Citation
The Man with the pan-pipes

Material Information

Title:
The Man with the pan-pipes : and other stories
Creator:
Molesworth, Mrs. 1839-1921 ( Author, Primary )
Morgan, Walter Jenks, 1847-1924 ( Illustrator )
Evans, Edmund, 1826-1905 ( Engraver )
Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge (Great Britain) ( Publisher )
E. & J.B. Young & Co ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
London
New York
Publisher:
Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge
E. & J.B. Young & Co.
Manufacturer:
Engraved and printed by E. Evans
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
96 p. : ill. (some col.) ; 23 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Christian life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1892 ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1892
Genre:
Children's stories
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
United States -- New York -- New York
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Date of publication from inscription.
Statement of Responsibility:
by Mrs. Molesworth ; illustrated by W.J. Morgan.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026641988 ( ALEPH )
ALG4535 ( NOTIS )
193709456 ( OCLC )

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Full Text






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THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

PAN) OEE Re SeO hele Ss:



sachs Cae we

Wee oi Vigo 3 MK lic, br Mlle,





THE MAN WITH THE
, PAN-PIPES

AND OTHER STORIES











Mrs. MOLESWORTH



Se
OS
“RS

- ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. MORGAN





Socieby for Tromobing Christian Knowledge
LONDON
Northomberland Avenve W:G
NEW YORK
€ &J-B-YOUNG & ©



LONDON:
ENGRAVED AND PRINTED BY EDMUND EVANS

RACQUET-CT., FLEET-ST., E.C.



CONTENTS

ee aa
PAGE.
Tue Man with THE Pan-PIPEs : : : : 4 : 7
Sree Byun Vea : : : : : : : 30
‘Tue Dormoust’s MISTAKE : : : : : 3 d 51
Tue CuristmMas GUEST : : : : : : : 59
Otive’s TEA-PaRTY . : : : : es : : ‘ 67
&
A Live Dummy . : ; 5 : ‘ 76
A QueEER Hipinc-PLace . : ‘ : 4 ‘ : : 83

Brut Frocks anp Pinx Frocks é : : 2 : : go





CEAR ATE Ra Ee







HEN I was
a little girl,
which is now a good many years
ago, there came to spend some
time with us a cousin who had been brought up
in Germany. She: was almost grown-up—to me, a
child of six or seven, she seemed quite erown-up ;
in reality, she was, I suppose, about fifteen or sixteen.
She was a bright, kind, good-natured girl, very anxious to please and
amuse her little English cousins, especially me, as I was the only girl.
But she had not had much to do with small children; above all, delicate
children, and she was so strong and hearty herself that she did not
understand anything about nervous fears and fancies. I think I was.
rather delicate, at least, I was very fanciful; and as I was quiet and
gave very little trouble, nobody noticed how constantly I was reading,
generally in a corner by myself. I now see that I read far too many

stories, for even of good and harmless things it is possible to have too -
B



8 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

iad
much. In those days, fortunately for me, there were not nearly so
many books for children, so, as I read very fast, I was often obliged to
read the same stories over and over again. This was much better for
me than always getting new tales and galloping through them, as I see
many children do now-a-days, but still I think I lived too much in clon
book world, and it was well for me when other things forced me to
become more, what is called, ‘ practical.”

My cousin Meta was full of life and activity, and after awhile she
grew tired of always finding me buried in my books.

‘Tt isn’t good for you, Addie,” she said. ‘Such a dot as you are, to
be always poking about in a corner reading.”

She was quite right, and when mamma’s attention was drawn to it
she agreed with Meta, and I was given some pretty fancy-work to do and
some new dolls to dress, and, above all, | was made to play about in the
garden a good deal more. It was not much of a garden, for our home
was then in a town, still it was better than being indoors, And very
often when kind Meta saw me looking rather forlorn, for I got quickly
tired with outdoor games, she would come and sit with me in the arbour,
or walk about—up and down a long gravel path there was—telling me
stories. :

That was her great charm for me. She was really splendid at
telling stories. And as hitherto she had only done me good, and mamma
knew what a sensible girl she was, Meta was left free to tell me what

stories she chose. They were all nice stories, most of them very



AND. OGHER: SEORLES, 9
«

interesting. But some were rather too exciting for such a tiny mite as I
was. Meta had read and heard quantities of German fairy-tales and
legends, many of which I think had not then been printed in books—
certainly not in English books.
For since I have been grown-up I
have come across several stories
of the kind which seemed new to
most readers, though I remember
my cousin telling them to me long,
long ago.

There were wonderful tales of
gnomes and kobolds, of the strange
adventures oe the charcoal-burners
in lonely forests, of water-sprites
and dwarfs. But none of all these
made quite as great an impression

on me as one which Meta called



Gnomes

“The Man with the Pan-pipes,” a

& Kobolds
story which, much to my surprise,
I found years after in a well-known
_ poem called ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin.” It was the very same

story as to the facts, with just a few differences ; for instance, the man
in the poem is not described as playing on pan-pzpes, but on some other

kind of pipe. But though it is really the same, it seems quite, quite



10 THE MAN Wil THE PAN-PIPES





different from the story as I heard it long ago. In the poem there is
a wonderful brightness and liveliness, and now and then even fun, which
were all absent in Meta’s tale. As she told it, it was strangely dark and
mysterious. I shall never forget how I used to shiver when she came
to the second visit of the piper, and described how the children slowly
and unwillingly followed him—how he used to turn round now and then

with a glance in his grim face which made the squeal of the pipes still









more unearthly. There was no beauty in his music, no dancing steps

were the children’s whom he dragged along by his power; ‘they just
had to go,” Meta would say. And when she came to the mysterious
ending, my questions were always the same.
« Are they still there—shut up in the cave?” I would ask.
- Meta supposed so. |
‘Will they never come out—never, never?” I said.
She shook her head.



AND OTHER STORIES. II

LE.
YI





“And if they ever did,” I said, “would they be grown-up people, or
quite old like—like that man you were telling me about. Rip—Rip—”

“Rip van Winkle,” she said.

“Yes, like Rip van Winkle, or would they have séayed children like
the boy the fairies took inside the hill to be their servant ?”

Meta considered.

“T almost ¢hznk,” she said, seriously, ‘they would have stayed
children. But, of course, it’s only a story, Addie. 1 don’t suppose it’s
true. You take things up so. Don’t go on puzzling about it.”

I would leave off speaking about it for the time; I was so dreadfully



12 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

afraid of her saying she would not tell it me again. And even though |
knew it quite well, and could correct Meta if ever she made any part of
it the least different, I was never tired of hearing the story. I would ask
for it over and over again, and I used to have exactly the same feelings
each time she told it, and always at the part where the children began to
come out of their houses, some leaving their dinners, some tiny ones
waking up out of their sleep, some only half-dressed, but all with the
same strange look on their faces, I used to catch hold of Meta’s hand and
say to her, ‘“‘ Hold me fast, I’m so afraid of fancying I hear him,” and
then she would burst out laughing at me, and I would laugh at myself.
For she was far too kind a girl to think of frightening me, and, indeed,
except for a curious ‘“‘coincidence’”—to use a very long word which
means something of the same kind as another thing happening at or
about the same time—I do not think the story would have really taken
hold of my fancy as it did.

One of my questions Meta was not able for some time to answer to

my satisfaction.



and Duwrwts



AND OTHER STORIES. 13.

‘What are Pan-pipes?” I asked. The word “ pipe” was so mixed
up in my mind with white clay pipes, out of -which we used to blow soap.
bubbles, that I could not understand it having to do with any kind of
music.

“Oh,” said Meta, “‘they’re made of reeds, you know, all in a row
like this,” and she held up her fingers to her lips, “and you play them by
whistling along them, do you see? It sounds something like when you
- fasten tissue-paper on a comb and blow along it. And they're called
‘Pan’-pipes because—oh, I forgot, of ‘course you haven't learnt
mythology yet—‘ Pan’ was one of the old pagan gods, a sort of fairy
or wood sprite, you know, Addie, and the pictures and figures of him
always show him playing on these reed pipes!”

I said “ Yes,” but I didn’t really understand her description. It left
a queer jumble in my head, and added to the strange, dreamy medley
already there. But, though it was not till years afterwards that I learnt
about “ Pan,” before Meta left us I was able to see for myself a set of

his “ pipes.”





14 DE VAN WIRE THe. PAN PLES)

N.S

CAP PE Rea:

T was just before my merry cousin left
us, to return to her own home across
the sea.

One day several of us were out
walking together, Meta was in front
with mamma and one of my elder
‘brothers, I was behind with Tony
and Michael, the two nearer my own
age. Suddenly Meta glanced round.

“Look, Addie,” she called back,
“there's a set of Pan-pipes; you

wanted to know what they were



like.

did you ever see such a miserable object ?

They're a very doleful set, certainly ;

He must be silly in his head, poor thing,
don’t you think, aunty? May I give him a
penny—or Jack will.”

For even Meta did not seem inclined to go too near to the poor

man, whom she was indeed right in calling ‘a miserable object.”



AND OTHER STORIES. 15



Jack ran forward with the penny, and we all stopped for a moment,
so I had a full view of the Pan-pipes. They were fastened somehow on
to the man’s chest, so that their top just came near his lips, and as he
moved his head slowly erdererele and forwards along them, they gave
out the most strange kind of music, if music it could be called, which you
ever heard. It was a sort of faint squeak with just now and then a Acnd
of tone in it, like very doleful muffled whistling. Perhaps the sight of the
piper himself added to the very “creepy” feeling it gave one. He was
not only a piper, he was, or rather had been, an organ-grinder too, for he
carried in front of him, fastened by straps round his neck in the usual
way, the remains of a barrel organ. It had long ago been smashed to
pieces, and really was now nothing but an old broken-in wooden box,
with some fragments of metal clinging to it, and the tatters of a ragged
cover. But the handle was still there; perhaps it had been stuck in again
on purpose ; and all the time, as an accompaniment to the forlorn quaver
of the reed pipes, you heard the hollow rattle of the loose boards of what
had been the barrel-organ. He kept moving the handle round and
round, without ever stopping, except for a moment, when Jack half.
threw, half reached him the penny, which brought a sort of grin on to his
face, as he clutched at the dirty ald tuft of shag on the top of his head,
which he doubtless considered his cap. :

“Poor creature,” said mamma, as we turned away. ‘I suppose he
thinks he’s playing lovely music.”

“T’ve seen him before,” said Jack. ‘“ Not long after we came here.’



16 '_ THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



(Perhaps I should explain that my father was an officer, and we had to:go
about wherever his regiment was sent.) ‘“ But I’ve not seen him lately.
There’s some story about him, but I know some of the boys at school
declare he’s not mad a bit, that he finds it pays well to sham he is.”

‘Any way he doesn’t need to be afraid of his organ wearing out,”

said Tony, gravely, at which the others couldn't help laughing.


























“T shouldn’t think it
likely he is only pretend-
ing,’ said mamma. ‘He
looks almost foo miser-
able.”

‘‘And sometimes there’s quite a crowd of children after him,” Jack
went on; “they seem to think him quite as good to run after as a proper
barrel-organ man.”

‘“T hope they don’t hoot and jeer at him,” said mamma.



AND OTHER STORIES. 17



“ His Pan-pipes are nearly as bad as his organ,” ead Meta, Stall;
Addie, you know now what they’re like, though you can’t fancy how
pretty they sound sometimes.”

It did not need her words to remind me of the story. My head was
full of it, and I think what Jack said about the crowds of children that
sometimes ran after the strange musician, added very much to the feelings
and fancies already in my mind. And unfortunately Meta left us the very
next morning, so there was no one for me to talk to about it, for my
brothers were all day at school and did not know anything about our
story-tellings. I do remember saying to Meta that evening, that I hoped
we should never meet that ugly man again, and Meta could not think
what I meant, till I said something about Pan-pipes. Then she seemed
to remember.

“Oh, he didn’t play them at all nicely,” she said. “One of the boys
at home had a set, and he really made them sound lovely. When you
come to Germany, Addie,” for that was a favourite castle in the air of
ours—a castle that never was built—that I should one day pay a long visit
to my cousins in their quaint old house, “ Fritz will play to you, and you
will then understand the story better.”

I daresay I should have told her the reason why I so hoped I
should never meet the poor man again, if I had had time. But even to
her I was rather shy of talking about my own feelings, and it was also
not easy to explain them, when they were so mixed up and confused.

\t was only a few days after Meta left, that we met the man with the
c



18 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



Pan-pipes again. This time I ne out walking with our fives and the
baby, as we still called him, though he was three years old. I don’t think
nurse noticed the man, or perhaps she had seen him before, but I heard
the queer squeal of his pipes and the rattle of his broken box some way
off, and when I saw him coming in the distance I asked her if we might

turn down a side street and go round another way.



She said she did not mind, but though she was kind, she was not
very noticing, and did not ask my reason, so for that day it was got over
without my needing to explain. But for some time after that, we
seemed to be always meeting the poor “silly” organ-man, and every time

I saw him, I grew more and more frightened, till at last the fear of seeing



AND OLHER STORIES: 19





him came quite to spoil the pleasure of my walks, even when I was out
with mamma herself. Now I dare say all sensible children who read this
will say, ‘‘ Why didn’t Addie tell her nurse, or, any way, her mother, all
about it?” and if they do say so, they are quite right. Indeed, it is
partly to show this very thing—how much better it is to tell some kind

wiser person all about any childish fear or fancy, than to go on bearing it







out of dread of being laughed at or called babyish—that I am relating this

simple little story. I really cannot quite explain why I did not tell about
it to mamma—lI think it was partly that being the only girl, I had a
particularly great fear of being thought cowardly—for she was always
very kind; and I think, too, it was partly that from having read so mane

story-books ¢o myself, | had got into the habit of being too much inside



eieaney Eta?

one THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



my own thoughts and fancies. | think story-books would often do much
more good, and give really much more lasting pleasure if children were
more in the habit of reading aloud to each other. And if this calls for
some unselfishness, why, what then ? is it not all the better?

But to return to my own story. There came a day when my dread:
of the man with the pipes got quite beyond my control—happily so for

me.







AND OTHER STORIES. 21



CEPA Re Tile

H"” HERTO, every time I had seen the man, it had been either

in some large public street where a crowd would not have
been allowed to collect, or in one of the quieter roads of private houses,
where we generally walked, and where poor children seldom were to be
seen.

But one day mamma sent Baby and me with nurse to carry
some little comfort to one of the soldier's wives, who was so ill that
she had been moved to the house of relations of hers in the town.
They were very respectable people, but they lived in quite a tiny
house in a poor street. Baby and I had never been there before, |
and we were much interested in watching several small people, about
our own size, playing about. They were clean, tidy-looking children,
so nurse, after throwing a glance at them, told us we might watch
them from the door of the house while she went in to see the sick
woman.

We had not stood there more than a minute or two when a strange,
well-known sourid caught my ears, squeak, squeal, rattle, rattle, rattle.
Oh, dear! I felt myself beginning to tremble; I am sure I grew pale.

The children we were watching started up, and ran some paces down the



22 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



street to a corner, when in another moment appeared what I already
knew was coming—the man with the Pan-pipes! But never had the

sight of him so terrified me. For he was surrounded by a crowd of

He was Surrounded by a
crowd of children,



children, a regular troop of them following him through the poor part
of the town where we were. If I had kept my wits, and looked on
quietly, I would have soon seen that the children were not the least

afraid, they were chattering and laughing; some, I fear, mocking and



AND OTHER STORIES. 23



hooting at the poor imbecile. But just at that moment the last touch
was added to my terror by my little brother pulling his hand out of
mine.

“Baby wants to see too,’ he said, and off he trotted down the
street. 7

My senses seemed quite to go.

“He's piping them: away,” I screamed, and then I am ashamed to
say I turned and fled, leaving Baby to his fate. Why I did not run into
the house and call nufse, I do not know ; if I thought about it at all, |
suppose I had a hazy feeling that it would be no good, that even nurse
could not save us. And I saw that the crowd was coming my way, in
another minute the squeaking piping would be close beside me in the
street. I thought of nothing except flight, and terrified that I too
should be bewitched by the sound, I thrust my fingers into my is
and dashed down the street in the opposite direction from the approach-
ing crowd. That was my only thought. I ran and ran. I wonder
the people I passed did not try to stop me, for I am sure I must
have looked quite as crazy as my imaginary wizard! But at last
my breath got so short that I had to pull up, and to my great relief |
found .I was quite out of hearing of the faint whistle of the terrible
pipes. |

Still I was not completely reassured. I had not come very tar atter
alli. Soil set ott again, though not quite at such a rate. [ hurried

down one street and up another, with the one idea of getting further



24, THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES |



and further away. But by degrees my wits began to recover them-
selves.

“T wish I could find our home,” I thought. ‘JI can’t go on running
for always. Perhaps if I told mamma all about it, she'd find some way of

keeping me and Baby safe.”








Ene 7 Sc
Val as fe,
ss Sa ee

a





lc reamed.

But with the thought of Baby came back my terrors. Was it too
late to save him? Certainly there were no rocks or caves to be seen
such as Meta had described in her story. But she had said outside
the town—perhaps the piper was leading all the children, poor darling
Baby among them, away into the country, to shut them up for ever
as had been done in Hamelin town. And with the dreadful thought,

all my terrors revived, and off I set again, but this time with the
é



AND OTHER STORIES. 25



more worthy intention of saving Baby. I must go home and tell
mamma so that she would send after him. I fancied I was in a street
not far from where we lived, and I hurried on. But, alas! when I
got to the end it was all quite strange. I found myself among small
houses again, and nearly dead with fatigue and exhaustion, I stopped
in front of one where an old woman was sweeping the steps of. her
door. j

“Oh, please,” I gasped, “please tell me where Clarence Terrace

i

The old woman stopped sweeping, and looked at me. She was a
very clean old woman, though so small that she was almost a dwarf, and
with a slight hump on her shoulders. At another time I might have
been so silly as to be frightened of her, so full was my head of fanciful
eo But now I was too completely in despair to think of it. Besides
her face was kind and her voice pleasant.

“Clarence Terrace,” she squeaked. ‘“’Tis a good bit from here.
Have you lost your way, Missy ?”

““T don’t know,” I said, ‘‘ I——” but then a giddy feeling came over
me, and I almost fell. ‘The old woman caught me, and the next thing |
knew was that she had carried me into her neat little kitchen, and was.
holding a glass of water to my lips, while she spoke very kindly. Her
voice somehow brought things to a point, and I burst into tears. She
soothed me, and petted me, and at last in answer to her repeated,

““What’s ado, then, lovey ?” I was able to explain to her some part of



20 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES |



my troubles. Not all of course, for even upset as I was, I had sense to
know she would have thought me not “right in my head,” if I had told
her my cousin’s strange fantastic story of the piper in the old German

town.




J thrust my -
fingers into
my ears a
dashed
down tke
sYreetâ„¢

ot




ug

“Frightened of old Davey,” she said, when I stopped. “ Dear
dear, there’s no call to be afeared of the poor old silly. Not but what
I've said myself he was scarce fit to be about the streets for the look of
him, though he’d not hurt a fly, wouldn’t silly Davey.”

“Then do you know him?” I asked, with a feeling of great relief.



TAND ORL E RE SRO RIGS: 27



All the queer nightmare fears seemed to melt away, when I heard the
poor crazy piper spoken of in a matter-of-fact way.
“Know him,” repeated my new friend, ‘“‘I should think we did.

Bless you he comes every Saturday to us for his dinner, as reg’lar as





the clock strikes, and has done for many a day. ,Twelve year, or
so, it must be, since he was runned over by a bus, and his poor head
smashed in, and his organ busted, and his pipes broke to bits. He
was took to the ‘orspital and patched up, but bein’ a furriner was
against him, no doubt,” and the old woman shook her head sagely.

“He couldn't talk proper before, and since, he can say nothink as



28 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



any one can make head or tail of. But as long as he’s free to
go about with his rattlin’ old box as was onst a’ orgin, he’s quite
happy. They give ’im new pipes at the ‘orspital, but he can’t play
them right. And a bit ago some well-intending ladies had 'im took
off to a ’sylum, sayin’ as he wasn’t fit to be about. But he nearly
died of the bein’ shut up, he did. So now he’s about again, he
has a little room in a street near here, that is paid for, and he gets
a many pennies, does Davey, and the neighbours sees to him, and
he’s quite content, and he does no harm, and all the town knows ‘silly
Davey.”

