram my mouth with unfinished needlework; and that -through all the din the thick voice of my old leather ball monotonously -repeated: - -“‘Throw her into the dust-hole.’ - -“Suddenly a clear voice pierced the confusion, and Rosa tripped up. - -“‘My dears,’ she began, ‘the only chance of restoring order is to -observe method. Let us follow our usual rule of precedence. I claim the -first turn as the prisoner’s oldest toy.’ - -“‘That you are not, Miss,’ snapped the dowager; ‘I was in the family for -fifty years.’ - -“‘In the family. Yes, ma’am; but you were never her doll in particular. -I was her very own, and she kept me longer than any other plaything. My -judgment must be first.’ - -“‘She is right,’ said the Jack-in-a-box, ‘and now let us get on. The -prisoner is delivered unreservedly into the hands of our trusty and -well-beloved Rosa—doll of the first class—for punishment according to -the strict law of tit for tat.’ - -“‘I shall request the assistance of the pewter tea-things,’ said Rosa, -with her usual smile. ‘And now, my love,’ she added, turning to me, ‘we -will come and sit down.’ - -“Where the go-cart vanished to I cannot remember, nor how I got out of -it; I only know that I suddenly found myself free, and walking away with -my hand in Rosa’s. I remember vacantly feeling the rough edge of the -stitches on her flat kid fingers, and wondering what would come next. - -“‘How very oddly you hold your feet, my dear,’ she said; ‘you stick out -your toes in such an eccentric fashion, and you lean your legs as if -they were table legs, instead of supporting yourself by my hand. Turn -your heels well out, and bring your toes together. You may even let them -fold over each other a little; it is considered to have a pretty effect -among dolls.’ - -“Under one of the big trees Miss Rosa made me sit down, propping me -against the trunk as if I should otherwise have fallen; and in a moment -more a square box of pewter tea-things came tumbling up to our feet, -where the lid burst open, and all the tea-things fell out in perfect -order; the cups on the saucers, the lid on the teapot and so on. - -“‘Take a little tea, my love?’ said Miss Rosa pressing a pewter teacup -to my lips. - -“I made believe to drink, but was only conscious of inhaling a draught -of air with a slight flavor of tin. In taking my second cup I was nearly -choked with the teaspoon, which got into my throat. - -“‘What are you doing?’ roared the Jack-in-a-box at this moment; ‘you are -not punishing her.’ - -“‘I am treating her as she treated me,’ answered Rosa, looking as severe -as her smile would allow. ‘I believe that tit for tat is the rule, and -that at present it is my turn.’ - -“‘It will be mine soon,’ growled the Jack-in-a-box, and I thought of the -bonfire with a shudder. However, there was no knowing what might happen -before his turn did come, and meanwhile I was in friendly hands. It was -not the first time my dolly and I had set together under a tree, and, -truth to say, I do not think she had any injuries to avenge. - -“‘When your wig comes off,’ murmured Rosa, as she stole a pink kid arm -tenderly round my neck, ‘I’ll make you a cap with blue and white -rosettes, and pretend that you have had a fever.’ - -“I thanked her gratefully, and was glad to reflect that I was not yet in -need of an attention which I distinctly remember having shown to her in -the days of her dollhood. Presently she jumped up. - -“‘I think you shall go to bed now, dear,’ she said, and, taking my hand -once more, she led me to the big doll’s bedstead, which, with its pretty -bedclothes and white dimity furniture, looked tempting enough to a -sleeper of suitable size. It could not have supported one-quarter of my -weight. - -“‘I have not made you a night-dress, my love,’ Rosa continued; ‘I am not -fond of my needle, you know. _You_ were not fond of your needle, I -think. I fear you must go to bed in your clothes, my dear.’ - -“‘You are very kind,’ I said, ‘but I am not tired, and—it would not -bear my weight.’ - -“‘Pooh! pooh!’ said Rosa. ‘My love! I remember passing one Sunday in it -with the rag-doll, and the Dowager, and the Punch and Judy (the amount -of pillow their two noses took up I shall never forget!), and the old -doll that had nothing on, because her clothes were in the dolls’ wash -and did not get ironed on Saturday night, and the Highlander, whose -things wouldn’t come off, and who slept in his kilt. Not bear you? -Nonsense! You must go to bed, my dear. I’ve got other things to do, and -I can’t leave you lying about.’ - -“‘The whole lot of you did not weigh one-quarter of what I do,’ I cried -desperately. ‘I cannot, and will not get into that bed; I should break -it all to pieces, and hurt myself into the bargain.’ - -“‘Well, if you will not go to bed, I must put you there,’ said Rosa, and -without more ado, she snatched me up in her kid arms, and laid me down. - -“Of course it was just as I expected. I had hardly touched the two -little pillows (they had a meal-bag smell from being stuffed with bran), -when the woodwork gave way with a crash, and I fell—fell—fell— - -“Though I fully believed every bone in my body to be broken, it was -really a relief to get to the ground. As soon as I could, I sat up, and -felt myself all over. A little stiff, but, as it seemed, unhurt. Oddly -enough, I found that I was back again under the tree; and more strange -still, it was not the tree where I sat with Rosa, but the old oak-tree -in the little wood. Was it all a dream? The toys had vanished, the -lights were out, the mosses looked dull in the growing dusk, the evening -was chilly, the hole no larger than it was thirty years ago, and when I -felt in my pocket for my spectacles I found that they were on my nose. - -“I have returned to the spot many times since, but I never could induce -a beetle to enter into conversation on the subject, the hole remains -obstinately impassable, and I have not been able to repeat my visit to -the Land of Lost Toys. - -“When I recall my many sins against the playthings of my childhood, I am -constrained humbly to acknowledge that perhaps this is just as well.” - - * * * * * * - - - SAM SETS UP SHOP. - -“I think you might help me, Dot,” cried Sam in dismal and rather injured -tones. - -It was the morning following the day of the earthquake, and of Aunt -Penelope’s arrival. Sam had his back to Dot, and his face to the fire, -over which indeed he had bent for so long that he appeared to be half -roasted. - -“What do you want?” asked Dot, who was working at a doll’s night-dress -that had for long been partly finished, and now seemed in a fair way to -completion. - -“It’s the glue-pot,” Sam continued. “It does take so long to boil. And I -have been stirring at the glue with a stick for ever so long to get it -to melt. It is very hot work. I wish you would take it for a bit. It’s -as much for your good as for mine.” - -“Is it?” said Dot. - -“Yes it is, Miss,” cried Sam. “You must know I’ve got a splendid idea.” - -“Not another earthquake, I hope?” said Dot, smiling. - -“Now, Dot, that’s truly unkind of you. I thought it was to be -forgotten.” - -“So it is,” said Dot, getting up. “I was only joking. What is the idea!” - -“I don’t think I shall tell you till I have finished my shop. I want to -get to it now, and I wish you would take a turn at the glue-pot.” - -Sam was apt to want a change of occupation. Dot, on the other hand, was -equally averse from leaving what she was about till it was finished, so -they suited each other like Jack Sprat and his wife. It had been an -effort to Dot to leave the night-dress which she had hoped to finish at -a sitting; but when she was fairly set to work on the glue business she -never moved till the glue was in working order, and her face as red as a -ripe tomato. - -By this time Sam had set up business in the window-seat, and was -fastening a large paper inscription over his shop. It ran thus:— - - MR. SAM, - - _Doll’s Doctor and Toymender to Her - Majesty,_ - - _the Queen, and all other Potentates._ - -“Splendid!” shouted Dot, who was serving up the glue as if it had been a -kettle of soup, and who looked herself very like an overtoasted cook. - -Sam took the glue, and began to bustle about. - -“Now, Dot, get me all the broken toys, and we’ll see what we can do. And -here’s a second splendid idea. Do you see that box? Into that we shall -put all the toys that are quite spoiled and cannot possibly be mended. -It is to be called the Hospital for Incurables. I’ve got a placard for -that. At least it’s not written yet, but here’s the paper, and perhaps -you would write it, Dot, for I am tired of writing and I want to begin -the mending.” - -“For the future,” he presently resumed, “when I want a doll to scalp or -behead, I shall apply to the Hospital for Incurables, and the same with -any other toy that I want to destroy. And you will see, my dear Dot, -that I shall be quite a blessing to the nursery; for I shall attend the -dolls gratis, and keep all the furniture in repair.” - -Sam really kept his word. He had a natural turn for mechanical work, -and, backed by Dot’s mechanical genius, he prolonged the days of the -broken toys by skillful mending, and so acquired an interest in them -which was still more favorable to their preservation. When his birthday -came round, which was some months after these events, Dot (assisted by -Mamma and Aunt Penelope), had prepared for him a surprise that was more -than equal to any of his own “splendid ideas.” The whole force of the -toy cupboard was assembled on the nursery table, to present Sam with a -fine box of joiner’s tools as a reward for his services, Papa kindly -acting as spokesman on the occasion. - -And certain gaps in the china tea-set, some scars on the dolls’ face, -and a good many new legs, both amongst the furniture and the animals, -are now the only remaining traces of Sam’s earthquake. - - - - - THREE CHRISTMAS-TREES. - - -This is a story of Three Christmas-Trees. The first was a real one, but -the child we are to speak of did not see it. He saw the other two, but -they were not real; they only existed in his fancy. The plot of the -story is very simple; and, as it has been described so early, it is easy -for those who think it stupid to lay the book down in good time. - -Probably every child who reads this has seen one Christmas-tree or more; -but in the small town of a distant colony with which we have to do, this -could not at one time have been said. Christmas-trees were then by no -means so universal, even in England, as they now are, and in this little -colonial town, they were unknown. Unknown that is, till the Governor’s -wife gave her great children’s party. At which point we will begin the -story. - -The Governor had given a great many parties in his time. He had -entertained big wigs and little wigs, the passing military and the local -grandees. Everybody who had the remotest claim to attention had been -attended to: the ladies had had their full share of balls and pleasure -parties: only one class of the population had any complaint to prefer -against his hospitality; but the class was a large one—it was the -children. However, he was a bachelor, and knew little or nothing about -little boys and girls: let us pity rather than blame him. At last he -took to himself a wife; and among the many advantages of this important -step, was a due recognition of the claims of these young citizens. It -was towards happy Christmas-tide, that “the Governor’s amiable and -admired lady” (as she was styled in the local newspaper) sent out notes -for his first children’s party. At the top of the note paper was a very -red robin, who carried a blue Christmas greeting in his mouth, and at -the bottom—written with the A. D. C.’s best flourish—were the magic -words, _A Christmas Tree_. In spite of the flourishes—partly perhaps, -because of them—the A. D. C.’s handwriting, though handsome, was rather -illegible. But for all this, most of the children invited contrived to -read these words, and those who could not do so were not slow to learn -the news by hearsay. There was to be a Christmas-Tree! It would be like -a birthday party, with this above ordinary birthdays, that there were to -be presents for every one. - -One of the children invited lived in a little white house, with a spruce -fir-tree before the door. The spruce fir did this good service to the -little house, that it helped people to find their way to it; and it was -by no means easy for a stranger to find his way to any given house in -this little town, especially if the house were small and white, and -stood in one of the back streets. For most of the houses were small, and -most of them were painted white, and the back streets ran parallel with -each other, and had no names, and were all so much alike that it was -very confusing. For instance, if you had asked the way to Mr. -So-and-So’s, it is very probable that some friend would have directed -you as follows: “Go straight forward and take the first turning to your -left, and you will find that there are four streets, which run at right -angles to the one you are in, and parallel with each other. Each of them -has got a big pine in it—one of the old forest trees. Take the last -street but one, and the fifth white house you come to is Mr. -So-and-So’s. He has green blinds and a colored servant.” You would not -always have got such clear directions as these, but with them you would -probably have found the house at last, partly by accident, partly by the -blinds and colored servant. Some of the neighbors affirmed that the -little white house had a name; that all the houses and streets had -names, only they were traditional and not recorded anywhere; that very -few people knew them, and nobody made any use of them. The name of the -little white house was said to be Trafalgar Villa, which seemed so -inappropriate to the modest peaceful little home, that the man who lived -in it tried to find out why it had been so called. He thought that his -predecessor must have been in the navy, until he found that he had been -the owner of what is called a “dry-goods store,” which seems to mean a -shop where things are sold which are not good to eat or drink—such as -drapery. At last somebody said, that as there was a public-house called -the “Duke of Wellington” at the corner of the street, there probably had -been a nearer one called “The Nelson,” which had been burnt down, and -that the man who built “The Nelson” had built the house with a spruce -fir before it, and that so the name had arisen. An explanation which was -just so far probable, that public-houses and fires were of frequent -occurrence in those parts. - -But this had nothing to do with the story. Only we must say, as we said -before, and as we should have said had we been living there then, the -child we speak of lived in the little white house with one spruce fir -just in front of it. - -Of all the children who looked forward to the Christmas-tree, he looked -forward to it the most intensely. He was an imaginative child, of a -simple, happy nature, easy to please. His father was an Englishman, and -in the long winter evenings he would tell the child tales of the old -country, to which his mother would listen also. Perhaps the parents -enjoyed these stories the most. To the boy they were new, and -consequently delightful, but to the parents they were old; and as -regards some stories, that is better still. - -“What kind of a bird is this on my letter?” asked the boy on the day -which brought the Governor’s lady’s note of invitation. “And oh! what is -a Christmas-tree?” - -“The bird is an English robin,” said his father. “It is quite another -bird to that which is called a robin here: it is smaller and rounder; -and has a redder breast and bright dark eyes, and lives and sings at -home through the winter. A Christmas-tree is a fir-tree—just such a one -as that outside the door—brought into the house and covered with lights -and presents. Picture to yourself our fir-tree lighted up with tapers on -all the branches, with dolls, and trumpets, and bonbons, and drums, and -toys of all kinds hanging from it like fir-cones, and on the tip-top -shoot a figure of a Christmas Angel in white, with a star upon its -head.” - -“Fancy!” said the boy. - -And fancy he did. Every day he looked at the spruce firs, and tried to -imagine it laden with presents, and brilliant with tapers, and thought -how wonderful must be that “old country”—_Home_, as it was called, even -by those who had never seen it—where the robins were so very red, and -where at Christmas the fir-trees were hung with toys instead of cones. - -It was certainly a pity that, two days before the party, an original -idea on the subject of snowmen struck one of the children who used to -play together, with their sleds and snow-shoes, in the back streets. The -idea was this: That instead of having a common-place snowman, whose legs -were obliged to be mere stumps, for fear he should be top-heavy, and who -could not walk, even with them; who, in fact, could do nothing but stand -at the corner of the street, holding his impotent stick, and staring -with his pebble eyes, till he was broken to pieces or ignominiously -carried away by a thaw,—that, instead of this, they should have a real, -live snowman, who should walk on competent legs, to the astonishment, -and (happy thought!) perhaps to the alarm of the passers-by. This -delightful novelty was to be accomplished by covering one of the boys of -the party with snow till he looked as like a real snowman as -circumstances would admit. At first everybody wanted to be the snowman, -but, when it came to the point, it was found to be so much duller to -stand still and be covered up than to run about and work, that no one -was willing to act the part. At last it was undertaken by the little boy -from the Fir House. He was somewhat small, but then he was so -good-natured he would always do as he was asked. So he stood manfully -still, with his arms folded over a walking-stick upon his breast, while -the others heaped the snow upon him. The plan was not so successful as -they had hoped. The snow would not stick anywhere except on his -shoulders, and when it got into his neck he cried with the cold; but -they were so anxious to carry out their project, that they begged him to -bear it “just a little longer:” and the urchin who had devised the -original idea wiped the child’s eyes with his handkerchief, and (with -that hopefulness which is so easy over other people’s matters) “dared -say that when all the snow was on, he wouldn’t feel it.” However, he did -feel it, and that so severely that the children were obliged to give up -the game, and, taking the stick out of his stiff little arms, to lead -him home. - -It appears that it is with snowmen as with some other men in conspicuous -positions. It is easier to find fault with them than to fill their -place. - -The end of this was a feverish cold, and, when the day of the party -came, the ex-snowman was still in bed. It is due to the other children -to say that they felt the disappointment as keenly as he did, and that -it greatly damped the pleasure of the party for them to think that they -had prevented his sharing in the treat. The most penitent of all was the -deviser of the original idea. He had generously offered to stay at home -with the little patient, which was as generously refused; but the next -evening he was allowed to come and sit on the bed, and describe it all -for the amusement of his friend. He was a quaint boy, this urchin, with -a face as broad as an American Indian’s, eyes as bright as a squirrel’s, -and all the mischief in life lurking about him, till you could see -roguishness in the very folds of his hooded Indian winter coat of blue -and scarlet. In his hand he brought the sick child’s presents: a dray -with two white horses, and little barrels that took off and on, and a -driver, with wooden joints, a cloth coat, and everything, in fact, that -was suitable to the driver of a brewer’s dray, except that he had blue -boots and earrings, and that his hair was painted in braids like a -lady’s, which is clearly the fault of the doll manufacturers, who