Front Cover
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 The pony's Christmas present
 Old Crombie and his boys
 "Thank you to let my dinner...
 His native sea
 Danger behind!
 Somebody's relations
 Gretchen's telegraph
 A sled like other boys
 "To whit! To whit! To who!"
 The story of Louise
 Charlie going to church for...
 Charlie playing doctor
 Charlie on his way to hoe uncle's...
 The gypsy camp
 Praise him a little
 Meg's delay
 A night in a schoolhouse
 The wise goose
 Lost! A gold watch
 "What became of them?"
 A boarding - school story
 The Methodist horse
 The fiddler's farm
 Miss Mischief
 Little Winnie
 Faithful Janet
 The sparrows
 Better than candy
 Manly sports
 The favored one
 "Absolvo te"
 The small missionary
 One of the family
 Bessie's first party
 Studies in natural history
 A suspicious character
 Better have staid at home
 A hero
 "I wonder!"
 Miss Blodgett's bird
 "How now, Gomez?"
 Back Cover

Group Title: Home spun yarns
Title: Home-spun yarns
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00080479/00001
 Material Information
Title: Home-spun yarns
Physical Description: 208 p. : ill. ; 25 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Rand, Mary Abbott, b. 1840
Giacomelli, Hector, 1822-1904 ( Illustrator )
R. & E. Taylor (Firm) ( Engraver )
Belford, Clarke & Co ( Publisher )
W.B. Conkey Company
Publisher: Belford, Clarke Company
Place of Publication: Chicago
Manufacturer: W. B. Conkey Company, Printer and Binder
Publication Date: 1891
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1891   ( lcsh )
Hand-colored illustrations -- 1891   ( local )
Bldn -- 1891
Genre: Children's stories
Hand-colored illustrations   ( local )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Illinois -- Chicago
Statement of Responsibility: by Mary Abbot Rand.
General Note: Some illustrations engraved by R. & E. Taylor after Giacomelli.
General Note: Baldwin Library copy frontispiece hand-colored: probably by young owner.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00080479
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002232700
notis - ALH3096
oclc - 187308782

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Page i
        Page i-a
        Page ii
    Title Page
        Page iii
        Page iv
    Table of Contents
        Page v
        Page vi
    The pony's Christmas present
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
    Old Crombie and his boys
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
    "Thank you to let my dinner alone!"
        Page 19
    His native sea
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
    Danger behind!
        Page 23
    Somebody's relations
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
    Gretchen's telegraph
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
    A sled like other boys
        Page 35
    "To whit! To whit! To who!"
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
    The story of Louise
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
    Charlie going to church for Mamma
        Page 49
        Page 50
    Charlie playing doctor
        Page 51
    Charlie on his way to hoe uncle's corn
        Page 52
    The gypsy camp
        Page 53
        Page 54
    Praise him a little
        Page 55-58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
    Meg's delay
        Page 65
    A night in a schoolhouse
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
    The wise goose
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
    Lost! A gold watch
        Page 79
        Page 80
    "What became of them?"
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
    A boarding - school story
        Page 87-90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
    The Methodist horse
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
    The fiddler's farm
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
    Miss Mischief
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
    Little Winnie
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
    Faithful Janet
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
    The sparrows
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
    Better than candy
        Page 127
        Page 128
    Manly sports
        Page 129
        Page 130
    The favored one
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133-140
        Page 141
    "Absolvo te"
        Page 142
    The small missionary
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
    One of the family
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151-154
    Bessie's first party
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161-176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
    Studies in natural history
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
    A suspicious character
        Page 183
        Page 184
    Better have staid at home
        Page 185
        Page 186
        Page 187
    A hero
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
    "I wonder!"
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Page 193
        Page 194
        Page 195
        Page 196
        Page 197
        Page 198
    Miss Blodgett's bird
        Page 199
        Page 200
        Page 201
        Page 202
    "How now, Gomez?"
        Page 203
        Page 204
        Page 205
        Page 206
        Page 207
        Page 208
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text








L:!:!!ERS AN


"To WHIT! To WHIT! To WHO" .

* *


S .7
. 19
S 23
S .66
S 74
S 88

"ABSOLVO TE" .. 142
A HERO 188
"I WONDER!" 191
"How NOW, GOMEZ?" 203


R ILLIONS of little white wings
were busy enough, the day before
Christmas, to make perfect 6
weather; and so, when morn-
ing came,--

"Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl;
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep in pearl."

Millions of little children were busy

;~\~\ :a~'



enough indoors, the day before Christmas, to make
perfect happiness for fathers and mothers, sisters and
brothers. Indeed, it would take Santa Claus himself
to know how very busy little snowflakes and little
fingers had been, to make this lovely morning what
it was.
In the big house on the hill, two small pairs of
hands had trimmed the chimney-piece with holly and
mistletoe, and hung the windows with wreaths and
crosses, all in hopes that their absent father would
return in season to see it, and wish them a merry
It was lonely enough for little Guy and Elsie in the
big house.
Only servants to keep them company since their
old grandfather died; for their mother was dead, and
their father had long been travelling in foreign lands.
They were not much better off before their grand-
father died. He was not an affectionate grandfather,
but an irritable old man, with moods of tenderness, it
is true, but so generally out of humor that the children
feared rather than loved him. It was said that he was
not always so unlovely; that it was only since his
daughter Margery ran away from home, and married
against his wish her music-teacher, that he had be-
come so morose. He disowned her, and would never
look at the pleading letters she sent begging his


And so the years went by. The old Squire made
his will, leaving his property to his son on condition
that he forfeit it all if any was shared with his sister
or her children. Her husband had died in the early
years of their married life; and at the time of his
death she had once more appealed to her father to
forgive her. She sent this last letter through her
brother, and received in return a sarcastic reply from
her father, that he would furnish her means to trans-
port her family to the village near the town of her
girlhood home, where she could establish herself upon
a small market-farm belonging to him, and raise vege-
tables, which would be purchased at "the great house,"
as his residence was familiarly called.
Margery was as proud as her father, and her first
thought was to reject this humiliating offer; but she
looked at her fatherless little children, and decided to
accept this only means in her power of supporting
The early spring before the Christmas we are com-
ing to, therefore, saw her busy in her new work of
raising vegetables, which Carl, the oldest child, would
take to the kitchen-gate of his grandfather's mansion,
carrying back to his mother the market value of the
He was never asked to come into the house, and
never was sure that he had seen his grandfather.
Once he fancied he saw a worn old face with tearful


eyes at the parlor window; but it was so quickly gone
that Carl was not sure that it was but a shadow, or
his own imagination.
For Carl was an imaginative boy. He did not
fancy the hard work and the poor cottage that were
his lot; and often and often was dreaming of the rich
and comfortable home where his mother used to live.
The two motherless cousins who had come there to
stay were the subject also of Carl's envy and dreams.
They were forbidden to speak to the market-boy, but
many a smile had been exchanged by the merry
Carl had strict orders from his mother never to
delay longer than was necessary for the kitchen-girl
to take in the vegetables and bring back the money in
return. During this little delay, Carl was accustomed
to wait under a fine old English elm, which stood in
the back yard. It had been struck by lightning years
ago; but the sturdy tree had grown on in spite of it,
striving to hide its scars, like a proud heart scorning to
die of grief. Mrs. Margery told her children that she
could well remember, when a child, of hiding in the
deep crevice the lightning had burnt. Later on, she
could only put her doll in the fissure; and, at last,
the deep crack served as a secret post-office for the
letters that passed between her and their poor papa.
This tree, then, was an object of great interest to
Carl as he waited for his money. Race, the pony,


liked it too. He had outgrown his early name of
"Race." The children thought "Standstill" would
be a more appropriate title now. Certainly he liked
nothing better, of a summer morning, than to stand
in the shade of the old elm, rubbing his head against
its rough trunk, listening to its stories, Carl fancied.
This day before Christmas, when the snowflakes
were poised on the edges of the gray clouds ready to
take flight, Carl rode over the frozen ground with his
baskets of vegetables. He watched no longer for the
white-haired shadow at the parlor windows, for he
knew that his grandfather was dead. He knew, too,
of the will, showing the unforgiving spirit to the last;
and more closely guarded, than ever did his young
cousins seem to be from their poor relation.
It was chilly waiting there in "the dull, hard bitter-
ness of cold." Race seemed to think so too; and,
while Carl dismounted to adjust some part of the
harness, the capricious pony, true to his real name,
suddenly rubbed his head against the friendly elm,
then broke into a sharp gallop, leaving Carl to plod
home on foot.
Race could appreciate comfort as well as his dream-
ing master, and was glad to get into his cosey quarters,
a sort of shed opening directly from the little kitchen
where Mrs. Margery and her little ones were oftenest
to be found. There was a small window between this
kitchen and the pony's apartment; and the children


were fond of opening the shutters, and feeding their
pet with apples and lumps of sugar when they could
get them.
This stormy Christmas Eve, the mother, wishing to
gratify her children, had granted their request that
they might help deck their bit of a tree, although there
would then be no surprise for them in the morning.
The window-shutters were opened, and the muslin cur-
tain drawn back, that Race's brown eyes might peep in
and see the rosy Baldwin that the dear mother was
hanging on the tree for him.
It was little Meeta that first spied something flut-
tering from the pony's window, that lighted by her
mother. It was a stiff, folded paper, bearing the
marks of Race's teeth upon it.
Mrs. Margery picked it up, and turned whiter than
her widow's cap when she read Last Will and Tes-
tament of Geoffrey Akerman."
It proved to be genuine. The old Squire, in his
last days, had written it, leaving his property to be
equally divided between his son Charles and his
daughter Margery; and expressing the hope that the
children of said Charles and Margery might be brought
up together in the old homestead.
And that was why the old mansion was so bright on
Christmas night. Margery rejoiced, with tears in her
sweet blue eyes, as she welcomed her brother to their
old home; while the children petted Race, in return for


the Christmas present he had brought them, quite as
much as was good for him.
It was proved that the Squire had secreted his last
will in the old tree where his daughter used to hide her
love-letters. Race discovered the projecting end of the
document, pulled it out with his teeth, and ran off with
it, as you have heard, causing a never-ending wonder
that the valuable paper had not been destroyed.