“But don't naughty children mock at him and tease him some-
‘times ?” I asked.

“Not so often as you'd think, and they're pretty sure to be put -
down if they do. All the perlice knows Davey.’ So now, my dear,
you'll never be afeared of the poor thing no more, will you? And I'll
step round with you to your ‘ome, I will, and welcome.”

So she did, and on the way, to my unspeakable delight, we came
across nurse and Baby, nearly out of their wits with terror at having lost
me. For Baby had only followed the piper a very short way, and did
not find him interesting.

‘Him were a old silly, and couldn’t make nice music,” said sensible
Baby.

And though we often met poor crazy Davey after that, and many of

my weekly pennies found their way to him as long as we stayed in the



AND OTHER STORIES.

ww
\O

place, I never again felt any terror of the harmless creature. Especially
after I had told the whole story to mamma, who was wise enough to see
that too many fairy stories, or “fancy” stories are zo¢ a good thing for
little girls, though of course she was too kind and too just to blame Meta,

who had only wished to entertain and amuse me:







30 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES |




AM going to tell you a story
‘that mother told us. We think
mother’s stories far the most interest-
ing and nicest of any we hear or read.
And we are trying to write them all
down, so that our children, if ever
any of us have any, may know them
= too. We mean to call them ‘“ Grand-
mother’s Stories.” One reason why they are nice is, that nearly all
of them are real, what iS called “founded on fact.” By the time our
children come to hear them, mother says her stories will all have grown
’ dreadfully old-fashioned, Bue we tell her that will make them all the nicer.

They will have a scent of long-ago-ness about them, something like the



AND OTHER STORIES. 31



faint lavendery whiff that comes out of mother’s old doll-box, where she
keeps a few of the toys and dolls’ clothes she has never had the heart to
part with.

The little story, or ‘“sketch”—mother says it isn’t worth calling a
“story ”"—I am going to write down now, is already a long-ago one.
For it isn’t really one of mother’s own stories; it was told her by her
mother, so if ever our book comes to exist, this one will have to have
a chapter to itself and be called “ Gveat-grandmother’s Story,” won’t
it? I remember quite well what made mother tell it us. It was when
we were staying in the country one year, and Francje had been
frightened, coming through the village, by meeting a poor idiot boy
who ran after us and laughed at us in a queer silly way. I believe
he meant to please us, but Francie’s fright made her angry, and she
wanted nurse to speak to him sharply and tell him to get away, but
nurse wouldn't.

“ One should always be gentle to those so afflicted,” she said.

When we got home we told mother about it, and Francie asked her
to speak to nurse, adding, “It’s very disagreeable to see people like that
about. J think they should always be shut up, don’t you, mother ?”

“Not always,” mother replied. ‘Of course, when they are at
all dangerous, likely to hurt themselves or any one else, it is neces-
sary to shut them up. And if they can be taught anything, as some
can be, it is the truest kindness to send them to an asylum, where it

is wonderful what patience and skill can sometimes make of them.



32 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“But I know about that boy in the village. He is perfectly harmless,
even gentle and affectionate. He has been at a school for such as
he, and has learnt to knit—that is the only thing they could succeed

in teaching him. It was no use leaving him there longer, and he






(2 % s
Up

DA



is
Ge ee {ls
Any
t

lin





" Of course we all said “yes”

‘pined for home most sadly. So as his relations are pretty well
off, it was thought best to send him back, and he is now quite
content. I. wish I had told you about him. When you meet him
again you must be sure to speak kindly—they say he never forgets if

”)
any one does so.



AND OTHER STORIES. 33



“Poor boy,” said Ted and I; but Francie did not look quité
convinced. t

“| think he should be shut up,” she repeated, in rather a low voice.
Francie used to be a very obstinate little girl. ‘“ And / shan’t speak to
him kindly or any way.”

Mother did not answer, though she heard. I know she did. But in’
a minute or two she said :

“Would you like to hear a story about an idiot, that your grand-
mother told me? It happened when she was a little girl.”

Of course we all said “ yes,” with eagerness.

And this was the story.

“« Pig-Betty’ isn’t a very pretty name for a story, or for a person,
is it? But Pig-Betty was a real person, though I daresay none of you
have the least idea what the word pig ’ added to her own name meant,”
said mother. No, none of us had. We thought, perhaps, it was
because this “Betty” was very lazy, or greedy or even dirty, but
mother shook her head at all those guesses. And then she went -
on to explain. ‘Pig,’ in some parts of Scotland, she told us, means
a piece of coarse crockery. It is used mostly for jugs, though in a’
general way it means any sort of crockery. ‘And long ago,” mother
went on—I think I'll give up putting ‘mother said,’ or ‘mother went on,”.
and just tell it straight off, as she did.

“Long ago then, when my mother was a little girl, she and

her brothers and sisters used to spend some months of every year in
D



34 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



a rather out-of-the-way part of Scotland. There was no railway and
no “coach,” that came within at all easy reach. The nearest town

was ten or twelve miles away, and even the village was two or three.

Jills See
ae







«
Shey were alusay®

avre oF a aselcome y

And a good many things, ordinary, common things, were supplied by
pedlars, who walked long distances, often carrying their wares upon
their backs. These pedlars came to be generally called by what

they had to sell, as a sort of nickname. You may think it was a |



AND OTHER STORIES. 35



very hard life, but there were a good many nice things about it.
They were always sure of a welcome, for it was a pleasant excite-
ment in the quiet life of the cottages and farm-houses, and even of
the big houses about, when one of these travelling merchants appeared ;
and they never needed to feel any anxiety about their board and
lodging. They could always count upon a meal or two and on a
night’s shelter. Very often they slept in the barn of the farm-house
—or even sometimes in a clean corner of the cows’ “byre.” They
were not very particular.

Among these good people there were both men and women, and
poor Pig-Betty was one of the latter.

My mother and the other children used always to ask as one of their
first questions when they arrived at Greystanes—that was the name of
their uncle’s country house—on their yearly visit, if Pig-Betty had been
there lately, or if she was expected to come soon. One or other was
pretty sure to be the case.

They had several reasons for their interest in the old woman.
One was that they. were very fond of blowing soap-bubbles, which
they seldom got leave to do in town, and they always bought a new
supply of white clay pipes the first time Pig-Betty appeared ; another
was that she had what children thought very wonderful treasures hidden
among the coarse pots and dishes and jugs that she carried in a
shapeless bundle on her bent old back. And sometimes, if she were

in a very good humour, she would present one of the little people



36 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

with a green parrot rejoicing in a whistle in its

tail, or with a goggle-eyed dog, reminding one

of the creatures in Hans Andersen’s tale of

“The Three Soldiers.” And the third reason

was perhaps the strongest, though the strangest

of all.





AND OTHER STORIES. 37



PAR Meet .

q THIRD reason why the
children were so inter-
ested in the old pedlar
woman was, | said, the
strongest, though the
strangest of all. She
was an idiot! They
were almost tooyoung
to understand what
being an idiot really meant, but they could see for themselves that she
was quite unlike other people, and her strangeness gave her a queer
charm and attraction for them—almost what is called “ fascination.”
When she was at Greystanes, where she always stayed two or three
days, they were never at a loss for amusement, for they did little else
than run here and there to peep at her and tell over to each other the
odd way she trotted about, nodding and shaking her head and talking on
to herself as if she were holding long conversations. It did not do to let

her see they were watching her, for it would have made her angry-



38 CELE WEAN NVI TEFL WALES PANE Pek Si



Indeed, several times the children had been warned not to do so, and
their nurse had been told to keep them out of the old woman’s way ;
but, as everybody knows, children are contradictory creatures, and in

the country, nurse could not keep as close a look out on them as in



2
Gell Betty , my woman, ard hou
are ye??

town. Then it was well known that Pig-Betty was very gentle, even
when she. was angry—and she did have fits of temper sometimes—
she had never been known to hurt anyone.

And, of course, ‘she was not quite without sense. She was able to
manage her little trade well enough and to see that she was paid correctly

for the “pigs ” she sold. She was able, too, to tell the difference



AND OTHER STORIES. 30



between Sunday and other days, for on Sunday she would never
“travel,” and would often, if she were near a village, creep into the
“kirk” and sit in a corner quite quietly. Perhaps “idiot” is hardly the
right word to use about her, for there were a few old folk who said they
had been told that she had not always been quite so strange and
“wanting,” but that a great trouble or sorrow that had happened in her
family had made her so. The truth was that no one knew her real story.
She had wandered into our part of the country from a long way off,
thirty or forty years ago, and as people had been kind to her, there she
had stayed. ‘No one knew how’old she was. Uncle James, himself an
elderly man, said she had not changed the least all the years he had
known her.

Uncle James was one of the people she had a great affection for.
She would stand still whenever he passed her with a kindly, “ Well,
Betty, my woman, and how are ye?” bobbing a kind of queer curtsey
till he was out of sight, and murmuring blessings on the “laird.” He
never forgot her when she was at Greystanes, always giving orders that
the poor body should be made comfortable and have all she wanted.

One of his little kindnesses to her was the cause of a good deal
of excitement to the children when they were with Uncle James.
At that time gentlepeople dined much earlier than they do now,
especially in the country. At Greystanes four o'clock was the regular
dinner hour. The children used always to be nicely dressed and sent

down “to dessert.” And when Pig-Betty was there, Uncle James



40 THE MAN WITH THE. PAN-PIPES.



never failed to pour out a glass of wine and say, “ Now, who will
take this to the old woman?”
Pig-Betty knew it was coming, for she always managed to be

in the kitchen at that time, and however busy the servants. were,































Ene procession of fue _

they never thought of turning her out. There was a good deal of
superstitious awe felt about her, in spite of her gentleness ; and the
children would: look at each other, half-wishing, half-fearing to be the
cup-bearer.

“] will,” Johnny would say ; and as soon as he spoke all the others

followed.



AND OTHER STORIES. 4I



‘No, let me,” Hughie would cry, and then Maisie and Lily joined

in with their “I will,’ or “ Do let me, Uncle James.”

“First come, first served,” Uncle would reply, as he handed the





















































well-filled glass to Johnny
or Maisie,.or whichever had
been the first... Then the
procession of five would set
off, walking slowly, so as not to spill the wine, down the long stone
passages leading to the kitchen and offices of the old house. And
what usually happened was this. |

As they got to the kitchen door, Johnny—supposing it was he who

was carrying the wine—would go more and more slowly.



42 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



‘J don’t mind, after all, letting yow give it, Maisie,” or ‘‘ Hughie,” he
would say. :

“No, thank you, Johnny,” they would meekly reply. And Lily,
who was the most outspoken, would confess,

“T always ¢hink Vd like to give it her, but I do get so frightened
when I see her close to me, that I really daren’t,” which was in truth the
feeling of all four !

So it was pretty sure to end by number five coming to the front.
Number five was little Annette, the youngest. She was a sweet,
curly-haired maiden, too sunny and merry herself to know what fear
meant.

“L'll dive it poor old Pig-Betty,” she always cried, and so she did.
Inside the kitchen the glass was handed to her, and she trotted up to the
old woman in her corner with it, undismayed by the near sight of the
queer wizened old face, like a red and yellow withered apple, and the
bright piercing eyes, to be seen at the end, as it were, of a sort of over-
hanging archway of shawls and handkerchiefs and queer frilled headpiece
under all, which Betty managed in some mysterious way to half bury
herself in. :

She always murmured blessings on the child as she drank the wine,
and no doubt this little ceremony was the beginning of her devotion to
the baby of the family.

This devotion was made still greater by what happened one day.

There were unkind and thoughtless people at Greystanes as well as



AND OTHER STORIES. 43



everywhere else. And one summer there came some “new folk” to live
in one of the cottages inhabited by Uncle James's farm-labourers. This
did not often happen, as he seldom changed his people. These strangers
were from some distance, and had never happened to come across the
poor half-witted old woman, and there were two or three rough boys in
the family who were spoilt and wild, and who thought themselves far
‘above the country people, as they had lived for some time in a small
town. And so one day”—Oh, dear! I am getting this chapter of

mother’s story too long. I must begin a new one.





Wa THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

PAR ie

ee ELL, one day, as | was saying, the children, who had not seen

old Betty for several weeks, were on their way to the village—
two miles off-—when near the corner of a lane, they heard a great noise.
Loud voices and jeering laughter, and a kind of strange shrill shrieking,
which made them stare at each other in wonder and almost fear. Nurse
was not with them, they were to meet her further down the road, as she
had gone on first with a message to a woman who was ill.

“What can it be ?” said Maisie.

They hurried on to see, and the mystery was soon explained.
‘There in the midst of a little group of boys, and two or three girls also, |
am afraid, stood the poor old idiot. She was convulsed with rage,
screaming, shrieking, almost foaming with fury, while first one then
another darted forward and gave a pull to her skirts or jacket from
behind, and as quickly as she turned, a fresh tormentor would catch at her
from the other side, all shouting together at the top of their voices,
“ Wha is’t this time, my Leddy Betty? Thaur, ye have him noo.”

_They were not hurting her, but it was the insult she felt so keenly,
for she was used to respectful treatment. The Simpson boys, the new

comers, were in the front of the fray, of course.



AND OTHER. STORIES. 45



For.a moment the five Greystanes children stood speechless with
horror. Then Johnny darted to the idiot’s side, he did it with the best
intentions, but Betty, confused and blinded, did not distinguish him from
the others and dealt him a blow which sent him staggering back, as she

howled out to him, “‘ Ye ill-faured loon, tak’ that.”















“Run, Johnny, run,” shrieked Maisie, which Hughie and Lill, who

were twins and always kept together, had already done, not ‘out of
cowardice but in search of help. But little Annette rushed forward. :
‘Bad boys that you are,” she shouted with her ‘little shrill baby

voice that seemed to have suddenly grown commanding, “off with you.



46 i THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



You shall not torment my guid auld Betty.” For though the children’s
mother was most careful that their speech should be “ English,” strong

excitement would bring out their native tongue. And as the child

uttered the last words she flung her arms round the poor woman, who,.





Dy bonny wee ledd
murmured ”

weak and feeble as soon as her fury began to
lessen, tottered to the ground, where they clung
together—the sorrow-crushed aged creature and
the cherub-faced child—sobbing in each other’s

arms. For Pig-Betty had known her little friend in an instant.

“My bonny wee leddy,” she murmured, ‘auld Betty's ain wee

leddy,” and with her trembling fingers she untied the knotted corners of

her bundle of “pigs,” and searching for the best of her treasures, the

best and biggest of her “whustling polls,” she stuffed it into Annette’s

hands.



AND OTHER STORIES. 47



Strange to say the ruffianly group had already dispersed and were
not again seen!

It was soon after that that the children went back again for the
winter to their London home. Next year saw them once more in the
north, and as nurse unpacked. their trunks she came upon the green
parrot, which Annette would never part from.

“I wonder if Pig-Betty’s still alive,” she said.

Oh yes—so far as was known at Greystanes, she was rambling
about as usual, but she had not been there for some weeks. F ortunately
for the children, however, it was near the time for her visit, as you shall
hear. 2
as days after their arrival they were all out together, when they
happened to pass by a cottage, whose owner was famed for a very choice
breed of dogs he kept.

“Let's peep over the wall into Sandy’s yard, and see if he has any
new puppies,” said Johnny, and they all did so. No, there were no
puppies to be seen, only an older dog which the boys remembered by the
name of “ Jock,” and they called out to him.

But Jock took no heed. He was moving about the little enclosure
in a queer, restless way, his head hanging down, his tail between his legs.

Soon jock, said Hughie, ‘“ how dull he looks! What a shame of
Sandy to have gone out and left him alone!” For evidently there was
no one at home in the cottage. Truth to tell, Sandy was off for the dog-

doctor.



48 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“Let's let him out,” said Johnny, “and cheer him up a bit. He'll
know us once he’s out.”

They did not hear a quick but shuffling step up the lane, nor a
panting, quavering voice, ‘ Bairns, bairns, dinna ye——”

It was Pig-Betty, just arrived that morning, and left by Sandy in
charge of his cottage and the suspiciously suffering Jock—a charge she

was quite able for.




and they alldid 50.

-. “Let no one gang near him,” Sandy had said ;
‘and, my woman, just ye sit at the gate there till
I’m back.. I'll no be lang.”
But, alas, the children had come round. by the fields behind the
cottage.
It was too late—the yard gate was opened, and Jock, after sniffing
and turning about came slowly out.

“ Poor old Jockie,” said Annette, always fearless, stooping to stroke

him.



AND OTHER STORIES. 49



He turned upon her with a dreadful growl, he was not yet quite
mad, but the poison was in him. And in another instant the deadly
fangs would have been in the baby’s tender flesh, but for the well-
aimed blow which flung the dog back, though only for a moment.
It was Betty, dashing at him with her bundle of “pigs,” the only

weapon at hand—the poor pigs smashing and crashing; but they only



diverted Jock’s attack. When Sandy and the dog-doctor came rushing
up, she was on the ground, and Jock had already bitten her in two
or three places. But all she said was, “My. wee leddy, haud him
aff my wee leddy.” |
And they were able to secure him, so that no one else was bitten.
No, Betty did not die of hydrophobia. She lived for a few months,

not longer, her old nerves and feeble frame had got their death blow.
E



50 (aR AGAIN Mal SIGS. JAIN TIVES.



But she was tenderly cared for in a peaceful corner of the hospital at the
neighbouring one Uncle James and the children’s parents took care
that she should want for nothing, and as her bodily strength failed her
“mind seemed to clear. When little Annette was taken to.say good-bye
to the brave old woman, poor Pig-Betty was able to whisper a word or
two of loving hope that she and her “wee leddy” might meet again—in

the Better Land.”





AND OTHER STORIES. 51



THE DORMOUSE’S MISTAKE.

HEY lived at the corner of the common. Papa, Mamma, Fuzz

and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, their four children. It was a

lovely place to live at, but as they had never seen any other part of the
world, I am not sure that they thought it quite so delightful as they might
otherwise have done. The children, that is to say—Papa and Mamma
of course were wiser. They had Zeard of very different sorts of places
where some poor dormice had to live ; small cooped-up nests called cages,
out of which they were never allowed to run about, or to enjoy the
delightful summer sunshine, and go foraging for hazel nuts and haws, and
other delicacies, for themselves. For an ancestor of theirs had once ~
been taken prisoner and shut up in a cage, whence, wonderful to say, he
had escaped and got back to the woods again, where he became a great
personage among dormice, and was even occasionally requested to give
lectures in public to the squirrels and water-rats, and moles and rabbits,
and other forest-folk, describing the strange and marvellous things he
had seen and heard during his captivity. He had learnt to understand
human talk for one thing, and had taught it to his children ; and his
great-grandson, the Papa of Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, had

begun to give them lessons in this foreign language in their turn, for, as



52 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



he wisely remarked, there was no saying if it might not turn out useful
some day.

The cold weather set in very early this year. Already, for some
days, Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy had begun to feel a curious
heaviness stealing over them now and then; they did not seem inclined
to turn out in the morning, and were very glad when one evening their
mother told them that the store cupboards being now quite full, they
need none of them get up the next day at all unless they were
inclined.

“For my part,” she added, “I cannot keep awake any longer, nor
can your Papa. We are going to roll ourselves up to-night. You young
folk may keep awake a week or two longer perhaps, but if this frost
continues, I doubt it. So good-night, my dears, for a month or two; the
first mild day we shall all rouse up, never fear, and have a good meal
‘before we snooze off again.”

And sure enough next morning, when the young people turned out
a good deal later than usual, Papa and Mamma were as fast asleep as the
seven sleepers in the old story, which had given their name to the:
German branch of the dormouse family! Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip
and Peepy felt rather strange and lonely; two round furry balls seemed a
very queer sort of exchange for their active, bright-eyed father and
mother. But as there was plenty to eat they consoled themselves after a
bit, and got through the next two or three weeks pretty comfortably,

every day feeling more and more drowsy, till at last came a morning on



AND OER SHORES. 53





which six neat little brown. balls instead of two lay in a row—the
dormouse family had begun their winter repose. And all was quiet and

silent in the cosy nest among the twigs of the low-growing bushes at the

corner of the common.



It seemed as if winter had really come. For three or four weeks
there was but little sunshine even in the middle of the day, and in the
mornings and evenings the air was piercingly cold.

“T suppose all the poor little wood-creatures have begun their winter



54 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



sleep,” said Cicely Gray one afternoon as she was hastening home from
the village by a short cut through the trees. “I must say I rather envy
them.”