will -persist in making them all of the weaker sex. - -“And what was the Christmas-tree like?” asked the invalid. - -“Exactly like the fir outside your door,” was the reply. “Just about -that size, and planted in a pot covered with red cloth. It was kept in -another room till after tea, and then when the door was opened it was -like a street fire in the town at night—such a blaze of light—candles -everywhere! And on all the branches the most beautiful presents. I got a -drum and a penwiper.” - -“Was there an angel?” the child asked. - -“Oh, yes!” the boy answered. “It was on the tip-top branch, and it was -given to me, and I brought it for you, if you would like it; for, you -know, I am so very, very sorry I thought of the snowman and made you -ill, and I do love you, and beg you to forgive me.” - -And the roguish face stooped over the pillow to be kissed; and out of a -pocket in the hooded coat came forth the Christmas Angel. In the face it -bore a strong family likeness to the drayman, but its feet were hidden -in folds of snowy muslin, and on its head glittered a tinsel star. - -“How lovely!” said the child. “Father told me about this. I like it best -of all. And it is very kind of you, for it is not your fault that I -caught cold. I should have liked it if we could have done it, but I -think to enjoy being a snowman, one should be snow all through.” - -They had tea together, and then the invalid was tucked up for the night. -The dray was put away in the cupboard, but he took the angel to bed with -him. - -And so ended the first of the Three Christmas-Trees. - - * * * * * * - -Except for a warm glow from the wood fire in the stove, the room was -dark; but about midnight it seemed to the child that a sudden blaze of -light filled the chamber. At the same moment the window curtains were -drawn aside, and he saw that the spruce fir had come close up to the -panes, and was peeping in. Ah! how beautiful it looked! It had become a -Christmas-tree. Lighted tapers shone from every familiar branch, toys of -the most fascinating appearance hung like fruit, and on the tip-top -shoot there stood the Christmas Angel. He tried to count the candles, -but somehow it was impossible. When he looked at them they seemed to -change places—to move—to become like the angel, and then to be candles -again, whilst the flames nodded to each other and repeated the blue -greeting of the robin, “A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!” Then he -tried to distinguish the presents, but, beautiful as the toys looked, he -could not exactly discover what any of them were, or choose which he -would like best. Only the Angel he could see clearly—so clearly! It was -more beautiful than the doll under his pillow; it had a lovely face like -his own mother’s, he thought, and on its head gleamed a star far -brighter than tinsel. Its white robes waved with the flames of the -tapers, and it stretched its arms towards him with a smile. - -“I am to go and choose my present,” thought the child; and he called -“Mother! mother dear! please open the window.” - -But his mother did not answer. So he thought he must get up himself, and -with an effort, he struggled out of bed. - -But when he was on his feet, everything seemed changed! Only the -fire-light shone upon the walls, and the curtains were once more firmly -closed before the window. It had been a dream, but so vivid that in his -feverish state he still thought it must be true, and dragged the -curtains back to let in the glorious sight again. The fire-light shone -upon a thick coating of frost upon the panes, but no further could he -see, so with all his strength he pushed the window open and leaned out -into the night. - -The spruce fir stood in its old place; but it looked very beautiful in -its Christmas dress. Beneath it lay a carpet of pure white. The snow was -clustered in exquisite shapes upon its plumy branches; wrapping the tree -top with its little cross shots, as a white robe might wrap a figure -with outstretched arms. - -There were no tapers to be seen, but northern lights shot up into the -dark blue sky, and just over the fir-tree shone a bright, bright star. - -“Jupiter looks well to-night,” said the old Professor in the town -observatory, as he fixed his telescope; but to the child it seemed as -the star of the Christmas Angel. - -His mother had really heard him call, and now came and put him back to -bed again. And so ended the second of the Three Christmas-Trees. - - * * * * * * - -It was enough to have killed him, all his friends said; but it did not. -He lived to be a man, and—what is rarer—to keep the faith, the -simplicity, the tender-heartedness, the vivid fancy of his childhood. He -lived to see many Christmas-Trees “at home,” in that old country where -the robins are red-breasts, and sing in winter. There a heart as good -and gentle as his own became one with his; and once he brought his young -wife across the sea to visit the place where he was born. They stood -near the little white house, and he told her the story of the -Christmas-trees. - -“This was when I was a child,” he added. - -“But that you are still,” said she; and she plucked a bit of the -fir-tree and kissed it, and carried it away. - -He lived to tell the story to his children, and even to his -grandchildren; but he never was able to decide which of the two was the -more beautiful—the Christmas-Tree of his dream, or the Spruce Fir as it -stood in the loveliness of that winter night. - -This is told, not that it has anything to do with any of the Three -Christmas-Trees, but to show that the story is a happy one, as is right -and proper; that the hero lived, and married, and had children, and was -as prosperous as good people, in books, should always be. - -Of course he died at last. The best and happiest of men must die; and it -is only because some stories stop short in their history, that every -hero is not duly buried before we lay down the book. - -When death came for our hero he was an old man. The beloved wife, some -of his children, and many of his friends had died before him, and of -those whom he had loved there were fewer to leave than to rejoin. He had -had a short illness, with little pain, and was now lying on his -death-bed in one of the big towns in the North of England. His youngest -son, a clergyman, was with him, and one or two others of his children, -and by the fire sat the doctor. - -The doctor had been sitting by the patient, but now that he could do no -more for him he had moved to the fire; and they had taken the ghastly, -half-emptied medicine bottles from the table by the bedside, and had -spread it with a fair linen cloth, and had set out the silver vessels of -the Supper of the Lord. - -The old man had been “wandering” somewhat during the day. He had talked -much of going home to the old country, and with the wide range of dying -thoughts he had seemed to mingle memories of childhood with his hopes of -Paradise. At intervals he was clear and collected—one of those moments -had been chosen for his last sacrament—and he had fallen asleep with -the blessing in his ears. - -He slept so long and so peacefully that the son almost began to hope -there might be a change, and looked towards the doctor, who still sat by -the fire with his right leg crossed over his left. The doctor’s eyes -were also on the bed, but at that moment he drew out his watch and -looked at it with an air of professional conviction, which said, “It’s -only a question of time.” Then he crossed his left leg over his right, -and turned to the fire again. Before the right leg should be tired, all -would be over. The son saw it as clearly as if it had been spoken, and -he too turned away and sighed. - -As they sat, the bells of a church in the town began to chime for -midnight service, for it was Christmas Eve, but they did not wake the -dying man. He slept on and on. - -The doctor dozed. The son read in the Prayer Book on the table, and one -of his sisters read with him. Another, from grief and weariness, slept -with her head upon his shoulder. Except for a warm glow from the fire, -the room was dark. Suddenly the old man sat up in bed, and, in a strong -voice, cried with inexpressible enthusiasm. - -“_How beautiful!_” - -The son held back his sisters, and asked quietly, - -“_What_, my dear father?” - -“The Christmas-Tree!” he said, in a low, eager voice. “Draw back the -curtains.” - -They were drawn back; but nothing could be seen, and still the old man -gazed as if in ecstacy. - -“Light!” he murmured. “The Angel! the Star!” - -Again there was silence; and then he stretched forth his hands, and -cried passionately, - -“The Angel is beckoning to me! Mother! mother dear! Please open the -window.” - -The sash was thrown open, and all eyes turned involuntarily where those -of the dying man were gazing. There was no Christmas-Tree—no tree at -all. But over the housetops the morning star looked pure and pale in the -dawn of Christmas Day. For the night was past, and above the distant hum -of the streets the clear voices of some waits made the words of an old -carol heard—words dearer for their association than their poetry— - - “While shepherds watched their flocks by night - All seated on the ground, - The Angel of the Lord came down, - And glory shone around.” - -When the window was opened, the soul passed; and when they looked back -to the bed the old man had lain down again, and like a child, was -smiling in his sleep—his last sleep. - -And this was the Third Christmas-Tree. - - - - - AN IDYL OF THE WOOD. - - -“Tell us a story,” said the children, “a sad one, if you please, and a -little true. But, above all, let it end badly, for we are tired of -people who live happily ever after.” - -“I heard one lately,” said the old man who lived in the wood; “it is -founded on fact, and it is a sad one also; but whether it ends badly or -no I cannot pretend to say. That is a matter of taste: what is a bad -ending?” - -“A story ends badly,” said the children with authority, “when people -die, and nobody marries anybody else, especially if it is a prince and -princess.” - -“A most lucid explanation,” said the old man. “I think my story will do, -for the principal character dies, and there is no wedding.” - -“Tell it, tell it!” cried his hearers, “and tell us also where you got -it from.” - -“Who knows the riches of a wood in summer?” said the old man. “In -summer, do I say? In spring, in autumn, or in winter either. Who knows -them? You, my children? Well, well. Better than some of your elders, -perchance. You know the wood where I live; the hollow tree that will -hold five children, and Queen Mab knows how many fairies. (What a castle -it makes! And if it had but another floor put into it, with a sloping -ladder—like one of the round towers of Ireland—what a house for -children to live in! With no room for lesson-books, grown-up people, or -beds!) - -“You know the way to the hazel copse, and the place where the wild -strawberries grow. You know where the wren sits on her eggs, and, like -good children, pass by with soft steps and hushed voices, that you may -not disturb that little mother. You know (for I have shown you) where -the rare fern grows—a habitat happily yet unnoted in scientific pages. -_We_ never add its lovely fronds to our nosegays, and if we move a root -it is but to plant it in another part of the wood, with as much mystery -and circumspection as if we were performing some solemn druidical rite. -It is to us as a king in hiding, and the places of its abode we keep -faithfully secret. It will be thus held sacred by us until, with all the -seeds its untouched fronds have scattered, and all the off-shoots we -have propagated, it shall have become as plentiful as Heaven intends all -beautiful things to be. Every one is not so scrupulous. There are -certain ladies and gentlemen who picnic near my cottage in the hot -weather, and who tell each other that they love a wood. Most of these -good people have nevertheless neither eyes nor ears for what goes on -around them, except that they hear each other, and see the cold -collation. They will picnic there summer after summer, and not know -whether they sit under oaks or ashes, beeches or elms. All birds sing -for them the same song. Tell _them_ that such a plant is rare in the -neighborhood, that there are but few specimens of it, and it will not -long be their fault if there are any. Does any one direct them to it, -they tear it ruthlessly up, and carry it away. If by any chance a root -is left, it is left so dragged and pulled and denuded of earth, that -there is small chance that it will survive. Probably, also, the ravished -clump dies in the garden or pot to which it is transplanted, either from -neglect, or from ignorance of the conditions essential to its life; and -the rare plant becomes yet rarer. Oh! without doubt they love a wood. It -gives more shade than the largest umbrella, and is cheaper for summer -entertainment than a tent: there you get canopy and carpet, fuel and -water, shade and song, and beauty—all gratis; and these are not small -matters when one has invited a large party of one’s acquaintance. There -are insects, it is true, which somewhat disturb our friends; and as they -do not know which sting, and which are harmless, they kill all that come -within their reach, as a safe general principle. The town boys, too! -They know the wood—that is to say, they know where the wild fruits -grow, and how to chase the squirrel, and rob the bird’s nests, and snare -the birds. Well, well, my children; to know and love a wood truly, it -may be that one must live in it as I have done; and then a lifetime will -scarcely reveal all its beauties, or exhaust its lessons. But even then, -one must have eyes that see, and ears that hear, or one misses a good -deal. It was in the wood that I heard this story that I shall tell you.” - -“How did you hear it?” asked the children. - -“A thrush sang it to me one night.” - -“One night?” said the children. “Then you mean a nightingale.” - -“I mean a thrush,” said the old man. “Do I not know the note of one bird -from another? I tell you that pine tree by my cottage has a legend of -its own, and the topmost branch is haunted. Must all legends be above -the loves and sorrows of our self-satisfied race alone?” - -“But did you really and truly hear it?” they asked. - -“I heard it,” said the old man. “But, as I tell you, one hears and one -hears. I don’t say that everybody would have heard it, merely by -sleeping in my chamber; but, for the benefit of the least imaginative, I -will assure you that it is founded on fact.” - -“Begin! begin!” shouted the children. - -“Once upon a time,” said the old man, “there was a young thrush, who was -born in that beautiful dingle where we last planted the —— fern. His -home-nest was close to the ground, but the lower one is, the less fear -of falling; and in woods, the elevation at which you sleep is a matter -of taste, and not of expense or gentility. He awoke to life when the -wood was dressed in the pale fresh green of early summer; and believing, -like other folk, that, his own home was at least the principal part of -the world, earth seemed to him so happy and so beautiful an abode, that -his heart felt ready to burst with joy. The ecstacy was almost pain, -till wings and a voice came to him. Then, one day, when, after a gray -morning, the sun came out at noon, drawing the scent from the old pine -that looks in at my bedroom window, his joy burst forth, after long -silence, into song, and flying upwards he sat on the topmost branch of -the pine and sang as loud as he could sing to the sun and the blue sky. - -“‘Joy! joy!’ he sang. ‘Fresh water and green woods, ambrosial sunshine -and sun-flecked shade, chattering brooks and rustling leaves, glade, and -sward, and dell. Lichens and cool mosses, feathered ferns and flowers. -Green leaves! Green leaves! Summer! summer! summer!’ - -“It was monotonous, but every word came from the singer’s heart, which -is not always the case. Thenceforward, though he slept near the ground, -he went up every day to this pine, as to some sacred high place, and -sang the same song, of which neither he nor I were ever weary. - -“Let one be ever so inoffensive, however, one is not long left in peace -in this world, even in a wood. The thrush sang too loudly of his simple -happiness, and some boys from the town heard him and snared him, and -took him away in a dirty cloth cap, where he was nearly smothered. The -world is certainly not exclusively composed of sunshine, and green -woods, and odorous pines. He became almost senseless during the hot -dusty walk that led to the town. It was a seaport town, about two miles -from the wood, a town of narrow, steep streets, picturesque old houses, -and odors compounded of tar, dead fish, and many other scents less -agreeable than forest perfumes. The thrush was put into a small -wicker-cage in an upper room, in one of the narrowest and steepest of -the streets. - -“‘I shall die to-night,’ he piped. But he did not. He lived that night, -and for several nights and days following. The boys took small care of -him, however. He was often left without food, without water, and always -with too little air. Two or three times they tried to sell him, but he -was not bought, for no one could hear him sing. One day he was hung -outside the window, and partly owing to the sun and fresh air, and -partly because a woman was singing in the street, he began to carol his -old song. - -“The woman was a street singer. She was even paler, thinner, and more -destitute-looking than such women usually are. In some past time there -had been beauty and feeling in her face, but the traces of both were -well-nigh gone. An indifference almost amounting to vacancy was there -now, and, except that she sang, you might almost have fancied her a -corpse. In her voice also there had once been beauty and feeling, and -here again the traces were small indeed. From time to time, she was -stopped by fits of coughing, when an ill-favored hunchback, who -accompanied her on a tambourine, swore and scowled at her. She sang a -song of sentiment, with a refrain about - - ‘Love and truth, - And joys of youth—’ - -on which the melody dwelt and quavered as if in mockery. As she sang a -sailor came down the street. His collar was very large, his trousers -were very wide, his hat hung on the back of his head more as an ornament -than for shelter; and he had one of the roughest faces and the gentlest -hearts that ever went together since Beauty was entertained by the -Beast. His hands were in his pockets, where he could feel one shilling -and a penny, all the spare cash that remained to him after a friendly -stroll through the town. When he saw the street singer, he stopped, -pulled off his hat, and scratched his head, as was his custom when he -was puzzled or interested. - -“‘It’s no good keeping an odd penny,’ he said to himself; ‘poor thing, -she looks bad enough!’ And, bringing the penny to the surface out of the -depths of his pocket, he gave it to the woman. The hunchback came -forward to take it, but the sailor passed him with a shove of his elbow, -and gave it to the singer, who handed it over to her companion without -moving a feature, and went on with her song. - -“‘I’d like to break every bone in your ugly body,’ muttered the sailor, -with a glance at the hunchback, who scowled in return. - -“‘I shall die of this close street, and of all I have suffered,’ thought -the thrush. - -“‘Green leaves! green leaves!’ he sang, for it was the only song he -knew. - -“‘My voice is gone,’ thought the hunchback’s companion. ‘He’ll beat me -again to-night; but it can’t last long: - - “Love and truth, - And joys of youth—”’ - -she sang, for that was all the song she had learned; and it was not her -fault that it was inappropriate. - -“But the ballad singer’s captivity was nearly at an end. When the -hunchback left her that evening to spend the sailor’s penny with the few -others which she had earned, he swore that when he came back he would -make her sing louder than she had done all day. Her face showed no -emotion, less than it did when he saw it hours after, when beauty and -feeling seemed to have returned to it in the peace of death, when he -came back and found the cage empty, and that the long prisoned spirit -had flown away to seek the face of love and truth indeed.” - -“But how about the thrush?” - -“The sailor had scarcely swallowed the wrath which the hunchback had -stirred in him, when his ear was caught by the song of the thrush above -him. - -“‘You sing uncommon well, pretty one,’ he said, stopping and putting his -hat even farther back than usual to look up. He was one of those good -people who stop a dozen times in one street, and look at everything as -they go along; whereby you may see three times as much of life as other -folk, but it is a terrible temptation to spend money. It was so in this -instance. The sailor looked till his kindly eyes perceived that the bird -was ill-cared for. - -“‘It should have a bit of sod, it _should_,’ he said, emphatically, -taking his hat off, and scratching his head again; ‘and there’s not a -crumb of food on board. Maybe, they don’t understand the ways of birds -here. It would be a good turn to mention it.’ - -“With this charitable intention he entered the house, and when he left -it, his pocket was empty, and the thrush was carried tenderly in his -handkerchief. - -“‘The canary died last voyage,’ he muttered apologetically to himself, -‘and the money always does go somehow or other.’ - -“The sailor’s hands were about three times as large and coarse as those -of the boy who had carried the thrush before, but they seemed to him -three times more light and tender—they were handy and kind, and this -goes farther than taper fingers. - -“The thrush’s new home was not in the narrow streets. It was in a small -cottage in a small garden at the back of the town. The canary’s old cage -was comparatively roomy, and food, water, and fresh turf were regularly -supplied to him. He could see green leaves too. There was an apple tree -in the garden, and two geraniums, a fuchsia, and a tea-rose in the -window. Near the tea-rose an old woman sat in the sunshine. She was the -sailor’s mother, and looked very like a tidily kept window plant -herself. She had a little money of her own, which gave her a certain -dignity, and her son was very good to her; and so she dwelt in -considerable comfort, dividing her time chiefly between reading in the -big Bible, knitting socks for Jack, and raising cuttings in bottles of -water. She had heard of hothouses and forcing frames, but she did not -think much of them. She believed a bottle of water to be the most -natural, because it was the oldest method she knew of, and she thought -no good came of new-fangled ways, and trying to outdo Nature. - -“‘Slow and sure is best,’ she said, and stuck to her own system. - -“‘What’s that, my dear?’ she asked, when the sailor came in and held up -the handkerchief. He told her. - -“‘You’re always a-laying out your money on something or other,’ said the -old lady, who took the privilege of her years to be a little testy. -‘What did you give for _that_?’ - -“‘A shilling, ma’am.’ - -“‘Tst! tst! tst!’ said the old lady, disapprovingly. - -“‘Now, mother, don’t shake that cap of yours off your head,’ said the -sailor. ‘What’s a shilling? If I hadn’t spent it, I should have changed -it; and once change a shilling, and it all dribbles away in coppers, and -you get nothing for it. But spend it in a lump, and you get something -you want. That’s what I say.’ - -“‘_I_ want no more pets,’ said the old lady stiffly. - -“‘Well, you won’t be troubled with this one long,’ said her son; ‘it’ll -go with me, and that’s soon enough.’ - -“Any allusion to his departure always melted the old lady, as Jack well -knew. She became tearful, and begged him to leave the thrush with her. - -“‘You know, my dear, I’ve always looked to your live things as if they -were Christians; and loved them too (unless it was that monkey that I -never _could_ do with!) Leave it with me, my dear. I’d never bother -myself with a bird on board ship, if I was you.’ - -“‘That’s because you’ve got a handsome son of your own, old lady,’ -chuckled the sailor; ‘I’ve neither chick nor child, ma’am, remember, and -a man must have something to look to. The bird’ll go with me.’ - -“And so it came to pass that just when the thrush was becoming -domesticated, and almost happy at the cottage, that one morning the -sailor brought him fresh turf and groundsel, besides his meal-cake, and -took the cage down. And the old woman kissed the wires, and bade the -bird good-bye, and prayed Heaven to bring him safe home again; and they -went their way. - -“The forecastle of a steamship (even of a big one) is a poor exchange -for a snug cottage to any one but a sailor. To Jack, the ship was home. -_He_ had never lived in a wood, and carrolled in tree-tops. He preferred -blue to green, and pine masts to pine trees; and he smoked his pipe very -comfortably in the forecastle, whilst the ship rolled to and fro, and -swung the bird’s cage above his head. To the thrush it was only an -imprisonment that grew worse as time went on. Each succeeding day made -him pine more bitterly for his native woods—the fresh air and green -leaves, and the rest and quiet, and sweet perfumes, and pleasant sounds -of country life. His turf dried up, his groundsel withered, and no more -could be got. He longed even to be back with the old woman—to see the -apple tree, and the window plants, and be still. The shudder of the -screw, the blasts of hot air from the engine and cook’s galley, the -ceaseless jangling, clanging, pumping noises, and all the indescribable -smells which haunt a steamship, became more wearisome day by day. Even -when the cage was hung outside, the sea breeze seemed to mock him with -its freshness. The rich blue of the waters gave him no pleasure, his -eyes failed with looking for green, the bitter, salt spray vexed him, -and the wind often chilled him to the bone, whilst the sun shone, and -icebergs gleamed upon the horizon. - -“The sailor had been so kind a master, that the thrush had become deeply -attached to him, as birds will; and while at the cottage he had scarcely -fretted after his beloved wood. But with every hour of the voyage, home -sickness came more strongly upon him, and his heart went back to the -nest, and the pine-top, and the old home. When one sleeps soundly, it is -seldom that one remembers one’s dreams; but when one is apt to be roused -by an unexpected lurch of the ship, by the moan of a fog-whistle, or the -scream of an engine, one becomes a light sleeper, and the visions of the -night have a strange reality, and are easily recalled. And now the -thrush always dreamt of home. - -“One day he was hung outside. It was not a very fine day, but he looked -drooping, and the pitying sailor brought him out, to get some air. His -heart was sore with home sickness, and he watched the sea-birds skimming -up and down with envious eyes. It seemed all very well for poor men, who -hadn’t so much as a wing to carry them over the water, to build -lumbering sea-nests, with bodies to float in the water like fish, and -wings of canvas to carry them along, and to help it out with noisy -steam-engines—and to endure it all. But for him, who could fly over a -hundred tree-tops before a man could climb to one, it was hard to swing -outside a ship, and to watch other birds use their wings, when his, -which quivered to fly homewards, could only flutter against the bars. As -he thought, a roll of the ship threw him forward, the wind shook the -wires of the cage, and loosened the fastening; and, when the vessel -righted, the cage-door swung slowly open. - -“At this moment, a ray of sunshine streaked the deep blue water, and a -gleaming sea-bird, which had been sitting like a tuft of foam upon a -wave, rose with outstretched pinions, and soared away. It was too much. -With one shrill pipe of hope, the thrush fluttered from his cage, spread -his wings, and followed him. - -“When the sailor found that the wind was getting up, he came to take the -cage down, and then his grief was sore indeed. - -“‘The canary died last voyage,’ he said sadly. ‘The cage was bought on a -Friday, and I knew ill luck would come of it. I said so to mother; but -the old lady says there’s no such thing as luck, and she’s -Bible-learned, if ever a woman was. “That’s very true,” says I, “but if -I’d the money for another cage, I wouldn’t use this;” and I never will -again. Poor bird! it was a sweet singer.’ And he turned his face aside. - -“‘It may have the sense to come back,’ said one of the crew. The sailor -scratched his head, and shook it sadly. - -“‘Noah’s bird came back to him, when she found no rest,’ he said, ‘but I -don’t think mine will, Tom.’ - -“He was right. The thrush returned no more. He did not know how wide was -the difference between his own strength and that of the bird he -followed. The sea-fowl cut the air with wings of tenfold power; he -swooped up and down, he stooped to fish, he rested on the ridges of the -dancing waves, and then, with one steady flight, he disappeared, and the -thrush was left alone. Other birds passed him, and flew about him, and -fished, and rocked upon the waters near him, but he held steadily on. -Ships passed him also, but too far away for him to rest upon; whales -spouted in the distance, and strange fowl screamed; but not a familiar -object broke the expanse of the cold sea. He did not know what course he -was taking. He hoped against hope that he was going home. Although he -was more faint and weary than he had ever yet been, he felt no pain. The -intensity of his hope to reach the old wood made everything seem light; -even at the last, when his wings were almost powerless, he believed that -they would bear him home, and was happy. Already he seemed to rest upon -the trees, the waters sounded in his ears like the rustling of leaves, -and the familiar scent of the pine tree seemed to him to come upon the -breeze. - -“In this he was not wrong. A country of pine woods was near; and land -was in sight, though too far away for him to reach it now. Not home, but -yet a land of wondrous summer beauty: of woods, and flowers, and -sun-flecked leaves—of sunshine more glowing than he had ever known—of -larger ferns, and deeper mosses, and clearer skies—a land of balmy -summer nights, where the stars shine brighter than with us, and where -fireflies appear and vanish, like stars of a lower firmament, amid the -trees. As the sun broke out, the scent of pines came strong upon the -land breeze. A strange land, but the thrush thought it was his own. - -“‘I smell woods,’ he chirped faintly; ‘I see the sun. This is home!’ - -“All round him, the noisy crest of the fresh waves seemed to carol the -song he could no longer sing—‘Home, home! fresh water and green woods, -ambrosial sunshine and sun-flecked shade, chattering brooks and rustling -leaves, glade and sward and dell, lichens and cool mosses, feathered -ferns and flowers. Green leaves! green leaves! Summer! summer! summer!’ - -“The slackened wings dropped, the dying eyes looked landward, and then -closed. But even as he fell, he believed himself sinking to rest on -Mother Earth’s kindly bosom, and he did not know it, when the cold waves -buried him at sea.” - -“Oh, then, he _did_ die!” cried the children, who thought they were -tired of stories that end happily, yet, when they heard it, liked a sad -ending no better than other children do (in which, by-the-by, we hold -them to be in the right, and can hardly forgive ourselves for -chronicling this “ower true tale”). - -“Yes,” said the old man, “he died; but it is said that the sweet dingle -which was his home—forsaken by the nightingale—is regarded by birds as -men regard a haunted house; for that at still summer midnight, when the -other thrushes sleep, a shadowy form, more like a skeleton leaf than a -living bird, swings upon the tall tree-tops where he sat of old, and, -rapt in a happy ecstacy, sings a song more sweet and joyous than thrush -ever sang by day.” - -“Have you heard it?” asked the children. - -The old man nodded. But not another word would he say. The children, -however, forthwith began to lay plans for getting into the wood some -midsummer night, to test with their own ears the truth of his story, and -to hear the spectre thrush’s song. Whether the authorities permitted the -expedition, and if not, whether the young people baffled their -vigilance—whether they heard the song, and if so, whether they -understood it—we are not empowered to tell here. - - - - - CHRISTMAS CRACKERS. - - - A FANTASIA. - -It was Christmas Eve in an old-fashioned country-house, where Christmas -was being kept with old-fashioned form and custom. It was getting late. -The candles swaggered in their sockets, and the yule-log glowed steadily -like a red-hot coal. - -“The fire has reached his heart,” said the tutor: “he is warm all -through. How red he is! He shines with heat and hospitality like some -warm-hearted old gentleman when a convivial evening is pretty far -advanced. To-morrow he will be as cold and grey as the morning after a -festival, when the glasses are being washed up, and the host is -calculating his expenses. Yes! you know it is so;” and the tutor nodded -to the yule-log as he spoke; and the log flared and crackled in return, -till the tutor’s face shone like his own. He had no other means of -reply. - -The tutor was grotesque-looking at any time. He was lank and meagre, -with a long body and limbs, and high shoulders. His face was -smooth-shaven, and his skin like old parchment stretched over high -cheek-bones and lantern jaws; but in their hollow sockets his eyes -gleamed with the changeful lustre of two precious gems. In the ruddy -firelight they were like rubies, and when he drew back into the shade -they glared green like the eyes of a cat. It must not be inferred from -the tutor’s presence this evening that there were no Christmas holidays -in this house. They had begun some days before; and if the tutor had had -a home to go to, it is to be presumed that he would have gone. - -As the candles got lower, and the log flared less often, weird lights -and shades, such as haunt the twilight, crept about the room. The -tutor’s shadow, longer, lanker, and more grotesque than himself, mopped -and mowed upon the wall beside him. The snapdragon burnt blue, and as -the raisin-hunters stirred the flaming spirit, the ghastly light made -the tutor look so hideous that the widow’s little boy was on the eve of -howling, and spilled the raisins he had just secured. (He did not like -putting his fingers into the flames, but he hovered near the more -adventurous school-boys, and collected the raisins that were scattered -on the table by the hasty _grabs_ of braver hands.) - -The widow was a relative of the house. She had married a Mr. Jones, and -having been during his life his devoted slave, had on his death -transferred her allegiance to his son. The late Mr. Jones was a small -man with a strong temper, a large appetite, and a taste for drawing-room -theatricals. So Mrs. Jones had called her son Macready; “for,” she said, -“his poor papa would have made a fortune on the stage, and I wish to -commemorate his talents. Besides, Macready sounds better with Jones than -a commoner Christian name would do.” - -But his cousins called him MacGreedy. - -“The apples of the enchanted garden were guarded by dragons. Many -knights went after them. One wished for the apples, but he did not like -to fight the dragons.” - -It was the tutor who spoke from the dark corner by the fireplace. His -eyes shone like a cat’s, and MacGreedy felt like a half-scared mouse, -and made up his mind to cry. He put his right fist into one eye, and had -just taken it out, and was about to put his left fist into the other, -when he saw that the tutor was no longer looking at him. So he made up -his mind to go on with the raisins, for one can have a peevish cry at -any time, but plums are not scattered broadcast every day. Several times -he had tried to pocket them, but just at the moment the tutor was sure -to look at him, and in his fright he dropped the raisins, and never -could find them again. So this time he resolved to eat them then and -there. He had just put one into his mouth when the tutor leaned forward, -and his eyes, glowing in the fire-light, met MacGreedy’s, who had not -even the presence of mind to shut his mouth, but remained spellbound, -with a raisin in his cheek. - -Flicker, flack! The school-boys stirred up snapdragon again, and with -the blue light upon his features the tutor made so horrible a grimace -that MacGreedy swallowed the raisin with a start. He had bolted it -whole, and it might have been a bread pill for any enjoyment he had of -the flavor. But the tutor laughed aloud. He certainly was an alarming -object, pulling those grimaces in the blue brandy glare; and -unpleasantly like a picture of Bogy himself with horns and a tail, in a -juvenile volume upstairs. True, there were no horns to speak of among -the tutor’s grizzled curls, and his coat seemed to fit as well as most -people’s on his long back, so that unless he put his tail in his pocket, -it is difficult to see how he could have had one. But then (as Miss -Letitia said) “With dress one can do anything and hide anything.” And on -dress Miss Letitia’s opinion was final. - -Miss Letitia was a cousin. She was dark, high-colored, glossy-haired, -stout, and showy. She was as neat as a new pin, and had a will of her -own. Her hair was firmly fixed by bandoline, her garibaldis by an -arrangement which failed when applied to those of the widow, and her -opinions by the simple process of looking at everything from one point -of view. Her _forte_ was dress and general ornamentation; not that Miss -Letitia was extravagant—far from it. If one may use the expression, she -utilized for ornament a hundred bits and scraps that most people would -have wasted. But, like other artists, she saw everything through the -medium of her own art. She looked at birds with an eye to hats, and at -flowers with reference to evening parties. At picture exhibitions and -concerts she carried away jacket patterns and bonnets in her head, as -other people make mental notes of an aerial effect, or a bit of fine -instrumentation. An enthusiastic horticulturist once sent Miss Letitia a -cut specimen of a new flower. It was a lovely spray from a -lately-imported shrub. A botanist would have pressed it—an artist must -have taken its portrait—a poet might have written a sonnet in praise of -its beauty. Miss Letitia twisted a piece of wire round its stem, and -fastened it on to her black lace bonnet. It came on the day of a review, -when Miss Letitia had to appear in a carriage, and it was quite a -success. As she said to the widow, “It was so natural that no one could -doubt its being Parisian.” - -“What a strange fellow that tutor is!” said the visitor. He spoke to the -daughter of the house, a girl with a face like a summer’s day, and hair -like a ripe corn-field rippling in the sun. He was a fine young man, and -had a youth’s taste for the sports and amusements of his age. But lately -he had changed. He seemed to himself to be living in a higher, nobler -atmosphere than hitherto. He had discovered that he was poetical—he -might prove to be a genius. He certainly was eloquent, he could talk for -hours and did so—to the young lady with the sunshiny face. They spoke -on the highest subjects, and what a listener she was! So intelligent and -appreciative, and with such an exquisite _pose_ of the head—it must -inspire a block of wood merely to see such a creature in a listening -attitude. As to our young friend, he poured forth volumes; he was really -clever, and for her he became eloquent. To-night he spoke of Christmas, -of time-honored custom and old association; and what he said would have -made a Christmas article for a magazine of the first class. He poured -scorn on the cold nature that could not, and the affectation that would -not, appreciate the domestic festivities of this sacred season. - -What, he asked, could be more delightful, more perfect, than such a -gathering as this, of the family circle round the Christmas hearth? He -spoke with feeling, and it may be said with disinterested feeling, for -he had not joined his family circle himself this Christmas, and there -was a vacant place by the hearth of his own home. - -“He is strange,” said the young lady (she spoke of the tutor in answer -to the above remark); “but I am very fond of him. He has been with us so -long he is like one of the family; though we know as little of his -history as we did on the day he came.” - -“He looks clever,” said the visitor. (Perhaps that is the least one can -say for a fellow-creature who shows a great deal of bare skull, and is -not otherwise good-looking.) - -“He is clever,” she answered, “wonderfully clever; so clever and so odd -that sometimes I fancy he is hardly ‘canny.’ There is something almost -supernatural about his acuteness and his ingenuity, but they are so -kindly used; I wonder he has not brought out any playthings for us -to-night.” - -“Playthings?” inquired the young man. - -“Yes; on birthdays or festivals like this he generally brings something -out of those huge pockets of his. He has been all over the world, and he -produces Indian puzzles, Japanese flower-buds that bloom in hot water, -and German toys with complicated machinery, which I suspect him of -manufacturing himself. I call him God-papa Drosselmayer, after that -delightful old fellow in Hoffman’s tale of the Nut Cracker.” - -“What’s that about crackers?” inquired the tutor, sharply, his eyes -changing color like a fire opal. - -“I am talking of _Nussknacker und Mausekönig_,” laughed the young lady. -“Crackers do not belong to Christmas; fireworks come on the fifth of -November.” - -“Tut, tut!” said the tutor; “I always tell your ladyship that you are -still a tom-boy at heart, as when I first came, and you climbed trees -and pelted myself and my young students with horse-chestnuts. You think -of crackers to explode at the heels of timorous old gentlemen in a -November fog; but I mean bonbon crackers, colored crackers, dainty -crackers—crackers for young people with mottoes of sentiment”—(here -the tutor shrugged his high shoulders an inch or two higher, and turned -the palms of his hands outwards with a glance indescribably -comical)—“crackers with paper prodigies, crackers with -sweetmeats—_such_ sweetmeats!” He smacked his lips with a grotesque -contortion, and looked at Master MacGreedy, who choked himself with his -last raisin, and forthwith burst into tears. - -The widow tried in vain to soothe him with caresses, he only stamped and -howled the more. But Miss Letitia gave him some smart smacks on the -shoulders to cure his choking fit, and as she kept up the treatment with -vigor the young gentleman was obliged to stop and assure her that the -raisin had “gone the right way” at last. “If he were my child,” Miss -Letitia had been known to observe, with that confidence which -characterises the theories of those who are not parents, “I would &c. -&c. &c.;” in fact, Miss Letitia thought she would have made a different -boy of him—as, indeed, I believe she would. - -“Are crackers all that you have for us, sir?” asked one of the two -school-boys, as they hung over the tutor’s chair. They were twins, grand -boys, with broad, good-humored faces, and curly wigs, as like as two -puppy dogs of the same breed. They were only known apart by their -intimate friends, and were always together, romping, laughing, snarling, -squabbling, huffing and helping each other against the world. Each of -them owned a wiry terrier, and in their relations to each other the two -dogs (who were marvellously alike) closely followed the example of their -masters. - -“Do you not care for crackers, Jim?” asked the tutor. - -“Not much, sir. They do for girls: but, as you know, I care for nothing -but military matters. Do you remember that beautiful toy of yours—‘The -Besieged City?’ Ah! I liked that. Look out, Tom! you’re shoving my arm. -Can’t you stand straight, man?” - -“R-r-r-r—r-r, snap!” - -Tom’s dog was resenting contact with Jim’s dog on the hearthrug. There -was a hustle among the four, and then they subsided. - -“The Besieged City was all very well for you, Jim,” said Tom, who meant -to be a sailor; “but please to remember that it admitted of no attack -from the sea; and what was there for me to do? Ah, sir! you are so -clever, I often think you could help me to make a swing with ladders -instead of single ropes, so that I could run up and down the rigging -whilst it was in full go.” - -“That would be something like your fir-tree prank, Tom,” said his -sister. “Can you believe,” she added, turning to the visitor, “that Tom -lopped the branches of a tall young fir-tree all the way up, leaving -little bits for foothold, and then climbed up it one day in an awful -storm of wind, and clung on at the top, rocking backwards and forwards? -And when papa sent word for him to come down, he said parental authority -was superseded at sea by the rules of the service. It was a dreadful -storm, and the tree snapped very soon after he got safe to the ground.” - -“Storm!” sneered Tom, “a capful of wind. Well, it did blow half a gale -at the last. But oh! it was glorious!” - -“Let us see what we can make of the crackers,” said the tutor—and he -pulled some out of his pocket. They were put in a dish upon the table, -for the company to choose from; and the terriers jumped and snapped, and -tumbled over each other, for they thought that the plate contained -eatables. Animated by the same idea, but with quieter steps, Master -MacGreedy also approached the table. - -“The dogs are noisy,” said the tutor, “too noisy. We must have -quiet—peace and quiet.” His lean hand was once more in his pocket, and -he pulled out a box, from which he took some powder, which he scattered -on the burning log. A slight smoke now rose from the hot embers, and -floated into the room. Was the powder one of those strange compounds -that act upon the brain? Was it a magician’s powder? Who knows? With it -came a sweet, subtile fragrance. It is strange—every one fancied he had -smelt it before, and all were absorbed in wondering what it was, and -where they had met with it. Even the dogs sat on their haunches with -their noses up, sniffing in a speculative manner. - -“It’s not lavender,” said the grandmother slowly, “and it’s not -rosemary. There is a something of tansy in it (and a very fine tonic -flavor too, my dears, though it’s _not_ in fashion now). Depend upon it, -it’s a potpourri, and from an excellent receipt, sir”—and the old lady -bowed courteously towards the tutor. “My mother made the best potpourri -in the county, and it was very much like this. Not quite, perhaps, but -much the same, much the same.” - -The grandmother was a fine old gentlewoman “of the old school,” as the -phrase is. She was very stately and gracious in her manners, daintily -neat in her person, and much attached to the old parson of the parish, -who now sat near her chair. All her life she had been very proud of her -fine stock of fair linen, both household and personal; and for many -years past had kept her own grave-clothes ready in a drawer. They were -bleached as white as snow, and lay amongst bags of dry lavender and -potpourri. Many times had it seemed likely that they would be needed, -for the old lady had had severe illnesses of late, when the good parson -sat by her bedside, and read to her of the coming of the Bridegroom, and -of that “fine linen, clean and white,” which is “the righteousness of -the saints.” It was of that drawer, with its lavender and potpourri -bags, that the scented smoke had reminded her. - -“It has rather an overpowering odor,” said the old parson, “it is -suggestive of incense. I am sure I once smelt something like it in the -Church of the Nativity at Bethlehem. It is very delicious.” - -The parson’s long residence in his parish had been marked by one great -holiday. With the savings of many years he had performed a pilgrimage to -the Holy Land; and it was rather a joke against him that he illustrated -a large variety of subjects by the reference to his favorite topic, the -holiday of his life. - -“It smells of gunpowder,” said Jim, decidedly, “and something else. I -can’t tell what.” - -“Something one smells in a seaport town,” said Tom. - -“Can’t be very delicious then,” Jim retorted. - -“It’s not _quite_ the same,” piped the widow; “but it reminds me very -much of an old bottle of attar of roses that was given to me when I was -at school, with a copy of verses, by a young gentleman who was brother -to one of the pupils. I remember Mr. Jones was quite annoyed when he -found it in an old box, where I am sure I had not touched it for ten -years or more; and I never spoke to him but once, on Examination Day -(the young gentleman, I mean). And it’s like—yes, it’s certainly like a -hair-wash Mr. Jones used to use. I’ve forgotten what it was called, but -I know it cost fifteen shillings a bottle; and Macready threw one over a -few weeks before his dear papa’s death, and annoyed him extremely.” - -Whilst the company were thus engaged, Master MacGreedy took advantage of -the general abstraction to secure half a dozen crackers to his own -share; he retired to a corner with them, where he meant to pick them -quietly to pieces by himself. He wanted the gay paper, and the motto, -and the sweetmeats; but he did not like the report of the cracker. And -then what he did want, he wanted all to himself. - -“Give us a cracker,” said Master Jim, dreamily. - -The dogs, after a few dissatisfied snorts, had dropped from their -sitting posture, and were lying close together on the rug, dreaming, and -uttering short commenting barks and whines at intervals. The twins were -now reposing lazily at the tutor’s feet, and did not feel disposed to -exert themselves even so far as to fetch their own bonbons. - -“There’s one,” said the tutor, taking a fresh cracker from his pocket. -One end of it was of red and gold paper, the other of transparent green -stuff with silver lines. The boys pulled it. - - * * * * * * - -The report was louder than Jim had expected. - -“The firing has begun,” he murmured, involuntarily; “steady, steady!” -these last words were to his horse, who seemed to be moving under him, -not from fear, but from impatience. - -What had been the red and gold paper of the cracker was now the scarlet -and gold lace of his own cavalry uniform. He knocked a speck from his -sleeve, and scanned the distant ridge, from which a thin line of smoke -floated solemnly away, with keen, impatient eyes. Were they to stand -inactive all the day? - -Presently the horse erects his head. His eyes sparkle—he pricks his -sensitive ears—his nostrils quiver with a strange delight. It is the -trumpet! Fan farrâ! Fan farrâ! The brazen voice speaks—the horses -move—the plumes wave—the helmets shine. On a summer’s day they ride -slowly, gracefully, calmly down a slope, to Death or Glory. Fan farrâ! -Fan farrâ! Fan farrâ! - - * * * * * * - -Of all this Master Tom knew nothing. The report of the cracker seemed to -him only an echo in his brain of a sound that had been in his ears for -thirty-six weary hours. The noise of a heavy sea beating against the -ship’s side in a gale. It was over now, and he was keeping the midnight -watch on deck, gazing upon the liquid green of the waves, which heaving -and seething after storm, were lit with phosphoric light, and as the -ship held steadily on her course, poured past at the rate of twelve -knots an hour in a silvery stream. Faster than any ship can sail his -thoughts travelled home, and as old times came back to him, he hardly -knew whether what he looked at was the phosphor-lighted sea, or green -gelatine paper barred with silver. And did the tutor speak? Or was it -the voice of some sea monster sounding in his ears? - -“The spirits of the storm have gone below to make their report. The -treasure gained from sunk vessels has been reckoned, and the sea is -illuminated in honor of the spoil.” - - * * * * * * - -The visitor now took a cracker and held it to the young lady. Her end -was of white paper with a raised pattern; his of dark-blue gelatine with -gold stars. It snapped, the bonbon dropped between them, and the young -man got the motto. It was a very bald one— - - “My heart is thine. - Wilt thou be mine?” - -He was ashamed to show it to her. What could be more meagre? One could -write a hundred better couplets “standing on one leg,” as the saying is. -He was trying to improvise just one for the occasion, when he became -aware that the blue sky over his head was dark with the shades of night, -and lighted with stars. A brook rippled near with a soothing monotony. -The evening wind sighed through the trees, and wafted the fragrance of -the sweet bay-leaved willow towards him, and blew a stray lock of hair -against his face. Yes! _She_ also was there, walking beside him, under -the scented willow bushes. Where, why, and whither he did not ask to -know. She was with him—with him; and he seemed to tread on the summer -air. He had no doubt as to the nature of his own feelings for her, and -here was such an opportunity for declaring them as might never occur -again. Surely now, if ever, he would be eloquent! Thoughts of poetry -clothed in words of fire must spring unbidden to his lips at such a -moment. And yet somehow he could not find a single word to say. He beat -his brains, but not an idea would come forth. Only that idiotic cracker -motto, which haunted him with its meagre couplet. - - “My heart is thine, - Wilt thou be mine?” - -Meanwhile they wandered on. The precious time was passing. He must at -least make a beginning. - -“What a fine night it is!” he observed. But, oh dear! That was a -thousand times balder and more meagre than the cracker motto; and not -another word could he find to say. At this moment the awkward silence -was broken by a voice from a neighboring copse. It was a nightingale -singing to his mate. There was no lack of eloquence, and of melodious -eloquence, there. The song was as plaintive as old memories, and as full -of tenderness as the eyes of the young girl were full of tears. They -were standing still now, and with her graceful head bent she was -listening to the bird. He stooped his head near hers, and spoke with a -simple natural outburst almost involuntary. - -“Do you ever think of old times? Do you remember the old house, and the -fun we used to have? and the tutor whom you pelted with horse-chestnuts -when you were a little girl? And those cracker bonbons, and the motto -_we_ drew— - - ‘My heart is thine. - Wilt thou be mine?’” - -She smiled, and lifted her eyes (“blue as the sky, and bright as the -stars,” he thought) to his, and answered “Yes.” - -Then the bonbon motto was avenged, and there was silence. Eloquent, -perfect, complete, beautiful silence! Only the wind sighed through the -fragrant willows, the stream rippled, the stars shone and in the -neighboring copse the nightingale sang, and sang, and sang. - - * * * * * * - -When the white end of the cracker came into the young lady’s hand, she -was full of admiration for the fine raised pattern. As she held it -between her fingers it suddenly struck her that she had discovered what -the tutor’s fragrant smoke smelt like. It was like the scent of -orange-flowers, and had certainly a soporific effect upon the senses. -She felt very sleepy, and as she stroked the shiny surface of the -cracker she found herself thinking it was very soft for paper, and then -rousing herself with a start, and wondering at her own folly in speaking -thus of the white silk in which she was dressed, and of which she was -holding up the skirt between her finger and thumb, as if she were -dancing a minuet. - -“It’s grandmamma’s egg-shell brocade!” she cried. “Oh, Grandmamma! Have -you given it to me? That lovely old thing! But I thought it was the -family wedding-dress, and that I was not to have it till I was a bride.” - -“And so you are, my dear. And a fairer bride the sun never shone on,” -sobbed the old lady, who was kissing and blessing her, and wishing her, -in the words of the old formula— - - “Health to wear it, - Strength to tear it, - And money to buy another.” - -“There is no hope for the last two things, you know,” said the young -girl; “for I am sure that the flag that braved a thousand years was not -half so strong as your brocade; and as to buying another, there are none -to be bought in these degenerate days.” - -The old lady’s reply was probably very gracious, for she liked to be -complimented on the virtues of old things in general, and of her -egg-shell brocade in particular. But of what she said her granddaughter -heard nothing. With the strange irregularity of dreams, she found -herself, she knew not how, in the old church. It was true. She was a -bride, standing there with old friends and old associations thick around -her, on the threshold of a new life. The sun shone through the stained -glass of the windows, and illuminated the brocade, whose old-fashioned -stiffness so became her childish beauty, and flung a thousand new tints -over her sunny hair, and drew so powerful a fragrance from the orange -blossom with which it was twined, that it was almost overpowering. Yes! -It was too sweet—too strong. She certainly would not be able to bear it -much longer without losing her senses. And the service was going on. A -question had been asked of her, and she must reply. She made a strong -effort, and said “Yes,” simply and very earnestly, for it was what she -meant. But she had no sooner said it than she became uneasily conscious -that she had not used the right word. Some one laughed. It was the -tutor, and his voice jarred and disturbed the dream, as a stone troubles -the surface of still water. The vision trembled, and then broke, and the -young lady found herself still sitting by the table and fingering the -cracker paper, whilst the tutor chuckled and rubbed his hands by the -fire, and his shadow scrambled on the wall like an ape upon a tree. But -her “Yes” had passed into the young man’s dream without disturbing it, -and he dreamt on. - - * * * * * * - -It was a cracker like the preceding one that the grandmother and the -parson pulled together. The old lady had insisted upon it. The good -rector had shown a tendency to low spirits this evening, and a wish to -withdraw early. But the old lady did not approve of people “shirking” -(as boys say) either their duties or their pleasures; and to keep a -“merry Christmas” in a family circle that has been spared to meet in -health and happiness, seemed to her to be both the one and the other. - -It was his sermon for next day which weighed on the parson’s mind. Not -that he was behindhand with that part of his duties. He was far too -methodical in his habits for that, and it had been written before the -bustle of Christmas week began. But after preaching Christmas sermons -from the same pulpit for thirty-five years, he felt keenly how difficult -it is to awaken due interest in subjects that are so familiar, and to -give due force to lessons so often repeated. So he wanted a quiet hour -in his own study before he went to rest, with the sermon that did not -satisfy him, and the subject that should be so heart-stirring and ever -new—the Story of Bethlehem. - -He consented, however, to pull one cracker with the grandmother, though -he feared the noise might startle her nerves, and said so. - -“Nerves were not invented in my young days,” said the old lady, firmly; -and she took her part in the ensuing explosion without so much as a -wink. - -As the crackers snapped, it seemed to the parson as if the fragrant -smoke from the yule-log were growing denser in the room. Through the -mist from time to time the face of the tutor loomed large, and then -disappeared. At last the clouds rolled away, and the parson breathed -clear air. Clear, yes, and how clear! This brilliant freshness, these -intense lights and shadows, this mildness and purity in the night -air—— - -“It is not England,” he muttered, “it is the East. I have felt no air -like this since I breathed the air of Palestine.” - -Over his head, through immeasurable distances, the dark-blue space was -lighted by the great multitude of the