S._, HAT brick house on the hill was Squire
Densel's, and the one half-way down the
hill was Capt. Clark's, and the two-story
white one opposite was Dr. Sweet's, and
then came Col. Emerson's; but the pretty cottage just
across the river was Old Crombie's."
Now, you must know that the Milburn people
greeted one another courteously; and, if a man were
generally known as "Old Crombie," it was just because
he was Old Crombie," and nothing else.
Old Crombie's boys were handsome fellows: they
could sing, they could dance, they could spell. That
was one of the accomplishments of Milburn thirty
years ago; and the young man or woman that led off
in a spelling-match wore a proud feather indeed.


But, alas! that was not all the Crombie boys could
and did do. As Obadiah Muckleworth, the village
sage and shoemaker, declared, he "was afeared the
Crombie boys were capable of going clean through the
Ten Commandments, and breaking every one of them."
It is certain that chickens, for miles around, trembled
on their roosts if they heard the light step of a Crom-
bie; and it was not long before horses in their stalls
might tremble too, for the brightest and handsomest of
the Crombie boys became a horse-thief.
That was Frisco," as he was called, because he
attempted to run away to California once.
Frisco always was the slyest dog," said Old Crom-
bie, with a boastful air, instead of the shame that any
decent father would have had in such a son. "Tell
you, that chap never wanted for pin-money; but, some-
how or other, my hens didn't seem to lay wuth a
cent, -that's 'fore he dared to visit the neighbors'
roosts, mind ye! One Sunday, when I'd ben -no, I
guess I hadn't ben to church that day," said the wicked
old man, with an unpleasant smile, Frisco he come
down the river road with his hands full of harebells.
'Sonny,' says I, 'look here! If you rob your father's
hens' nests any more, there'll be trouble in camp.'"
"Why, father!" says he, "when I've been to the
trouble of getting ma some flowers, you come down on
me like that! "
"' No, you young rascal!' says I. 'I come down on


you like that!' and I just raised my cane, and gave a
smart tap or two on top of his cap. Down came a
stream of eggs, -yolk, white, shell and all. 'You
hearn tell,' says I, 'of jugglers that could make an
omelet in your hat? Well, I'm one of 'em.'"
This was Old Crombie's favorite story at the grog-
shop which he frequented; but there was not a tippler
so degraded but looked with disgust at the old man,
with his white hair, his black, wicked eyes, and grin-
ning face.
Frisco, as I have said, had bigger game than eggs
now; and he bore the unenviable name of being the
greatest horse-stealer in his native State.
A famous trotting mare was missing, and so was
Frisco. The keenest detectives in the State were on
the watch, but no clew could be found to either horse
or rider.
It was a surprise amounting to a shock, then, when,
on a Saturday night, as Obadiah Muckleworth and his
brother were at work finishing some promised job,
the shop-door swung open lightly, and Frisco entered.
His dark eyes had a hunted look; and as he took the
only spare chair, and rested his foot against the shoe-
maker's bench, he looked as if he were at last in harbor.
"Where hail from now, Frisco?" said the younger
Muckleworth, with a look half of terror and half oi
curiosity toward the young thief.
"Canada, just now," said young Frisco, tossing his


hat upon the floor, "and my pouch here has the best
kind of lining; but, rich as I am, I don't dare to buy a
pair of boots in the New-England States. My feet
are wet and sore; and you are so good!- I know
you'll cobble these old boots for me, if, indeed, they are
not past repair, and not tell of me."
"Something else is past repair, young man, and
that's yourself, I fear," said the younger Muckleworth,
with a short laugh.
Obadiah stood up, a blessed picture of justice and
mercy combined, -
Brother, never say a human soul is past repair so
long as there's a God of compassion above us. Young
Crombie, I don't rightly know your Christian name,
but I'm sure it ain't 'Frisk-oh!'- I can repair that old
boot; and, if you heed my advice, you need not be
ashamed to show your head and buy a new pair when-
ever you've the honest money to pay for 'em.
Go to your man that you've defrauded. Give back
your ill-gotten gold, and give yourself up to justice;
serve out your sentence in state's prison; then come
to me, and I'll adopt you. It's no use for you to try to
do right under the name of Crombie."
"You don't really mean what you say!" exclaimed
the desperate young fellow, with the first tears that
had ever been seen in his brilliant eyes since his
I mean just what I say," said the good man. "If


my Willie-boy, that died when he was an innocent child,
had lived and gone astray, I am only doing as I would
wish him done by."
Old Crombie's son did as he was advised; and,
strengthened by the kindness of the good shoemaker,
went through with all the humiliation that came from
giving himself up to justice. It was a rough plough-
share, but it prepared the ground for self-respect; and
now Robert Muckleworth, the adopted son and suc-
cessor of Obadiah, owns a large shoe manufactory
where the little cobbler's shop once stood. He is
called Mr. Muckleworth," but the rest of the family
in the house by the bridge are known as "Old Crombie
and his. Boys to the end of the chapter.


- (:;7 i-


HAT'S what the horse said to the pig; and if
he said any thing more, nobody could under-
stand him, for his mouth was full, as you
j There are a great many hateful feelings,-
anger, jealousy, greediness, -and, for every
bad thought, there's an animal just like it; the fox
for slyness, the wolf for cruelty, the pig for greedi-
ness, so that we may see what we are in danger of



HEN other boys spoke of their native land,
Ned Harpswell would say that he never
had any. That was because he was born
on board ship. So was his sister Dell.
S Mrs. Harpswell did not wish to stay at home
alone with her children, but followed the sea" as well
as her husband.
Think what a care it must have been, to bring up
these two young Harpswells, among all the dangers
and privations of a life on shipboard.
She was always planning and hoping for a home.
Her husband finally persuaded her to let him buy a
house, and she was to furnish it as she pleased; "and
'twill make the time pass quick, Fanny," he said, "for
you to be getting ready for me."
But, for all his cheery words, Capt. Harpswell was
more homesick than anybody else, when he set sail
without his dear little family, to be gone for a long
year's voyage.
Mrs. Harpswell took great pride in her new home,
counting the days when her husband should return.


But, oh, dear! this is one of the true, sad stories that
does not come out as we would wish it.
"The Bonny Bird," Capt. Harpswell's vessel, re-
turned, -but not the captain.
In the picture you see Mr. MacDonald, the first
mate, telling the story which Ned has already heard
so many times. It was a hurricane of a night; and
the captain, who had been ill some days, was not fit
to come on deck, but come he would," said Mr. Mac-
Donald. "He was always one to be in the thick of
danger, when there was any.
"There came a blinding sheet of sleet and wind.
We hardly knew where we were, any of us; but when
it had passed the captain was gone. There was such
a sea no boat could live in it, and we could not even
attempt to find him. He was just caught up in the
wings of the tempest, Ned, my boy. But there's One
that holds the winds in the hollow of his hand, my old
mother used to say, and we must believe he is safe in
God's hand."
Mrs. Harpswell tried to be brave, and make home
pleasant to her children; but they could never become
quite used to the land. For years they would call the
cellar "down in the hole;" up-stairs was "aloft," and
out of doors was ashore."
If Ned were missing, he was sure to be swimming
or sailing, or else looking longingly at his native sea."
Dell was quite as much of a sailor too; and now that


years have gone by, and gentle Mrs. Harpswell's life is
over here, Ned is a captain, and bright little Dell a cap.
tain's wife, "sailing the seas over."


HIS young man owns a hobby-horse, and a father
and uncles
who are
willing to be
camels and ele-
phants at a min-
ute's notice; but
all this is too
What Charlie
longs for is a
fiery, untamed
steed, like the
one in the pic- .
ture. He is now
turning a sharp -S
corner, and in :
less than a second -
there'll be a call
for mother, and Charlie will have a bad headache.



,, OW disgusting!" said I, when I came to
this picture.
"Why," said little Carrie, "I think it's
the most interesting picture of all."
Lucky our tastes are not all alike, isn't it? How-
ever, monkeys and apes and baboons are very curious
and interesting creatures.
Some people--wise people too--think they are a
sort of cousin to us. What do you think of that?
It is certain that the ape looks very much like us,
and, in one respect, is ahead of us.
Did you ever hear your mother say, "I wish I had
two pairs of hands "? Perhaps a monkey-mother said
that once, for she and the monkey-father and all the
children have each two pairs of hands. How quickly
they could dress for breakfast if they wanted to!
They can and do walk on their hind hands, or feet;
but their great toes are thumbs. Some monkeys have
another convenience in what is called a pre-hen-sile tail,
which means a tail that can hook on to any thing.
What a convenience that would be for boys in


cherry-time, and two pairs of hands to each boy! But
even they might not be satisfied, and would probably
long for more than one mouth apiece.
It was great fun to see ever so many little monkeys,
in their big cage, in Central Park, New York, chase
a solemn-looking monkey that had a piece of ginger-
They darted after him like so many streaks of light-
ning, and I thought he would lose his lunch; when
suddenly, he suspended himself from a hook in the top
of the cage, and there hung like an odd chandelier,
while he ate his gingerbread at his leisure. So you
see how useful a pre-hen-sile tail may be.
It is rather a sad little monkey that we see shivering
in his red jacket, and minding the hand-organ man be-
cause he doesn't dare to do any thing else; but I am
told that when one of these little pets is comfortably
cared for in your house, he is seldom sad-it is more
apt to be the people in the house that are sad.
Here is an old monkey story which you may have
heard. A parrot and a monkey were once pets in the
same home. The parrot was a very wicked parrot,
and used language that I should not wish to repeat.
The monkey was a cruel little fellow; and this parrot
and this monkey did not love one another as they
should, and it was never safe to leave them alone
One Sunday, however, when the family were at


church, a door had been carelessly left open, and the
monkey made a call upon the parrot.