“7 don't,” said her brother, “I shouldn't like to lose half my life.
Hush, Cicely, there’s a rabbit. What a jolly little fellow! How he
scuds along! There's another, two, three! Oh, Cis, I do hope I shall
* get some shooting when I come home at Christmas.” :

Cicely sighed. ;“ I hate shooting,” she said. ‘I’m sure it would be
better to sleep half one's life than to Sey awake to be shot.”

But it was too cold to linger talking. The brother and sister set off
running, so that their cheeks were glowing and their eyes sparkling by
the time they got to the Hall gates.

Three days later Harry had gone off to school. Cicely missed him
very much; especially as a most pleasant and unexpected change had
come over the weather. A real “St. Martins summer” had set in.
What delightful walks and rambles Harry and she could have had,
thought Cicely, if only it had come a little sooner !

The mild air found its way into the nest where the six little brown
balls lay side by side, till at first one, then another, then all six slowly
unrolled themselves, stretched their little paws, unclosed their eyes, and
began to look about them.

“Time for our first winter dinner,” said Mrs. Dormouse sleepily ;
it’s all ready over there in the corner under the oak leaves. Help

yourselves my dears, eat as much as you can; you'll sleep all the better



AND OTHER STORIES, 55



for it. And don’t be long about it ; it’s as much as I can do to keep my
eyes open.”

Mr. Dormouse and the others followed her advice. For a few
minutes nothing was heard but the little nibbling and cracking sounds
which told that a raid had been made on the winter stores.

“ Good-night again, my dears,” said Papa, who was still sleepier

than Mamma.





Se



SNe a Nn
aR % HushCicely
eo theres 2 Rabat
= 4
%

‘Good-night” was repeated in various tones, but one little voice
interrupted—it was that of Fuzz.

“Tm not sleepy, Papa and Mamma; I’m not a bit sleepy. I’m sure
it’s time to wake up, and that the summer's come back again. Brown-
ears, Snip and Peepy, won’t you come out with me? Papa and Mamma
can sleep a little longer if they like.”

“ Nonsense,” Mrs. Dormouse said sleepily.

And “ Nonsense, brother,” repeated the others, “don’t disturb us.”



56 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



‘But Fuzz was obstinate and sure he knew best.
He trotted off, looking back contemptuously at the five balls already

rolled up again.
“ Dear, dear! how silly they are to be sure,” he said, when he found
himself out on the grass. Why, it’s certainly summer again! The
sunshine’s so bright and warm, the birds are chirping so merrily. I feel

quite brisk. I think I'll take a ramble over the common to the wood



»
0 JUST waAREINGEUP A LITTLE .

where our cousins the squirrels live, and hear what they have to say
about it.”

He cocked his ears and peeped about with his little sparkling eyes.
Suddenly he caught sight of something white at the foot of one of the
old trees. It was Cicely Gray in her summer flannel, which had been
pulled out of the wardrobe again to do honour to St. Martin.

‘Good morning, little dormouse,” she said in her pretty soft voice,
“what are you doing out of your nest in late November ? Do you think

summer's come back again already, my little man? If so, you've made



AND OTHER STORIES. 57



a great mistake. ‘Take warning, and don’t stray far from your home, or
you may find yourself in a sad plight. This lovely weather can’t last
many days.”

Fuzz looked at her.

“Thank you, miss,” he replied, for, you see, he understood human
talk, though it is to be doubted if Cicely understood /zm. “She must

surely know,” he re-







flected wisely, ‘and
perhaps after all
mamma was in the

right.”





58 : THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



So he scampered in to the nest again and rolled himself up beside
the others.

That very evening the wind changed ; the cold set in in earnest, and
for three months it was really severe.

“T saw a little dormouse at the corner of the common yesterday,”
said Cicely the next morning. ‘I advised him to go home again; he
had come out by mistake, thinking winter was over.”

“You funny girl,” said her mother. ‘I hope he understood you

and followed your advice, poor little chap.”





AND OTHER STORIES, 59



Toh CHRISTMAS GUESE.

FROM A TRUE INCIDENT.

HE was a very poor little girl, very poor indeed; often—indeed
almost always—hunery, and thinly-clad, and delicate, but yet not
altogether miserable. No, far from it, for she had a loving mother who
did her poor best for her children. There were three or four of them
and Emmy was the eldest. She was only six, but she was looked upon
as almost grown-up, for father had died last year, and Emmy had to help
mother with “the little ones,” as she always called them.

They lived in a single room in one of the poorest and most crowded
parts of great London; in a street which was filled with houses of one-
room homes like their own. There was much misery and much wicked-
ness, I fear, too, in their neighbourhood ; drinking, and swearing, and
fighting, as well as hunger, and cold, and sickness. But compared with
several years ago, when Emmy’s mother herself had been a girl living in

”

much such a home as she now strove “to keep together” for her
fatherless babies, compared with that time, as she, and others too, used
often to say, ‘it was a deal better.” There was less drinking and bad

language; there was less misery. For friends—friends able and



60 THE MAN WITH’ TEE PAN-PIPES





earnestly anxious to help—had taken up their abode in the very next
street to little Emmy’s; the church had been ‘‘done up beautiful,” and
there there was always a welcome and a rest from the troubles and

worries at home; and the clergyman, as well as the kind ladies who had



C =) ?
. MOTHER WiTy ThE CITTLe ONES Y

come to live among their toiling, struggling brothers and sisters, knew all
about everybody and everything, knew who was ill and who was out of
work, knew who were “trying to be good” even among the children,
knew even the tiniest trots by name, and had always a kind word and

smile, however busy and hurried they were.



AND OTHER STORIES. 61



And, thanks greatly to these kind friends, Emmy’s life was not
without its pleasures. “She loved the infant school on Sundays, she
loved the “treats”; once last summer—and. Emmy was old enough now
to remember last summer well,
though it seemed a very long
time ago—there had been a
treat into the country, a real
day in the country, where, for
the first time in her life, the
child saw grass and trees.

But it was far from
summer time now, it was mid-
winter. Christmas was close
at hand, and winter had brought
more than its usual troubles to
the little family. There were
worse things this year than
cold and scant food, chapped
hands and. chilblained feet.



Tiny, as they called the baby

but one, was very ill with bronchitis, the doctor could not say if she
would get better, and sometimes it seemed to the poor mother as if it was
hardly to be wished that she should.

“ She suffers so, poor dear, and seeing to her hinders me sadly with



62 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

my work. I do feel as if I’d break down at last altogether,” she said one
evening—it was Christmas Eve—to a neighbour who had looked in to
see how things were going on.

“ And Emmy’s looking pale,” said the visitor, “she wants cheering
up a bit too. Let her come to church with me for a change. I’m going
to the evening service now.”

Emmy brightened up at this. She had not been at church last
Sunday, and, like most children, she was especially fond of going in the
evening. It seemed grander and more solemn somehow, when all was
dark outside. And the lights and warmth, and above all the music, were
very pleasant to the little girl So with a parting word of advice to the ©
mother to keep up heart a bit longer—“ things allus starts mending when
they get to the worst’ —the kind neighbour set off, holding Emmybythe hand.

It was beautiful in church, the Christmas “dressing up,” as Emmy
called it, had been completed that lteanoon 3 to the child it seemed a
sort of fairy-land, though of fairy-land she had never heard. But she
had heard of heaven, which was better.

“Tt could scarce be finer there,” she thought to herself dreamily, as
she listened to the words of the service with a feeling that all was sweet
and beautiful, though she could actually understand but little.

The sermon was short and simple. But Emmy was getting sleepy,
and the thought of poor mother, and Tiny with her hacking cough,
mingled with what she heard, till suddenly something caught her ear

which startled her into attention. The-preacher had been speaking of



AND OTHER STORIES.



63

the first Christmas-day, concluding with some words about the morrow,

when again the whole Christian world would join in welcoming their

Lord. For “again He will come to us; again Jesus Himself will be

here in the midst of us, ready as
ever to listen to our prayers, to
comfort and console.”

Emmy was wide awake now.
She scarcely heard the words of
the carol, she was in a fever of
eager hopefulness. :

“ What a good thing I came
to-night,” she said to herself,
‘else | We amiohtnie acven. | have
toned it. I would like to see
im first of eall = Where, be
such a many, and He'll have
such a deal to do. But it
wouldn't take Him that long to
come round with me to see
Winy,-and if Ele does, like in

the story, Hell cure her in ’alf

a minute. I know what I'll do”—and a little scheme formed

i

: Ly

tr was

acne fy
iN CHUR ‘



itself

“in the childish mind—‘ though [ll not tell mother,’ thought Emmy,

“just for fear like, I should: be too late to catch Him.”



64 EEE EAN WH ese ala ANGE LPTs,



“Twas a lovely sermon, and so touchin’ too,” said Emmy’s friend to

another woman as they walked home.







“Tt strengthens one up a bit, it do,” agreed her companion.

“Tl try my best to be round for the seven o'clock service in the

mi ”
morning.



AND OTHER STORIES. 65



‘Seven o'clock in the morning!” said Emmy to herself. ‘I'll best
be here soon after six.”

Christmas morning was very cold. There was some frozen snow
lying hard and still white in the streets, and there was moonlight, pale
and clear. So it was light enough for one of the Sisters, entering the
church betimes, to distinguish a little figure curled up darkly in the porch.
A thrill of fear ran through her fora moment. Supposing it were some
poor child turned out by a drunken father, as sometimes happened, frozen
to death this bitter night ? But no—the small creature started to its feet.

“Ts it He? Has Jesus come?” she exclaimed. “Oh! do let me
speak to Him first.”

“My child!” exclaimed the sister, “what is it? Have you been
dreaming ? Why, it is little Emmy Day. Have you been here all
night ?”

“No, no,” Emmy replied, her teeth chattering with cold, and the
sob of a half-feared disappointment in her voice. “No, no; I slipped
out while mother and all was still asleep. I’m waiting to ask Him to
come to our Tiny ;” and she went on to tell what she had heard last
night, and what she had planned and hoped.

Her friend took her into her own room for a few minutes, and there
gently and tenderly explained to Emmy her sweet mistake. And though
her tears could not all at once be stopped, the little girl trotted back to
her mother with comfort in her heart, and strange and wonderful, yet

beautiful new thoughts in her mind.



660 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“He is always near, I can always pray to Him,” she whispered to
herself.

And her prayers were answered. ‘Tiny recovered, and thanks to the
kind Sisters, that Christmas Day was the beginning of better things for
the little family.





AND OTHER STORIES. 67



OLIVES TER A-PARTY.

AMMA,” said Olive one day, “ I want
to have a tea party.”
«Well, dear,’ mamma answered,
“T dare say it could be managed.
You must talk to Cara and Louie
about it, and settle whom you would
all like to ask.”
“No, no,” said Olive, “I don’t
mean that. I won't have my sisters,

mamma. They like to ask big ones,



and I want a party for my own self,
and no big ones. I want to fix everything myself, and I.won't have Cara
and Louie telling us what to eat at tea, and what games to play at. You
may tell aunty to ’avite them to her house that day, mamma, and let me
have my own party; else I won’t have it at all.”
Olive was eight. She was the youngest of three. It oftens
happens that the “youngest of three” fancies herself ‘put upon,”
especially when the two elders are very near of an age and together in

everything. But this sudden stand for independence was new in Olive.



68 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



Mamma looked at her curiously. Had some foolish person been putting:
nonsense in her little girl’s head ?

‘Cara and Louie are always kind to you about your little pleasures,
Olive,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand why you should all at once want.
to do without them.”

Olive wriggled. ‘“ But I do,” she said. “Lily Farquhar says her
big sisters spoil her parties so, and they call her and her friends ‘the. .
babies,’ and laugh at them.”

“Are you going to invite Lily to your party?” asked mamma.

“Yes, of course. She's my best friend, and she knows lots of
games.”

“Very well. Then fix your day and invite your friends, and I will
take care that your sisters don’t interfere.”

Olive looked very pleased. ‘I think next Wednesday would do,”
she said, “Tt’s our half-holiday, and if Cara will help me on Tuesday
evening I can get my lessons done, so that I needn’t do any on
Wednesday. It’s Zowéd to have to do lessons after a party,’ added
Olive, with a languid air.

But mamma took her up more sharply than she expected. ‘‘ Nay,
nay, Olive,” she said, ‘that won’t do. If your-sisters are to have none
of the pleasure of your party, you can’t expect them to take any trouble.
You must manage your lessons as best you can.”

Olive pouted, but did not dare to say anything. Truth to tell, her-

lessons at no time sat very heavily on her mind,



AND OTHER STORIES. 69



“Tt won't be my fault if I don’t do them on Wednesday,” she said
to herself. ‘It'll be Cara’s, and—and mamma’s—so I don’t care.”

She found the writing the invitations more trouble than she had
expected, and more than once did she wish she could have applied for
help to Louie, whose handwriting was so clear and pretty, and who

possessed such “ducky” little sheets of note-paper of all colours, with a



teapot and “come early” in one corner. Olive’s epistles were rather a
sight to be seen; nearly all of them were blotted, and the spelling of
some of her friends’ names was peculiar, to say the least. Still they did
their purpose, for in the course of the next day or two the little hostess
received answers, all accepting her “kind invitation,” except poor Amabel
Pryce, who had so bad a sore-throat that there was no chance of her
being able to go out by Wednesday. And in one note—from a little girl
called Maggie Vernon—was something which did not suit Olive’s present

frame of mind at all.



70 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“ Harriot and I,” wrote Maggie—Harriot was Maggie’s sister —
“will be so pleased to come. We love a party at your house, because
your big sisters are always so kind.”

Olive showed this to her adviser and confidante, Lily.

“Nonsense,” said Lily, ‘‘she only puts that in because she thinks it
looks polite. She's a goose, and so is Harriot ; they make such a fuss
about each other. They haven’t the least bit of independence. Well,
never mind. If they don't like your party, Olive, they needn’t come
again.”

Olive felt consoled. But still—in her heart of hearts there was
some misgiving. What should she do if they all wanted to play different
games ?—or if Bessy Grey tore her frock or spilt her tea and got one of
her crying fits, as happened sometimes, and there was no one—no Cara
or Louie to pet the nervous little girl into quiet and content again ?
What should she do, if——? But Lily did not leave her time to conjure
up any more misfortunes.

‘What are you in a brown study about, Olive?” she said. “You
are so stupid sometimes.”

To which Olive retorted sharply, and the friends ended their council
of war by a quarrel, which did not raise Olive’s spirits.

The great day came. Not very much had been said about it in the
family circle, naturally, for when one member of the family chooses to
“set up” for himself or herself, and keep all the rest ‘out of it,” there

cannot be as much pleasant talk as when everybody is joined together in



AND OTHER STORIES. 71





the interest and preparation. And Olive could not help a little sigh
when, just before her guests came, she was called down to the dining-
room to see the tea all set out. It did look so nice! Mamma had
ordered just the cakes and buns Olive liked, and there were two or three

pretty plants on the table, and everything was just perfect.



e
The sound of i
subdued cvying mm one cornevss

“T would have liked Cara and Louie to see it,” thought Olive.
“ They needn’t have gone out quite so early.”

But the sound of the front-door bell ringing made her start. She
ran off quickly to be ready in the school-room to receive her little friends.
There were six of them. Lily Farquhar, of course, first and foremost;
then Maggie and Harriot, Bessie Grey looking rather frightened and
very shy, and two little cousins, Mary and Augusta Meadowes, who lived

next door.



72 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



They all knew each other pretty well, so they were not very silent or
stiff. Still as Olive could not speak to everybody at once, and was very
anxious that no one should feel neglected, she was not sorry when the
.tea-bell rang. Lily was to pour out the chocolate, and Olive herself to
make the tea. It passed off pretty well, except for Lily’s spilling a good
deal, and Olive’s forgetting to put more water into the teapot, so that the
tea became dreadfully dark and strong. But the cakes were approved of,
and every one seemed content. Then came the great question of
“ What shall we play at?” Lily, who was clever at games, made herself
a sort of leader, but she was not sensible enough to fill the post well.
She was selfish and impatient, and being only a little girl herself, the
others did not care “to be ordered about by her.” Then Bessie Grey
got knocked down at Blind Man’s Buff, and of course she began to cry,
and to say she wouldn’t play any more if they were so rough. Maggie
Vernon tried to soothe her, but Bessie pushed her away saying she didn’t
“understand,” she wanted her mother, or next best, Cara or Louie, who
were always “so kind.” And the little Meadowes, being themselves but
very small people, looked as if they were going to cry too; declaring
that they would rather not play at all if they needed to run about so very
fast. So Blind Man’s Buff was given up and something quieter tried—
Dumb Crambo, I think. But it was not very successful either, the little
Meadowes needed so much “explaining,” which no one was patient
enough, or perhaps wise enough, to give clearly. And Lily insisted on

being first always, and there was no one in authority to keep her “in her



AND OTHER STORIES. 73

place,” where, when she really felt she mus¢ stay. there, she could be a
pleasant and bright little girl So game after game came to a bad end,
and as the children grew tired and their spirits went down, things grew
worse and worse, till at last—no, 1 can best describe it by telling what
mamma saw—when feeling rather anxious as to the results of Olive’s fit
of independence, she put her head in at the school-room door an hour or
_ two after tea.

There was silence in the room except for the sound of subdued
‘crying in one corner, which came, not from Bessie Grey—that would
not have been surprising—but from the smallest Meadowes child, who
had torn her frock and refused to listen to comfort from either her
sister or Maggie. Harriot stood close by, and ran forward as the
door opened. 7

“Oh, has our nurse come ?” she said eagerly. ‘She’s so kind, I’m
sure she'd mend Gussie’s frock, and then her nee wouldn’t scold.”

“ Our nurse isn’t cross really,” said Mary. “It’s only that Gussie’s —
silly. I think she’s too little to come to a party.”

»

Then catching sight of “mamma” the little girl grew red, and all
the others looked frightened--such of them as saw mamma, that is to
- say. For Bessie Grey, after a long fit of sobbing, had fallen asleep on
the floor, poor child, and—what ao you think Olive and Lily were doing ?
Each with a story-book in her hand, they were comfortably reading at
different corners of the room, heedless of the other children’s dullness

and tiredness.



74, THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“T want to go home,” wailed Gussie. On which Bessie suddenly
awoke, and began to cry again.

‘‘ Please, Gussie zs rather tired,” said the motherly little Mary. “Do

you think we might go home without waiting for nurse, as it’s so near ?”



“And might we be getting our



things on too?” said Maggie and
Harriot.

Poor Mamma! She could scarcely speak, so ashamed did she feel.

“ Olive /” she exclaimed. How Olive and Lily too didjump! “Is_
this the way you take care of your guests ?”

“ They were so stupid,” murmured Olive. “And Lily would be

leader, and she was so cross. I thought it was best to leave off

playing.”



AND OTHER STORIES. 75.



““Come, my poor dear children,’ said mamma, turning to the five
little girls. ‘Don’t cry, Bessie dear, or you either, Gussie. We'll get
your frock mended in a minute, and Cara and Louie will give you a nice
game of musical chairs in the drawing-room to cheer you up before you go
home. There is some fruit waiting for you too.”

She marshalled them all off, smiles and chatter soon replacing the
tears and yawns. Mamma stopped at the doorway.

‘‘Miss Lily Farquhar,” she said, quietly, “you had best remain here
and enjoy your book till you are sent for.”

To Olive she said not one word. But it was a very humble and
penitent little girl who came that evening to tell her mother and sisters
how sorry she was, and ow foolish and selfish and ungrateful she now
saw that she had been.

If Olive ever gives another tea-party I think the fst guests she

invites will be her kind big sisters, Cara and Louie.





76 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



A LIVE DUMMY.

HE Merediths were spending the autumn on the French coast, at a
sea-bathing place called Sablons-sur-mer. It is a nice bright little
place. I am afraid the inhabitants would be offended if they heard it
called “little,” for they think it a very important town? It consists of
‘two long streets—one facing the sea, one inland, where the shops and the
houses of the people who live there all the year round, are. And
between these two streets run smaller ones—so small that they are more
passage-ways than streets. The most imposing one is called an
. “arcade”; in it are the best shops, a bazaar of all sorts of fancy things
to delight children’s eyes, from tin buckets and spades to dig with in the
sands, to rocking-horses, though not of a very expensive kind. At one
‘corner of this arcade is a large, ready-made tailor’s establishment ; this
‘shop, for reasons I will explain to you, divided the children’s attention
‘with the bazaar.
There were ever so many Merediths; three girls and two boys and
‘a couple of cousins. The Sablons people are accustomed to English
visitors, so the sight of this band of children was not startling to them;

and the little messceurs, and the jeunes mees, soon had several friends in



AND OTHER STORIES. IT

the place, whom they never passed without a friendly nod and a don jour
or Jon soir, as the case might be.