stars, whose glittering ranks have -in that atmosphere a distinctness and a glory unseen with us. Perhaps no -scene of beauty in the visible creation has proved a more hackneyed -theme for the poet and the philosopher than a starry night. But not all -the superabundance of simile and moral illustration with which the -subject has been loaded can rob the beholder of the freshness of its -grandeur or the force of its teaching; that noblest and most majestic -vision of the handiwork of God on which the eye of man is here permitted -to rest. - -As the parson gazed he became conscious that he was not alone. Other -eyes beside his were watching the skies to-night. Dark, profound, -patient, eastern eyes, used from the cradle to the grave to watch and -wait. The eyes of star-gazers and dream-interpreters; men who believed -the fate of empires to be written in shining characters on the face of -heaven, as the “Mene, Mene,” was written in fire on the walls of the -Babylonian palace. The old parson was one of the many men of real -learning and wide reading who pursue their studies in the quiet country -parishes of England, and it was with the keen interest of intelligence -that he watched the group of figures that lay near him. - -“Is this a vision of the past?” he asked himself. “There can be no doubt -as to these men. They are star-gazers, magi, and, from their dress and -bearing, men of high rank; perhaps ‘teachers of a higher wisdom’ in one -of the purest philosophies of the old heathen world. When one thinks,” -he pursued, “of the intense interest, the eager excitement which the -student of history finds in the narrative of the past as unfolded in -dusty records written by the hand of man, one may realize how absorbing -must have been that science which professed to unveil the future, and to -display to the eyes of the wise the fate of dynasties written with the -finger of God amid the stars.” - -The dark-robed figures were so still that they might almost have been -carved in stone. The air seemed to grow purer and purer; the stars shone -brighter and brighter; suspended in ether the planets seemed to hang -like lamps. Now a shooting meteor passed athwart the sky, and vanished -behind the hill. But not for this did the watchers move; in silence they -watched on—till, on a sudden, how and whence the parson knew not, -across the shining ranks of that immeasurable host, whose names and -number are known to God alone, there passed in slow but obvious motion -one brilliant solitary star—a star of such surpassing brightness that -he involuntarily joined in the wild cry of joy and greeting with which -the Men of the East now prostrated themselves with their faces to the -earth. - -He could not understand the language in which, with noisy clamor and -gesticulation, they broke their former profound and patient silence, and -greeted the portent for which they had watched. But he knew now that -these were the Wise Men of the Epiphany, and that this was the Star of -Bethlehem. In his ears rang the energetic simplicity of the Gospel -narrative, “When they saw the Star, they rejoiced with exceeding great -joy.” - -With exceeding great joy! Ah! happy magi, who (more blest than Balaam -the son of Beor), were faithful to the dim light vouchsafed to you; the -Gentile church may well be proud of your memory. Ye travelled long and -far to bring royal offerings to the King of the Jews, with a faith not -found in Israel. Ye saw him whom prophets and kings had desired to see, -and were glad. Wise men indeed, and wise with the highest wisdom, in -that ye suffered yourselves to be taught of God. - -Then the parson prayed that if this were indeed a dream he might dream -on; might pass, if only in a vision, over the hill, following the -footsteps of the magi, whilst the Star went before them, till he should -see it rest above that city, which, little indeed among the thousands of -Judah, was yet the birthplace of the Lord’s Christ. - -“Ah!” he almost sobbed, “let me follow! On my knees let me follow into -the house and see the Holy Child. In the eyes of how many babies I have -seen mind and thought far beyond their powers of communication, every -mother knows. But if at times, with a sort of awe, one sees the immortal -soul shining through the prison-bars of helpless infancy, what, oh! what -must it be to behold the Godhead veiled in flesh through the face of a -little child!” - -The parson stretched out his arms, but even with the passion of his -words the vision began to break. He dared not move for fear it should -utterly fade, and as he lay still and silent, the wise men roused their -followers, and led by the Star, the train passed solemnly over the -distant hills. - -Then the clear night became clouded with fragrant vapor, and with a sigh -the parson awoke. - - * * * * * * - -When the cracker snapped and the white end was left in the grandmother’s -hand, she was astonished to perceive (as she thought) that the white -lace veil which she had worn over her wedding bonnet was still in her -possession, and that she was turning it over in her fingers. “I fancied -I gave it to Jemima when her first baby was born,” she muttered -dreamily. It was darned and yellow, but it carried her back all the -same, and recalled happy hours with wonderful vividness. She remembered -the post-chaise and the postillion. “He was such a pert little fellow, -and how we laughed at him! He must be either dead or a very shaky old -man by now,” said the old lady. She seemed to smell the scent of -meadow-sweet that was so powerful in a lane through which they drove; -and how clearly she could see the clean little country inn where they -spent the honeymoon! She seemed to be there now, taking off her bonnet -and shawl, in the quaint clean chamber, with the heavy oak rafters, and -the jasmine coming in at the window, and glancing with pardonable pride -at the fair face reflected in the mirror. But as she laid her things on -the patchwork coverlet, it seemed to her that the lace veil became fine -white linen, and was folded about a figure that lay in the bed; and when -she looked round the room again everything was draped in white—white -blinds hung before the windows, and even the old oak chest and the press -were covered with clean white cloths, after the decent custom of the -country; whilst from the church tower without the passing bell tolled -slowly. She had not seen the face of the corpse, and a strange anxiety -came over her to count the strokes of the bell, which tell if it is a -man, woman, or child who has passed away. One, two, three, four, five, -six, seven! No more. It was a woman, and when she looked on the face of -the dead she saw her own. But even as she looked the fair linen of the -grave clothes became the buoyant drapery of another figure, in whose -face she found a strange recognition of the lineaments of the dead, with -all the loveliness of the bride. But ah! more, much more! On that face -there was a beauty not doomed to wither, before those happy eyes lay a -future unshadowed by the imperfections of earthly prospects, and the -folds of that robe were white as no fuller on earth can white them. The -window curtain parted, the jasmine flowers bowed their heads, the spirit -passed from the chamber of death, and the old lady’s dream was ended. - - * * * * * * - -Miss Letitia had shared a cracker with the widow. The widow squeaked -when the cracker went off, and then insisted upon giving up the smart -paper and everything to Miss Letitia. She had always given up everything -to Mr. Jones, she did so now to Master MacGreedy, and was quite -unaccustomed to keep anything for her own share. She did not give this -explanation herself, but so it was. - -The cracker that thus fell into the hands of Miss Letitia was one of -those new-fashioned ones that have a paper pattern of some article of -dress wrapped up in them instead of a bonbon. This one was a paper -bonnet made in the latest _mode_—of green tissue paper; and Miss -Letitia stuck it on the top of her chignon with an air that the widow -envied from the bottom of her heart. She had not the gift of “carrying -off” her clothes. But to the tutor, on the contrary, it seemed to afford -the most extreme amusement; and as Miss Letitia bowed gracefully hither -and thither in the energy of her conversation with the widow, the green -paper fluttering with each emphasis, he fairly shook with delight, his -shadow dancing like a maniac beside him. He had scattered some more -powder on the coals, and it may have been that the smoke got into her -eyes, and confused her ideas of color, but Miss Letitia was struck with -a fervid and otherwise unaccountable admiration for the paper ends of -the cracker, which were most unusually ugly. One was of a sallowish -salmon-color, and transparent, the other was of brick-red paper with a -fringe. As Miss Letitia turned them over, she saw, to her unspeakable -delight, that there were several yards of each material, and her -peculiar genius instantly seized upon the fact that in the present rage -for double skirts there might be enough of the two kinds to combine into -a fashionable dress. - -It had never struck her before that a dirty salmon went well with brick -red. “They blend so becomingly, my dear,” she murmured; “and I think the -under skirt will sit well, it is so stiff.” - -The widow did not reply. The fumes of the tutor’s compound made her -sleepy, and though she nodded to Miss Letitia’s observations, it was -less from appreciation of their force, than from inability to hold up -her head. She was dreaming uneasy, horrible dreams, like nightmares; in -which from time to time there mingled expressions of doubt and -dissatisfaction which fell from Miss Letitia’s lips. “Just half a yard -short—no gores—false hem” (and the melancholy reflection that) -“flounces take so much stuff.” Then the tutor’s face kept appearing and -vanishing with horrible grimaces through the mist. At last the widow -fell fairly asleep, and dreamed that she was married to the Blue Beard -of nursery annals, and that on his return from his memorable journey he -had caught her in the act of displaying the mysterious cupboard to Miss -Letitia. As he waved his scimitar over her head, he seemed unaccountably -to assume the form and features of the tutor. In her agitation the poor -woman could think of no plea against his severity, except that the -cupboard was already crammed with the corpses of his previous wives, and -that there was no room for her. She was pleading this argument when Miss -Letitia’s voice broke in upon her dream with decisive accent: - -“There’s enough for two bodies.” - -The widow shrieked and awoke. - -“High and low,” explained Miss Letitia. “My dear, what _are_ you -screaming about?” - -“I am very sorry indeed,” said the widow; “I beg your pardon, I am sure, -a thousand times. But since Mr. Jones’s death I have been so nervous, -and I had such a horrible dream. And, oh dear! oh dear!” she added, -“what is the matter with my precious child? Macready, love, come to your -mamma, my pretty lamb.” - -Ugh! ugh! There were groans from the corner where Master MacGreedy sat -on his crackers as if they were eggs, and he hatching them. He had only -touched one, as yet, of the stock he had secured. He had picked it to -pieces, had avoided the snap, and had found a large comfit like an egg -with a rough shell inside. Every one knows that the goodies in crackers -are not of a very superior quality. There is a large amount of white -lead in the outside thinly disguised by a shabby flavor of sugar. But -that outside once disposed of, there lies an almond at the core. Now an -almond is a very delicious thing in itself, and doubly nice when it -takes the taste of white paint and chalk out of one’s mouth. But in -spite of all the white lead and sugar and chalk through which he had -sucked his way, MacGreedy could not come to the almond. A dozen times -had he been on the point of spitting out the delusive sweetmeat; but -just as he thought of it he was sure to feel a bit of hard rough edge, -and thinking he had gained the kernel at last, he held valiantly on. It -only proved to be a rough bit of sugar, however, and still the -interminable coating melted copiously in his mouth; and still the clean, -fragrant almond evaded his hopes. At last with a groan he spat the -seemingly undiminished bonbon on to the floor, and turned as white and -trembling as an arrow-root blancmange. - -In obedience to the widow’s entreaties the tutor opened a window, and -tried to carry MacGreedy to the air; but that young gentleman utterly -refused to allow the tutor to approach him, and was borne howling to bed -by his mamma. - -With the fresh air the fumes of the fragrant smoke dispersed, and the -company roused themselves. - -“Rather oppressive, eh?” said the master of the house, who had had his -dream too, with which we have no concern. - -The dogs had had theirs also, and had testified to the same in their -sleep by low growls and whines. Now they shook themselves, and rubbed -against each other, growling in a warlike manner through their teeth, -and wagging peaceably with their little stumpy tails. - -The twins shook themselves, and fell to squabbling as to whether they -had been to sleep or no; and, if either, which of them had given way to -that weakness. - -Miss Letitia took the paper bonnet from her head with a nervous laugh, -and after looking regretfully at the cracker papers put them in her -pocket. - -The parson went home through the frosty night. In the village street he -heard a boy’s voice singing two lines of the Christmas hymn— - - “Trace we the Babe Who hath redeemed our loss - From the poor Manger to the bitter Cross;” - -and his eyes filled with tears. - -The old lady went to bed and slept in peace. - -“In all the thirty-five years we have been privileged to hear you, sir,” -she told the rector next day after service, “I never heard such a -Christmas sermon before.” - -The visitor carefully preserved the blue paper and the cracker motto. He -came down early next morning to find the white half to put with them. He -did not find it, for the young lady had taken it the night before. - -The tutor had been in the room before him, wandering round the scene of -the evening’s festivities. - -The yule-log lay black and cold upon the hearth, and the tutor nodded to -it. “I told you how it would be,” he said; “but never mind, you have had -your day, and a merry one too.” In the corner lay the heap of crackers -which Master MacGreedy had been too ill to remember when he retired. The -tutor pocketed them with a grim smile. - -As to the comfit, it was eaten by one of the dogs, who had come down -earliest of all. He swallowed it whole, so whether it contained an -almond or not, remains a mystery to the present time. - - - - - AMELIA AND THE DWARFS. - - -My godmother’s grandmother knew a good deal about the fairies. _Her_ -grandmother had seen a fairy rade on a Rodmas Eve, and she herself could -remember a copper vessel of a queer shape which had been left by the -elves on some occasion at an old farm-house among the hills. The -following story came from her, and where she got it I do not know. She -used to say it was a pleasant tale, with a good moral in the inside of -it. My godmother often observed that a tale without a moral was like a -nut without a kernel, not worth the cracking. (We called fireside -stories “cracks” in our part of the country.) This is the tale. - - - AMELIA. - -A couple of gentlefolk once lived in a certain part of England. (My -godmother never would tell the name either of the place or the people, -even if she knew it. She said one ought not to expose one’s neighbors’ -failings more than there was a due occasion for.) They had an only -child, a daughter, whose name was Amelia. They were an easy-going, -good-humored couple; “rather soft,” my godmother said, but she was apt -to think anybody “soft” who came from the southern shires, as these -people did. Amelia, who had been born farther north, was by no means so. -She had a strong, resolute will, and a clever head of her own, though -she was but a child. She had a way of her own too, and had it very -completely. Perhaps because she was an only child, or perhaps because -they were so easy going, her parents spoiled her. She was, beyond -question, the most tiresome little girl in that or any other -neighborhood. From her baby days her father and mother had taken every -opportunity of showing her to their friends, and there was not a friend -who did not dread the infliction. When the good lady visited her -acquaintances, she always took Amelia with her, and if the acquaintances -were fortunate enough to see from the windows who was coming, they used -to snatch up any delicate knick-knacks, or brittle ornaments lying -about, and put them away, crying, “What is to be done? Here comes -Amelia!” - -When Amelia came in, she would stand and survey the room, whilst her -mother saluted her acquaintances; and if anything struck her fancy, she -would interrupt the greetings to draw her mother’s attention to it, with -a twitch of her shawl, “Oh, look, mamma, at that funny bird in the glass -case!” or perhaps, “Mamma, mamma! There’s a new carpet since we were -here last;” for, as her mother said, she was “a very observing child.” - -Then she would wander round the room, examining and fingering -everything, and occasionally coming back with something in her hand to -tread on her mother’s dress, and break in upon the ladies’ conversation -with—“Mamma, mamma! What’s the good of keeping this old basin! It’s -been broken and mended, and some of the pieces are quite loose now. I -can feel them:” or—addressing the lady of the house—“That’s not a real -ottoman in the corner. It’s a box covered with chintz. I know, for I’ve -looked.” - -Then her mamma would say, reprovingly, “My _dear_ Amelia!” - -And perhaps the lady of the house would beg, “Don’t play with that old -china, my love; for though it is mended, it is very valuable;” and her -mother would add, “My dear Amelia, you must not.” - -Sometimes the good lady said, “You _must_ not.” Sometimes she -tried—“You must _not_.” When both these failed, and Amelia was -balancing the china bowl on her finger ends, her mamma would get -flurried, and when Amelia flurried her, she always rolled her r’s, and -emphasized her words, so that it sounded thus: - -“My dear-r-r-r-Ramelia! You must not.” - -At which Amelia would not so much as look round, till perhaps the bowl -slipped from her fingers, and was smashed into unmendable fragments. -Then her mamma would exclaim, “Oh, dear-r-r-r, oh, dear-r-r-r-Ramelia!” -and the lady of the house would try to look as if it did not matter, and -when Amelia and her mother departed, would pick up the bits, and pour -out her complaints to her lady friends, most of whom had suffered many -such damages at the hands of this “very observing child.” - -When the good couple received their friends at home, there was no -escaping from Amelia. If it was a dinner party, she came in with the -dessert, or perhaps sooner. She would take up her position near some -one, generally the person most deeply engaged in conversation, and -either lean heavily against him or her, or climb on to his or her knee, -without being invited. She would break in upon the most interesting -discussion with her own little childish affairs, in the following -style— - -“I’ve been out to-day. I walked to the town. I jumped across three -brooks. Can you jump? Papa gave me sixpence to-day. I am saving up my -money to be rich. You may cut me an orange; no, I’ll take it to Mr. -Brown, he peels it with a spoon and turns the skin back. Mr. Brown! Mr. -Brown! Don’t talk to mamma, but peel me an orange, please. Mr. Brown! -I’m playing with your finger-glass.” - -And when the finger-glass full of cold water had been upset on to Mr. -Brown’s shirt-front, Amelia’s mamma would cry—“Oh dear, oh -dear-r-Ramelia!” and carry her off with the ladies to the drawing-room. - -Here she would scramble on to the ladies’ knees, or trample out the -gathers of their dresses, and fidget with their ornaments, startling -some luckless lady by the announcement, “I’ve got