When the family returned, a naughty monkey was
hiding somewhere, a heap of bright feathers was scat-
tered about, and poor Polly, who had been picked as
bare as a Thanksgiving turkey, croaked,-
"We've-had -a -ter-ri-ble- time!"
I don't think of any more monkey stories to-day, but
this little anecdote shows that it is not well to have two
pairs of hands unless one can use them properly.


HUMBLE home it was where golden-haired
Gretchen lived, but it was as happy as love
could make it.
When Christmas gathered the family about
the gay tree, there were father and mother, tall brother
Fritz, sister Hildegarde, joyous little Gretchen, and last,
but not least, lovely Catharine.
She was not a sister, but "a dearer one still," so
Fritz thought.
She was a neighbor's niece,-a cross old neighbor,
Herr Zimmermann. Orphan Catharine had come to


his keeping when she was nine years old; and from
that time, if there were one thing she liked above an-
other, Herr Zimmermann was sure to forbid it; and, if
there were one thing she disliked above another, he was
sure to command it. Because blue was her favorite
color, she must wear red. But, ah! he could not make
her look any thing but lovely, whatever color he obliged
her to wear.
Gretchen's good mother pitied the solitary little
maiden with so dull a home, -only this cross-grained
uncle and a deaf housekeeper; and many were the
friendly greetings offered her across the hedge.
Herr Zimmermann, at first, was not disposed to
allow his niece to acquaint herself with these good
people; but at last he yielded, and there was always a
plate for Catharine at the table on every festive day.
When Fritz had finished his studies at Heidelberg,
and had begun to practise medicine sixty miles away,
Catharine seemed to care less to visit her friends. She
might often be seen under the trees of her uncle's lawn,
writing or meditating, with a sweet and pensive look.
Fritz came for a short visit; and there was a joyful
merry-making, for it was his birthday, and twenty-five
little candles winked their bright eyes at the big cake
that the mother had baked for the occasion.
Catharine was asked to be there; and how lovely
she looked when the gay evening was over, and Fritz
wrapped her red cloak around her, and they walked
slowly away under the lindens to her uncle's!


Fritz went back to his patients next morning, and
Catharine was not seen again at the home fireside for
many a long day. When Gretchen went to the Herr's
with an invitation for Catharine, the deaf housekeeper
shook her head.
"No matter if I can't hear you!" she said snap-
pishly. "It makes no difference what you say. Our
young lady is to go to your house never more, and you
need not be asking for her."
Gretchen often sorrowfully waited by the hedge, but
never saw Catharine alone again anywhere about the
garden or lawn unless she were walking with her uncle,
or with an oldish gentleman, older and uglier, if pos-
sible, than the Herr himself.
Matters were in this state when, one day, a stranger
from Fritz's new home called to see Gretchen. She
met him gladly, expecting news from her dear brother.
Nor was she mistaken.
The young stranger reported Fritz quite well, and
sending hearty greetings to his family, and especially
to little sister Gretchen. "And here," added he, "is
this cage with a pigeon in it. The letter will tell you
what to do, little one."
The friendly stranger was in too great a hurry to see
the rest of the family; so, nodding good-by to the
pleased little face of Gretchen, he hastened for the
"Dear little sister," Fritz wrote, "herein is a telegraph for


you, or for me I should rather say. Go to the hedge to-night,
by the old stile, and you may find there a letter for me. Tie
this firmly, but without chafing the bird, to its neck or leg.
Feed her not at all (this will be hard for you; but so, the more
surely, will she come back to me); keep her in the dark for
eight hours; dip her feet in cool vinegar, then set her free, with
a prayer, my own little Gretchen. I can say no more; but
you'll do this, and keep it all to yourself, my child, for you may
know you can trust BROTHER FRITZ."

Gretchen was perplexed. Not to tell Hildegarde,
nor even the dear mother! Not to feed a homesick
bird, whose piteous cry made the child's tender heart
ache! But these stern orders were from dear brother
Fritz. So she hid the fluttering stranger in the dark
closet of her chamber, and set forth for the hedge to
search for the mysterious letter.
Yes, it was there, almost hidden under the green.
She guarded it loyally, of course, tied it firmly around
the pigeon's neck, and at the earliest dawn she stole
out doors, and, not forgetting the little prayer Fritz had
begged, she set the messenger free.
And what happened next but an angry thump at the
cottage door! No friendly hand asking admittance, but
Herr Zimmermann's stout cane.
Catharine was gone. She had taken the night ex-
press for Basle, it would seem: and from that centre of
railways no one might tell whither she had gone, unless,
indeed, his neighbors could inform him; but they were
as much surprised as the Herr himself.


Little Gretchen by the door-step, feeding her spar-
rows, guessed not that the little secret, brother Fritz
had intrusted her with, had any thing to do with Catha-
rine's flight. But, if the pigeon could have read the
little note that he carried so quickly to Fritz, he would
have found something like this:-

"I will meet you at Basle. Uncle cannot be more displeased
with me than he is already, for I have told him I will never
marry Herr Hoffman.
"I have found out that large property should have been mine,
of which uncle never meant to tell me; that he has lost it in his
speculations, and hoped to have assistance from Herr Hoffman
if I would marry him, and that I will not, mein Fritz.
I have drawn my money from the bank; and, though I like
not this way of running off to be married, there seems no other
way for us.
And so farewell, till you see the red cloak you so much hate
in the station at Basle."

The young doctor was at the station before the train
arrived, and was not long in finding the red cloak. In
less than half an hour from that time, Dr. Fritz and
Catharine were quietly married in the parsonage of a
good Lutheran minister; and morning saw them at
breakfast in Fritz's usual boarding-place, where they
would stay while furnishing their own little nest of a
It was difficult for the doctor to leave his patients;


but they must meet the dear parents and sisters on the
next birthday, which happened to be Catharine's.
The birthday loaf was a bride's cake, and trimmed
with orange-blossoms instead of candles.
I did not know how lovely Catharine could be,'
said Gretchen, as she admired her new sister in the soft
white summer dress.
She will never wear red again," Fritz replied; "but
I never saw any thing that looked better to my eye
than a red cloak one rainy evening in the Basle
Ah," said the mother, "to think thou wouldst take
an innocent pair like the pigeon and our little Gretchen
to bring about a runaway match!"
"This was an unusual case, thou knowest," said
Fritz; "and now that Herr Zimmermann is appeased,
:ind all are happy, let us try the bride's cake."



". is of no use," said papa. "That boy can never
:1 be made to behave in the house. He must have
Sa sled, play .,
freely out -
doors, and work '
off some of his -..'i!
mischief." -
Charlie's ten-
der-hearted moth-
.er looked at the ~ -
dangerous play-
thing with doubt-
ful eyes. Charlie :-_ -
thought it was
just a beauty,--
red and blue, and -
a golden bird to
match its name, A-:
"Swallow." ---
Charlie was '-_
warmly dressed,
cap, and ear-laps, ulster, red mittens, and leggings.
"And now, said his mother, "you may go, Charlie,


if you won't coast where it is steep, or icy, or where
there is any thing in the way."
Perhaps Charlie's ear-laps were too thick; or he
may have thought that a coast that wasn't icy or steep
was no fun at all, and that he would do as he pleased.
However that may be, Charlie did not steer straight.
Half-way down a steep, icy hill, was an ugly tree. As
Charlie and the Swallow" came flying down at a fear-
ful speed, they struck against the tree.
The doctor came every day for a fortnight; and,
while poor Charlie lay with his bandaged arm, he had
time for a good deal of thinking.
He has learned to ask older people what he may do,
and to heed what they may say to him. But he is as
full of fun as ever, this bonny, brown-eyed Charlie.

"To WHIT To WHIT To WHo !"

HIS is the worst-looking owl I ever saw;
as unlike the lovely Christmas-card owls
that sit on evergreen trees, and wish you all
sorts of nice things, as a very cross Nellie
is unlike the same little girl when she is in good
Owls are not exactly cheerful birds; but they are
generally well-disposed, and do not attack unless they


must do so to earn their living or to protect their little
Stuffed owls and Christmas-card owls are favorite
ornaments, and familiar to everybody; but, though
there are forty varieties in our native land, I never
have happened to see but one live one. This was in a
barn belonging to a delightful old farmhouse where I
had been invited to a children's party. We had looked
at the albums and gilt-edged books on the parlor table,
played blind-man's-buff in the dining-room, had a candy-
pull in the kitchen; and then, most charming of all, the
farmer's boy told us that there was a live owl in the
barn for us to see.
The homesick bird was perched upon a wagon-wheel,
and his yellow eyes were whirling around and around
much faster than the wagon-wheel ever whirled on its
most rapid journey.
A learned book tells me that "daylight bewilders
owls, and causes actual pain in the eye, which they
seek to relieve by frequent motion of the third eyelid
or nictitating membrane of the eye."
But we children did not know all that: it just
seemed very funny to see that solemn thing perched
on the wheel, and his yellow eyes whirling round like
the quickest kind of revolving lights.
Little birds know very well that light makes the owl
stupid; and when they happen to catch an owl awake
by day, they tease him terribly. They know that he


can't catch them then, and they just improve their
chance to pay up old scores.
Rats don't love owls, but owls love rats.
How do you think it would do to tame an owl, and
keep him for a new kind of pussy-cat? He can hear so
very quick. You may know his feathers grow in cone
shape about his ears, forming a sort of ear-trumpet.
He could hear quicker than pussy; he could see in the
dark as well as she; he could fly much faster than she
can scamper: but, oh, if he should happen to talk out
loud in the night with his terrible voice, we would want
our quiet old Tabby back again!