The cousins I have mentioned were not with the Merediths on their:
first arrival. There had been some doubt of finding a house large.
enough to take the whole party in, so Bessie and Hugh had waited at.
their own home in the country in England in a state of frantic anxiety,
till one fine day came a letter from their aunt with the delightful news.
that the children might be despatched as soon as they could be got
ready. |

Bessie and Hugh had never paid a visit to France before; so the two. .
new-comers had plenty of ‘‘guides” to explain everything to them, and

)

show them the ‘‘ lions” of Sablons-sur-mer. Only one condition was. .
made by Lilian, the eldest and nearly “grown up” Meredith girl. Bessie. -
and Hugh mzs¢ manage not to seem like English tourists “ gaping about
with guide-books in their hands, and looking as if they had never been
out of an English country village.”

“ But we scarcely ever have been,” said Bessie ; “at least, only when.
we go to grandmamma’s at Cheltenham, and Hugh was once three days.
in London.”

“ That doesn’t matter,” said Miss Meredith; “ you needn't look like
some of the English people one sees over here: I feel quite ashamed
sometimes to own them for my country people.”

Bessie was too much in awe of her big cousin to ask her to explain

more exactly what it was she was not to do, or to “look.” But she.



78 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



resolved to herself to be on her very best behaviour, and Madge and
Letty assured her it would be “all right ’—she needn't talk French when
there was any one who “mattered” to hear, and she needn’t seem as if
things were strange to her, that was what Lilian minded.

“Mayn't I look in at the shop-
windows, even ?” asked Bessie, rather
dolefully. :

Shop-windows were very delight-
ful and charming to the little country
cousin.

“Of course you may. Every
body does,” said Letty; “especially
at the bazaar. It’s not windows; it’s
all open, you know, like stalls at a
market,” explained Madge; “it’s a
regular bazaar. Not look at it!—

why it’s ade to be looked at. And



The Arcaoe.

Wa

oh; Bessie,” Letty went on again,
“you wll be amused at the big tailor’s, or ready-made clothier’s, as
mamma calls it, at the corner of the arcade. It’s something like
Madame Tussaud’s—such a lot of wax dummies at the door. And they
change their clothes every few days. Some of them are quite big, like
men; and some little boys. They’ve got one now which they ¢hzv& is

dressed like an English sailor-suit boy—you never saw such a costume!



AND OTHER STORIES. 70

And there’s a man in a red coat—our boys say he is meant to be an
English ‘ milord’ dressed for ‘the hunt.’”

When Bessie saw the bazaar she was as full of admiration of it as
even Madge and Letty could desire, especially of the big tailor’s.
There was a brilliant show of i
figures, from the little wax boy |
in imaginary English sailor cos-
tume, to a moustached gentleman
elaborately got up in evening suit,
white tie and all.

“Oh, how funny they are!”
Bessie exclaimed. ‘But I don’t
see the one in the red coat.”

“He's not there to-day,”
said Madge. ‘‘ Perhaps we'll
see him again to-morrow, in
something different.”

“Tt must be great fun dress-
ing, and undressing them,” said

Bessie. ‘“ Do they change them



nearly every day?”
‘Oh no, not so often as that. But we watch them always, to see.”
But for the next two or three days there was no change. Bessie

looked in vain for the red-coated one she was so curious to see.



80 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



Now I must tell you that there was sometimes a regiment, or part of
a regiment, at Sablons. They came for rifle-practice on the sands; and
there was always a great excitement when a new detachment came in.
And a few days after Bessie and Hugh made their appearance, the town
was awakened early one morning by the tramp of a number of red-coats,
3 who had marched over from an inland town,
where there were large barracks. Next.
day on their way home, as usual, from their
morning bath, the little girls passed through.
the arcade. Madge and Letty did not give
the dummies more than a passing glance,
till suddenly they noticed that Bessie had
stayed behind.

“There she is,” said Letty ; “ she’s star-
ing at the figures. Why—is that—?” and

she hesitated.



There she was, sure enough—Bessie,
that is to say—standing in front of a tall figure, a red-coated one in
all the glory of a scarlet uniform, and with several medals on the
right breast, which the little girl on her tip-toes was reaching. up to and
examining, one after another, with great interest. Letty and Madge
drew near and looked at her with a curious misgiving. She glanced round.

“Letty, Madge,” she said, ‘““do come here and look at this new

dummy. It’s got a lot of medals, and—-—”



AND OTHER STORIES. 8x

She stopped with a little shriek. The “new dummy” had suddenly
raised its right arm, saluting Bessie with military precision as it stepped
slightly to one side, with the words—

“A votre service, Mademorselle.”

“Oh, oh!” gasped Bessie. “It’s alive—it's—it’s a man, a living
soldier.”

And so the supposed dummy was! A young officer, who, happen-
ing like the children themselves to be standing in front of the tailor’s
staring at the figures, had actually been mistaken by Bessie for one of
the waxen group. He had entered into the joke, and remained perfectly
motionless while the little girl made her investigation, doubtless
explaining all to himself by the fact of her being a yewne mees—one of
that extraordinary English nation of whom it is impossible to say what
they won't do next.

Oh, how ashamed Bessie was! How scarlet grew Letty and |
Madge! But there was nothing to be done. The officer had already
disappeared at the other end of the arcade with a second friendly and
smiling though respectful salute.

One thought struck the three children—Susanne, the maid, was
fortunately a little in advance and had not seen the strange mistake.

“ Don't let’s tell Lilian,” they said. ‘“ She'd never get over it, she
really wouldn't.” ,

But mother—aunty as she was to Bessie—was told, and comforted

the mortified and shamefaced little girl as well as she could.
G



Ba LE MAN WITH RHE. PANSPIPES



“ After all,” she said, “it was nothing naughty; Bessie had not
meant to be rude; and she was quite sure the officer had not thought her
SOs.

Nor had he. But it was a very amusing story to relate; and if
Bessie had been within hearing of him when he told it to his brother-

officers, I think she cow/d not but have joined in their laughter.



Oh, Ok! Tte

Akiveil
tal



AND OTHER STORIES. 83





: ON’T forget to give Theresa the pound from mamma,” said

Mabel, as she kissed her cousin Eleanor one afternoon when
saying good-bye. ‘‘I must be quick; it’s getting quite dark, and I was
to be home early. Come along, Fred.”

“You're sure you've got the pound, are you, Nelly?” asked Fred

mischievously. ‘“ Mamma told Mabel about it ever so many times.

She’s so famous at remembering things herself, I like hearing her tell you
not to forget.”

Eleanor put her hand into her pocket.

“T think I’ve got it,” she said; “I remember it was wrapped in a
piece of blue paper, wasn’t it? You gave it me just before we sat down
to play our duet, and I was to say it was for aunt’s subscription to—to—
oh dear, I’ve forgotten,” and she stood there in the hall, where she had
come down to see the last of her visitors, looking the picture of

perplexity.



84 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“Oh, you silly girl!” said Mabel, impatiently. “It is mamma's
subscription to Theresa’s Christmas dinners’ card. There now, don't you
remember? You are so dreadfully absent, Eleanor!”

“| remember now—oh yes, of course. I won't forget again,” said

the girl; “little” girl one could scarcely call her, for though she was only



_\\
ee

}

d M | nN

|
thirteen she was as tall as her elder sister of eighteen. “Good-night









/

again, Mabel. I must be quick, for I have to write to Charley before
dinner. You know I dine late just now during the holidays,” she added
proudly.

“But the pound—the pound itself—have you got it?” repeated
Fred. :

Again went Eleanor’s hand to her pocket.



AND OTHER STORIES. 85

“Oh dear, I forgot I was feeling for the pound,” she exclaimed.

“Yes, here itis! Ill give it to Theresa quite rightly, you'll see.”

Eleanor hurried away to write her letter to Charley, for to-morrow

would be Indian mail-day, and she had put it off too late the week before.

“Now Imusé give the pound to Theresa
at once,” she said, again depositing it in her
pocket whenshe changed herdress for dinner.
Something or other put it out of her head
in the drawing-room—poor Eleanor’s head
was not a very secure place to keep any-
thing in for long! It was not till she and
her mother and Theresa and her seven-
teen-years’ old brother Mark were at table,
and half way through dinner, that the
unlucky coin again returned into her
memory. No thanks to her memory that
it did so! It, was only when she pulled
out her handkerchief that the little paper

packet came out with it and fell onto the floor.





for a course or Yuu the pouna uras sate

“ Oh,” said Eleanor, as she stooped to pick it up, “ what a good thing

I’ve remembered it! Here, Theresa, here’s a pound for you from aunty,

for your—for the—oh, what is it? Your subscription for Chistmas cards

—no, 1 mean your subscription-card for Christmas dinners

what it’s for.”

yes, that’s





86 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“ All right,” said Theresa, quietly, “I understand. But I wish you
had given it me up-stairs, Nelly, I haven’t got a pocket in this thin skirt.
Never mind,” and she unwrapped it as she spoke, and placed it on the
table beside her.

“There now,” she said, “I can’t forget it. It is too conspicuous on
the white cloth.”

The sisters were sitting next each other; that is to say, Theresa was
at one end with Mark opposite, and their mother and Eleanor were at the
sides. The table was small, though large enough for a party of four.

Not long was the gold coin allowed to rest peacefully where Theresa
had placed it. Eleanor’s fingers soon picked it up. First she examined
it curiously by the light of the candle beside her, then when she had
satisfied herself as to its date and some other particulars, she took to
“spinning” it on the table. This was not very successful ; to spin a coin
well requires a hard surface for it to twirl on. Eleanor tried once or
twice, then ended by “spinning” the sovereign on to the floor. Down
she ducked to pick it up again, thereby attracting her mother’s notice.

“Nelly, my dear, what are you stooping down so awkwardly for?”
she said.

“ Oh,” said Theresa, “it is all that pound. Do leave it alone, child,
or it will be getting lost altogether,” and she took it out of her sister’s
hand and put it under her wine-glass. “ There,” she said, “don’t touch
it again.”

And for a course or two the pound was safe. But Theresa forgot



AND OTHER STORIES. 87





that wine-glasses are not a fixture ; after a while the table was cleared of
‘them and the crumbs brushed away for dessert. The shining sovereign
was again exposed to full view. Mother, Theresa, and Mark were
talking busily about something
interesting, Eleanor’s ears were
half-listening, but her restless
fingers were unoccupied. They
seized on the coin again, and a
new series of experiments with
it was the result, even though
she herself was but vaguely
conscious what she was about.
At last just as she had found a
new trick which amused the

babyish side of her brain



greatly, came a remark which Awe

thoroughly caught her attention. Process
: Into THE
SAID POckeT



“The day after to-morrow,
Nelly, don’t forget,” said The-
resa, ‘I’m going to have the
Leonards at afternoon tea.”

And the talk ran upon the Leonards, till they rose to go upstairs to
the drawing-room. Then came the exclamation from M@heresa.. <° Miy,

pound, Nelly, have you touched it? I put it under my wine-glass, but of



So = ‘ THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



»)

course I forgot—the wine-glasses were changed. Henry,” to the foot-
man, ‘didn’t you see it when you moved the glasses? It was there.”

Henry grew red and stared.

“Yes, ma’am, it was there. I saw it. I left it on the cloth.”

Eleanor stared too, though she did not grow red.

“Yes,” she said, “it was there. I took it up again, but I’m sure I
did nothing with it.”

Nevertheless a diving process into her pocket ensued—in vain; then
she got up and shook herself; then everybody began creeping and
crawling about on the floor—in vain; then Mark got down a candle
under the table, thereby, as it was in a high silver candle-stick, nearly
setting everything on fire; then—then—I need not describe the well-
known and most disagreeable experience of hunting for a lost object,

which of course
“ere it comes to light,

We seek in every corner but the right.”

On the whole poor Henry had the worst of it. He was told to
examine “my tray,” and to overhaul “ my pantry,” from top to bottom,
which he did with no result. I think he would gladly have gone down
the drain-pipe leading from “my sink,” if he could have got into it.

“It is an uncomfortable affair,” said Nelly’s mother gravely. “You
see the young man has so newly come.”

‘‘But, mother, I am save I saw it after the dessert was on the table,

and the servants out of the room,” said Eleanor eagerly.



AND OTHER STORIES. 8



“Then, my dear, where is it ?”

You can fancy what an unsettled, spoilt evening it was. The ladies.
went upstairs at last, but Mark would no: give in. He stayed in the:
‘dining-room by himself, searching like a detective. Suddenly there came
a shout of triumph.

“] have found it,” he called upstairs ; ‘‘it is all right, Nelly.”

So it was—and where do you think it was ?

I will help you to guess by telling you one circumstance. There:
had been zu¢s at dessert.

Well, what of that ?

The salt-cellars had been left on the table. And buried in one of
them, shining yellow and bright in the white powder, lay the coin! Was.
it not clever of Mark to have thought of it ?

“Oh yes,” said Eleanor, looking uncommonly ashamed of herself,
“‘T remember—I pressed it down on to the salt, and then I covered it up..
It looked so comfortable. Oh I am so sorry!”

See what comes of letting your fingers get into the way of “ tricks,”
and letting your wits go wool-gathering.

But poor Henry’s character was saved.





QO THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES





OSALIND and Pauline Wyvill were not twins, though at first

sight nearly every one thought they were. Rosy was eleven and

Paula only nine-and-a-half, but Paula was very tall for her age, and Rosy,

if anything, small for eleven, so they were almost exactly the same

height. And though Paula was much fairer than her sister, who had

brown hair and rather dark grey eyes, still there was a good deal of

likeness between them, and they were generally dressed exactly the same,
which made them seem still more like twins.

Their mother was particular about their dressing the same, but now

and then it was a little difficult to manage, for somehow Paula’s frocks

and hats and jackets generally got shabby long before Rosy’s, and if an



AND OTHER STORIES. gl



-accident—such as tearing or burning or staining—was to happen, it was
perfectly sure to come to Paula’s clothes, and not to her sister's. In such
cases, however, the misfortune had often to be endured, for their mother
could not of course afford to get new things every time Paula’s came to
grief, though now and then she had to get an extra frock or jacket of
some stronger or stouter material for the little girl to wear, if those the
same as her sister's had been spoilt past repair.

It came to pass, one Christmas holiday, that the two children were
invited to spend a week with an aunt by themselves. It was the first
visit they had ever paid on their own account, and they were both
pleased and excited about it.

This aunt was their father’s elder sister. She was very kind, but
not very much accustomed to young people, and in some of her ideas she
was perhaps extra particular and what people now-a-days call rather
“ old-fashioned.”

“You must show your aunt that I have taught you to be very neat
and tidy,” said their mother, a few days before the little girls were to go,
“for she is rather strict about such things; it may be a little difficult for
you, as you will have no maid of your own with you. Whatever you do,
be sure always to be dressed exactly alike, that is one of the things that
your aunt will notice the most.”

“Which of us must fix what we are to wear?” said Paula ;
'“ mayn’t we take it in turns ?”

“J don't think there should be any difficulty about it,” said their



92 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES





mother. ‘I should think it would be the nicest to consult together,

without any fixed rule.”

“Oh, I daresay it will be all right,” said Rosy, thinking to herself

that, as she was older than her sister, it would be only fair for her



The RonY
She was Very Kind bol’

tether’ old-fashioned .

generally to have the first choice.

“Do you think we shall have the:
same room, mamma ?”

“No,” their mother replied.) 7):
was forgetting to tell you that you
are to have two small separate:
rooms, as there will be other people
staying in the house, and the larger
rooms will be needed for them, so I

have told Ann to pack up your

\. things in two small boxes instead of

together, but remember you have.
everything exactly alike, so that there:
will be no excuse for your not

always being dressed the same. And,

Paula, I do hope you will manage not to spoil anything during these few

days.”

‘No; mamma, Lil try not:

Paula replied, but she spoke rather

absently, for she was not really attending to her mother’s last words.

‘What a lot of settling it will take, every time we dress,” she was



AND OTHER STORIES. 93





thinking to herself. “I hope we shan’t quarrel about it.” For it must
be owned that though Rosy was a very kind elder sister, she was some-
times rather masterful, and that, though Paula would give in readily
enough when spoken to gently, sze could sometimes be very obstinate,
if not taken exactly in the right way.

This is not a story, as you might



expect, of Paula’s misfortunes in the
way of accidents to her clothes during

their week’s visit. More by luck than



good management, probably, no very
important disaster of the kind occured,
and the first two or three days at their
aunt’s passed prosperously. Paula
gave in to Rosy’s wishes as to what

frocks they were to wear, and indeed



during the daytime there was not much Z
chance of difference of opinion, as, |

‘being winter, they had only two each, * eee ee
Sunday and every-day ones. But their kind mother had given them
some new and pretty evening dresses, prettier than they had ever had
before, and the little girls were very much pleased with them. Unluckily,
however, they had a disagreement of taste about them, Rosy preferring
the pink ones and Paula the blue.

On the third evening of their visit, an hour or so before it was time



94 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



to dress, they began talking about what they should put on, for coming
into the drawing-room before dinner.

“Tt is the turn for our pink frocks to-night,” said Rosy, in the very
decided way that always rather roused Paula’s spirit of contradiction.
“ And I’m very glad of it, for I like them ever so much the best.”

“JT don't,” replied Paula, rather crossly, ‘I think the blues twenty
times prettier, and we never fixed that we were to wear them in turns.”

“Perhaps the blue suits you best,” said Rosy, “but the pink suits —
me; I heard somebody say so the night we came, and to-night is rather
particular, for you know it’s uncle’s birthday, and we are to go in to
dessert and sit up an hour later. It is only fair that I should have what
I like best, as I’m the eldest, besides it’s the turn of the pinks.” .

“ Nonsense about turns,” said Paula, more crossly than before, “ why
shouldn’t I look nice too, on uncle’s birthday? J/’@ wear the blue.”

“And I'll wear the pink,” said Rosy, with the most determined air.

d

“ You'll be punished for it if you do,” said Paula, ‘just think how:
vexed aunt will be if we're different, particularly to-night, when it is going
to be a regular dinner-party.”

“J shan’t be punished worse than you,” was Rosy’s reply, “and I
shan’t deserve it, and you will.”

It was not often the little sisters’ quarrels went so far as this.
Paula felt herself getting so angry that she was afraid what she mightn’t

be tempted to say next.

She ran out of the room, banging the door behind her I am afraid,



AND OTHER STORIES. 95

reerrnta or





|My DEAR CHILDREN, WHY ARE YOU NOT DRESSED ALIKE?”

and rushed upstairs, where she burst into tears; for anger makes children
cry quite as often as sorrow. But before she had been many minutes in
her own room, her tears grew gentler, for she was a kind-hearted and
loving little girl, and when she had bathed her face, to take away the
redness from her eyes, she ran downstairs again to look for Rosy and
make friends. But Rosy was not to be found anywhere—her aunt had
called her into the conservatory to help her with some flowers she was
arranging there, and after searching for her sister everywhere she could
think of, Paula had to go upstairs to dress, as the first gong sounded.
“As soon as I have done my hair, I'll run to Rosy’s room,” she

thought to herself, but then another idea struck her, she would give Rosy





“96 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES.



-a pleasant surprise. ‘‘T’ll put on the pink frock without telling her,” she
thought, “she wzé2 be pleased when she sees me with it on.” And she
made haste with her dressing so that Rosy might find her already in the
drawing-room when she came down.

Thus it was that when Rosy, who was a little late of being ready,
looked into Paula’s room on her way downstairs, she found her sister
gone. And what do you think happened ? there was Paula smiling and
pleased in the fzxé frock, as Rosy, also smiling and pleased with herself, —
walked in in the d/ue /

But Aunt Margaret, when she caught sight of them, looked neither
-smiling nor pleased.

“ My dear children,” she said, in a tone of vexation, “why are you
not dressed alike? On your uncle’s birthday too.”

The little girls’ faces fell.

“Qh, auntie,” said Rosy, “it’s all my fault, but I meant to please
Paula, by putting on the blue.”

«And I meant to please Rosy,” said Paula, “by wearing the pink.”