your bracelet undone -at last!” who would find one of the divisions broken open by force, -Amelia not understanding the working of a clasp. - -Or perhaps two young lady friends would get into a quiet corner for a -chat. The observing child was sure to spy them, and run on to them, -crushing their flowers and ribbons, and crying—“You two want to talk -secrets, I know. I can hear what you say. I’m going to listen, I am. And -I shall tell, too.” When perhaps a knock at the door announced the nurse -to take Miss Amelia to bed, and spread a general rapture of relief. - -Then Amelia would run to trample and worry her mother, and after much -teasing, and clinging, and complaining, the nurse would be dismissed, -and the fond mamma would turn to the lady next to her, and say with a -smile—“I suppose I must let her stay up a little. It is such a treat to -her, poor child!” - -But it was no treat to the visitors. - -Besides tormenting her fellow-creatures, Amelia had a trick of teasing -animals. She was really fond of dogs, but she was still fonder of doing -what she was wanted not to do, and of worrying everything and everybody -about her. So she used to tread on the tips of their tails, and pretend -to give them biscuit, and then hit them on the nose, besides pulling at -those few, long, sensitive hairs which thin-skinned dogs wear on the -upper lip. - -Now Amelia’s mother’s acquaintances were so very well-bred and amiable, -that they never spoke their minds to either the mother or the daughter -about what they endured from the latter’s rudeness, wilfulness, and -powers of destruction. But this was not the case with the dogs, and they -expressed their sentiments by many a growl and snap. At last one day -Amelia was tormenting a snow-white bull-dog (who was certainly as -well-bred and as amiable as any living creature in the kingdom), and she -did not see that even his patience was becoming worn out. His pink nose -became crimson with increased irritation, his upper lip twitched over -his teeth, behind which he was rolling as many warning Rs as Amelia’s -mother herself. She finally held out a bun towards him, and just as he -was about to take it, she snatched it away and kicked him instead. This -fairly exasperated the bull-dog, and as Amelia would not let him bite -the bun, he bit Amelia’s leg. - -Her mamma was so distressed that she fell into hysterics, and hardly -knew what she was saying. She said the bull-dog must be shot for fear he -should go mad, and Amelia’s wound must be done with a red-hot poker for -fear _she_ should go mad (with hydrophobia). And as of course she -couldn’t bear the pain of this, she must have chloroform, and she would -most probably die of that; for as one in several thousands dies annually -under chloroform, it was evident that her chance of life was very small -indeed. So, as the poor lady said, “Whether we shoot Amelia and burn the -bull-dog—at least I mean shoot the bull-dog and burn Amelia with a -red-hot poker—or leave it alone; and whether Amelia or the bull-dog has -chloroform or bears it without—it seems to be death or madness -everyway!” - -And as the doctor did not come fast enough, she ran out without her -bonnet to meet him, and Amelia’s papa, who was very much distressed too, -ran after her with her bonnet. Meanwhile the doctor came in by another -way, found Amelia sitting on the dining-room floor with the bull-dog, -and crying bitterly. She was telling him that they wanted to shoot him, -but that they should not, for it was all her fault and not his. But she -did not tell him that she was to be burnt with a red-hot poker, for she -thought it might hurt his feelings. And then she wept afresh, and kissed -the bull-dog, and the bull-dog kissed her with his red tongue, and -rubbed his pink nose against her, and beat his own tail much harder on -the floor than Amelia had ever hit it. She said the same things to the -doctor, but she told him also that she was willing to be burnt without -chloroform if it must be done, and if they would spare the bull-dog. And -though she looked very white, she meant what she said. - -But the doctor looked at her leg, and found it was only a snap, and not -a deep wound; and then he looked at the bull-dog, and saw that so far -from looking mad, he looked a great deal more sensible than anybody in -the house. So he only washed Amelia’s leg and bound it up, and she was -not burnt with the poker, neither did she get hydrophobia; but she had -got a good lesson on manners, and thenceforward she always behaved with -the utmost propriety to animals, though she tormented her mother’s -friends as much as ever. - -Now although Amelia’s mamma’s acquaintances were too polite to complain -before her face, they made up for it by what they said behind her back. -In allusion to the poor lady’s ineffectual remonstrances, one gentleman -said that the more mischief Amelia did, the dearer she seemed to grow to -her mother. And somebody else replied that however dear she might be as -a daughter, she was certainly a very _dear_ friend, and proposed that -they should send in a bill for all the damage she had done in the course -of the year, as a round robin to her parents at Christmas. From which it -may be seen that Amelia was not popular with her parents’ friends, as -(to do grown-up people justice) good children almost invariably are. - -If she was not a favorite in the drawing-room, she was still less so in -the nursery, where, besides all the hardships naturally belonging to -attendance on a spoilt-child, the poor nurse was kept, as she said, “on -the continual go” by Amelia’s reckless destruction of her clothes. It -was not fair wear and tear, it was not an occasional fall in the mire, -or an accidental rent or two during a game at “Hunt the Hare,” but it -was constant wilful destruction, which nurse had to repair as best she -might. No entreaties would induce Amelia to “take care” of anything. She -walked obstinately on the muddy side of the road when nurse pointed out -the clean parts, kicking up the dirt with her feet; if she climbed a -wall she never tried to free her dress if it had caught; on she rushed, -and half a skirt might be left behind for any care she had in the -matter. “They must be mended,” or, “They must be washed,” was all she -thought about it. - -“You seem to think things clean and mend themselves, Miss Amelia,” said -poor nurse one day. - -“No, I don’t,” said Amelia, rudely. “I think you do them; what are you -here for?” - -But though she spoke in this insolent and unladylike fashion, Amelia -really did not realize what the tasks were which her carelessness -imposed on other people. When every hour of nurse’s day had been spent -in struggling to keep her wilful young lady regularly fed, decently -dressed, and moderately well-behaved (except, indeed, those hours when -her mother was fighting the same battle downstairs); and when at last, -after the hardest struggle of all, she had been got to bed not more than -two hours later than her appointed time, even then there was no rest for -nurse. Amelia’s mamma could at last lean back in her chair and have a -quiet chat with her husband, which was not broken in upon every two -minutes, and Amelia herself was asleep; but nurse must sit up for hours -wearing out her eyes by the light of a tallow candle, in fine-darning -great, jagged and most unnecessary holes in Amelia’s muslin dresses. Or -perhaps she had to wash and iron clothes for Amelia’s wear next day. For -sometimes she was so very destructive, that towards the end of the week -she had used up all her clothes and had no clean ones to fall back upon. - -Amelia’s meals were another source of trouble. She would not wear a -pinafore; if it had been put on, she would burst the strings, and -perhaps in throwing it away knock her plate of mutton broth over the -tablecloth and her own dress. Then she fancied first one thing and then -another; she did not like this or that; she wanted a bit cut here and -there. Her mamma used to begin by saying, “My dear-r-Ramelia, you must -not be so wasteful,” and she used to end by saying, “The dear child has -positively no appetite;” which seemed to be a good reason for not -wasting any more food upon her; but with Amelia’s mamma it only meant -that she might try a little cutlet and tomato sauce when she had half -finished her roast beef, and that most of the cutlet and all the mashed -potato might be exchanged for plum tart and custard; and that when she -had spooned up the custard and played with the paste, and put the plum -stones on the tablecloth, she might be tempted with a little Stilton -cheese and celery, and exchange that for anything that caught her fancy -in the dessert dishes. - -The nurse used to say, “Many a poor child would thank God for what you -waste every meal time, Miss Amelia,” and to quote a certain good old -saying, “Waste not want not.” But Amelia’s mamma allowed her to send -away on her plates what would have fed another child, day after day. - - - UNDER THE HAYCOCKS. - -It was summer, and haytime. Amelia had been constantly in the hayfield, -and the haymakers had constantly wished that she had been anywhere else. -She mislaid the rakes, nearly killed herself and several other persons -with a fork, and overturned one haycock after another as fast as they -were made. At tea time it was hoped that she would depart, but she -teased her mamma to have the tea brought into the field, and her mamma -said, “The poor child must have a treat sometimes,” and so it was -brought out. - -After this she fell off the haycart, and was a good deal shaken, but not -hurt. So she was taken indoors, and the haymakers worked hard and -cleared the field, all but a few cocks which were left till the morning. - -The sun set, the dew fell, the moon rose. It was a lovely night. Amelia -peeped from behind the blinds of the drawing-room windows, and saw four -haycocks, each with a deep shadow reposing at its side. The rest of the -field was swept clean, and looked pale in the moonshine. It was a lovely -night. - -“I want to go out,” said Amelia. “They will take away those cocks before -I can get at them in the morning, and there will be no more jumping and -tumbling. I shall go out and have some fun now.” - -“My dear Amelia, you must not,” said her mamma; and her papa added, “I -won’t hear of it.” So Amelia went upstairs to grumble to nurse; but -nurse only said, “Now, my dear Miss Amelia, do go quietly to bed, like a -dear love. The field is all wet with dew. Besides, it’s a moonlight -night, and who knows what’s abroad? You might see the fairies—bless us -and sain us!—and what not. There’s been a magpie hopping up and down -near the house all day, and that’s a sign of ill-luck.” - -“I don’t care for magpies,” said Amelia; “I threw a stone at that one -to-day.” - -And she left the nursery, and swung downstairs on the rail of the -banisters. But she did not go into the drawing-room; she opened the -front door and went out into the moonshine. - -It was a lovely night. But there was something strange about it. -Everything looked asleep, and yet seemed not only awake but watching. -There was not a sound, and yet the air seemed full of half sounds. The -child was quite alone, and yet at every step she fancied some one behind -her, on one side of her, somewhere, and found it only a rustling leaf or -a passing shadow. She was soon in the hayfield, where it was just the -same; so that when she fancied that something green was moving near the -first haycock she thought very little of it, till, coming closer, she -plainly perceived by the moonlight a tiny man dressed in green, with a -tall, pointed hat, and very, very long tips to his shoes, tying his -shoestring with his foot on a stubble stalk. He had the most wizened of -faces, and when he got angry with his shoe, he pulled so wry a grimace -that it was quite laughable. At last he stood up, stepping carefully -over the stubble, went up to the first haycock, and drawing out a hollow -grass stalk blew upon it till his cheeks were puffed like footballs. And -yet there was no sound, only a half-sound, as of a horn blown in the far -distance, or in a dream. Presently the point of a tall hat, and finally -just such another little weazened face poked out through the side of the -haycock. - -“Can we hold revel here to-night?” asked the little green man. - -“That indeed you cannot,” answered the other; “we have hardly room to -turn round as it is, with all Amelia’s dirty frocks.” - -“Ah, bah!” said the dwarf; and he walked on to the next haycock, Amelia -cautiously following. - -Here he blew again, and a head was put out as before; on which he said— - -“Can we hold revel here to-night?” - -“How is it possible?” was the reply, “when there is not a place where -one can so much as set down an acorn cup, for Amelia’s broken victuals.” - -“Fie! fie!” said the dwarf, and went on to the third, where all happened -as before; and he asked the old question— - -“Can we hold revel here to-night?” - -“Can you dance on glass and crockery shreds?” inquired the other. -“Amelia’s broken gimcracks are everywhere.” - -“Pshaw!” snorted the dwarf, frowning terribly; and when he came to the -fourth haycock he blew such an angry blast that the grass stalk split -into seven pieces. But he met with no better success than before. Only -the point of a hat came through the hay, and a feeble voice piped in -tones of depression—“The broken threads would entangle our feet. It’s -all Amelia’s fault. If we could only get hold of her!” - -“If she’s wise, she’ll keep as far from these haycocks as she can,” -snarled the dwarf, angrily; and he shook his fist as much as to say, “If -she did come, I should not receive her very pleasantly.” - -Now with Amelia, to hear that she had better not do something, was to -make her wish at once to do it; and as she was not at all wanting in -courage, she pulled the dwarf’s little cloak, just as she would have -twitched her mother’s shawl, and said (with that sort of snarly whine in -which spoilt children generally speak), “Why shouldn’t I come to the -haycocks if I want to? They belong to my papa, and I shall come if I -like. But you have no business here.” - -“Nightshade and hemlock!” ejaculated the little man, “you are not -lacking in impudence. Perhaps your Sauciness is not quite aware how -things are distributed in this world?” saying which he lifted his -pointed shoes and began to dance and sing— - - “All under the sun belongs to men, - And all under the moon to the fairies. - So, so, so! Ho, ho, ho! - All under the moon to the fairies.” - -As he sang “Ho, ho, ho!” the little man turned head over heels; and -though by this time Amelia would gladly have got away, she could not, -for the dwarf seemed to dance and tumble round her, and always to cut -off the chance of escape; whilst numberless voices from all around -seemed to join in the chorus, with— - - “So, so, so! Ho, ho, ho! - All under the moon to the fairies.” - -“And now,” said the little man, “to work! And you have plenty of work -before you, so trip on, to the first haycock.” - -“I shan’t!” said Amelia. - -“On with you!” repeated the dwarf. - -“I won’t!” said Amelia. - -But the little man, who was behind her, pinched her funny-bone with his -lean fingers, and, as everybody knows, that is agony; so Amelia ran on, -and tried to get away. But when she went too fast, the dwarf trod on her -heels with his long-pointed shoe, and if she did not go fast enough, he -pinched her funny-bone. So for once in her life she was obliged to do as -she was told. As they ran, tall hats and wizened faces were popped out -on all sides of the haycocks, like blanched almonds on a tipsy cake; and -whenever the dwarf pinched Amelia, or trod on her heels, they cried “Ho, -ho, ho!” with such horrible contortions as they laughed, that it was -hideous to behold. - -“Here is Amelia!” shouted the dwarf when they reached the first haycock. - -“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed all the others, as they poked out here and there -from the hay. - -“Bring a stock,” said the dwarf; on which the hay was lifted, and out -ran six or seven dwarfs, carrying what seemed to Amelia to be a little -girl like herself. And when she looked closer, to her horror and -surprise the figure was exactly like her—it was her own face, clothes, -and everything. - -“Shall we kick it into the house?” asked the goblins. - -“No,” said the dwarf; “lay it down by the haycock. The father and mother -are coming to seek her now.” - -When Amelia heard this she began to shriek for help; but she was pushed -into the haycock, where her loudest cries sounded like the chirruping of -a grasshopper. - -It was really a fine sight to see the inside of the cock. - -Farmers do not like to see flowers in a hayfield, but the fairies do. -They had arranged all the buttercups, &c., in patterns on the haywalls; -bunches of meadow-sweet swung from the roof like censers, and perfumed -the air; and the ox-eye daisies which formed the ceiling gave a light -like stars. But Amelia cared for none of this. She only struggled to -peep through the hay, and she did see her father and mother and nurse -come down the lawn, followed by the other servants, looking for her. -When they saw the stock they ran to raise it with exclamations of pity -and surprise. The stock moaned faintly, and Amelia’s mamma wept, and -Amelia herself shouted with all her might. - -“What’s that?” said her mamma. (It is not easy to deceive a mother.) - -“Only the grasshoppers, my dear,” said papa. “Let us get the poor child -home.” - -The stock moaned again, and the mother said, “Oh dear! oh -dear-r-Ramelia!” and followed in tears. - -“Rub her eyes,” said the dwarf; on which Amelia’s eyes were rubbed with -some ointment, and when she took a last peep, she could see that the -stock was nothing but a hairy imp with a face like the oldest and most -grotesque of apes. - -“——and send her below;” said the dwarf. On which the field opened, and -Amelia was pushed underground. - -She found herself on a sort of open heath, where no houses were to be -seen. Of course there was no moonshine, and yet it was neither daylight -nor dark. There was as the light of early dawn, and every sound was at -once clear and dreamy, like the first sounds of the day coming through -the fresh air before sunrise. Beautiful flowers crept over the heath, -whose tints were constantly changing in the subdued light; and as the -hues changed and blended, the flowers gave forth different perfumes. All -would have been charming but that at every few paces the paths were -blocked by large clothes-baskets full of dirty frocks. And the frocks -were Amelia’s. Torn, draggled, wet, covered with sand, mud, and dirt of -all kinds, Amelia recognized them. - -“You’ve got to wash them all,” said the dwarf, who was behind her as -usual; “that’s what you’ve come down for—not because your society is -particularly pleasant. So the sooner you begin the better.” - -“I can’t,” said Amelia (she had already learnt that “I won’t” is not an -answer for every one); “send them up to nurse, and she’ll do them. It is -her business.” - -“What nurse can do she has done, and now it’s time for you to begin,” -said the dwarf. “Sooner or later the mischief done by spoilt children’s -wilful disobedience comes back on their own hands. Up to a certain point -we help them, for we love children, and we are wilful ourselves. But -there are limits to everything. If you can’t wash your dirty frocks, it -is time you learnt to do so, if only that you may know what the trouble -is you impose on other people. _She_ will teach you.” - -The dwarf kicked out his foot in front of him, and pointed with his long -toe to a woman who sat by a fire made upon the heath, where a pot was -suspended from crossed poles. It was like a bit of a gipsy encampment, -and the woman seemed to be a real woman, not a fairy—which was the -case, as Amelia afterwards found. She had lived underground for many -years, and was the dwarfs’ servant. - -And this was how it came about that Amelia had to wash her dirty frocks. -Let any little girl try to wash one of her dresses; not to half wash it, -not to leave it stained with dirty