APT. BURRAGE was a rich old man, and
"peculiar." That is, he had a strong will, and
did not care whether other people approved of him or


not. He meant to do well by his sister's orphan chil-
aren. He gave them a home, and, in his opinion, the
best education to be had.
Dexter, the boy, was big and strong, and could win a
Greek prize or a foot-race with equal ease.
He exactly filled the programme that his uncle had
planned for him, and became just the well-furnished,
manly physician that he was designed to be.
Louise was a promising child also,-one of those
bright little girls that are always pets at school; that
appear best at exhibitions, children's concerts, and the
like, when their excitable little nerves would far better
be quieted in sleep.
Louise was the star in her school, and graduated
with all the honors; but, just as she was receiving her
diploma, she fainted, and then, for years, was an eclipse
of her promise.
It was a fortunate thing that she had a doctor-
brother,-one so tender and strong as Dexter. But
he could not be always with her, as his patients were
awaiting his calls in a neighboring town.
And, when the doctor was away, Capt. Burrage in-
sisted that he should prescribe for his niece.
It did her no harm, but amused her, rather, when her
uncle sent up a tiny pair of scales with her dinner, and
insisted that she should weigh what she ate; but an-
other notion of his was very trying. "You say," said
he, that you can't walk, Louise, and that the fatigue of


dressing unfits you for a drive. Now, air and exercise
you must have. I have arranged with Pat to play he
is a horse. Every morning he is to come to your door
with his arms folded behind him; you are to take a
seat as if they were a side-saddle, and he shall trot
around the house three times at a gentle pace." Oh,
please let me ask Dexter if he thinks that is best!"
pleaded poor Louise.
I am your guardian," said her uncle; "and I think
it best."
"But what will the neighbors think?" exclaimed the
An unfortunate thing for her to say, for it made the
captain more determined than ever to carry out his pet
When Dexter came home, he noticed unfavorable
symptoms, and soon found they were occasioned by
the nervous distress brought about by this unusual
ride-out. "It is too funny, Dexter," said Louise hys-
terically. "Up the stairs comes Pat, and kneels at my
door. He has strict orders to act as a horse; and I
must not say Good-morning,' but Get up, sir!'
He stumps carefully down the stairs, and out the
door. I am picturesquely dressed with an old red
shawl thrown over my head, crossed in front, and tied
behind. My horse' trots solemnly three times around
the house, while the Smiths, Browns, and Robinsons'
appear at their windows. I shall be insane, Dexter, if
this thing is kept up mucT longer."


I'll attend to that," said the young doctor.
His first plan was to remove Louise to the seashore;
but she was far too weak to bear the sight of strangers,
and the necessity of dressing up."

"Besides," as she dolefully complained to her brother,
"it is dreadful to be 'an object,' Dexter. I. find the
most retired spot possible, and try to hide under my
sunshade, and 'bury myself in a book,' when I am pain-


fully conscious that some little image is staring at me,
trying to guess whether I'm a ghost, or no."
I'll attend to t/at," said the doctor again. "What
you must have, Lou, is change; but you must get it
away from curious eyes."
Bernard Knapp has a yacht, as perhaps you know.
"Well," continued Dexter, he thinks of cruising
about for a fortnight, and has invited his uncle and
aunt, and will take their servants along.. Now, they'd
like nothing better than to have you go with them.
You've been at their house so much, they are exactly
like 'own folks.' Fact, if I did not know that I am
your only brother, I might be jealous of Bernard."
Louise embarked as gladly as if the sails of the "Sea
Gull" were real wings to take her away from every
thing unpleasant. Her only regret was in leaving
Dexter. The doctor saw his feeble sister on board,
doubting, at the last minute, whether he were wise to
counsel this trip for one who had been for years an
invalid. Be a brother to her, Bernard," he said
"That I won't promise," replied Bernard gayly. Dex-
ter was satisfied, however, that Louise would have
excellent care, and reported favorably to their uncle.
There never could have been a sweeter old lady than
Mrs. Knapp, nor a more fatherly person than Mr.
Knapp; and their nephew was the nicest sort of com-
panion for a yachting trip.


Louise felt entirely "at home." Her sensation of
escape from everybody--Dexter alone excepted-was
a delight. The sparkling sea-air brought her sleep that
bromide could never give, and an appetite that no other
tonics could create.
In short, Louise breathed health with every breath,
as she leaned over the vessel's side, sometimes alone,
sometimes accompanied by the young man that would
not consent to be a brother.
I wish there were a yacht for every Louise that has
been overdriven with study and worry and excitement.
This Louise went away looking like a lily: she
returned, her brother said, like a "tiger lily," tanned
and freckled,-but well.
The happy voice sang again by the long-silent piano;
busy feet trotted up stairs and down, making her uncle's
mansion something less like a prison and more like a

A few miles from the city is a picturesque little
place,-"so English'-y," the knowing ones that have
been abroad are pleased to say.
Most of the homes there were designed by the now-
?amous architect, Bernard Knapp. His own home is
there, looking as if it were sitting for its picture. Ber-
nard did not agree to be the brother of Louise; but he
afterward promised to be her husband, and together
they have helped to make this lovely spot what it is.

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A stranger, passing through the place one day,
paused to notice how like a painted picture was a
cartful of yellow straw against the blue September
sky, while dogwood vines and crimson sumach added
to the coloring.
Wonder if Bernard' Knapp designed this scene ? "
he said aloud. A little girl with a daisy-sweet face,
who chanced to be near, answered, "Bernard Knapp
designs most every thing."
It was the architect's own little girl that spoke. She
is seven years old, and can't read. Her parents are
trying the experiment of letting her grow'up as much
like her namesake, "Clover," as possible, leaving books
for later years,--"l'st.," as her father says, "there
should not be a yacht to restore her health when she is
twenty years old."



BOY to be a Charlie must have merry
eyes,-brown eyes are best for a Charlie;
and he must be roguish, but so winsome
That you can't help loving him.
This Charlie was born the first of April,-a joke
to begin with; and a rather serious joke the young
parents found him to be.
They agreed that he should be brought up by rule.
A clock and a thermometer hung in the nursery, and
he was expected to be as exact and unfailing as they.


And so, as a baby, he was; but, as soon as the
"Charlie" in him began to show itself, clocks and
thermometers were of little use.
When he was three-and-a-half, it happened, one sum-
mer Sunday, that his mamma went to church, leaving
Charlie with Bridget.
What is the matter with Sunday afternoons in July?
People are so afraid that there is going to be a shower
that they stay at home, when there -is :never a drop of
rain; or else they go to church, and down comes a
shower-bath. Bridget was sleepy. Charlie minded
the wet no more..than a robin; and, waiting only till
Bridget's eyes were shut, he took an umbrella, trimmed
his hat with garden-flowers, and walked down to the
A pause in the minister's sermon gave him a chance
to put in a word.
"Mamma!" his clear little voice called,"I bought
an umb'ella for oo, so oo won't spoil oor new d'ess."
The sexton hushed Master Charles; and the next
moment a lady hurried, blushing, down the aisle, and
took Charlie and the umbrella home.

,i- A.



AMMA was ill. The doctor left his hat and
cane and overcoat on the hat-tree, while he
went up stairs.
Charlie thought he would be a doctor, just
for a few minutes. All he needed was papa's old boots
in the down-stairs entry.
He was having the best of times, when Bridget
rushed in, and shook the little fellow quite out of his
boots. "A doctor is it yez are, bad luck to yel and the
ra'al doctor mad enough to give yez a whole box of
pills at onct."
Charlie was sorry. He did not mean to trouble the



OT long after this, mamma and Charlie left their
city home for a little visit to an uncle farmer.
Charlie thought the daisies and chickens were
worth all the streets of Boston.
One morning he heard
Shis uncle say, that, after he
had gone to market, he
should hoe the corn.
i 'Charlie thought it would
Sbe a pleasant surprise to
his good uncle to find the
_- corn all hoed; so, when
I- his mother supposed he
was feeding the chickens,
-.___ the little farmer had helped
himself to tools, and had
hoed the corn by the roots,
pulling down the stalks
and stamping upon them like a hungry cow.
That was indeed a "surprise" to the uncle, and an
unpleasant surprise for Charlie followed.



SN'T it a pretty picture? And the reality is
prettier still,-unless it should be near your
The gypsies are the handsomest of people; or, hand-
some gypsies are handsomer than other handsome
people. They have fine figures, brilliant eyes, richest
complexions, and an air of mystery, the secret of which
no one has yet been able to solve.
There's not a queen that can wear velvets and dia-
monds so royally as a gypsy queen; but nowadays
velvets and diamonds are not common in a gypsy camp,
and they put on their graceful airs with bright calicoes
and brass jewelry.
It is supposed that they came from India: the dic-
tionary says so. But there are learned guesses and
legends reaching away, way back of their wanderings
in India.
One story says that they were keepers of the inn in
Bethlehem, that would not admit Joseph and Mary
that Christmas Eve eighteen hundred and eighty-two
years ago; and that for this, God doomed their race to
a wandering life forever.