And then the whole story was explained to their aunt, who could not
help smiling: at the odd result of their wish to make up their quarrel.

“Change your frocks,” she said, ‘‘ while we’re at dinner, so that you
may be the same at dessert, that will put it all right.”

She made rather a mistake, for of course only one frock needed to
be changed; which it was I cannot tell you. I only know that they
came into dessert and took their place one on each side of their uncle,

‘dressed alike—in blue ov pink !













Full Text



Cote: ae
PF
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THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

PAN) OEE Re SeO hele Ss:
sachs Cae we

Wee oi Vigo 3 MK lic, br Mlle,


THE MAN WITH THE
, PAN-PIPES

AND OTHER STORIES











Mrs. MOLESWORTH



Se
OS
“RS

- ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. MORGAN





Socieby for Tromobing Christian Knowledge
LONDON
Northomberland Avenve W:G
NEW YORK
€ &J-B-YOUNG & ©
LONDON:
ENGRAVED AND PRINTED BY EDMUND EVANS

RACQUET-CT., FLEET-ST., E.C.
CONTENTS

ee aa
PAGE.
Tue Man with THE Pan-PIPEs : : : : 4 : 7
Sree Byun Vea : : : : : : : 30
‘Tue Dormoust’s MISTAKE : : : : : 3 d 51
Tue CuristmMas GUEST : : : : : : : 59
Otive’s TEA-PaRTY . : : : : es : : ‘ 67
&
A Live Dummy . : ; 5 : ‘ 76
A QueEER Hipinc-PLace . : ‘ : 4 ‘ : : 83

Brut Frocks anp Pinx Frocks é : : 2 : : go


CEAR ATE Ra Ee







HEN I was
a little girl,
which is now a good many years
ago, there came to spend some
time with us a cousin who had been brought up
in Germany. She: was almost grown-up—to me, a
child of six or seven, she seemed quite erown-up ;
in reality, she was, I suppose, about fifteen or sixteen.
She was a bright, kind, good-natured girl, very anxious to please and
amuse her little English cousins, especially me, as I was the only girl.
But she had not had much to do with small children; above all, delicate
children, and she was so strong and hearty herself that she did not
understand anything about nervous fears and fancies. I think I was.
rather delicate, at least, I was very fanciful; and as I was quiet and
gave very little trouble, nobody noticed how constantly I was reading,
generally in a corner by myself. I now see that I read far too many

stories, for even of good and harmless things it is possible to have too -
B
8 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

iad
much. In those days, fortunately for me, there were not nearly so
many books for children, so, as I read very fast, I was often obliged to
read the same stories over and over again. This was much better for
me than always getting new tales and galloping through them, as I see
many children do now-a-days, but still I think I lived too much in clon
book world, and it was well for me when other things forced me to
become more, what is called, ‘ practical.”

My cousin Meta was full of life and activity, and after awhile she
grew tired of always finding me buried in my books.

‘Tt isn’t good for you, Addie,” she said. ‘Such a dot as you are, to
be always poking about in a corner reading.”

She was quite right, and when mamma’s attention was drawn to it
she agreed with Meta, and I was given some pretty fancy-work to do and
some new dolls to dress, and, above all, | was made to play about in the
garden a good deal more. It was not much of a garden, for our home
was then in a town, still it was better than being indoors, And very
often when kind Meta saw me looking rather forlorn, for I got quickly
tired with outdoor games, she would come and sit with me in the arbour,
or walk about—up and down a long gravel path there was—telling me
stories. :

That was her great charm for me. She was really splendid at
telling stories. And as hitherto she had only done me good, and mamma
knew what a sensible girl she was, Meta was left free to tell me what

stories she chose. They were all nice stories, most of them very
AND. OGHER: SEORLES, 9
«

interesting. But some were rather too exciting for such a tiny mite as I
was. Meta had read and heard quantities of German fairy-tales and
legends, many of which I think had not then been printed in books—
certainly not in English books.
For since I have been grown-up I
have come across several stories
of the kind which seemed new to
most readers, though I remember
my cousin telling them to me long,
long ago.

There were wonderful tales of
gnomes and kobolds, of the strange
adventures oe the charcoal-burners
in lonely forests, of water-sprites
and dwarfs. But none of all these
made quite as great an impression

on me as one which Meta called



Gnomes

“The Man with the Pan-pipes,” a

& Kobolds
story which, much to my surprise,
I found years after in a well-known
_ poem called ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin.” It was the very same

story as to the facts, with just a few differences ; for instance, the man
in the poem is not described as playing on pan-pzpes, but on some other

kind of pipe. But though it is really the same, it seems quite, quite
10 THE MAN Wil THE PAN-PIPES





different from the story as I heard it long ago. In the poem there is
a wonderful brightness and liveliness, and now and then even fun, which
were all absent in Meta’s tale. As she told it, it was strangely dark and
mysterious. I shall never forget how I used to shiver when she came
to the second visit of the piper, and described how the children slowly
and unwillingly followed him—how he used to turn round now and then

with a glance in his grim face which made the squeal of the pipes still









more unearthly. There was no beauty in his music, no dancing steps

were the children’s whom he dragged along by his power; ‘they just
had to go,” Meta would say. And when she came to the mysterious
ending, my questions were always the same.
« Are they still there—shut up in the cave?” I would ask.
- Meta supposed so. |
‘Will they never come out—never, never?” I said.
She shook her head.
AND OTHER STORIES. II

LE.
YI





“And if they ever did,” I said, “would they be grown-up people, or
quite old like—like that man you were telling me about. Rip—Rip—”

“Rip van Winkle,” she said.

“Yes, like Rip van Winkle, or would they have séayed children like
the boy the fairies took inside the hill to be their servant ?”

Meta considered.

“T almost ¢hznk,” she said, seriously, ‘they would have stayed
children. But, of course, it’s only a story, Addie. 1 don’t suppose it’s
true. You take things up so. Don’t go on puzzling about it.”

I would leave off speaking about it for the time; I was so dreadfully
12 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

afraid of her saying she would not tell it me again. And even though |
knew it quite well, and could correct Meta if ever she made any part of
it the least different, I was never tired of hearing the story. I would ask
for it over and over again, and I used to have exactly the same feelings
each time she told it, and always at the part where the children began to
come out of their houses, some leaving their dinners, some tiny ones
waking up out of their sleep, some only half-dressed, but all with the
same strange look on their faces, I used to catch hold of Meta’s hand and
say to her, ‘“‘ Hold me fast, I’m so afraid of fancying I hear him,” and
then she would burst out laughing at me, and I would laugh at myself.
For she was far too kind a girl to think of frightening me, and, indeed,
except for a curious ‘“‘coincidence’”—to use a very long word which
means something of the same kind as another thing happening at or
about the same time—I do not think the story would have really taken
hold of my fancy as it did.

One of my questions Meta was not able for some time to answer to

my satisfaction.



and Duwrwts
AND OTHER STORIES. 13.

‘What are Pan-pipes?” I asked. The word “ pipe” was so mixed
up in my mind with white clay pipes, out of -which we used to blow soap.
bubbles, that I could not understand it having to do with any kind of
music.

“Oh,” said Meta, “‘they’re made of reeds, you know, all in a row
like this,” and she held up her fingers to her lips, “and you play them by
whistling along them, do you see? It sounds something like when you
- fasten tissue-paper on a comb and blow along it. And they're called
‘Pan’-pipes because—oh, I forgot, of ‘course you haven't learnt
mythology yet—‘ Pan’ was one of the old pagan gods, a sort of fairy
or wood sprite, you know, Addie, and the pictures and figures of him
always show him playing on these reed pipes!”

I said “ Yes,” but I didn’t really understand her description. It left
a queer jumble in my head, and added to the strange, dreamy medley
already there. But, though it was not till years afterwards that I learnt
about “ Pan,” before Meta left us I was able to see for myself a set of

his “ pipes.”


14 DE VAN WIRE THe. PAN PLES)

N.S

CAP PE Rea:

T was just before my merry cousin left
us, to return to her own home across
the sea.

One day several of us were out
walking together, Meta was in front
with mamma and one of my elder
‘brothers, I was behind with Tony
and Michael, the two nearer my own
age. Suddenly Meta glanced round.

“Look, Addie,” she called back,
“there's a set of Pan-pipes; you

wanted to know what they were



like.

did you ever see such a miserable object ?

They're a very doleful set, certainly ;

He must be silly in his head, poor thing,
don’t you think, aunty? May I give him a
penny—or Jack will.”

For even Meta did not seem inclined to go too near to the poor

man, whom she was indeed right in calling ‘a miserable object.”
AND OTHER STORIES. 15



Jack ran forward with the penny, and we all stopped for a moment,
so I had a full view of the Pan-pipes. They were fastened somehow on
to the man’s chest, so that their top just came near his lips, and as he
moved his head slowly erdererele and forwards along them, they gave
out the most strange kind of music, if music it could be called, which you
ever heard. It was a sort of faint squeak with just now and then a Acnd
of tone in it, like very doleful muffled whistling. Perhaps the sight of the
piper himself added to the very “creepy” feeling it gave one. He was
not only a piper, he was, or rather had been, an organ-grinder too, for he
carried in front of him, fastened by straps round his neck in the usual
way, the remains of a barrel organ. It had long ago been smashed to
pieces, and really was now nothing but an old broken-in wooden box,
with some fragments of metal clinging to it, and the tatters of a ragged
cover. But the handle was still there; perhaps it had been stuck in again
on purpose ; and all the time, as an accompaniment to the forlorn quaver
of the reed pipes, you heard the hollow rattle of the loose boards of what
had been the barrel-organ. He kept moving the handle round and
round, without ever stopping, except for a moment, when Jack half.
threw, half reached him the penny, which brought a sort of grin on to his
face, as he clutched at the dirty ald tuft of shag on the top of his head,
which he doubtless considered his cap. :

“Poor creature,” said mamma, as we turned away. ‘I suppose he
thinks he’s playing lovely music.”

“T’ve seen him before,” said Jack. ‘“ Not long after we came here.’
16 '_ THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



(Perhaps I should explain that my father was an officer, and we had to:go
about wherever his regiment was sent.) ‘“ But I’ve not seen him lately.
There’s some story about him, but I know some of the boys at school
declare he’s not mad a bit, that he finds it pays well to sham he is.”

‘Any way he doesn’t need to be afraid of his organ wearing out,”

said Tony, gravely, at which the others couldn't help laughing.


























“T shouldn’t think it
likely he is only pretend-
ing,’ said mamma. ‘He
looks almost foo miser-
able.”

‘‘And sometimes there’s quite a crowd of children after him,” Jack
went on; “they seem to think him quite as good to run after as a proper
barrel-organ man.”

‘“T hope they don’t hoot and jeer at him,” said mamma.
AND OTHER STORIES. 17



“ His Pan-pipes are nearly as bad as his organ,” ead Meta, Stall;
Addie, you know now what they’re like, though you can’t fancy how
pretty they sound sometimes.”

It did not need her words to remind me of the story. My head was
full of it, and I think what Jack said about the crowds of children that
sometimes ran after the strange musician, added very much to the feelings
and fancies already in my mind. And unfortunately Meta left us the very
next morning, so there was no one for me to talk to about it, for my
brothers were all day at school and did not know anything about our
story-tellings. I do remember saying to Meta that evening, that I hoped
we should never meet that ugly man again, and Meta could not think
what I meant, till I said something about Pan-pipes. Then she seemed
to remember.

“Oh, he didn’t play them at all nicely,” she said. “One of the boys
at home had a set, and he really made them sound lovely. When you
come to Germany, Addie,” for that was a favourite castle in the air of
ours—a castle that never was built—that I should one day pay a long visit
to my cousins in their quaint old house, “ Fritz will play to you, and you
will then understand the story better.”

I daresay I should have told her the reason why I so hoped I
should never meet the poor man again, if I had had time. But even to
her I was rather shy of talking about my own feelings, and it was also
not easy to explain them, when they were so mixed up and confused.

\t was only a few days after Meta left, that we met the man with the
c
18 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



Pan-pipes again. This time I ne out walking with our fives and the
baby, as we still called him, though he was three years old. I don’t think
nurse noticed the man, or perhaps she had seen him before, but I heard
the queer squeal of his pipes and the rattle of his broken box some way
off, and when I saw him coming in the distance I asked her if we might

turn down a side street and go round another way.



She said she did not mind, but though she was kind, she was not
very noticing, and did not ask my reason, so for that day it was got over
without my needing to explain. But for some time after that, we
seemed to be always meeting the poor “silly” organ-man, and every time

I saw him, I grew more and more frightened, till at last the fear of seeing
AND OLHER STORIES: 19





him came quite to spoil the pleasure of my walks, even when I was out
with mamma herself. Now I dare say all sensible children who read this
will say, ‘‘ Why didn’t Addie tell her nurse, or, any way, her mother, all
about it?” and if they do say so, they are quite right. Indeed, it is
partly to show this very thing—how much better it is to tell some kind

wiser person all about any childish fear or fancy, than to go on bearing it







out of dread of being laughed at or called babyish—that I am relating this

simple little story. I really cannot quite explain why I did not tell about
it to mamma—lI think it was partly that being the only girl, I had a
particularly great fear of being thought cowardly—for she was always
very kind; and I think, too, it was partly that from having read so mane

story-books ¢o myself, | had got into the habit of being too much inside
eieaney Eta?

one THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



my own thoughts and fancies. | think story-books would often do much
more good, and give really much more lasting pleasure if children were
more in the habit of reading aloud to each other. And if this calls for
some unselfishness, why, what then ? is it not all the better?

But to return to my own story. There came a day when my dread:
of the man with the pipes got quite beyond my control—happily so for

me.




AND OTHER STORIES. 21



CEPA Re Tile

H"” HERTO, every time I had seen the man, it had been either

in some large public street where a crowd would not have
been allowed to collect, or in one of the quieter roads of private houses,
where we generally walked, and where poor children seldom were to be
seen.

But one day mamma sent Baby and me with nurse to carry
some little comfort to one of the soldier's wives, who was so ill that
she had been moved to the house of relations of hers in the town.
They were very respectable people, but they lived in quite a tiny
house in a poor street. Baby and I had never been there before, |
and we were much interested in watching several small people, about
our own size, playing about. They were clean, tidy-looking children,
so nurse, after throwing a glance at them, told us we might watch
them from the door of the house while she went in to see the sick
woman.

We had not stood there more than a minute or two when a strange,
well-known sourid caught my ears, squeak, squeal, rattle, rattle, rattle.
Oh, dear! I felt myself beginning to tremble; I am sure I grew pale.

The children we were watching started up, and ran some paces down the
22 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



street to a corner, when in another moment appeared what I already
knew was coming—the man with the Pan-pipes! But never had the

sight of him so terrified me. For he was surrounded by a crowd of

He was Surrounded by a
crowd of children,



children, a regular troop of them following him through the poor part
of the town where we were. If I had kept my wits, and looked on
quietly, I would have soon seen that the children were not the least

afraid, they were chattering and laughing; some, I fear, mocking and
AND OTHER STORIES. 23



hooting at the poor imbecile. But just at that moment the last touch
was added to my terror by my little brother pulling his hand out of
mine.

“Baby wants to see too,’ he said, and off he trotted down the
street. 7

My senses seemed quite to go.

“He's piping them: away,” I screamed, and then I am ashamed to
say I turned and fled, leaving Baby to his fate. Why I did not run into
the house and call nufse, I do not know ; if I thought about it at all, |
suppose I had a hazy feeling that it would be no good, that even nurse
could not save us. And I saw that the crowd was coming my way, in
another minute the squeaking piping would be close beside me in the
street. I thought of nothing except flight, and terrified that I too
should be bewitched by the sound, I thrust my fingers into my is
and dashed down the street in the opposite direction from the approach-
ing crowd. That was my only thought. I ran and ran. I wonder
the people I passed did not try to stop me, for I am sure I must
have looked quite as crazy as my imaginary wizard! But at last
my breath got so short that I had to pull up, and to my great relief |
found .I was quite out of hearing of the faint whistle of the terrible
pipes. |

Still I was not completely reassured. I had not come very tar atter
alli. Soil set ott again, though not quite at such a rate. [ hurried

down one street and up another, with the one idea of getting further
24, THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES |



and further away. But by degrees my wits began to recover them-
selves.

“T wish I could find our home,” I thought. ‘JI can’t go on running
for always. Perhaps if I told mamma all about it, she'd find some way of

keeping me and Baby safe.”








Ene 7 Sc
Val as fe,
ss Sa ee

a





lc reamed.

But with the thought of Baby came back my terrors. Was it too
late to save him? Certainly there were no rocks or caves to be seen
such as Meta had described in her story. But she had said outside
the town—perhaps the piper was leading all the children, poor darling
Baby among them, away into the country, to shut them up for ever
as had been done in Hamelin town. And with the dreadful thought,

all my terrors revived, and off I set again, but this time with the
é
AND OTHER STORIES. 25



more worthy intention of saving Baby. I must go home and tell
mamma so that she would send after him. I fancied I was in a street
not far from where we lived, and I hurried on. But, alas! when I
got to the end it was all quite strange. I found myself among small
houses again, and nearly dead with fatigue and exhaustion, I stopped
in front of one where an old woman was sweeping the steps of. her
door. j

“Oh, please,” I gasped, “please tell me where Clarence Terrace

i

The old woman stopped sweeping, and looked at me. She was a
very clean old woman, though so small that she was almost a dwarf, and
with a slight hump on her shoulders. At another time I might have
been so silly as to be frightened of her, so full was my head of fanciful
eo But now I was too completely in despair to think of it. Besides
her face was kind and her voice pleasant.

“Clarence Terrace,” she squeaked. ‘“’Tis a good bit from here.
Have you lost your way, Missy ?”

““T don’t know,” I said, ‘‘ I——” but then a giddy feeling came over
me, and I almost fell. ‘The old woman caught me, and the next thing |
knew was that she had carried me into her neat little kitchen, and was.
holding a glass of water to my lips, while she spoke very kindly. Her
voice somehow brought things to a point, and I burst into tears. She
soothed me, and petted me, and at last in answer to her repeated,

““What’s ado, then, lovey ?” I was able to explain to her some part of
20 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES |



my troubles. Not all of course, for even upset as I was, I had sense to
know she would have thought me not “right in my head,” if I had told
her my cousin’s strange fantastic story of the piper in the old German

town.




J thrust my -
fingers into
my ears a
dashed
down tke
sYreetâ„¢

ot




ug

“Frightened of old Davey,” she said, when I stopped. “ Dear
dear, there’s no call to be afeared of the poor old silly. Not but what
I've said myself he was scarce fit to be about the streets for the look of
him, though he’d not hurt a fly, wouldn’t silly Davey.”

“Then do you know him?” I asked, with a feeling of great relief.
TAND ORL E RE SRO RIGS: 27



All the queer nightmare fears seemed to melt away, when I heard the
poor crazy piper spoken of in a matter-of-fact way.
“Know him,” repeated my new friend, ‘“‘I should think we did.

Bless you he comes every Saturday to us for his dinner, as reg’lar as





the clock strikes, and has done for many a day. ,Twelve year, or
so, it must be, since he was runned over by a bus, and his poor head
smashed in, and his organ busted, and his pipes broke to bits. He
was took to the ‘orspital and patched up, but bein’ a furriner was
against him, no doubt,” and the old woman shook her head sagely.

“He couldn't talk proper before, and since, he can say nothink as
28 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



any one can make head or tail of. But as long as he’s free to
go about with his rattlin’ old box as was onst a’ orgin, he’s quite
happy. They give ’im new pipes at the ‘orspital, but he can’t play
them right. And a bit ago some well-intending ladies had 'im took
off to a ’sylum, sayin’ as he wasn’t fit to be about. But he nearly
died of the bein’ shut up, he did. So now he’s about again, he
has a little room in a street near here, that is paid for, and he gets
a many pennies, does Davey, and the neighbours sees to him, and
he’s quite content, and he does no harm, and all the town knows ‘silly
Davey.”

“But don't naughty children mock at him and tease him some-
‘times ?” I asked.

“Not so often as you'd think, and they're pretty sure to be put -
down if they do. All the perlice knows Davey.’ So now, my dear,
you'll never be afeared of the poor thing no more, will you? And I'll
step round with you to your ‘ome, I will, and welcome.”

So she did, and on the way, to my unspeakable delight, we came
across nurse and Baby, nearly out of their wits with terror at having lost
me. For Baby had only followed the piper a very short way, and did
not find him interesting.