water, but to wash it quite clean. -Let her then try to starch and iron it—in short, to make it look as if -it had come from the laundress—and she will have some idea of what poor -Amelia had to learn to do. There was no help for it. When she was -working she very seldom saw the dwarfs; but if she were idle or -stubborn, or had any hopes of getting away, one was sure to start up at -her elbow and pinch her funny-bone, or poke her in the ribs, till she -did her best. Her back ached with stooping over the wash-tub; her hands -and arms grew wrinkled with soaking in hot soapsuds, and sore with -rubbing. Whatever she did not know how to do, the woman of the heath -taught her. At first, whilst Amelia was sulky, the woman of the heath -was sharp and cross; but when Amelia became willing and obedient, she -was good-natured, and even helped her. - -The first time that Amelia felt hungry she asked for some food. - -“By all means,” said one of the dwarfs; “there is plenty down here which -belongs to you;” and he led her away till they came to a place like the -first, except that it was covered with plates of broken meats; all the -bits of good meat, pie, pudding, bread and butter, &c., that Amelia had -wasted beforetime. - -“I can’t eat cold scraps like these,” said Amelia turning away. - -“Then what did you ask for food for before you were hungry?” screamed -the dwarf, and he pinched her and sent her about her business. - -After a while she became so famished that she was glad to beg humbly to -be allowed to go for food; and she ate a cold chop and the remains of a -rice pudding with thankfulness. How delicious they tasted! She was -surprised herself at the good things she had rejected. After a time she -fancied she would like to warm up some of the cold meat in a pan, which -the woman of the heath used to cook her own dinner in, and she asked for -leave to do so. - -“You may do anything you like to make yourself comfortable, if you do it -yourself,” said she; and Amelia, who had been watching her for many -times, became quite expert in cooking up the scraps. - -As there was no real daylight underground, so also there was no night. -When the old woman was tired she lay down and had a nap, and when she -thought that Amelia had earned a rest, she allowed her to do the same. -It was never cold, and it never rained, so they slept on the heath among -the flowers. - -They say that “It’s a long lane that has no turning,” and the hardest -tasks come to an end some time, and Amelia’s dresses were clean at last; -but then a more wearisome work was before her. They had to be mended. -Amelia looked at the jagged rents made by the hedges, the great gaping -holes in front where she had put her foot through; the torn tucks and -gathers. First she wept, then she bitterly regretted that she had so -often refused to do her sewing at home that she was very awkward with -her needle. Whether she ever would have got through this task alone is -doubtful, but she had by this time become so well-behaved and willing -that the old woman was kind to her, and, pitying her blundering -attempts, she helped her a great deal; whilst Amelia would cook the old -woman’s victuals, or repeat stories and pieces of poetry to amuse her. - -“How glad I am that I ever learnt anything?” thought the poor child; -“everything one learns seems to come useful some time.” - -At last the dresses were finished. - -“Do you think I shall be allowed to go home now?” Amelia asked of the -woman of the heath. - -“Not yet,” said she; “you have got to mend the broken gimcracks next.” - -“But when I have done all my tasks,” Amelia said; “will they let me go -then?” - -“That depends,” said the woman, and she sat silent over the fire; but -Amelia wept so bitterly, that she pitied her and said—“Only dry your -eyes, for the fairies hate tears, and I will tell you all I know and do -the best for you I can. You see, when you first came you were—excuse -me!—such an unlicked cub; such a peevish, selfish, wilful, useless, and -ill-mannered little miss, that neither the fairies nor anybody else were -likely to keep you any longer than necessary. But now you are such a -willing, handy, and civil little thing, and so pretty and graceful -withal, and I think it is very likely that they will want to keep you -altogether. I think you had better make up your mind to it. They are -kindly little folk, and will make a pet of you in the end.” - -“Oh, no, no!” moaned poor Amelia; “I want to be with my mother, my poor -dear mother! I want to make up for being a bad child so long. Besides, -surely that ‘stock,’ as they called her, will want to come back to her -own people.” - -“As to that,” said the woman, “after a time the stock will affect mortal -illness, and will then take possession of the first black cat she sees, -and in that shape leave the house, and come home. But the figure that is -like you will remain lifeless in the bed, and will be duly buried. Then -your people, believing you to be dead, will never look for you, and you -will always remain here. However, as this distresses you so, I will give -you some advice. Can you dance?” - -“Yes,” said Amelia; “I did attend pretty well to my dancing lessons. I -was considered rather clever about it.” - -“At any spare moments you find,” continued the woman, “dance, dance all -your dances, and as well as you can. The dwarfs love dancing.” - -“And then?” said Amelia. - -“Then, perhaps some night they will take you up to dance with them in -the meadows above ground.” - -“But I could not get away. They would tread on my heels—oh! I could -never escape them.” - -“I know that,” said the woman; “your only chance is this. If ever, when -dancing in the meadows, you can find a four-leaved clover, hold it in -your hand and wish to be at home. Then no one can stop you. Meanwhile I -advise you to seem happy, and they may think you are content, and have -forgotten the world. And dance, above all, dance!” - -And Amelia, not to be behindhand, began then and there to dance some -pretty figures on the heath. As she was dancing the dwarf came by. - -“Ho, ho!” said he, “you can dance, can you?” - -“When I am happy, I can,” said Amelia, performing several graceful -movements as she spoke. - -“What are you pleased about now?” snapped the dwarf, suspiciously. - -“Have I not reason?” said Amelia. “The dresses are washed and mended.” - -“Then up with them!” returned the dwarf. On which half a dozen elves -popped the whole lot into a big basket and kicked them up into the -world, where they found their way to the right wardrobes somehow. - -As the woman of the heath had said, Amelia was soon set to a new task. -When she bade the old woman farewell, she asked if she could do nothing -for her if ever she got at liberty herself. - -“Can I do nothing to get you back to your old home?” Amelia cried, for -she thought of others now as well as herself. - -“No, thank you,” returned the old woman; “I am used to this, and do not -care to return. I have been here a long time—how long I do not know; -for as there is neither daylight nor dark we have no measure of -time—long, I am sure, very long. The light and noise up yonder would -now be too much for me. But I wish you well, and, above all, remember to -dance!” - -The new scene of Amelia’s labors was a more rocky part of the heath, -where grey granite boulders served for seats and tables, and sometimes -for workshops and anvils, as in one place, where a grotesque and grimy -old dwarf sat forging rivets to mend china and glass. A fire in a hollow -of the boulder served for a forge, and on the flatter part was his -anvil. The rocks were covered in all directions with the knick-knacks, -ornaments, &c., that Amelia had at various times destroyed. - -“If you please, sir,” she said to the dwarf, “I am Amelia.” - -The dwarf left off blowing at his forge and looked at her. - -“Then I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself,” said he. - -“I am ashamed of myself,” said poor Amelia, “very much ashamed. I should -like to mend these things if I can.” - -“Well, you can’t say more than that,” said the dwarf, in a mollified -tone, for he was a kindly little creature; “bring that china bowl here, -and I’ll show you how to set to work.” - -Poor Amelia did not get on very fast, but she tried her best. As to the -dwarf, it was truly wonderful to see how he worked. Things seemed to -mend themselves at his touch, and he was so proud of his skill, and so -particular, that he generally did over again the things which Amelia had -done after her fashion. The first time he gave her a few minutes in -which to rest and amuse herself, she held out her little skirt, and -began one of her prettiest dances. - -“Rivets and trivets!” shrieked the little man, “How you dance! It is -charming! I say it is charming! On with you! Fa, la fa! La, fa la! It -gives me the fidgets in my shoe points to see you!” and forthwith down -he jumped, and began capering about. - -“I am a good dancer myself,” said the little man, “Do you know the ‘Hop, -Skip, and Jump’ dance?” - -“I do not think I do,” said Amelia. - -“It is much admired,” said the dwarf, “when I dance it;” and he -thereupon tucked up the little leathern apron in which he worked, and -performed some curious antics on one leg. - -“That is the Hop,” he observed, pausing for a moment. - -“The Skip is thus. You throw out your left leg as high and as far as you -can, and as you drop on the toe of your left foot you fling out the -right leg in the same manner, and so on. This is the Jump,” with which -he turned a somersault and disappeared from view. When Amelia next saw -him he was sitting cross-legged on his boulder. - -“Good, wasn’t it?” he said. - -“Wonderful!” Amelia replied. - -“Now it’s your turn again,” said the dwarf. - -But Amelia cunningly replied—“I’m afraid I must go on with my work.” - -“Pshaw!” said the little tinker. “Give me your work. I can do more in a -minute than you in a month, and better to boot. Now dance again.” - -“Do you know this?” said Amelia, and she danced a few paces of a polka -mazurka. - -“Admirable!” cried the little man. “Stay”—and he drew an old violin -from behind the rock; “now dance again, and mark the time well, so that -I may catch the measure, and then I will accompany you.” - -Which accordingly he did, improvising a very spirited tune, which had, -however, the peculiar subdued and weird effect of all the other sounds -in this strange region. - -“The fiddle came from up yonder,” said the little man. “It was smashed -to atoms in the world and thrown away. But ho, ho, ho! There is nothing -that I cannot mend, and a mended fiddle is an amended fiddle. It -improves the tone. Now teach me that dance, and I will patch up all the -rest of the gimcracks. Is it a bargain?” - -“By all means,” said Amelia; and she began to explain the dance to the -best of her ability. - -“Charming! charming!” cried the dwarf. “We have no such dance ourselves. -We only dance hand in hand, and round and round, when we dance together. -Now I will learn the step, and then I will put my arm round your waist -and dance with you.” - -Amelia looked at the dwarf. He was very smutty, and old, and weazened. -Truly, a queer partner! But “handsome is that handsome does;” and he had -done her a good turn. So when he had learnt the step, he put his arm -round Amelia’s waist, and they danced together. His shoe points were -very much in the way, but otherwise he danced very well. - -Then he set to work on the broken ornaments, and they were all very soon -“as good as new.” But they were not kicked up into the world, for, as -the dwarfs said, they would be sure to break on the road. So they kept -them and used them; and I fear that no benefit came from the little -tinker’s skill to Amelia’s mamma’s acquaintance in this matter. - -“Have I any other tasks?” Amelia inquired. - -“One more,” said the dwarfs; and she was led farther on to a smooth -mossy green, thickly covered with what looked like bits of broken -thread. One would think it had been a milliner’s work-room from the -first invention of needles and thread. - -“What are these?” Amelia asked. - -“They are the broken threads of all the conversations you have -interrupted,” was the reply; “and pretty dangerous work it is to dance -here now, with threads getting round one’s shoe points. Dance a hornpipe -in a herring-net, and you’ll know what it is!” - -Amelia began to pick up the threads, but it was tedious work. She had -cleared a yard or two, and her back was aching terribly, when she heard -the fiddle and the mazurka behind her; and looking round she saw the old -dwarf, who was playing away, and making the most hideous grimaces as his -chin pressed the violin. - -“Dance, my lady, dance!” he shouted. - -“I do not think I can,” said Amelia; “I am so weary with stooping over -my work.” - -“Then rest a few minutes,” he answered, “and I will play you a jig. A -jig is a beautiful dance, such life, such spirit! So!” - -And he played faster and faster, his arm, his face, his fiddle-bow all -seemed working together; and as he played, the threads danced themselves -into three heaps. - -“That is not bad, is it?” said the dwarf; “and now for our own dance,” -and he played the mazurka. “Get the measure well into your head. Lâ, la -fa lâ! Lâ, la fa lâ! So!” - -And throwing away his fiddle, he caught Amelia round the waist, and they -danced as before. After which, she had no difficulty in putting the -three heaps of thread into a basket. - -“Where are these to be kicked to?” asked the young goblins. - -“To the four winds of heaven,” said the old dwarf. “There are very few -drawing-room conversations worth putting together a second time. They -are not like old china bowls.” - - - BY MOONLIGHT. - -Thus Amelia’s tasks were ended; but not a word was said of her return -home. The dwarfs were now very kind, and made so much of her that it was -evident that they meant her to remain with them. Amelia often cooked for -them, and she danced and played with them, and never showed a sign of -discontent; but her heart ached for home, and when she was alone she -would bury her face in the flowers and cry for her mother. - -One day she overheard the dwarfs in consultation. - -“The moon is full to-morrow,” said one—(“Then I have been a month down -here,” thought Amelia; “it was full moon that night”)—“shall we dance -in the Mary Meads?” - -“By all means,” said the old tinker dwarf; “and we will take Amelia, and -dance my dance.” - -“Is it safe?” said another. - -“Look how content she is,” said the old dwarf; “and, oh! how she dances; -my feet tickle at the bare thought.” - -“The ordinary run of mortals do not see us,” continued the objector; -“but she is visible to any one. And there are men and women who wander -in the moonlight, and the Mary Meads are near her old home.” - -“I will make her a hat of touchwood,” said the old dwarf, “so that even -if she is seen it will look like a will-o’-the-wisp bobbing up and down. -If she does not come, I will not. I must dance my dance. You do not know -what it is! We two alone move together with a grace which even here is -remarkable. But when I think that up yonder we shall have attendant -shadows echoing our movements, I long for the moment to arrive.” - -“So be it,” said the others; and Amelia wore the touchwood hat, and went -up with them to the Mary Meads. - -Amelia and the dwarf danced the mazurka, and their shadows, now as short -as themselves, then long and gigantic, danced beside them. As the moon -went down, and the shadows lengthened, the dwarf was in raptures. - -“When one sees how colossal one’s very shadow is,” he remarked, “one -knows one’s true worth. You also have a good shadow. We are partners in -the dance, and I think we will be partners for life. But I have not -fully considered the matter, so this is not to be regarded as a formal -proposal.” And he continued to dance, singing, “Lâ, la, fa, lâ, lâ, la, -fa, lâ.” It was highly admired. - -The Mary Meads lay a little below the house where Amelia’s parents -lived, and once during the night her father, who was watching by the -sick bed of the stock, looked out of the window. - -“How lovely the moonlight is!” he murmured; “but, dear me! there is a -will-o’-the-wisp yonder. I had no idea the Mary Meads were so damp.” -Then he pulled the blind down and went back into the room. - -As for poor Amelia, she found no four-leaved clover, and at cockcrow -they all went underground. - -“We will dance on Hunch Hill to-morrow,” said the dwarfs. - -All went as before; not a clover plant of any kind did Amelia see, and -at cockcrow the revel broke up. - -On the following night they danced in the hayfield. The old stubble was -now almost hidden by green clover. There was a grand fairy dance—a -round dance, which does not mean, as with us, a dance for two partners, -but a dance where all join hands and dance round and round in a circle -with appropriate antics. Round they went, faster and faster, the pointed -shoes now meeting in the centre like the spokes of a wheel now kicked -out behind like spikes, and then scamper, caper, hurry! They seemed to -fly, when suddenly the ring broke at one corner, and nothing being -stronger than its weakest point, the whole circle were sent flying over -the field. - -“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the dwarfs, for they are good-humored little folk, -and do not mind a tumble. - -“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Amelia, for she had fallen with her fingers on a -four-leaved clover. - -She put it behind her back, for the old tinker dwarf was coming up to -her, wiping the mud from his face with his leathern apron. - -“Now for our dance!” he shrieked. “And I have made up my mind—partners -now and partners always. You are incomparable. For three hundred years I -have not met with your equal.” - -But Amelia held the four-leaved clover above her head, and cried from -her very heart—“I want to go home!” - -The dwarf gave a hideous yell of disappointment, and at this instant the -stock came stumbling head over heels into the midst, crying—“Oh! the -pills, the powders, and the draughts! oh, the lotions and embrocations! -oh, the blisters, the poultices, and the plasters! men may well be so -short-lived!” - -And Amelia found herself in bed in her own home. - - - AT HOME AGAIN. - -By the side of Amelia’s bed stood a little table, on which were so many -big bottles of medicine, that Amelia smiled to think of all the stock -must have had to swallow during the month past. There was an open Bible -on it too, in which Amelia’s mother was reading, whilst tears trickled -slowly down her pale cheeks. The poor lady looked so thin and ill, so -worn with sorrow and watching, that Amelia’s heart smote her, as if some -one had given her a sharp blow. - -“Mamma, mamma! Mother, my dear, dear, mother!” - -The tender, humble, loving tone of voice was so unlike Amelia’s old -imperious snarl, that her mother hardly recognized it; and when she saw -Amelia’s eyes full of intelligence instead of the delirium of fever, and -that (though older and thinner and rather pale) she looked wonderfully -well, the poor worn-out lady could hardly restrain herself from falling -into hysterics for very joy. - -“Dear mamma, I want to tell you all about it,” said Amelia, kissing the -kind hand that stroked her brow. - -But it appeared that the doctor had forbidden conversation; and though -Amelia knew it would do her no harm, she yielded to her mother’s wish -and lay still and silent. - -“Now, my love, it is time to take your medicine.” - -But Amelia pleaded—“Oh, mamma, indeed I don’t want any medicine. I am -quite well, and would like to get up.” - -“Ah, my dear child!” cried her mother, “what I have suffered in inducing -you to take your medicine, and yet see what good it has done you.” - -“I hope you will never suffer any more from my wilfulness,” said Amelia; -and she swallowed two tablespoonfuls of a mixture labelled, “To be well -shaken before taken,” without even a wry face. - -Presently the doctor came. - -“You’re not so very angry at the sight of me to-day my little lady, eh?” -he said. - -“I have not seen you for a long time,” said Amelia; “but I know you have -been here, attending a stock who looked like me. If your eyes had been -touched with fairy ointment, however, you would have been aware that it -was a fairy imp, and a very ugly one, covered with hair. I have been -living in terror lest it should go back underground in the shape of a -black cat. However, thanks to the four-leaved clover, and the old woman -of the heath, I am at home again.” - -On hearing this rhodomontade, Amelia’s mother burst into tears, for she -thought the poor child was still raving with fever. But the doctor -smiled pleasantly, and said—“Ay, ay, to be sure,” with a little nod, as -one should say, “We know all about it;” and laid two fingers in a casual -manner on Amelia’s wrist. - -“But she is wonderfully better, madam,” he said afterwards to her mamma; -“the brain has been severely tried, but she is marvellously improved: in -fact, it is an effort of nature, a most favorable effort, and we can but -assist the rally; we will change the medicine.” Which he did, and very -wisely assisted nature with a bottle of pure water flavored with -tincture of roses. - -“And it was so very kind of him to give me his directions in poetry,” -said Amelia’s mamma; “for I told him my memory, which is never good, -seemed going completely, from anxiety, and if I had done anything wrong -just now, I should never had forgiven myself. And I always found poetry -easier to remember than prose,”—which puzzled everybody, the doctor -included, till it appeared that she had ingeniously discovered a rhyme -in his orders - - ‘To be kept cool and quiet, - With light nourishing diet.’ - -Under which treatment Amelia was soon pronounced to be well. - -She made another attempt to relate her adventures, but she found that -not even the nurse would believe in them. - -“Why you told me yourself I might meet with the fairies,” said Amelia, -reproachfully. - -“So I did, my dear,” nurse replied, “and they say that it’s that put it -into your head. And I’m sure what you say about the dwarfs and all is as -good as a printed book, though you can’t think that ever I would have -let any dirty clothes store up like that, let alone your frocks, my -dear. But for pity sake, Miss Amelia, don’t go on about it to your -mother, for she thinks you’ll never get your senses right again, and she -has fretted enough about you, poor lady; and nursed you night and day -till she is nigh worn out. And anybody can see you’ve been ill, miss, -you’ve grown so, and look paler and older like. Well, to be sure, as you -say, if you’d been washing and working for a month in a place without a -bit of sun, or a bed to lie on, and scraps to eat, it would be enough to -do it; and many’s the poor child that has to, and gets worn and old -before her time. But, my dear, whatever you think, give in to your -mother; you’ll never repent giving in to your mother, my dear, the -longest day you live.” - -So Amelia kept her own counsel. But she had one confidant. - -When her parents brought the stock home on the night of Amelia’s visit -to the haycocks, the bull-dog’s conduct had been most strange. His usual -good-humor appeared to have been exchanged for incomprehensible fury, -and he was with difficulty prevented from flying at the stock, who on -her part showed an anger and dislike fully equal to his. - -Finally the bull-dog had been confined in the stable, where he remained -the whole month, uttering from time to time such howls, with his snub -nose in the air, that poor nurse quite gave up hope of Amelia’s -recovery. - -“For indeed, my dear, they do say that a howling dog is a sign of death, -and it was more than I could abear.” - -But the day after Amelia’s return, as nurse was leaving the room with a -tray which had carried some of the light nourishing diet ordered by the -doctor, she was knocked down, tray and all, by the bull-dog, who came -tearing into the room, dragging a chain and dirty rope after him, and -nearly choked by the desperate efforts which had finally effected his -escape from the stable. And he jumped straight on the end of Amelia’s -bed, where he lay, _thudding_ with his tail, and giving short whines of -ecstacy. And as Amelia begged that he might be left, and as it was -evident that he would bite any one who tried to take him away, he became -established as chief nurse. When Amelia’s meals were brought to the -bedside on a tray, he kept a fixed eye on the plates, as if to see if -her appetite were improving. And he would even take a snack himself, -with an air of great affability. - -And when Amelia told him her story, she could see by his eyes, and his -nose, and his ears, and his tail, and the way he growled whenever the -stock was mentioned, that he knew all about it. As, on the other hand, -he had no difficulty in conveying to her by sympathetic whines the -sentiment “Of course I would have helped you if I could; but they tied -me up, and this disgusting old rope has taken me a month to worry -through.” - -So, in spite of the past, Amelia grew up good and gentle, unselfish and -considerate for others. She was unusually clever, as those who have been -with the “Little People” are said always to be. - -And she became so popular with her mother’s acquaintances that they -said—“We will no longer call her Amelia, for it was a name we learnt to -dislike, but we will call her Amy, that is to say, ‘Beloved.’” - - * * * * * * - -“And did my godmother’s grandmother believe that Amelia had really been -with the fairies, or did she think it was all fever ravings?” - -“That, indeed, she never said, but she always observed that it was a -pleasant tale with a good moral, which was surely enough for anybody.” - - - THE END. - - * * * * * - - - - - SPOONS - - - BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN - -The clear, smooth brow of Mrs. St. James clouded and contracted -unmistakably. As she stood at the window, her eyes wandering about the -beautiful grounds surrounding her home, they rested on two figures -seated in a rustic arbor. They were her daughter Alice and young Gerald -Clifton. Now Mrs. St. James would have preferred seeing any other of the -young gentlemen of her acquaintance with Alice, than the present one. -She turned impatiently from the window, saying: - -“My remonstrance is useless. She is perfectly infatuated—and her father -scarcely less so. I can’t imagine what he is thinking about. He has not -a care about his child making a brilliant match. There is Albert Hyde, -young Lord Clavering, and half a dozen others, any of whom she could -marry; all eligible, and should be considered really more desirable and -worthy. But no—this young man, with neither wealth nor position, has, I -fear, secured the hearts of both Alice and her father. And I really -think, unless something providential prevents, she will marry him.” - -The lovely Alice, quite unconscious of the unfavorable eyes which had -lingered on them, was listening with delight to a beautiful poem her -lover was reading. Suddenly he closed the book, and looking earnestly on -his companion, said: - -“Your mother dislikes me very much, Alice. I fear I shall never win her -favor.” - -“No, no, not dislikes you; but there are others she likes better, -perhaps. But papa will yet win her over. He loves you, and mamma dearly -loves him. So in time all will be well,” answered Alice, with a sweet, -assuring smile. - -“I trust so, Alice. And in time I will prove worthy of your love and -your father’s confidence. I will make a name for you, love, with -heaven’s blessing.” - -A week or so after, Sydney St. James was returning home from his -editorial office. He had had a harassing day, and was very tired. He -wanted rest, and a quiet evening; saying to himself, “I trust we shall -have no company, unless Gerald; he never wearies me. Bless the boy! I am -growing strangely fond of him!” He entered the house, made his way to -the parlor, where he was accustomed to find his family. Alas! for his -hopes of rest and quiet. There, instead of the usual pleasant greeting -from his wife, the bright smile and loving embrace of his daughter, he -found the first very much excited, with flashing eyes and glowing -cheeks; the latter sobbing, her face hidden in the cushion of the sofa. -Hastily approaching her, he raised her head tenderly and asked: - -“What is it, love?” - -Another rush of tears; then her head nestled in her father’s bosom. - -“What has happened?” he asked, in real anxiety looking to his wife. - -“Well, I always knew something was wrong about him, and how very -presumptuous he was; but I never did suppose he would descend to such a -low, crim—” - -“Mamma! oh! don’t, pray!” sobbed Alice. - -“He! Who? What is it?” asked Mr. St. James, growing more and more -anxious. - -“Well, your great favorite, Mr. Clifton, was here at noon, to take leave -of Alice, before leaving for Scotland. We were about going out shopping -when he came; so of course were detained. I drew off my gloves, and laid -them, with my porte-monnaie, handkerchief and sunshade, on the center -table. I saw him take up the porte-monnaie, and look at it; I thought -just admiring it. You know it was that pearl and inlaid one you gave me -at Christmas. Well, after a little while I went into the next room, -immediately returning when I heard him about leaving. I bade him good-by -in the hall, and proceeded to draw on my gloves again, intending to go -on our proposed excursion. I missed the porte-monnaie; but, thinking -Alice had put it in her pocket, I was not anxious. When she was again -ready to start, I said: - -“‘You have the money?’ - -“‘No,’ she replied. - -“We began to look about, but our hunt was in vain. You can readily -arrive at the conclusion, and the cause of Alice’s mortification and -grief,” said Mrs. St. James, in a manner and tone that looked and -sounded very much like she was rather glad of it. - -“And do you for a moment imagine, or would have me, that Clifton—” Mr. -St. James hesitated. - -“Stole it? Certainly.” - -Another sob from Alice, with the cry: - -“Don’t—don’t, mamma!” - -“Tut, tut, tut, wife. Hush, Alice, love. There is some mistake. I’d risk -all my worldly possessions—aye, and my life—on Gerald’s honesty and -noble nature,” said Mr. St. James. - -“You would lose both, then. There is no mistake, my dear. You know he -has been much embarrassed in money matters. I know no one entered this -room but him; and I know the porte-monnaie is gone, and in it a hundred -pounds. You can call it by what name you choose. I have my own idea -about the matter. However, should you put it in the mildest form, -kleptomania would not be a very desirable acquisition to our family. -Alice, I think, feels fully sensible of that. Why you have thought so -much of him I cannot tell.” - -“Why?” and the dark brown eyes of Sydney St. James grew more earnest, -and glowed with a tender, loving light; and in a voice full of emotion, -he said: “Why? Because I, who have no son of my own, see in this young -man a reproduction of myself—the struggles of my youth. So much he -brings to my mind those years of trial—oh, those long, weary -heart-sickening years!—when, alone in my humble, cheerless room, I -brewed my own coffee, broiled my chops, and worked—worked, day and -night, so long before I could get any production accepted, and then for -many months after, before I received any remuneration. And then how -small it was! how meagerly dealt out! Aye, and in the very act of which -you accuse him, most forcibly I see the great resemblance between us. - -“At the time when the ‘Prison Reform Bill’ was very much engrossing the -public mind, my fortunes took a favorable turn. I wrote a leader on that -subject. It was published, and although I am sure it was no better than -many I had written before, pleased the people. A few days after, when in -the office of the editor of the journal in which my productions were -principally published, that gentleman handed me a note, which opening I -found was from the Secretary of the Premier, saying his lordship would -be pleased to see me, and appointing the next day for my call. Lord -Cedarcliff received me most kindly, complimenting me on that article, -that really proved the making of my present success. That call was the -beginning of my intimacy with his lordship. A few days after, I was -invited to a dinner party given by Lord Cedarcliff. There I met many of -the noble and distinguished men of the time. It was my first dinner -party, and naturally I was considerably embarrassed. However, his -lordship’s kindness, and the marked attention of many of his guests, -placed me more at ease. During the dinner, Lord Cedarcliff called our -attention to a gold spoon, curiously wrought and very valuable. It was -said to have belonged to the camp equipage of Napoleon. The conversation -then, from the Emperor and his battles, naturally turned to those of the -Crimea, and the prolonged siege of Sebastopol. Several of the gentlemen -expressed their views as to how the city might have been taken; and I, -considerably excited by the wine, and like most young men, possessing my -full share of egotism, had my ideas about the matter. So I began to -explain how Sebastopol might have been taken very speedily. With the -handle of the Emperor’s spoon, I marked my plan on the table-cloth. -After a little I became conscious that a silence more than profound, -really painful, had fallen upon the company. I felt confident it could -not have been occasioned by their great interest in my theme. I had -wearied them, most likely, or perhaps I had said or done something very -_outré_. The embarrassment was somewhat relieved by his lordship’s -making the move for our adjournment to the drawing-room. There, however, -I could not fail to observe that I had in some way lost favor. His -lordship was _too_ polite, frigidly so. In truth, the whole atmosphere -seemed changed. At length I excused myself, and left, sadly mystified as -to the change, in not only his lordship’s treatment of me, but likewise -of most of his guests. - -“A few days after, I called on Lord Cedarcliff, but was told by the -butler that his lordship was engaged; again, the next day, with the same -result; a third time, with no better success. Determining to press the -matter a little, and find out, if possible, what such treatment meant, I -asked: - -“‘When can I see his lordship?’ - -“Judge of my mortification, when the butler replied: - -“‘It will not be agreeable for his lordship to receive Mr. St. James -now, or at any future time.’ - -“I could not imagine what I had done to merit such a change in the -Premier’s kind feeling. In vain I asked myself, over and over, ‘What did -I say or do at the dinner-table?’ for I was sensible the change took -place there. - -“That evening I was engaged to go with a friend to the opera. I felt in -no mood for such enjoyment, I was so depressed by my reception at the -Premier’s mansion. However, my friend would not excuse me, and so I -began getting ready to accompany him. Taking from the closet my only -dress coat—indeed, I may say, my only respectable one—which was kept -for great occasions, I began to brush and dust it—I had not worn it -since the Premier’s dinner party. While thus engaged, the brush struck -against something in the pocket. Putting my hand in to ascertain what it -was, I drew out—oh, horror!—the Emperor’s golden spoon! - -“The mystery was solved, then. I had pocketed that spoon while seated at -his lordship’s table. Many times—in fact, I was accustomed, when deeply -interested in conversation, to pocket pens, pencils, knives, -handkerchiefs and napkins; but never before anything of much value. For -a moment I was so overwhelmed with mortification I could only gaze -wildly from the spoon to my friend. Then, hurriedly pulling on my coat, -I caught up my hat, still grasping the spoon, rushed out of the room, -down the stairs, and into the street. My companion started to follow me, -calling out: - -“‘St. James, are you mad? Stop! I must go with you!’ - -“I stopped not nor deigned a word of reply, but rushed on through the -streets until I reached the Premier’s dwelling. I rang the bell, and -when the butler opened the door, I said: - -“‘I must see his lordship. Tell him it is a matter of life and death!’ - -“My excited manner testified to the urgency of my case, so the man -turned to do my bidding. With quick, noiseless steps I followed behind -him. He opened the door of his lordship’s sanctum, but before he opened -his mouth to speak, I rushed past him, and up to the nobleman’s side, -exclaiming: - -“‘My lord, here is your spoon—that Emperor’s spoon! On my honor—’ -Excited as I was, I could detect a curl of the haughty lip, as if to -signify his lordship’s doubt of my possessing that quality. ‘Ah, I fear -you think I know nothing of such a feeling,’ I continued; ‘but, as -heaven hears me, I had no more idea of having taken that spoon, until -fifteen minutes ago, than your lordship has now of having purloined the -crown jewels.’ - -“My look, words and manner enforced conviction. After an instant his -lordship grasped my hand, saying: - -“‘I believe you, St. James. I wonder, now, how I could ever have doubted -you. I might have known how it was.’ - -“So excited had I been, I failed to notice the room had other occupants. -A merry laugh reached my ear. Turning, I saw several gentlemen who were -present at the dinner party. They came forward, each grasping my hand -cordially, and apologizing for their suspicions. The story was told many -times after, and afforded considerable amusement. And after a while I -could join in the laugh; but for a long time it was a very sore subject. - -“Now, Alice, love, rest easy. I’ll answer for Gerald. We will hear from -him before long; just as soon as he has made the discovery. Come, smile, -now; and—Ah, there is the dinner bell. I cannot have a clouded face -near me. It will take away my appetite.” - -Alice tried to smile, but it proved a poor apology for one. - -They were just about entering the dining-room, when a servant met them, -holding out an envelope, saying: - -“A telegram, sir.” - -Quickly opening which, Mr. St. James exclaimed joyously: - -“Ah, I knew it! It is from Gerald.” - -It was from Peterborough, addressed to Mr. St. James, and read: - - “Took, by mistake, an article of value from your house. Will - return with it by the next train.” - -“Bless the boy! How could you have doubted him, Alice? _You_, of all -others! I can scarcely forgive you,” her father said, affectionately -chiding her. - -Alice’s face was radiant with smiles then, and she whispered in her -father’s ear: - -“Gerald will.” - -A few hours more and young Clifton was with them, and the porte-monnaie -restored to the owner. The event served to bind more firmly the -affection of Mr. St. James to his favorite, who, in a year after, became -his son-in-law and in time not only fulfilled the great expectation of -St. James, but quite reconciled Mrs. St. James to the fact of Alice’s -husband bearing no lordly title, but one won by his own merit. And that -worthy lady has been more cautious in pronouncing so decidedly upon the -actions of _literary_ folk, since the event of the missing porte-monnaie -and the hearing of her husband’s story; and she is often heard to say -now, that “deep thinkers, who are nearly all the time planning the -future, cannot be expected to be anything else than absent-minded. In -fact, it is a positive proof of a great mind.” - - THE END. - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Inconsistencies in -spelling and hyphenation have been retained. A few obvious typesetting -and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. - - -[End of _Lob Lie-by-the-Fire, The Brownies, and Other Tales_ by Juliana -Horatia Ewing] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lob Lie-By-The-Fire, The Brownies and -Other Tales, by Juliana Horatia Gatty Ewing and Frances Henshaw Baden - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOB LIE-BY-THE=FIRE *** - -***** This file should be named 62783-0.txt or 62783-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/7/8/62783/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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