It is true that they are not a Christian people: their
language has no word for God, immortality, or soul.
Their highest religion is, Be true to your people, be
faithful to your husband, and never pay any debts
except those owing to your own kindred."
In 1122 an Austrian monk describes them as Ish-
maelites who go peddling through the wide world, hav-
ing neither house nor home, cheating the people with
their tricks, and deceiving mankind, but not openly."
They have at times been most cruelly treated, ban-
ished, outlawed, slain. In 1748 a law was made by a
Russian emperor, that every gypsy beyond the age of
eighteen should be hanged.
Maria Theresa did all in her power for their good.
She issued laws for the education of their children,
built streets for them in her cities, and gave them
tracts of land in the country.
But these humane measures did no lasting good;
and up to this day it is said that a gypsy child who
has been rescued from its wild life, and brought up in
a civilized family, is sure to run away the first favor-
able chance to "the gypsies' free mountains, their
plains and woods, the sun, stars, and winds."
We may some day see them reformed; but probably
next summer, in driving along a grassy road, you will
notice a pale blue smoke lazily curling above the blue-
berry bushes, and then you will come upon a brown-
legged boy, or a brilliant fortune-teller with a red shawl


PRAISE _,-.i/ A LITTLE. 59

But the boarders find fault."
Of course they do! That's what boarders are for,
in part. And now I must start for home. Mayn't I
take Ned with me? "
But his school, Annie !"
"There's more than one school for young folks, and
life on a farm isn't a bad one."
Mrs. Annie Fotheringay, too, was a widow. She
had turned a pretty little country-seat into a garden of
fruits and choice vegetables. There was a hot-house,
too, which was her pride, and furnished floral offerings
for great occasions for miles around.
It was sorely against her taste to torture her pinks
and rosebuds on wires, and form them into stiff funereal
wreaths; but she had to harden her heart, and attend
strictly to business in this matter.
But close economy had not soured Mrs. Fotherin-
gay's bountiful nature. She was just the right kind of
aunt for Ned at this time.
She never scolded him; but he found himself trying
to shut doors easy, because she said once that he was
so gentle in the house. He would not for the world
forget any of the errands she intrusted him with, not
because he feared a sharp reproof, but because it was
so pleasant to hear her "That's all right, Ned. I knew
you would attend to business."
He resolved that he would do errands as faithfully
when he returned home, and perhaps his mother would
be more like her old self again.


Meanwhile she had found that Ned, though often
the object of her fretting, was not always the cause of
it. It really seemed as if it would be a relief to have
some one about that she could have a right to scold.
She found herself so irritable one morning that she
had hard work to bear with the fault-finding of her
most profitable boarder, one Capt. Lessard. He was
one of those ferret-like mortals who must know the
" whys and wherefores" of every thing, and often an-
noy others by their inquisitiveness.
On this occasion he had criticised the breakfast in a
most trying way: she hurried through that meal, went
to her room, and, turning the leaves of her little Bible,
read or prayed Agur's prayer, "Remove far from me
poverty and riches."
I can't bear poverty," she moaned.
Knock! knock! at her door.
It was Joan, the kitchen-girl, with a telegram. The
yellow envelope eclipsed all lesser worries as Mrs.
Reed read,-

"Ned has fallen--broken his arm--injured internally--
Leaving boarders with her servants, Mrs. Reed took
the next train to Witham, where Mrs. Fotheringay
Such a sweet little place! In the midst of her
anxiety, Mrs. Reed was glad that her boy had been in


so much beauty this May weather. The garden was
gay with hyacinths, while thousands of snow-white
blossoms, upheld by the fruit-trees, made a garden in
the air much fairer than that on the earth.
Parting the vines that drooped over the old-fashioned
knocker, she was about to raise it, when the door
opened, and bright Mrs. Fotheringay appeared, loaded
with garden-tools.
"Nellie!" she exclaimed, "didn't you get a second
telegram? I sent another after that first scare. My
own doctor was out of town when Ned had his fall;
and, in my fright, I sent for a travelling humbug stop-
ping at the village hotel; and he told me what I tele-
graphed you.
Soon after this 'doctor' left, Neddie recovered from
the shock the fall had given him; and, for a boy who
was said to have a broken arm, he seemed very lively.
In fact, dear Nell, he is not hurt in the least; and here
he comes from the village where he took the second
Ned was glad to see his mother, and thought she
seemed as she did in the glad old days.
Now that her alarm for her boy had taken wing, she
talked over some lesser troubles with her good sister-
among others, the fault-finding of Capt. Lessard.
It may be," said Mrs. Fotheringay, in her cheerful
way, "that Capt. Lessard may prove a valuable ac-


I dare say," assented Mrs. Reed, feeling that she
could thankfully put up with any annoyance, now that
her boy was safe. "You are always right, Annie.
You were right about Ned. Your way-'to praise
him a little' has made his better qualities blossom
like your hyacinths."
"Try it yourself, then," said her sister frankly, "or
let me try it a while longer."
Mrs. Reed felt that she could not spare Ned at this
time, when she was longing to make up for her past
She returned home with him that afternoon, reaching
the house as the boarders were coming down to tea.
Mrs. Reed!" said Capt. Lessard eagerly, as she
met him at the foot of the stairs. "Boy all right?
That's good! Boys have as many lives as a cat, espe-
cially when they fall out of a tree. And now, madam,
if you'll let Ned pass on, 1 want to ask you one ques-
tion. What was the name of the mine your husband
was interested in ?"
It was called 'The Comfort,'" said she briefly.
"Well, madam, I am prepared to offer you sixty
thousand dollars for your interest in that mine; or I
will make some other arrangement by which you may
share equally with me the liabilities and the profits."
Mrs. Reed, in turn, asked a question or two, and
learned, beyond doubt, that the ore-veins which flowed
through the surrounding country in New Mexico un-


doubtedly enriched "The Comfort." Wealthy specu-
lators were eager to develop it, and considered the large
share Mrs. Reed owned easily obtained at the price
which they paid Capt. Lessard for Mrs. Reed's interest.
In her own home, then, when the new year came, was
the widow, free from boarders, independent, happiest in
this, that she had learned to manage her boy following
her good sister's simple rule, "Praise him a little."

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^^rc-it ^

Tbe .curfeit. lolls
Iyncll- parlin .ela

{N.loi)g. l I.c -&rcis




T was a September day; and in the nooning
teacher went with Sase, Rebecca, and me,
:._ way up to the glen for harebells. She was
.,1- just the loveliest teacher, Miss Belcher was,
not a bit prim and schoolma'am-y, but as graceful as
a lily, and always dressed so charmingly that it was a
delight to see her.
The schoolhouse was ever so far from our homes, -
it wasn't a public school at all, -and was generally
called "The Institution." Well, as I was saying, it
was a good way from our homes, over a mile; and we
used to carry our dinners, and have the nicest times at
the noonings that ever were, especially when teacher
staid too. That Tuesday,-I don't believe there ever
was such a day!--out-doors looked like a splendid oil
painting. Over the distant woods hung a delicious
mist; and nothing could have been softer than the
summer-like air, though it was past the middle of
As we were returning with our spoils, -we had
found mountain laurel, Indian pipes, and, rarest of all,


a humming-bird's nest, the mist suddenly lost its
gay colors as if a fire shone behind it, and became as
gray as if that fire had burned to ashes.
Miss Belcher shivered in her muslin spencer; and we

were glad when we were in the schoolhouse, and a fire
shook the old box-stove, and made almost as loud a
roar as the wind outside.
For a rough wind had sprung up, and, in less than
----- --- .t ,


half an hour, had chased every summer thing out of
sight. You would never think it was the same world
that it had looked in the glen when we girls were run-
ning about bareheaded. And it rained,--oh, how it
rained!--and grew so dark. Miss Belcher was so
frightened, the lessons went anyhow; and when she
asked Mahala Russ, the red-headed girl that always
was stupid, to write a simple sentence on the Llack-
board for the class to parse, Mahala wrote "spiders
bight," and Miss Belcher never noticed the mistake.
Long before four o'clock, the fathers and brothers
and rubbers and wraps began to come. Rebecca had
two brothers and a father, and I had five brothers and
a father; so we were sure our turn would come. As
for Sase, too, supposing Mr. Bates, her father, did not
come, so much the better, for she could go home with
me. The Bates family and ours were like brothers
and sisters; and there was a standing agreement, that
if Sase or I failed to appear at our own s- "per-table, it
was safe to conclude that we were together at the
supper-table of the other house, and need not be
expected home that night.
One after another of the girls was sent for, and then
teacher's turn came. She did not like to leave us three
alone, but her cousin was in a hurry; so, after making
sure that the fire was nearly out, she kissed us good-by,
giving the key in charge of the last one that should go.
Sase and I felt a bit forsaken; but Rebecca was


such a jolly girl there was no such thing as staying
gloomy. I should like nothing better," she declared,
"than to stay here all night. Wouldn't it be cosey?
Got any thing left for supper?" Our dinner-baskets
were found to have a few biscuits. "We'll toast them,"
she decided promptly, "and have baked apples for des-
sert." Flinging a shawl over her head, she dashed
into the yard, and gathered up an apronful of apples
which the wind had blown over the fence from Dr.
Town's adjacent orchard.
"There are plenty of lights," she said, as she glanced
around at the tin reflectors on the walls, before which
were candles all ready for Professor Dunton's weekly
writing-school the following evening. Lots of wood,
too, to keep up the fire; and now for the beds."
By this time Sase and I had fairly entered into the
spirit of camping out. There were old-fashioned mov-
able desks. We placed them side by side till we had a
bedstead large enough, then placed lexicons for pillows,
and our light wraps for coverlids.
Just as our housekeeping was in this promising
state, the apples, propped on slate-pencils, slowly roast-
ing over the embers, Rebecca's brother Ned drove up.
He earnestly besought us to ride home with them, but
we knew it would take him so far out of his way that
we did not wish to trouble him; besides, of course
some one would come for us. It wasn't so late as it
looked, to be sure, Ned said. The storm made it so