‘Him were a old silly, and couldn’t make nice music,” said sensible
Baby.

And though we often met poor crazy Davey after that, and many of

my weekly pennies found their way to him as long as we stayed in the
AND OTHER STORIES.

ww
\O

place, I never again felt any terror of the harmless creature. Especially
after I had told the whole story to mamma, who was wise enough to see
that too many fairy stories, or “fancy” stories are zo¢ a good thing for
little girls, though of course she was too kind and too just to blame Meta,

who had only wished to entertain and amuse me:




30 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES |




AM going to tell you a story
‘that mother told us. We think
mother’s stories far the most interest-
ing and nicest of any we hear or read.
And we are trying to write them all
down, so that our children, if ever
any of us have any, may know them
= too. We mean to call them ‘“ Grand-
mother’s Stories.” One reason why they are nice is, that nearly all
of them are real, what iS called “founded on fact.” By the time our
children come to hear them, mother says her stories will all have grown
’ dreadfully old-fashioned, Bue we tell her that will make them all the nicer.

They will have a scent of long-ago-ness about them, something like the
AND OTHER STORIES. 31



faint lavendery whiff that comes out of mother’s old doll-box, where she
keeps a few of the toys and dolls’ clothes she has never had the heart to
part with.

The little story, or ‘“sketch”—mother says it isn’t worth calling a
“story ”"—I am going to write down now, is already a long-ago one.
For it isn’t really one of mother’s own stories; it was told her by her
mother, so if ever our book comes to exist, this one will have to have
a chapter to itself and be called “ Gveat-grandmother’s Story,” won’t
it? I remember quite well what made mother tell it us. It was when
we were staying in the country one year, and Francje had been
frightened, coming through the village, by meeting a poor idiot boy
who ran after us and laughed at us in a queer silly way. I believe
he meant to please us, but Francie’s fright made her angry, and she
wanted nurse to speak to him sharply and tell him to get away, but
nurse wouldn't.

“ One should always be gentle to those so afflicted,” she said.

When we got home we told mother about it, and Francie asked her
to speak to nurse, adding, “It’s very disagreeable to see people like that
about. J think they should always be shut up, don’t you, mother ?”

“Not always,” mother replied. ‘Of course, when they are at
all dangerous, likely to hurt themselves or any one else, it is neces-
sary to shut them up. And if they can be taught anything, as some
can be, it is the truest kindness to send them to an asylum, where it

is wonderful what patience and skill can sometimes make of them.
32 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“But I know about that boy in the village. He is perfectly harmless,
even gentle and affectionate. He has been at a school for such as
he, and has learnt to knit—that is the only thing they could succeed

in teaching him. It was no use leaving him there longer, and he






(2 % s
Up

DA



is
Ge ee {ls
Any
t

lin





" Of course we all said “yes”

‘pined for home most sadly. So as his relations are pretty well
off, it was thought best to send him back, and he is now quite
content. I. wish I had told you about him. When you meet him
again you must be sure to speak kindly—they say he never forgets if

”)
any one does so.
AND OTHER STORIES. 33



“Poor boy,” said Ted and I; but Francie did not look quité
convinced. t

“| think he should be shut up,” she repeated, in rather a low voice.
Francie used to be a very obstinate little girl. ‘“ And / shan’t speak to
him kindly or any way.”

Mother did not answer, though she heard. I know she did. But in’
a minute or two she said :

“Would you like to hear a story about an idiot, that your grand-
mother told me? It happened when she was a little girl.”

Of course we all said “ yes,” with eagerness.

And this was the story.

“« Pig-Betty’ isn’t a very pretty name for a story, or for a person,
is it? But Pig-Betty was a real person, though I daresay none of you
have the least idea what the word pig ’ added to her own name meant,”
said mother. No, none of us had. We thought, perhaps, it was
because this “Betty” was very lazy, or greedy or even dirty, but
mother shook her head at all those guesses. And then she went -
on to explain. ‘Pig,’ in some parts of Scotland, she told us, means
a piece of coarse crockery. It is used mostly for jugs, though in a’
general way it means any sort of crockery. ‘And long ago,” mother
went on—I think I'll give up putting ‘mother said,’ or ‘mother went on,”.
and just tell it straight off, as she did.

“Long ago then, when my mother was a little girl, she and

her brothers and sisters used to spend some months of every year in
D
34 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



a rather out-of-the-way part of Scotland. There was no railway and
no “coach,” that came within at all easy reach. The nearest town

was ten or twelve miles away, and even the village was two or three.

Jills See
ae







«
Shey were alusay®

avre oF a aselcome y

And a good many things, ordinary, common things, were supplied by
pedlars, who walked long distances, often carrying their wares upon
their backs. These pedlars came to be generally called by what

they had to sell, as a sort of nickname. You may think it was a |
AND OTHER STORIES. 35



very hard life, but there were a good many nice things about it.
They were always sure of a welcome, for it was a pleasant excite-
ment in the quiet life of the cottages and farm-houses, and even of
the big houses about, when one of these travelling merchants appeared ;
and they never needed to feel any anxiety about their board and
lodging. They could always count upon a meal or two and on a
night’s shelter. Very often they slept in the barn of the farm-house
—or even sometimes in a clean corner of the cows’ “byre.” They
were not very particular.

Among these good people there were both men and women, and
poor Pig-Betty was one of the latter.

My mother and the other children used always to ask as one of their
first questions when they arrived at Greystanes—that was the name of
their uncle’s country house—on their yearly visit, if Pig-Betty had been
there lately, or if she was expected to come soon. One or other was
pretty sure to be the case.

They had several reasons for their interest in the old woman.
One was that they. were very fond of blowing soap-bubbles, which
they seldom got leave to do in town, and they always bought a new
supply of white clay pipes the first time Pig-Betty appeared ; another
was that she had what children thought very wonderful treasures hidden
among the coarse pots and dishes and jugs that she carried in a
shapeless bundle on her bent old back. And sometimes, if she were

in a very good humour, she would present one of the little people
36 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

with a green parrot rejoicing in a whistle in its

tail, or with a goggle-eyed dog, reminding one

of the creatures in Hans Andersen’s tale of

“The Three Soldiers.” And the third reason

was perhaps the strongest, though the strangest

of all.


AND OTHER STORIES. 37



PAR Meet .

q THIRD reason why the
children were so inter-
ested in the old pedlar
woman was, | said, the
strongest, though the
strangest of all. She
was an idiot! They
were almost tooyoung
to understand what
being an idiot really meant, but they could see for themselves that she
was quite unlike other people, and her strangeness gave her a queer
charm and attraction for them—almost what is called “ fascination.”
When she was at Greystanes, where she always stayed two or three
days, they were never at a loss for amusement, for they did little else
than run here and there to peep at her and tell over to each other the
odd way she trotted about, nodding and shaking her head and talking on
to herself as if she were holding long conversations. It did not do to let

her see they were watching her, for it would have made her angry-
38 CELE WEAN NVI TEFL WALES PANE Pek Si



Indeed, several times the children had been warned not to do so, and
their nurse had been told to keep them out of the old woman’s way ;
but, as everybody knows, children are contradictory creatures, and in

the country, nurse could not keep as close a look out on them as in



2
Gell Betty , my woman, ard hou
are ye??

town. Then it was well known that Pig-Betty was very gentle, even
when she. was angry—and she did have fits of temper sometimes—
she had never been known to hurt anyone.

And, of course, ‘she was not quite without sense. She was able to
manage her little trade well enough and to see that she was paid correctly

for the “pigs ” she sold. She was able, too, to tell the difference
AND OTHER STORIES. 30



between Sunday and other days, for on Sunday she would never
“travel,” and would often, if she were near a village, creep into the
“kirk” and sit in a corner quite quietly. Perhaps “idiot” is hardly the
right word to use about her, for there were a few old folk who said they
had been told that she had not always been quite so strange and
“wanting,” but that a great trouble or sorrow that had happened in her
family had made her so. The truth was that no one knew her real story.
She had wandered into our part of the country from a long way off,
thirty or forty years ago, and as people had been kind to her, there she
had stayed. ‘No one knew how’old she was. Uncle James, himself an
elderly man, said she had not changed the least all the years he had
known her.

Uncle James was one of the people she had a great affection for.
She would stand still whenever he passed her with a kindly, “ Well,
Betty, my woman, and how are ye?” bobbing a kind of queer curtsey
till he was out of sight, and murmuring blessings on the “laird.” He
never forgot her when she was at Greystanes, always giving orders that
the poor body should be made comfortable and have all she wanted.

One of his little kindnesses to her was the cause of a good deal
of excitement to the children when they were with Uncle James.
At that time gentlepeople dined much earlier than they do now,
especially in the country. At Greystanes four o'clock was the regular
dinner hour. The children used always to be nicely dressed and sent

down “to dessert.” And when Pig-Betty was there, Uncle James
40 THE MAN WITH THE. PAN-PIPES.



never failed to pour out a glass of wine and say, “ Now, who will
take this to the old woman?”
Pig-Betty knew it was coming, for she always managed to be

in the kitchen at that time, and however busy the servants. were,































Ene procession of fue _

they never thought of turning her out. There was a good deal of
superstitious awe felt about her, in spite of her gentleness ; and the
children would: look at each other, half-wishing, half-fearing to be the
cup-bearer.

“] will,” Johnny would say ; and as soon as he spoke all the others

followed.
AND OTHER STORIES. 4I



‘No, let me,” Hughie would cry, and then Maisie and Lily joined

in with their “I will,’ or “ Do let me, Uncle James.”

“First come, first served,” Uncle would reply, as he handed the





















































well-filled glass to Johnny
or Maisie,.or whichever had
been the first... Then the
procession of five would set
off, walking slowly, so as not to spill the wine, down the long stone
passages leading to the kitchen and offices of the old house. And
what usually happened was this. |

As they got to the kitchen door, Johnny—supposing it was he who

was carrying the wine—would go more and more slowly.
42 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



‘J don’t mind, after all, letting yow give it, Maisie,” or ‘‘ Hughie,” he
would say. :

“No, thank you, Johnny,” they would meekly reply. And Lily,
who was the most outspoken, would confess,

“T always ¢hink Vd like to give it her, but I do get so frightened
when I see her close to me, that I really daren’t,” which was in truth the
feeling of all four !

So it was pretty sure to end by number five coming to the front.
Number five was little Annette, the youngest. She was a sweet,
curly-haired maiden, too sunny and merry herself to know what fear
meant.

“L'll dive it poor old Pig-Betty,” she always cried, and so she did.
Inside the kitchen the glass was handed to her, and she trotted up to the
old woman in her corner with it, undismayed by the near sight of the
queer wizened old face, like a red and yellow withered apple, and the
bright piercing eyes, to be seen at the end, as it were, of a sort of over-
hanging archway of shawls and handkerchiefs and queer frilled headpiece
under all, which Betty managed in some mysterious way to half bury
herself in. :

She always murmured blessings on the child as she drank the wine,
and no doubt this little ceremony was the beginning of her devotion to
the baby of the family.

This devotion was made still greater by what happened one day.

There were unkind and thoughtless people at Greystanes as well as
AND OTHER STORIES. 43



everywhere else. And one summer there came some “new folk” to live
in one of the cottages inhabited by Uncle James's farm-labourers. This
did not often happen, as he seldom changed his people. These strangers
were from some distance, and had never happened to come across the
poor half-witted old woman, and there were two or three rough boys in
the family who were spoilt and wild, and who thought themselves far
‘above the country people, as they had lived for some time in a small
town. And so one day”—Oh, dear! I am getting this chapter of

mother’s story too long. I must begin a new one.


Wa THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

PAR ie

ee ELL, one day, as | was saying, the children, who had not seen

old Betty for several weeks, were on their way to the village—
two miles off-—when near the corner of a lane, they heard a great noise.
Loud voices and jeering laughter, and a kind of strange shrill shrieking,
which made them stare at each other in wonder and almost fear. Nurse
was not with them, they were to meet her further down the road, as she
had gone on first with a message to a woman who was ill.

“What can it be ?” said Maisie.

They hurried on to see, and the mystery was soon explained.
‘There in the midst of a little group of boys, and two or three girls also, |
am afraid, stood the poor old idiot. She was convulsed with rage,
screaming, shrieking, almost foaming with fury, while first one then
another darted forward and gave a pull to her skirts or jacket from
behind, and as quickly as she turned, a fresh tormentor would catch at her
from the other side, all shouting together at the top of their voices,
“ Wha is’t this time, my Leddy Betty? Thaur, ye have him noo.”

_They were not hurting her, but it was the insult she felt so keenly,
for she was used to respectful treatment. The Simpson boys, the new

comers, were in the front of the fray, of course.
AND OTHER. STORIES. 45



For.a moment the five Greystanes children stood speechless with
horror. Then Johnny darted to the idiot’s side, he did it with the best
intentions, but Betty, confused and blinded, did not distinguish him from
the others and dealt him a blow which sent him staggering back, as she

howled out to him, “‘ Ye ill-faured loon, tak’ that.”















“Run, Johnny, run,” shrieked Maisie, which Hughie and Lill, who

were twins and always kept together, had already done, not ‘out of
cowardice but in search of help. But little Annette rushed forward. :
‘Bad boys that you are,” she shouted with her ‘little shrill baby

voice that seemed to have suddenly grown commanding, “off with you.
46 i THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



You shall not torment my guid auld Betty.” For though the children’s
mother was most careful that their speech should be “ English,” strong

excitement would bring out their native tongue. And as the child

uttered the last words she flung her arms round the poor woman, who,.





Dy bonny wee ledd
murmured ”

weak and feeble as soon as her fury began to
lessen, tottered to the ground, where they clung
together—the sorrow-crushed aged creature and
the cherub-faced child—sobbing in each other’s

arms. For Pig-Betty had known her little friend in an instant.

“My bonny wee leddy,” she murmured, ‘auld Betty's ain wee

leddy,” and with her trembling fingers she untied the knotted corners of

her bundle of “pigs,” and searching for the best of her treasures, the

best and biggest of her “whustling polls,” she stuffed it into Annette’s

hands.
AND OTHER STORIES. 47



Strange to say the ruffianly group had already dispersed and were
not again seen!

It was soon after that that the children went back again for the
winter to their London home. Next year saw them once more in the
north, and as nurse unpacked. their trunks she came upon the green
parrot, which Annette would never part from.

“I wonder if Pig-Betty’s still alive,” she said.

Oh yes—so far as was known at Greystanes, she was rambling
about as usual, but she had not been there for some weeks. F ortunately
for the children, however, it was near the time for her visit, as you shall
hear. 2
as days after their arrival they were all out together, when they
happened to pass by a cottage, whose owner was famed for a very choice
breed of dogs he kept.

“Let's peep over the wall into Sandy’s yard, and see if he has any
new puppies,” said Johnny, and they all did so. No, there were no
puppies to be seen, only an older dog which the boys remembered by the
name of “ Jock,” and they called out to him.

But Jock took no heed. He was moving about the little enclosure
in a queer, restless way, his head hanging down, his tail between his legs.

Soon jock, said Hughie, ‘“ how dull he looks! What a shame of
Sandy to have gone out and left him alone!” For evidently there was
no one at home in the cottage. Truth to tell, Sandy was off for the dog-

doctor.
48 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“Let's let him out,” said Johnny, “and cheer him up a bit. He'll
know us once he’s out.”

They did not hear a quick but shuffling step up the lane, nor a
panting, quavering voice, ‘ Bairns, bairns, dinna ye——”

It was Pig-Betty, just arrived that morning, and left by Sandy in
charge of his cottage and the suspiciously suffering Jock—a charge she

was quite able for.




and they alldid 50.

-. “Let no one gang near him,” Sandy had said ;
‘and, my woman, just ye sit at the gate there till
I’m back.. I'll no be lang.”
But, alas, the children had come round. by the fields behind the
cottage.
It was too late—the yard gate was opened, and Jock, after sniffing
and turning about came slowly out.

“ Poor old Jockie,” said Annette, always fearless, stooping to stroke

him.
AND OTHER STORIES. 49



He turned upon her with a dreadful growl, he was not yet quite
mad, but the poison was in him. And in another instant the deadly
fangs would have been in the baby’s tender flesh, but for the well-
aimed blow which flung the dog back, though only for a moment.
It was Betty, dashing at him with her bundle of “pigs,” the only

weapon at hand—the poor pigs smashing and crashing; but they only



diverted Jock’s attack. When Sandy and the dog-doctor came rushing
up, she was on the ground, and Jock had already bitten her in two
or three places. But all she said was, “My. wee leddy, haud him
aff my wee leddy.” |
And they were able to secure him, so that no one else was bitten.
No, Betty did not die of hydrophobia. She lived for a few months,

not longer, her old nerves and feeble frame had got their death blow.
E
50 (aR AGAIN Mal SIGS. JAIN TIVES.



But she was tenderly cared for in a peaceful corner of the hospital at the
neighbouring one Uncle James and the children’s parents took care
that she should want for nothing, and as her bodily strength failed her
“mind seemed to clear. When little Annette was taken to.say good-bye
to the brave old woman, poor Pig-Betty was able to whisper a word or
two of loving hope that she and her “wee leddy” might meet again—in

the Better Land.”


AND OTHER STORIES. 51



THE DORMOUSE’S MISTAKE.

HEY lived at the corner of the common. Papa, Mamma, Fuzz

and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, their four children. It was a

lovely place to live at, but as they had never seen any other part of the
world, I am not sure that they thought it quite so delightful as they might
otherwise have done. The children, that is to say—Papa and Mamma
of course were wiser. They had Zeard of very different sorts of places
where some poor dormice had to live ; small cooped-up nests called cages,
out of which they were never allowed to run about, or to enjoy the
delightful summer sunshine, and go foraging for hazel nuts and haws, and
other delicacies, for themselves. For an ancestor of theirs had once ~
been taken prisoner and shut up in a cage, whence, wonderful to say, he
had escaped and got back to the woods again, where he became a great
personage among dormice, and was even occasionally requested to give
lectures in public to the squirrels and water-rats, and moles and rabbits,
and other forest-folk, describing the strange and marvellous things he
had seen and heard during his captivity. He had learnt to understand
human talk for one thing, and had taught it to his children ; and his
great-grandson, the Papa of Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, had

begun to give them lessons in this foreign language in their turn, for, as
52 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



he wisely remarked, there was no saying if it might not turn out useful
some day.

The cold weather set in very early this year. Already, for some
days, Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy had begun to feel a curious
heaviness stealing over them now and then; they did not seem inclined
to turn out in the morning, and were very glad when one evening their
mother told them that the store cupboards being now quite full, they
need none of them get up the next day at all unless they were
inclined.

“For my part,” she added, “I cannot keep awake any longer, nor
can your Papa. We are going to roll ourselves up to-night. You young
folk may keep awake a week or two longer perhaps, but if this frost
continues, I doubt it. So good-night, my dears, for a month or two; the
first mild day we shall all rouse up, never fear, and have a good meal
‘before we snooze off again.”

And sure enough next morning, when the young people turned out
a good deal later than usual, Papa and Mamma were as fast asleep as the
seven sleepers in the old story, which had given their name to the:
German branch of the dormouse family! Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip
and Peepy felt rather strange and lonely; two round furry balls seemed a
very queer sort of exchange for their active, bright-eyed father and
mother. But as there was plenty to eat they consoled themselves after a
bit, and got through the next two or three weeks pretty comfortably,

every day feeling more and more drowsy, till at last came a morning on
AND OER SHORES. 53





which six neat little brown. balls instead of two lay in a row—the
dormouse family had begun their winter repose. And all was quiet and

silent in the cosy nest among the twigs of the low-growing bushes at the

corner of the common.



It seemed as if winter had really come. For three or four weeks
there was but little sunshine even in the middle of the day, and in the
mornings and evenings the air was piercingly cold.

“T suppose all the poor little wood-creatures have begun their winter
54 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



sleep,” said Cicely Gray one afternoon as she was hastening home from
the village by a short cut through the trees. “I must say I rather envy
them.”

“7 don't,” said her brother, “I shouldn't like to lose half my life.
Hush, Cicely, there’s a rabbit. What a jolly little fellow! How he
scuds along! There's another, two, three! Oh, Cis, I do hope I shall
* get some shooting when I come home at Christmas.” :

Cicely sighed. ;“ I hate shooting,” she said. ‘I’m sure it would be
better to sleep half one's life than to Sey awake to be shot.”