And dark enough it did seem when we had watched
our jolly friend out of sight, and come back to our
housekeeping. The apples had taken advantage of
our absence. One had pitched into the coals, and the
rest were scorched. It was really too dark to see
when you stepped outside the circle of light that came
from the stove-door.
We lighted a few candles. How the rain poured!
It was dripping through the roof in places. All at
once, some drops falling on a candle, it gave a sullen
sputter and went out.
Lucky that isn't our only candle," said Sase. How
far away from everybody we seemed! There was in-
deed no house very near us; "The Institution being
built in state on grounds of its own, well walled and
shaded. The nearest dwelling was a small cottage
where the Widow Rugby lived. She was one of those
indispensable characters that can serve in almost any
capacity, sewing, house-cleaning, or nursing. Mrs.
Rugby was always, as she expressed it, "able an'
willing. But then she was a famous gossip, and our
mothers often reminded us to be very careful what we
said before Mrs. Rugby.
We school-girls disliked her; for she used to peep
through the walls of the school-grounds, and report to
our parents if we ate green apples.
It was a comfort, to-night, to see the light from her
cottage window; for it was the only twinkle of life,


and not a carriage-wheel had rolled by since Ned and
Rebecca rode away.
We were not sleepy. In fact, Sarah declared she
could hear every thing that was happening for ten
miles around. The sound of our own voices at last
echoed in a frightful way; and we just sat with hands
close clasped in silence, only stirring occasionally, like
brave lighthouse-keepers, to snuff our candles with a
At last the deep clang of the nine-o'clock bell smote
our hearts with despair. That meant the knell of all
life in our little village for the night. The postmaster
would turn his key, and go home. Lights would fade
in lower stories to twinkle in upper stories, and then
go out altogether. Standing by a window as we
trimmed our candles, Sase whispe. ed, in utter despair,
"Widow Rugby has gone up-stairs."
Like shipwrecked mariners we watched that one little
ray of hope in her window, expecting momentarily to
see it go out. But no, it burned cheerily there.
In a few minutes a light shone in another window
from a different side of the cottage. "That's 'Lijah's-
'Lijah Rugby's room," said Sase. This new star soon
set to re-appear down-stairs; and now a flickering beam
of promise moved along the street, and came nearer -
nearer to our prison.
Shortly before this, Widow Rugby had retired to her
chamber. 'Lijah, her grown-up son, had sought his


bed an hour before. "Readin' allers made him sleepy,"
he declared, "and there was nothing' else to do a rainy
night." His slumbers were, however, disturbed by his
mother's shrill voice. It was her custom to see all that
could be seen from her window just before going to
bed, to satisfy herself that her little world was right for
the night, as she bore the concerns of the neighborhood
on her mind, and could tell," so she said, by the out-
side looks of a house, what was happening inside, be it
birth, death, or marriage."
"'Lijah! 'Lijah!" she called. "I thought this was
Tuesday night!"
"Well, well, what if it is?" was the sleepy response.
"Then, what's the Institution lighted up fer?"
"Do you suppose Dunton hed the writin'-school to-
night instead of Wednesday ?"
"An' if he hed, would there be anybody to it ?"
"Dunno, and don't care."
"0 'Lijah! 'Lijah! What was we put into this
mortal world for?"
"To go to sleep, for one thing," was the disrespectful
"'Lijah Tinkham Rugby, them lights mean some-
thin'; an' it ain't writin'-school! But if you're afraid
to go an' see, I'll"-
I'd like to see something I was afraid of," said the


tremendous fellow, landing on the floor with a bound
that made the cottage tremble.
And it was 'Lijah's lantern that we saw bobbing
hopefully along the street toward us; and, though we
had not a day ago poked fun at him, we welcomed him
as an angel of light.
He made every thing safe at the Institution for the
night, then hung his lantern around his neck, and, tak-
ing us in his arms, he wrapped his big cloak around us,
and strode through the torrent to his mother's cottage.
I'll never hate Widow Rugby again, as long as I
live," I whispered Sase in deepest penitence, as we
were left alone for a minute in the cosiest of kitchens.
Shall I ever forget that open fire, with the ginger-tea
brewing on the hob, the comforting odor of toast, the
warm flannel night-gowns airing for us, while Widow
Rugby, never happier, told us delicious tales of danger
and rescue, all "coming out" beautifully, even if she
had to make them up for the occasion, as we very well
I suppose Sase's reception at home, next morning,
was much like mine.
Good-morning, Polly dear. All well at the Bates's?"
Why didn't somebody come for me ?" I asked.
"Your father passed Mr. Bates with his team.
Father was riding too. He said, 'I'll get your daugh-
ter. Excuse me, I'm in a hurry,' or at least that wa3
what father thought he said."


What Mr. Bates did say was, "Will you get my
daughter? Excuse me, I'm in a hurry."
Mrs. Rugby will tell you about it, mother! I ex-
claimed, too indignant at the way in which we had been
neglected to say more.
And Mrs. Rugby told the story with such additions
and illustrations that this unvarnished tale bears little
resemblance to her version of it.


SOMEHOW or other, geese are made fun of,
though they saved Rome, and nobody knows
,'.-: how many croupy children since,-though they
S give their feathers for pillows, and their lives
V? ior our Christmas dinners.
There was once a goose,-or perhaps I would better
say, there was once a boy, and he fed some geese.
He also did a few other things. He was a poor boy,
nephew of a couple that kept a place called "The
Woodland Retreat," half-way between Milburn and
Stokerstown. It was really a dreadful place, though it
might look cosey enough as you drove by, but it was a
pitfall of ruin; and the swinging sign, "Entertainment
for Man and Beast," might have read, "Entertainment
for Beasts."


It was little enough like men that its patrons be-
haved after partaking of the entertainment there.
How poor Dick hated the whole thing! He was a
rough but noble-looking young fellow, with fine hopes
that nobody had guessed of some day being a scholar,
and giving little Jerry, his orphan brother, a different
home from the carousing Retreat."
How to do this was not yet clear to poor Dick. For
the present, he was boy of all work, now in the
kitchen, now in the bar, now at the forge, now-and
what he best liked -caring for the cows or chickens
or geese.
It was a lovely day, midsummer. Sand sparkled
hot in the country roads; but the pure, bright air was
neither too warm nor too cool. Swallows curvetted
hither and thither; and, despite the dust, there was
much riding past the Woodland Retreat. It was yet
hardly late enough for the people to pass, that didn't
pass, but stopped for entertainment.
Dick was busy working the curved handle of the
bellows of the forge; for, however unsteady his uncle
made the feet of men, he was renowned for sending
off 'horses safely shod.
Just at this time, a certain mother goose was con-
ducting her family home from the pond.
Very much disgusted was she with them because,
being chickens, they declined to swim, though urged
by both precept and example.


This was probably why she was feeling irritable, and
insisted that her trying brood should cross the road
just as a high-spirited horse came trotting along.
This horse had just passed the open door of the
shop where Dick was at work in the heat.
It was a pretty sight,-the judge's daughter, Miss
Ethel, in her dark-blue riding-habit, her lovely golden
hair dancing like sunbeams, her firm little hands guid-
ing the black horse she rode.
Behind her followed her young brother Sam, on a
less spirited nag. Both the judge's children were at
home on a vacation, and the sight of them set Dick
a-dream-ing over the schooling that he so longed to
A very short dream, when, -
"Squaw-k! squaw-k!" from mother goose.
Dick's uncle remarked that that goose was not a
wise bird (using different language from what you or
I would use to express the same idea), and started for
the rescue with hammer in hand. But Dick's swift
feet outran him; and Dick's strong hands grasped the
bridle, and stopped the horse, as the last little yellow
chick scooted after its noisy stepmother.
For some minutes the eyes of the black horse were
like the forge-fire, with sparks flashing out of them,
while the frightened creature's breath came in quick
He calmed at last, with those strong hands holding


him in, and the soft hands of his mistress patting him
gently, and saying, -
"Why, Jupiter I what a goose you are I"
But mother goose was not so much of a goose after
all. In fact, it must have been a contrived plan of hers
to frighten the judge's horse, and 'let Dick save sweet
Miss Ethel.
Of course the judge would do something handsome
for the brave boy.
And so Dick left the groggery in the woods, and
went to a boys' school in Milburn; and, in due time,
the little brother went too, and both became good
scholars and temperance men.
Mother goose couldn't teach her chickens to swim;
but she was a wise goose, you see, for all that.