But it was too cold to linger talking. The brother and sister set off
running, so that their cheeks were glowing and their eyes sparkling by
the time they got to the Hall gates.

Three days later Harry had gone off to school. Cicely missed him
very much; especially as a most pleasant and unexpected change had
come over the weather. A real “St. Martins summer” had set in.
What delightful walks and rambles Harry and she could have had,
thought Cicely, if only it had come a little sooner !

The mild air found its way into the nest where the six little brown
balls lay side by side, till at first one, then another, then all six slowly
unrolled themselves, stretched their little paws, unclosed their eyes, and
began to look about them.

“Time for our first winter dinner,” said Mrs. Dormouse sleepily ;
it’s all ready over there in the corner under the oak leaves. Help

yourselves my dears, eat as much as you can; you'll sleep all the better
AND OTHER STORIES, 55



for it. And don’t be long about it ; it’s as much as I can do to keep my
eyes open.”

Mr. Dormouse and the others followed her advice. For a few
minutes nothing was heard but the little nibbling and cracking sounds
which told that a raid had been made on the winter stores.

“ Good-night again, my dears,” said Papa, who was still sleepier

than Mamma.





Se



SNe a Nn
aR % HushCicely
eo theres 2 Rabat
= 4
%

‘Good-night” was repeated in various tones, but one little voice
interrupted—it was that of Fuzz.

“Tm not sleepy, Papa and Mamma; I’m not a bit sleepy. I’m sure
it’s time to wake up, and that the summer's come back again. Brown-
ears, Snip and Peepy, won’t you come out with me? Papa and Mamma
can sleep a little longer if they like.”

“ Nonsense,” Mrs. Dormouse said sleepily.

And “ Nonsense, brother,” repeated the others, “don’t disturb us.”
56 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



‘But Fuzz was obstinate and sure he knew best.
He trotted off, looking back contemptuously at the five balls already

rolled up again.
“ Dear, dear! how silly they are to be sure,” he said, when he found
himself out on the grass. Why, it’s certainly summer again! The
sunshine’s so bright and warm, the birds are chirping so merrily. I feel

quite brisk. I think I'll take a ramble over the common to the wood



»
0 JUST waAREINGEUP A LITTLE .

where our cousins the squirrels live, and hear what they have to say
about it.”

He cocked his ears and peeped about with his little sparkling eyes.
Suddenly he caught sight of something white at the foot of one of the
old trees. It was Cicely Gray in her summer flannel, which had been
pulled out of the wardrobe again to do honour to St. Martin.

‘Good morning, little dormouse,” she said in her pretty soft voice,
“what are you doing out of your nest in late November ? Do you think

summer's come back again already, my little man? If so, you've made
AND OTHER STORIES. 57



a great mistake. ‘Take warning, and don’t stray far from your home, or
you may find yourself in a sad plight. This lovely weather can’t last
many days.”

Fuzz looked at her.

“Thank you, miss,” he replied, for, you see, he understood human
talk, though it is to be doubted if Cicely understood /zm. “She must

surely know,” he re-







flected wisely, ‘and
perhaps after all
mamma was in the

right.”


58 : THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



So he scampered in to the nest again and rolled himself up beside
the others.

That very evening the wind changed ; the cold set in in earnest, and
for three months it was really severe.

“T saw a little dormouse at the corner of the common yesterday,”
said Cicely the next morning. ‘I advised him to go home again; he
had come out by mistake, thinking winter was over.”

“You funny girl,” said her mother. ‘I hope he understood you

and followed your advice, poor little chap.”


AND OTHER STORIES, 59



Toh CHRISTMAS GUESE.

FROM A TRUE INCIDENT.

HE was a very poor little girl, very poor indeed; often—indeed
almost always—hunery, and thinly-clad, and delicate, but yet not
altogether miserable. No, far from it, for she had a loving mother who
did her poor best for her children. There were three or four of them
and Emmy was the eldest. She was only six, but she was looked upon
as almost grown-up, for father had died last year, and Emmy had to help
mother with “the little ones,” as she always called them.

They lived in a single room in one of the poorest and most crowded
parts of great London; in a street which was filled with houses of one-
room homes like their own. There was much misery and much wicked-
ness, I fear, too, in their neighbourhood ; drinking, and swearing, and
fighting, as well as hunger, and cold, and sickness. But compared with
several years ago, when Emmy’s mother herself had been a girl living in

”

much such a home as she now strove “to keep together” for her
fatherless babies, compared with that time, as she, and others too, used
often to say, ‘it was a deal better.” There was less drinking and bad

language; there was less misery. For friends—friends able and
60 THE MAN WITH’ TEE PAN-PIPES





earnestly anxious to help—had taken up their abode in the very next
street to little Emmy’s; the church had been ‘‘done up beautiful,” and
there there was always a welcome and a rest from the troubles and

worries at home; and the clergyman, as well as the kind ladies who had



C =) ?
. MOTHER WiTy ThE CITTLe ONES Y

come to live among their toiling, struggling brothers and sisters, knew all
about everybody and everything, knew who was ill and who was out of
work, knew who were “trying to be good” even among the children,
knew even the tiniest trots by name, and had always a kind word and

smile, however busy and hurried they were.
AND OTHER STORIES. 61



And, thanks greatly to these kind friends, Emmy’s life was not
without its pleasures. “She loved the infant school on Sundays, she
loved the “treats”; once last summer—and. Emmy was old enough now
to remember last summer well,
though it seemed a very long
time ago—there had been a
treat into the country, a real
day in the country, where, for
the first time in her life, the
child saw grass and trees.

But it was far from
summer time now, it was mid-
winter. Christmas was close
at hand, and winter had brought
more than its usual troubles to
the little family. There were
worse things this year than
cold and scant food, chapped
hands and. chilblained feet.



Tiny, as they called the baby

but one, was very ill with bronchitis, the doctor could not say if she
would get better, and sometimes it seemed to the poor mother as if it was
hardly to be wished that she should.

“ She suffers so, poor dear, and seeing to her hinders me sadly with
62 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

my work. I do feel as if I’d break down at last altogether,” she said one
evening—it was Christmas Eve—to a neighbour who had looked in to
see how things were going on.

“ And Emmy’s looking pale,” said the visitor, “she wants cheering
up a bit too. Let her come to church with me for a change. I’m going
to the evening service now.”

Emmy brightened up at this. She had not been at church last
Sunday, and, like most children, she was especially fond of going in the
evening. It seemed grander and more solemn somehow, when all was
dark outside. And the lights and warmth, and above all the music, were
very pleasant to the little girl So with a parting word of advice to the ©
mother to keep up heart a bit longer—“ things allus starts mending when
they get to the worst’ —the kind neighbour set off, holding Emmybythe hand.

It was beautiful in church, the Christmas “dressing up,” as Emmy
called it, had been completed that lteanoon 3 to the child it seemed a
sort of fairy-land, though of fairy-land she had never heard. But she
had heard of heaven, which was better.

“Tt could scarce be finer there,” she thought to herself dreamily, as
she listened to the words of the service with a feeling that all was sweet
and beautiful, though she could actually understand but little.

The sermon was short and simple. But Emmy was getting sleepy,
and the thought of poor mother, and Tiny with her hacking cough,
mingled with what she heard, till suddenly something caught her ear

which startled her into attention. The-preacher had been speaking of
AND OTHER STORIES.



63

the first Christmas-day, concluding with some words about the morrow,

when again the whole Christian world would join in welcoming their

Lord. For “again He will come to us; again Jesus Himself will be

here in the midst of us, ready as
ever to listen to our prayers, to
comfort and console.”

Emmy was wide awake now.
She scarcely heard the words of
the carol, she was in a fever of
eager hopefulness. :

“ What a good thing I came
to-night,” she said to herself,
‘else | We amiohtnie acven. | have
toned it. I would like to see
im first of eall = Where, be
such a many, and He'll have
such a deal to do. But it
wouldn't take Him that long to
come round with me to see
Winy,-and if Ele does, like in

the story, Hell cure her in ’alf

a minute. I know what I'll do”—and a little scheme formed

i

: Ly

tr was

acne fy
iN CHUR ‘



itself

“in the childish mind—‘ though [ll not tell mother,’ thought Emmy,

“just for fear like, I should: be too late to catch Him.”
64 EEE EAN WH ese ala ANGE LPTs,



“Twas a lovely sermon, and so touchin’ too,” said Emmy’s friend to

another woman as they walked home.







“Tt strengthens one up a bit, it do,” agreed her companion.

“Tl try my best to be round for the seven o'clock service in the

mi ”
morning.
AND OTHER STORIES. 65



‘Seven o'clock in the morning!” said Emmy to herself. ‘I'll best
be here soon after six.”

Christmas morning was very cold. There was some frozen snow
lying hard and still white in the streets, and there was moonlight, pale
and clear. So it was light enough for one of the Sisters, entering the
church betimes, to distinguish a little figure curled up darkly in the porch.
A thrill of fear ran through her fora moment. Supposing it were some
poor child turned out by a drunken father, as sometimes happened, frozen
to death this bitter night ? But no—the small creature started to its feet.

“Ts it He? Has Jesus come?” she exclaimed. “Oh! do let me
speak to Him first.”

“My child!” exclaimed the sister, “what is it? Have you been
dreaming ? Why, it is little Emmy Day. Have you been here all
night ?”

“No, no,” Emmy replied, her teeth chattering with cold, and the
sob of a half-feared disappointment in her voice. “No, no; I slipped
out while mother and all was still asleep. I’m waiting to ask Him to
come to our Tiny ;” and she went on to tell what she had heard last
night, and what she had planned and hoped.

Her friend took her into her own room for a few minutes, and there
gently and tenderly explained to Emmy her sweet mistake. And though
her tears could not all at once be stopped, the little girl trotted back to
her mother with comfort in her heart, and strange and wonderful, yet

beautiful new thoughts in her mind.
660 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“He is always near, I can always pray to Him,” she whispered to
herself.

And her prayers were answered. ‘Tiny recovered, and thanks to the
kind Sisters, that Christmas Day was the beginning of better things for
the little family.


AND OTHER STORIES. 67



OLIVES TER A-PARTY.

AMMA,” said Olive one day, “ I want
to have a tea party.”
«Well, dear,’ mamma answered,
“T dare say it could be managed.
You must talk to Cara and Louie
about it, and settle whom you would
all like to ask.”
“No, no,” said Olive, “I don’t
mean that. I won't have my sisters,

mamma. They like to ask big ones,



and I want a party for my own self,
and no big ones. I want to fix everything myself, and I.won't have Cara
and Louie telling us what to eat at tea, and what games to play at. You
may tell aunty to ’avite them to her house that day, mamma, and let me
have my own party; else I won’t have it at all.”
Olive was eight. She was the youngest of three. It oftens
happens that the “youngest of three” fancies herself ‘put upon,”
especially when the two elders are very near of an age and together in

everything. But this sudden stand for independence was new in Olive.
68 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



Mamma looked at her curiously. Had some foolish person been putting:
nonsense in her little girl’s head ?

‘Cara and Louie are always kind to you about your little pleasures,
Olive,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand why you should all at once want.
to do without them.”

Olive wriggled. ‘“ But I do,” she said. “Lily Farquhar says her
big sisters spoil her parties so, and they call her and her friends ‘the. .
babies,’ and laugh at them.”

“Are you going to invite Lily to your party?” asked mamma.

“Yes, of course. She's my best friend, and she knows lots of
games.”

“Very well. Then fix your day and invite your friends, and I will
take care that your sisters don’t interfere.”

Olive looked very pleased. ‘I think next Wednesday would do,”
she said, “Tt’s our half-holiday, and if Cara will help me on Tuesday
evening I can get my lessons done, so that I needn’t do any on
Wednesday. It’s Zowéd to have to do lessons after a party,’ added
Olive, with a languid air.

But mamma took her up more sharply than she expected. ‘‘ Nay,
nay, Olive,” she said, ‘that won’t do. If your-sisters are to have none
of the pleasure of your party, you can’t expect them to take any trouble.
You must manage your lessons as best you can.”

Olive pouted, but did not dare to say anything. Truth to tell, her-

lessons at no time sat very heavily on her mind,
AND OTHER STORIES. 69



“Tt won't be my fault if I don’t do them on Wednesday,” she said
to herself. ‘It'll be Cara’s, and—and mamma’s—so I don’t care.”

She found the writing the invitations more trouble than she had
expected, and more than once did she wish she could have applied for
help to Louie, whose handwriting was so clear and pretty, and who

possessed such “ducky” little sheets of note-paper of all colours, with a



teapot and “come early” in one corner. Olive’s epistles were rather a
sight to be seen; nearly all of them were blotted, and the spelling of
some of her friends’ names was peculiar, to say the least. Still they did
their purpose, for in the course of the next day or two the little hostess
received answers, all accepting her “kind invitation,” except poor Amabel
Pryce, who had so bad a sore-throat that there was no chance of her
being able to go out by Wednesday. And in one note—from a little girl
called Maggie Vernon—was something which did not suit Olive’s present

frame of mind at all.
70 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“ Harriot and I,” wrote Maggie—Harriot was Maggie’s sister —
“will be so pleased to come. We love a party at your house, because
your big sisters are always so kind.”

Olive showed this to her adviser and confidante, Lily.

“Nonsense,” said Lily, ‘‘she only puts that in because she thinks it
looks polite. She's a goose, and so is Harriot ; they make such a fuss
about each other. They haven’t the least bit of independence. Well,
never mind. If they don't like your party, Olive, they needn’t come
again.”

Olive felt consoled. But still—in her heart of hearts there was
some misgiving. What should she do if they all wanted to play different
games ?—or if Bessy Grey tore her frock or spilt her tea and got one of
her crying fits, as happened sometimes, and there was no one—no Cara
or Louie to pet the nervous little girl into quiet and content again ?
What should she do, if——? But Lily did not leave her time to conjure
up any more misfortunes.

‘What are you in a brown study about, Olive?” she said. “You
are so stupid sometimes.”

To which Olive retorted sharply, and the friends ended their council
of war by a quarrel, which did not raise Olive’s spirits.

The great day came. Not very much had been said about it in the
family circle, naturally, for when one member of the family chooses to
“set up” for himself or herself, and keep all the rest ‘out of it,” there

cannot be as much pleasant talk as when everybody is joined together in
AND OTHER STORIES. 71





the interest and preparation. And Olive could not help a little sigh
when, just before her guests came, she was called down to the dining-
room to see the tea all set out. It did look so nice! Mamma had
ordered just the cakes and buns Olive liked, and there were two or three

pretty plants on the table, and everything was just perfect.



e
The sound of i
subdued cvying mm one cornevss

“T would have liked Cara and Louie to see it,” thought Olive.
“ They needn’t have gone out quite so early.”

But the sound of the front-door bell ringing made her start. She
ran off quickly to be ready in the school-room to receive her little friends.
There were six of them. Lily Farquhar, of course, first and foremost;
then Maggie and Harriot, Bessie Grey looking rather frightened and
very shy, and two little cousins, Mary and Augusta Meadowes, who lived

next door.
72 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



They all knew each other pretty well, so they were not very silent or
stiff. Still as Olive could not speak to everybody at once, and was very
anxious that no one should feel neglected, she was not sorry when the
.tea-bell rang. Lily was to pour out the chocolate, and Olive herself to
make the tea. It passed off pretty well, except for Lily’s spilling a good
deal, and Olive’s forgetting to put more water into the teapot, so that the
tea became dreadfully dark and strong. But the cakes were approved of,
and every one seemed content. Then came the great question of
“ What shall we play at?” Lily, who was clever at games, made herself
a sort of leader, but she was not sensible enough to fill the post well.
She was selfish and impatient, and being only a little girl herself, the
others did not care “to be ordered about by her.” Then Bessie Grey
got knocked down at Blind Man’s Buff, and of course she began to cry,
and to say she wouldn’t play any more if they were so rough. Maggie
Vernon tried to soothe her, but Bessie pushed her away saying she didn’t
“understand,” she wanted her mother, or next best, Cara or Louie, who
were always “so kind.” And the little Meadowes, being themselves but
very small people, looked as if they were going to cry too; declaring
that they would rather not play at all if they needed to run about so very
fast. So Blind Man’s Buff was given up and something quieter tried—
Dumb Crambo, I think. But it was not very successful either, the little
Meadowes needed so much “explaining,” which no one was patient
enough, or perhaps wise enough, to give clearly. And Lily insisted on

being first always, and there was no one in authority to keep her “in her
AND OTHER STORIES. 73

place,” where, when she really felt she mus¢ stay. there, she could be a
pleasant and bright little girl So game after game came to a bad end,
and as the children grew tired and their spirits went down, things grew
worse and worse, till at last—no, 1 can best describe it by telling what
mamma saw—when feeling rather anxious as to the results of Olive’s fit
of independence, she put her head in at the school-room door an hour or
_ two after tea.

There was silence in the room except for the sound of subdued
‘crying in one corner, which came, not from Bessie Grey—that would
not have been surprising—but from the smallest Meadowes child, who
had torn her frock and refused to listen to comfort from either her
sister or Maggie. Harriot stood close by, and ran forward as the
door opened. 7

“Oh, has our nurse come ?” she said eagerly. ‘She’s so kind, I’m
sure she'd mend Gussie’s frock, and then her nee wouldn’t scold.”

“ Our nurse isn’t cross really,” said Mary. “It’s only that Gussie’s —
silly. I think she’s too little to come to a party.”

»

Then catching sight of “mamma” the little girl grew red, and all
the others looked frightened--such of them as saw mamma, that is to
- say. For Bessie Grey, after a long fit of sobbing, had fallen asleep on
the floor, poor child, and—what ao you think Olive and Lily were doing ?
Each with a story-book in her hand, they were comfortably reading at
different corners of the room, heedless of the other children’s dullness

and tiredness.
74, THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“T want to go home,” wailed Gussie. On which Bessie suddenly
awoke, and began to cry again.

‘‘ Please, Gussie zs rather tired,” said the motherly little Mary. “Do

you think we might go home without waiting for nurse, as it’s so near ?”



“And might we be getting our



things on too?” said Maggie and
Harriot.

Poor Mamma! She could scarcely speak, so ashamed did she feel.

“ Olive /” she exclaimed. How Olive and Lily too didjump! “Is_
this the way you take care of your guests ?”

“ They were so stupid,” murmured Olive. “And Lily would be

leader, and she was so cross. I thought it was best to leave off

playing.”
AND OTHER STORIES. 75.



““Come, my poor dear children,’ said mamma, turning to the five
little girls. ‘Don’t cry, Bessie dear, or you either, Gussie. We'll get
your frock mended in a minute, and Cara and Louie will give you a nice
game of musical chairs in the drawing-room to cheer you up before you go
home. There is some fruit waiting for you too.”

She marshalled them all off, smiles and chatter soon replacing the
tears and yawns. Mamma stopped at the doorway.

‘‘Miss Lily Farquhar,” she said, quietly, “you had best remain here
and enjoy your book till you are sent for.”

To Olive she said not one word. But it was a very humble and
penitent little girl who came that evening to tell her mother and sisters
how sorry she was, and ow foolish and selfish and ungrateful she now
saw that she had been.

If Olive ever gives another tea-party I think the fst guests she

invites will be her kind big sisters, Cara and Louie.


76 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



A LIVE DUMMY.

HE Merediths were spending the autumn on the French coast, at a
sea-bathing place called Sablons-sur-mer. It is a nice bright little
place. I am afraid the inhabitants would be offended if they heard it
called “little,” for they think it a very important town? It consists of
‘two long streets—one facing the sea, one inland, where the shops and the
houses of the people who live there all the year round, are. And
between these two streets run smaller ones—so small that they are more
passage-ways than streets. The most imposing one is called an
. “arcade”; in it are the best shops, a bazaar of all sorts of fancy things
to delight children’s eyes, from tin buckets and spades to dig with in the
sands, to rocking-horses, though not of a very expensive kind. At one
‘corner of this arcade is a large, ready-made tailor’s establishment ; this
‘shop, for reasons I will explain to you, divided the children’s attention
‘with the bazaar.
There were ever so many Merediths; three girls and two boys and
‘a couple of cousins. The Sablons people are accustomed to English
visitors, so the sight of this band of children was not startling to them;

and the little messceurs, and the jeunes mees, soon had several friends in
AND OTHER STORIES. IT

the place, whom they never passed without a friendly nod and a don jour
or Jon soir, as the case might be.

The cousins I have mentioned were not with the Merediths on their:
first arrival. There had been some doubt of finding a house large.
enough to take the whole party in, so Bessie and Hugh had waited at.
their own home in the country in England in a state of frantic anxiety,
till one fine day came a letter from their aunt with the delightful news.
that the children might be despatched as soon as they could be got
ready. |

Bessie and Hugh had never paid a visit to France before; so the two. .
new-comers had plenty of ‘‘guides” to explain everything to them, and

)

show them the ‘‘ lions” of Sablons-sur-mer. Only one condition was. .
made by Lilian, the eldest and nearly “grown up” Meredith girl. Bessie. -
and Hugh mzs¢ manage not to seem like English tourists “ gaping about
with guide-books in their hands, and looking as if they had never been
out of an English country village.”

“ But we scarcely ever have been,” said Bessie ; “at least, only when.
we go to grandmamma’s at Cheltenham, and Hugh was once three days.
in London.”

“ That doesn’t matter,” said Miss Meredith; “ you needn't look like
some of the English people one sees over here: I feel quite ashamed
sometimes to own them for my country people.”

Bessie was too much in awe of her big cousin to ask her to explain

more exactly what it was she was not to do, or to “look.” But she.
78 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



resolved to herself to be on her very best behaviour, and Madge and
Letty assured her it would be “all right ’—she needn't talk French when
there was any one who “mattered” to hear, and she needn’t seem as if
things were strange to her, that was what Lilian minded.

“Mayn't I look in at the shop-
windows, even ?” asked Bessie, rather
dolefully. :

Shop-windows were very delight-
ful and charming to the little country
cousin.

“Of course you may. Every
body does,” said Letty; “especially
at the bazaar. It’s not windows; it’s
all open, you know, like stalls at a
market,” explained Madge; “it’s a
regular bazaar. Not look at it!—

why it’s ade to be looked at. And



The Arcaoe.

Wa

oh; Bessie,” Letty went on again,
“you wll be amused at the big tailor’s, or ready-made clothier’s, as
mamma calls it, at the corner of the arcade. It’s something like
Madame Tussaud’s—such a lot of wax dummies at the door. And they
change their clothes every few days. Some of them are quite big, like
men; and some little boys. They’ve got one now which they ¢hzv& is

dressed like an English sailor-suit boy—you never saw such a costume!
AND OTHER STORIES. 70

And there’s a man in a red coat—our boys say he is meant to be an
English ‘ milord’ dressed for ‘the hunt.’”

When Bessie saw the bazaar she was as full of admiration of it as
even Madge and Letty could desire, especially of the big tailor’s.
There was a brilliant show of i
figures, from the little wax boy |
in imaginary English sailor cos-
tume, to a moustached gentleman
elaborately got up in evening suit,
white tie and all.

“Oh, how funny they are!”
Bessie exclaimed. ‘But I don’t
see the one in the red coat.”

“He's not there to-day,”
said Madge. ‘‘ Perhaps we'll
see him again to-morrow, in
something different.”

“Tt must be great fun dress-
ing, and undressing them,” said

Bessie. ‘“ Do they change them



nearly every day?”
‘Oh no, not so often as that. But we watch them always, to see.”
But for the next two or three days there was no change. Bessie

looked in vain for the red-coated one she was so curious to see.
80 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



Now I must tell you that there was sometimes a regiment, or part of
a regiment, at Sablons. They came for rifle-practice on the sands; and
there was always a great excitement when a new detachment came in.
And a few days after Bessie and Hugh made their appearance, the town
was awakened early one morning by the tramp of a number of red-coats,
3 who had marched over from an inland town,
where there were large barracks. Next.
day on their way home, as usual, from their
morning bath, the little girls passed through.
the arcade. Madge and Letty did not give
the dummies more than a passing glance,
till suddenly they noticed that Bessie had
stayed behind.

“There she is,” said Letty ; “ she’s star-
ing at the figures. Why—is that—?” and

she hesitated.



There she was, sure enough—Bessie,
that is to say—standing in front of a tall figure, a red-coated one in
all the glory of a scarlet uniform, and with several medals on the
right breast, which the little girl on her tip-toes was reaching. up to and
examining, one after another, with great interest. Letty and Madge
drew near and looked at her with a curious misgiving. She glanced round.

“Letty, Madge,” she said, ‘““do come here and look at this new

dummy. It’s got a lot of medals, and—-—”
AND OTHER STORIES. 8x

She stopped with a little shriek. The “new dummy” had suddenly
raised its right arm, saluting Bessie with military precision as it stepped
slightly to one side, with the words—

“A votre service, Mademorselle.”

“Oh, oh!” gasped Bessie. “It’s alive—it's—it’s a man, a living
soldier.”

And so the supposed dummy was! A young officer, who, happen-
ing like the children themselves to be standing in front of the tailor’s
staring at the figures, had actually been mistaken by Bessie for one of
the waxen group. He had entered into the joke, and remained perfectly
motionless while the little girl made her investigation, doubtless
explaining all to himself by the fact of her being a yewne mees—one of
that extraordinary English nation of whom it is impossible to say what
they won't do next.

Oh, how ashamed Bessie was! How scarlet grew Letty and |
Madge! But there was nothing to be done. The officer had already
disappeared at the other end of the arcade with a second friendly and
smiling though respectful salute.

One thought struck the three children—Susanne, the maid, was
fortunately a little in advance and had not seen the strange mistake.

“ Don't let’s tell Lilian,” they said. ‘“ She'd never get over it, she
really wouldn't.” ,

But mother—aunty as she was to Bessie—was told, and comforted

the mortified and shamefaced little girl as well as she could.
G
Ba LE MAN WITH RHE. PANSPIPES



“ After all,” she said, “it was nothing naughty; Bessie had not
meant to be rude; and she was quite sure the officer had not thought her
SOs.

Nor had he. But it was a very amusing story to relate; and if
Bessie had been within hearing of him when he told it to his brother-

officers, I think she cow/d not but have joined in their laughter.



Oh, Ok! Tte

Akiveil
tal
AND OTHER STORIES. 83





: ON’T forget to give Theresa the pound from mamma,” said

Mabel, as she kissed her cousin Eleanor one afternoon when
saying good-bye. ‘‘I must be quick; it’s getting quite dark, and I was
to be home early. Come along, Fred.”

“You're sure you've got the pound, are you, Nelly?” asked Fred

mischievously. ‘“ Mamma told Mabel about it ever so many times.

She’s so famous at remembering things herself, I like hearing her tell you
not to forget.”

Eleanor put her hand into her pocket.

“T think I’ve got it,” she said; “I remember it was wrapped in a
piece of blue paper, wasn’t it? You gave it me just before we sat down
to play our duet, and I was to say it was for aunt’s subscription to—to—
oh dear, I’ve forgotten,” and she stood there in the hall, where she had
come down to see the last of her visitors, looking the picture of

perplexity.
84 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“Oh, you silly girl!” said Mabel, impatiently. “It is mamma's
subscription to Theresa’s Christmas dinners’ card. There now, don't you
remember? You are so dreadfully absent, Eleanor!”

“| remember now—oh yes, of course. I won't forget again,” said

the girl; “little” girl one could scarcely call her, for though she was only



_\\
ee

}

d M | nN

|
thirteen she was as tall as her elder sister of eighteen. “Good-night









/

again, Mabel. I must be quick, for I have to write to Charley before
dinner. You know I dine late just now during the holidays,” she added
proudly.

“But the pound—the pound itself—have you got it?” repeated
Fred. :

Again went Eleanor’s hand to her pocket.
AND OTHER STORIES. 85

“Oh dear, I forgot I was feeling for the pound,” she exclaimed.

“Yes, here itis! Ill give it to Theresa quite rightly, you'll see.”

Eleanor hurried away to write her letter to Charley, for to-morrow

would be Indian mail-day, and she had put it off too late the week before.

“Now Imusé give the pound to Theresa
at once,” she said, again depositing it in her
pocket whenshe changed herdress for dinner.
Something or other put it out of her head
in the drawing-room—poor Eleanor’s head
was not a very secure place to keep any-
thing in for long! It was not till she and
her mother and Theresa and her seven-
teen-years’ old brother Mark were at table,
and half way through dinner, that the
unlucky coin again returned into her
memory. No thanks to her memory that
it did so! It, was only when she pulled
out her handkerchief that the little paper

packet came out with it and fell onto the floor.





for a course or Yuu the pouna uras sate

“ Oh,” said Eleanor, as she stooped to pick it up, “ what a good thing

I’ve remembered it! Here, Theresa, here’s a pound for you from aunty,

for your—for the—oh, what is it? Your subscription for Chistmas cards

—no, 1 mean your subscription-card for Christmas dinners

what it’s for.”

yes, that’s


86 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



“ All right,” said Theresa, quietly, “I understand. But I wish you
had given it me up-stairs, Nelly, I haven’t got a pocket in this thin skirt.
Never mind,” and she unwrapped it as she spoke, and placed it on the
table beside her.

“There now,” she said, “I can’t forget it. It is too conspicuous on
the white cloth.”

The sisters were sitting next each other; that is to say, Theresa was
at one end with Mark opposite, and their mother and Eleanor were at the
sides. The table was small, though large enough for a party of four.

Not long was the gold coin allowed to rest peacefully where Theresa
had placed it. Eleanor’s fingers soon picked it up. First she examined
it curiously by the light of the candle beside her, then when she had
satisfied herself as to its date and some other particulars, she took to
“spinning” it on the table. This was not very successful ; to spin a coin
well requires a hard surface for it to twirl on. Eleanor tried once or
twice, then ended by “spinning” the sovereign on to the floor. Down
she ducked to pick it up again, thereby attracting her mother’s notice.

“Nelly, my dear, what are you stooping down so awkwardly for?”
she said.

“ Oh,” said Theresa, “it is all that pound. Do leave it alone, child,
or it will be getting lost altogether,” and she took it out of her sister’s
hand and put it under her wine-glass. “ There,” she said, “don’t touch
it again.”

And for a course or two the pound was safe. But Theresa forgot
AND OTHER STORIES. 87





that wine-glasses are not a fixture ; after a while the table was cleared of
‘them and the crumbs brushed away for dessert. The shining sovereign
was again exposed to full view. Mother, Theresa, and Mark were
talking busily about something
interesting, Eleanor’s ears were
half-listening, but her restless
fingers were unoccupied. They
seized on the coin again, and a
new series of experiments with
it was the result, even though
she herself was but vaguely
conscious what she was about.
At last just as she had found a
new trick which amused the

babyish side of her brain



greatly, came a remark which Awe

thoroughly caught her attention. Process
: Into THE
SAID POckeT



“The day after to-morrow,
Nelly, don’t forget,” said The-
resa, ‘I’m going to have the
Leonards at afternoon tea.”

And the talk ran upon the Leonards, till they rose to go upstairs to
the drawing-room. Then came the exclamation from M@heresa.. <° Miy,

pound, Nelly, have you touched it? I put it under my wine-glass, but of
So = ‘ THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



»)

course I forgot—the wine-glasses were changed. Henry,” to the foot-
man, ‘didn’t you see it when you moved the glasses? It was there.”

Henry grew red and stared.

“Yes, ma’am, it was there. I saw it. I left it on the cloth.”

Eleanor stared too, though she did not grow red.

“Yes,” she said, “it was there. I took it up again, but I’m sure I
did nothing with it.”

Nevertheless a diving process into her pocket ensued—in vain; then
she got up and shook herself; then everybody began creeping and
crawling about on the floor—in vain; then Mark got down a candle
under the table, thereby, as it was in a high silver candle-stick, nearly
setting everything on fire; then—then—I need not describe the well-
known and most disagreeable experience of hunting for a lost object,

which of course
“ere it comes to light,

We seek in every corner but the right.”

On the whole poor Henry had the worst of it. He was told to
examine “my tray,” and to overhaul “ my pantry,” from top to bottom,
which he did with no result. I think he would gladly have gone down
the drain-pipe leading from “my sink,” if he could have got into it.

“It is an uncomfortable affair,” said Nelly’s mother gravely. “You
see the young man has so newly come.”

‘‘But, mother, I am save I saw it after the dessert was on the table,

and the servants out of the room,” said Eleanor eagerly.
AND OTHER STORIES. 8



“Then, my dear, where is it ?”

You can fancy what an unsettled, spoilt evening it was. The ladies.
went upstairs at last, but Mark would no: give in. He stayed in the:
‘dining-room by himself, searching like a detective. Suddenly there came
a shout of triumph.

“] have found it,” he called upstairs ; ‘‘it is all right, Nelly.”

So it was—and where do you think it was ?

I will help you to guess by telling you one circumstance. There:
had been zu¢s at dessert.

Well, what of that ?

The salt-cellars had been left on the table. And buried in one of
them, shining yellow and bright in the white powder, lay the coin! Was.
it not clever of Mark to have thought of it ?

“Oh yes,” said Eleanor, looking uncommonly ashamed of herself,
“‘T remember—I pressed it down on to the salt, and then I covered it up..
It looked so comfortable. Oh I am so sorry!”

See what comes of letting your fingers get into the way of “ tricks,”
and letting your wits go wool-gathering.

But poor Henry’s character was saved.


QO THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES





OSALIND and Pauline Wyvill were not twins, though at first

sight nearly every one thought they were. Rosy was eleven and

Paula only nine-and-a-half, but Paula was very tall for her age, and Rosy,

if anything, small for eleven, so they were almost exactly the same

height. And though Paula was much fairer than her sister, who had

brown hair and rather dark grey eyes, still there was a good deal of

likeness between them, and they were generally dressed exactly the same,
which made them seem still more like twins.

Their mother was particular about their dressing the same, but now

and then it was a little difficult to manage, for somehow Paula’s frocks

and hats and jackets generally got shabby long before Rosy’s, and if an
AND OTHER STORIES. gl



-accident—such as tearing or burning or staining—was to happen, it was
perfectly sure to come to Paula’s clothes, and not to her sister's. In such
cases, however, the misfortune had often to be endured, for their mother
could not of course afford to get new things every time Paula’s came to
grief, though now and then she had to get an extra frock or jacket of
some stronger or stouter material for the little girl to wear, if those the
same as her sister's had been spoilt past repair.

It came to pass, one Christmas holiday, that the two children were
invited to spend a week with an aunt by themselves. It was the first
visit they had ever paid on their own account, and they were both
pleased and excited about it.

This aunt was their father’s elder sister. She was very kind, but
not very much accustomed to young people, and in some of her ideas she
was perhaps extra particular and what people now-a-days call rather
“ old-fashioned.”

“You must show your aunt that I have taught you to be very neat
and tidy,” said their mother, a few days before the little girls were to go,
“for she is rather strict about such things; it may be a little difficult for
you, as you will have no maid of your own with you. Whatever you do,
be sure always to be dressed exactly alike, that is one of the things that
your aunt will notice the most.”

“Which of us must fix what we are to wear?” said Paula ;
'“ mayn’t we take it in turns ?”

“J don't think there should be any difficulty about it,” said their
92 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES





mother. ‘I should think it would be the nicest to consult together,

without any fixed rule.”

“Oh, I daresay it will be all right,” said Rosy, thinking to herself

that, as she was older than her sister, it would be only fair for her



The RonY
She was Very Kind bol’

tether’ old-fashioned .

generally to have the first choice.

“Do you think we shall have the:
same room, mamma ?”

“No,” their mother replied.) 7):
was forgetting to tell you that you
are to have two small separate:
rooms, as there will be other people
staying in the house, and the larger
rooms will be needed for them, so I

have told Ann to pack up your

\. things in two small boxes instead of

together, but remember you have.
everything exactly alike, so that there:
will be no excuse for your not

always being dressed the same. And,

Paula, I do hope you will manage not to spoil anything during these few

days.”

‘No; mamma, Lil try not:

Paula replied, but she spoke rather

absently, for she was not really attending to her mother’s last words.

‘What a lot of settling it will take, every time we dress,” she was
AND OTHER STORIES. 93





thinking to herself. “I hope we shan’t quarrel about it.” For it must
be owned that though Rosy was a very kind elder sister, she was some-
times rather masterful, and that, though Paula would give in readily
enough when spoken to gently, sze could sometimes be very obstinate,
if not taken exactly in the right way.

This is not a story, as you might



expect, of Paula’s misfortunes in the
way of accidents to her clothes during

their week’s visit. More by luck than



good management, probably, no very
important disaster of the kind occured,
and the first two or three days at their
aunt’s passed prosperously. Paula
gave in to Rosy’s wishes as to what

frocks they were to wear, and indeed



during the daytime there was not much Z
chance of difference of opinion, as, |

‘being winter, they had only two each, * eee ee
Sunday and every-day ones. But their kind mother had given them
some new and pretty evening dresses, prettier than they had ever had
before, and the little girls were very much pleased with them. Unluckily,
however, they had a disagreement of taste about them, Rosy preferring
the pink ones and Paula the blue.

On the third evening of their visit, an hour or so before it was time
94 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES



to dress, they began talking about what they should put on, for coming
into the drawing-room before dinner.

“Tt is the turn for our pink frocks to-night,” said Rosy, in the very
decided way that always rather roused Paula’s spirit of contradiction.
“ And I’m very glad of it, for I like them ever so much the best.”

“JT don't,” replied Paula, rather crossly, ‘I think the blues twenty
times prettier, and we never fixed that we were to wear them in turns.”

“Perhaps the blue suits you best,” said Rosy, “but the pink suits —
me; I heard somebody say so the night we came, and to-night is rather
particular, for you know it’s uncle’s birthday, and we are to go in to
dessert and sit up an hour later. It is only fair that I should have what
I like best, as I’m the eldest, besides it’s the turn of the pinks.” .

“ Nonsense about turns,” said Paula, more crossly than before, “ why
shouldn’t I look nice too, on uncle’s birthday? J/’@ wear the blue.”

“And I'll wear the pink,” said Rosy, with the most determined air.

d

“ You'll be punished for it if you do,” said Paula, ‘just think how:
vexed aunt will be if we're different, particularly to-night, when it is going
to be a regular dinner-party.”

“J shan’t be punished worse than you,” was Rosy’s reply, “and I
shan’t deserve it, and you will.”

It was not often the little sisters’ quarrels went so far as this.
Paula felt herself getting so angry that she was afraid what she mightn’t

be tempted to say next.

She ran out of the room, banging the door behind her I am afraid,
AND OTHER STORIES. 95

reerrnta or





|My DEAR CHILDREN, WHY ARE YOU NOT DRESSED ALIKE?”

and rushed upstairs, where she burst into tears; for anger makes children
cry quite as often as sorrow. But before she had been many minutes in
her own room, her tears grew gentler, for she was a kind-hearted and
loving little girl, and when she had bathed her face, to take away the
redness from her eyes, she ran downstairs again to look for Rosy and
make friends. But Rosy was not to be found anywhere—her aunt had
called her into the conservatory to help her with some flowers she was
arranging there, and after searching for her sister everywhere she could
think of, Paula had to go upstairs to dress, as the first gong sounded.
“As soon as I have done my hair, I'll run to Rosy’s room,” she

thought to herself, but then another idea struck her, she would give Rosy


“96 THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES.



-a pleasant surprise. ‘‘T’ll put on the pink frock without telling her,” she
thought, “she wzé2 be pleased when she sees me with it on.” And she
made haste with her dressing so that Rosy might find her already in the
drawing-room when she came down.

Thus it was that when Rosy, who was a little late of being ready,
looked into Paula’s room on her way downstairs, she found her sister
gone. And what do you think happened ? there was Paula smiling and
pleased in the fzxé frock, as Rosy, also smiling and pleased with herself, —
walked in in the d/ue /

But Aunt Margaret, when she caught sight of them, looked neither
-smiling nor pleased.

“ My dear children,” she said, in a tone of vexation, “why are you
not dressed alike? On your uncle’s birthday too.”

The little girls’ faces fell.

“Qh, auntie,” said Rosy, “it’s all my fault, but I meant to please
Paula, by putting on the blue.”

«And I meant to please Rosy,” said Paula, “by wearing the pink.”

And then the whole story was explained to their aunt, who could not
help smiling: at the odd result of their wish to make up their quarrel.

“Change your frocks,” she said, ‘‘ while we’re at dinner, so that you
may be the same at dessert, that will put it all right.”

She made rather a mistake, for of course only one frock needed to
be changed; which it was I cannot tell you. I only know that they
came into dessert and took their place one on each side of their uncle,

‘dressed alike—in blue ov pink !