7, Jl



VERYBODY stopped under the linden-tree in
front of Parson Blaikie's windows to read that
notice; and everybody that knew the parson said,
"What a shame for the parson's gold hunting-watch
seemed a part of himself. Years ago, when he was a


long-haired Bowdoin student, teaching in his vacations
to pay his way, this watch had been given him by a
class of young ladies; and he delighted to tell of his
surprise when it was handed him as a farewell token
by the youngest and prettiest of the class.
But nothing was too precious for grandpa's pet
Babykins' mamma had gone to the city; and when
babykins waked, frightened and inclined to cry, grand-
pa charmed him with the wonderful hunting-watch, -
showed him the way it opened, the whirling wheels,
the jewels inside that kept their precious eyes open day
and night.
But soon the round little face was ploughed with
frowns, and tears brimmed over the brown eyes.
Eabykins must have the watch himself.
The tears won grandpa.
Babykins held the precious toy.
Tears again.
Babykins must take it on the door-step.
What a grandpa! But then, he meant to watch him
every minute; only leave his pet a second while he
found the daily paper: then two happy mortals, grand-
pa and babykins, could enjoy out-doors and the watch
Back came grandpa almost before you could say
"Jack Robinson," but the watch was gone.
Baby's two words were "mamma" and Deddie"
(meaning brother Edward), so he could give no account
of the lost property.


Grandpa searched, everybody in the house searched,
policemen searched, a notice was written for the tree in
front of the house, and a few hours later was printed in
all the evening papers.
But grandpa's watch never, never came back.
That good old watch! It had never failed to tell
grandpa when it was time for church, and for funerals
and weddings. It faithfully pointed to early bedtime
and early rising, and was in every way such a well-
brought-up gold watch.
To think it should fall into the hands of thieves!
But I suppose it did. We never knew. There's no
"coming out" to this story. Babykins can't tell, and
he's the only one in our house that knows.


HERE was never a king that was more of a
monarch than Willis Fay of Fay & Co.
His manufactories made a little kingdom by
itself. There was a chapel, a schoolhouse, a grocery,
and twoscore cottages, all supported by Fay & Co.
And, if Willis Fay was king, Mrs. Fay was queen,
a mother as well as queen, looking well after the inter-
ests cf the little colony.
Late in life a son was born to them; and then the


care of outside families was given up in a measure,
while her attention centred upon this lovely boy.
When he was about two years old, his mother was
aware that he was becoming more and more selfish
every day of his life. His father saw it too.
"I have a plan," said Mrs. fay, at supper, one even-
ing. "Willie will just be spoiled if he goes on in this
way. What would you say if I should go into Boston
to-morrow, and visit some orphan-home, and find a
little girl to adopt? If Willie could have a sister to
grow up with him, I think it would be the best thing
we could do for him."
Mr. Fay looked sober. "I don't know, mother. It's
going to be a risky enterprise. But I agree with you,
something must be done; and this may be the best
Little Willie was pacified all day by comforting
promises from his nurse, that mamma had gone to
Boston to buy him a sister. At five o'clock, sure
enough, the new sister came. She was a bright little
thing, with brown eyes like Willie's own, a sweet
saucy mouth, and a crown of wilful black curls.
"And so this is the sister that is going to tame
Willie!" exclaimed Mr. Fay, as the restless midget
dashed across the room, and snatched an apple from the
hand of the astonished boy. "Why didn't you pick out
one of these meek-looking little girls, Sarah Jane ? "
To tell the truth," said Mrs. Fay laughing, "this


one attracted me because she is the very image of
Will. Don't you say so?"
She stood the two little "blackberries," as Mr. Fay
called them, against the wall, and a bright little pair
indeed they were.
The little girl was one of a family of three children
left at the home for adoption. Mr. and Mrs. Fay gave
the child their name and the christened name of Aster,
which was duly bestowed upon her at the Fay Chapel
on Michaelmas Day.
The altar was trimmed with Michaelmas daisies,
while stars wrought out of the different varieties -
white, lavender, or purple -hung in the Gothic win-
dows. And a star among all was the little Aster, with
her shining eyes, and a wreath of the white flowers
whose name she bore resting on her black curls.
Years went by, increasing the love and interest for
the child so heartily adopted.
By the time she was seventeen, the little colony of
Fay's Mills was known as Fayville. A wonderful
mineral-spring had been discovered in the vicinity; a
rustic park was laid out, and city visitors thronged the
place in pleasant summer weather. Up to this time,
Aster had always believed she was Willie's own sister.
It had been the desire of the Fays to bring her up as
their own child, and to keep from her her real name.
Somehow a suspicion of the truth had come to Aster
by the careless remark of an outsider, and she at once
asked her mother if it could be possible.


"Why, mother! she cried, "what an absurd story,
when I am Fay all over,' as I've often heard you say;
and some people even take me to be Willie's twin
sister !"
Mrs. Fay could not avoid a direct answer. So, quite
as heart-broken as Aster herself, she admitted that she
was not her own child.
"Then I must find out where I do belong!" ex-
claimed the hasty girl; and she at once started off with
the intention of searching through the different Chil-
dren's Homes in Boston, to find some clew to her par-
ents; for Mrs. Fay would tell her no more, only begged
her to still be their own dear child.
Aster's mind wavered as soon as she left the house;
and she strolled into the little park, and idly watched a
young couple that had just come in the half-hour boat
that plied between Fayville and the railroad-station
It was evident that this couple were strangers to one
another by their indifferent air. The young lady ap-
peared quite as sad as Aster herself; and, after strolling
about in an uncertain way for a while, finally seated
herself on the rustic bench where Aster was meditating.
The young man also seemed in "a brown study," as he
leaned against a fence near the mill-pond, apparently
too much interested in his own thoughts to notice
Presently the strange young lady inquired, Can you
tell me where Miss Fay lives?"


I suppose I am the person you mean," said Aster
sadly; "but I have just found out that that name does
not belong to me."
I came here to make some inquiries about Miss
Aster Fay," continued the stranger; "but I think I
would better see Mrs. Willis Fay."
Aster went with her to the dear home. As the
young ladies were entering the door, a voice caused
them to look around.
Beg pardon," said the stranger Aster had noticed in
the park, I wish to see Mrs. Fay, if I do not intrude."
The good lady was soon at the door.
I should be happy to introduce you to my mother,
Mrs. Fay I mean, if I knew your names," said Aster.
"Miss Brooks, Helen Brooks," said the young
Brooks! My name is Brooks!" exclaimed the
young man.
Brooks Brooks "- repeated Mrs. Fay in a dazed
"Yes, Brooks, Brooks," mimicked Aster, "but don't
'flow on forever!' If there is any way out of this
puzzle, I should be glad to know it."
Mrs. Fay seated the young people, and told them
this little story: -
Fifteen years ago, a young widow with three little
children believed herself to be incurably ill. She had a
little property, but no near relatives. Having confi-



"Certainly, madam!" said Mr. Wessen; and "By
all means, ma'am!" echoed Miss Adams politely.
Miss Adams led the way with the ease of an old
scholar, as she was; and, opening the door of "47,"
she said, Here is our sanctum, Miss Gonsalez. How
do you like it?"
I like it, and I like you / said the dark-eyed girl
impulsively, placing a slight hand on her room-mate's
"'Pardon me, Mi;s Adams, if I say the same," said
'the elder lady. "My niece has never been away from
me.. -I wrote Mr. Wessen to place her, if possible,
with--well, in short, with just such a young lady as
you appear to be. 'Do, I beg you, influence her to be
a real New-England Puritan maiden."
I can't help being half Spanish, auntie," said the
pretty girl.
I know it! I know it!" said the lady with a sigh.
Miss Gonsalez seemed relieved when her aunt had
bidden her good-by, and had taken the evening train
for Portland.
What is your first name, please?" she asked her
room-mate as soon as they were alone. "June? What
a lovely name! Because you were born in June, I sup-
pose. But if you don't laugh and play some I shall
call you November."
Sedate as June Adams was, she was charmed with
her gay little room-mate, and thoroughly enjoyed see-
ing her unpack her pretty dresses.


You have every thing nice imaginable, Miss Gon-
salez," said June at last.
"Call me Inez. Yes, I suppose so, except jewelry.
It is a notion of auntie's that a school-girl should not
wear it. I've loads that are to be mine when I come
of age, but I have not even seen them yet. Auntie
won't allow the plainest little brooch. Why, even you
have a pin and a watch, I declare! and two or three
rings. Any thing else? "
Bracelets, but I don't care for them; and ear-rings,
but I never wear them; and perhaps you would like
to see it a necklace that was my mother's."
June unlocked her treasure-box, and held up a gold
chain formed of heavy links. Hanging from it was a
locket set in pale, clear stones of yellow topaz.
It was a sparkling affair, and Inez' eyes danced like
the jewels.
"Could I try it on, one little minute?" she whis-
pered in deep delight.
"I don't wonder you like jewelry: it seems made
for you," said June, noticing how the eyes of the Span-
ish girl lighted up till it were hard to tell which jewels
sparkled brightest.
A tap at the door interrupted the young ladies. Mr.
Wessen stood there, two queer-looking girls beside
Miss Adams," said the preceptor, will you make
these young ladies happy for half an hour while their


room is being made ready? We were not expecting
them to-day. They are a wee bit homesick."
Georgia. and Lucy Troop were the new-comers, and
they looked more than "a wee bit homesick." Doubt-
less they felt that they were out of place and out of
fashion. Their home was in a remote part of the
British Provinces; and, though they had silks, furs,
and jewelry in plenty, every thing was out of date.
June, with her usual kindness, made the strangers
welcome; though she did not fancy them, and was glad
when their room was ready for them. Hardly were
they gone when the supper-bell rang, and from every
room there was a sound of departing feet.
As June was turning her key, her new acquaintance,
Georgia Troop, asked to borrow it. Our key is lost,"
she explained; "and Mr. Wessen says we may borrow
yours, if you please, as it fits our lock, till he can get a
new one for us. I will hand it to you directly."
Inez pouted in a most disdainful way.
I wouldn't let her have it if I were you," she whis-
pered. It was at least ten minutes before Georgia
came into the dining-room. She laid the key beside
Miss Adams's plate as she passed on to the seat as-
signed her, and every one noticed how awkward and
ill at ease she appeared.
She has taken time to rummage all over our room,"
whispered Inez to June in much displeasure.
Inez took the key, and went to 47 alone, as June


was demanded elsewhere. Inez fancied she saw many
things displaced; but one thing was certain,-June's
necklace was nowhere to be found. June was dis-
tressed at the loss. Every place in the room was
searched with no success. Then, most unwillingly,
she told Mr. Wessen about it. He delegated a lady
teacher to examine particularly every inch of number
47, and to forbid Miss Gonsalez to leave the room.
June and Inez were indignant at this, and swore eternal
friendship when their persons and their belongings had
been searched and no necklace was found. Then Miss
Troop and her sister were delivered over to the cus-
tom-house officers," as June expressed it. Nothing
was found there; but suspicion rested upon the unpop-
ular strangers, and they were severely let alone" for
the entire term.
Miss Adams and Miss Gonsalez, however, were the
pets of the seminary. June's goodness, as well as her
good looks, made her attractive; while the little Span-
ish beauty," as Inez was called, was always in demand.
The last night of the term the young ladies gave a
farewell entertainment, inviting the teachers and a few
approved acquaintances from Grove Village. As lively
Inez declared, "it was to be a masquerade without the
June was to be Priscilla Alden." Inez was to take
the part of her namesake in the ballad -
Oh! saw ye not fair Inez?"


The Troop girls were not asked to assume any char-
acter. Inez wrote a beseeching letter to her aunt;
and, in return, there came a valuable package contain-
ing a rich dress, Spanish lace over yellow satin, and
one set of the jewelry that Inez had so often longed
to see.
"0 June!" she said in delight, as she raised the
cotton that hid the glittering beauties, "here is a com-
plete set of yellow topaz, ear-rings, brooch, bracelets,
- and, oh, how much the necklace is like yours "
"The very same thing, I should say! exclaimed
Indeed it is not! flashed Inez. "Take back your
words this minute, or you shall not see my mother's
picture in this locket! "
"My mother's picture, you mean," said June. "Do
you think I don't remember every bit of that necklace ?
I should know it in Spain!"
I defy you to prove it is your mother's necklace "
cried the indignant Inez.
"Wear it to-night," said June calmly, "if it is any
satisfaction, to you; but before the evening is over, it
will be decided where the necklace belongs."
Not another word was exchanged between the room-
Very sweet and prim June looked as Priscilla Al-
den," that evening; and very brilliant was Inez in her
lace and topaz.


The first of the evening passed gayly, and the un-
masked masquerade was a success. Later, there was
confusion and whispering among the girls. A strange
gentleman with a military air was seen to pass through
the hall to Mr. Wessen's private sitting-room. Pris-
cilla" was summoned to leave her flax; "Fair Inez"
was called also, and then the Troop girls.
"You say, Miss Adams," said the detective, after
requiring of her the facts regarding the necklace, that
the locket contains your mother's picture ?"
"Yes, sir."
"My mother's picture," corrected Inez haughtily.
Speak when you are spoken to, Miss Gonsalez,"
said the preceptor sternly.
Inez pressed the spring of the locket: it flew open,
revealing a young Spanish face enough like Inez, in its
proud beauty, to be her mother.
"Allow me to take that locket one moment," said
Inez refused; but, Mr. Wessen insisting, she un-
clasped the necklace and gave it up.
June pressed a secret spring in the reverse side, and
there was an old-fashioned miniature of a young gentle-
man. "This was my father," said she. "The necklace
and locket were his wedding-present to my mother.
The miniature which Inez has taken out was painted
after her marriage. Here are their names, and the
date when the necklace was given."


Plainly to be seen in Old-English text, within the
cover of the locket, was the inscription "Thomas
Adams and Lovice Gray, 1837."

"Miss Gonsalez' aunt," said Mr. Wessen, "informed
me of her niece's besetting sin of stealing; but hoped


that, with the influence of such a room-mate as Miss
Adams, she might be restrained from taking what did
not belong to her. A sad feature of this case is, that
Miss Gonsalez has allowed suspicion to rest upon two
homesick girls, who have been virtually ostracized the
entire term. Now, I can say once more," said Mr.
Wessen, warmly addressing Georgia and Lucy, what
I have told you again and again, that I believe in
you, and that justice will have her rights at last."
It was a sad sight to see poor Mrs. Roberts the next
day, when she came for Inez. The theft was bad
enough, but the meanness of putting it upon two
unhappy girls doubled the crime.
Mrs. Roberts would not allow her niece to return
home with her, nor would Mr. Wessen permit her to
stay in the seminary. A boarding-place was found at
a quiet sea-side village, with Inez' former nurse.
The change from being admired to being shunned
humbled the proud girl. At first she was defiant, but
better feelings sprung up. She asked forgiveness of
all she had injured, and honestly tried to live right.
Hull, the quiet place where Inez boarded, is a famous
resort for butterflies. I don't mean the butterflies of
fashion," so called, but the real butterflies, flowers on
wings that flutter above the wild geranium and golden-
One August morning, as Inez, accompanied by her
nurse and her little cousin Bertie Roberts, was in quest


EL'-" r -
ll C I,' --. -- --- =-" ^ "-- : *-- I

of these butterflies, she saw a young lady approaching.
The stranger advanced with the eagerness of an old

II~B"~e"ePI ~*--~rr -- ---- cr"l


acquaintance. Inez did not recognize the graceful
young lady till she had fairly offered her hand.
"Why, Georgia Troop !" she exclaimed.
A year at Grove had improved Miss Troop won-
derfully. Inez was improved also, though she was
never again the light-hearted girl of old.
When the fall term began at Grove, and'the young
ladies gathered in the old parlor to hear their names
and the number of their rooms as usual, Mt..Wessen
announced, "Miss Troop! Miss Gonsalez! number 47."
June Adams had graduated. Lucy Troop was dead.
Other changes made almost a new place of the Grove
a year ago. But there was no such unpleasant exhi-
bition of vanity, theft, and deceit. Inez was respected,
having proved her penitence and reformation.




9 JYEARS ago there was a neat little village,
i that looked for all the world as if it might
be packed in a box and sold for a Christmas
There was one street, and trees enough to
make a prim row along it, and houses enough to be
shaded by the trees, and just one church.
By and by somebody built a great mill; and then
houses big and small were put up here and there, and
soon a good Methodist minister held services in dif-
ferent houses.




Now, there were three little children who had always
lived in "Their Village," as they called it, and thought
it was a wrong thing to have any change.
The Methodist minister was a very kind man, fond
of children, always spoke to them, and often had some-
thing good in his pockets for them. You may know,
then, that he was surprised one day, when he was about
to harness his horse and start for the next village,
where he was to preach.
He was just slipping the bridle over the horse's
head, when a wild shout was heard; and on rushed a
terrible army of three children armed with cornstalks.
"The Methodist horse! The Methodist horse!" was
their war-cry; and, sure that they were doing a good
thing to drive the new religion out of town, they did
not stop till the frightened horse was far enough away
to lead his master a long chase, and prevent his keeping
his appointment.
I've seen older people act the same way, but these
poor children didn't know any better.


PEARL. 103

ISHERMAN JOE'S wife Rachel was wiping
the dish-pan. The blue plates, which half an
hour before had served the crisp fried potatoes
and perch, were in their places on the shelves, as well
as the tea-cups and saucers. The bit of a room was
bright and warm, and the good wife was the kind of
woman that makes any room seem comfortable.
Fisherman Joe's boat was hauled up for the night.
But, to Rachel's disappointment, he rose from the table
and put on his tarpaulin suit.
"The sea is powerful uneasy sence the storm, Rachel.
The tide is bringing in drift-wood; and I've a mind to
go down to the beach, the moon is so bright, and get a
"All right, Joe," replied Rachel cheerily. Hold on
a minute, and I'll go with you."
Joe hesitated a moment.
"Well, well, Rachel, I suppose you'll say I've taken
leave of my senses: but I had a curus dream last
night, an' I ruther you'd stay at home, and have the fire
bright an' the tea-kittle a-singin', an' things sort o'
cosey, agin I come back."

104 PEARL.

Rachel looked alarmed. She had a great respect for
dreams herself.
"Why, Joseph! Tell me, man. If there's harm com-
ing to you, I must go too."
It was a good dream. Never you fret; and don't
ask me what it was, for I won't tell you."
With this rough but kindly meant reply Joe has-
tened toward the beach, to which the incoming tide
brought its arms full of driftwood and seaweed rich
with shells.
Fisherman Joe made a fine picture as he stood there,
looking as anxiously as if he were expecting his ship
to come in. His ship! Why, the poor man owned
only the smallest of fishing-boats, and his little un-
painted cottage with its three rooms.
A wild storm had raged all along the coast two days
before. On this third day the sun had come out; but,
as Joe said, "It hadn't cleared off good natur'd: the
wind had kinder backed 'round, and we should catch it
agin, sartain!" The moon shone but fitfully. Ragged
white clouds covered it partially, looking like the rag-
ged white waves below.
As Joe stood watching the fluttering foam, a some-
thing that fluttered, yet was not foam, caught his eye.
He darted forward, aimed the grappling-iron swiftly
but carefully, -brought in his prize. His dream had
come true. He held in his arms a little child.
"She's dead, Joe! dead as a door-nail!" said the

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