Full text of "Letters Everywhere: Stories and Rhymes for Children"

See other formats

Google

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project

to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the

publisher to a library and finally to you.

Usage guidelines

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.

About Google Book Search

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web

at |http: //books .google .com/I

Ice's

UatvatO College Itbrarg

FROM

a,j>j.

^cAjt£.tAMU/i ,

LETTERS EVERVWKERE.

1. 10

LETTERS EVERYWHERE

STORIES AND RHYMES FOR CHILDREN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"THE DOVE, AND OTHER STORIES OF OLD,"

ETC. ETC.

WITH TWENTY-BIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY
THEOPHILE SCHULER.

LONDON : SEELEY, JACKSON, & HALLIDAY.
BOSTON : ROBERTS BROTHERS.

1869

^G^.^

UMl. U. Ivu y^dJlAU^CsJ

LONDON:

R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS,

BREAD STREET HILL.

CONTENTS.

PACK

ALFIE 2

ALFRED AND THE APPLE-TREES 3

BERTHA IN THE BEECH-WOOD lO

BERTHA AND HER BROTHERS II

CLIMBING AND CHIMING 22

COWARD OR NO COWARD 23

DISHONESTY . 32

DAN'S DISGRACE 33

EDDIE AND HIS BROTHERS 42

EARLWOOD FARM 43

FREDDY AND FANNY 52

FEAR, AND WHAT FOLLOWED 53

vi Contents.

FACX

GATHERING STICKS 62

GASPARD AND GUILLOT 63

HAPPY BIRDS 72

HARRY'S HOME Jl

ISABEL AND IDA 80

IDLE WORDS AND IDLE WISHES 8 1

JOSEPH'S WOOD-SLEDGE - 90

JEANNETTE AND JEANNOT 9 1

KASPER KELLER 96

KATHCHEN'S KITTEN 97

LOVING AND LAUGHING IO4

LOUIE AND LUCIE I05

MERRY ANd BUSY 112

MAMMA AND HER LITTLE MAIDH II3

NKDDV IN THK HNOW , I20

^K^^^S NOKTON 121

Contents. vii

PAGE

OCTOBER GALES 128

OSCAR O'BRIEN AND HIS SISTER 1 29

PLAYING AT THE SMITHY . I36

PRIDE AND THE PASCALS 137

QUINTIN AND HIS FISHING I44

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS HS

ROGUISH GRINDERS 1 52

A RUNAWAY RAMBLE 153

SUSY'S LETTER 162

THE SCHOOL TREAT . . . . 163

TURNING THE WINE-PRESS 1 68

TRYING TO HELP . . 169

UNA'S HOOD 174

UNKINDNESS I75

•

VENTURESOME TRAVELLERS 1 82

VINCENT VIVIAN 1 83

viii Contents.

PACE

WILLIE'S CARDS I90

WHAT FOR, AND WHY? I9I

XANTHIPPE THE SCOLD I96

XANTHIPPE, OR LONG WORDS I97

VOUNG FOLKS ANf* THE JUGGLER 202

VES OR NO? 203

ZOE IN THE ZEPHYR 2IO

ZACHARV'S WEE BAIRNS 2II

BABY IN HER GLORV 220

GOOD-BVE 221

LETTERS EVERYWHERE.

Do you think A B and C are only to be
found in books ? Did you never meet them
in the fields, and in the streets, and in the
houses ?

If you were asked to find something like
a round O, you would soon think of your
hoop; and you know you can make an
X by laying two sticks across each other.
But did you ever see great A riding on
a donkey, and curly S all made of
flowers ?

When you have looked at all these
pictures, you will be able to find letters
wherever you go.

ALFIE.

Alfie, little Alfic,

With the small, rough head.
Cheeks like rosy apples,

Oh, so round and red !

Alfie, mother's Alfie,

Best of all the set ;
Brothers' funny plajiihing,

Annie's little pet!

Alfie, merry Alfie,

Riding on the ass.
Picking up the apples,

Rolling on the grass.

Alfie, tired Alfie,

After fun and joy.
Fast asleep and dreaming,

•Little weary boy !

ALFRED AND THE APPLE-TREES.

" Alfie, I say, Alfie, come and have a ride
on the old ass ! WeVe going down to the
orchard to pick the apples ! " So shouted
Annie Arnold to her little brother. He
tumbled two little blind puppies out of his
pinafore on to the floor, and rolled over on
to his feet. Then he ran out into the
garden. Farmer Arnold used to say, " What
a funny little chap our Alfie is ! " I don't
think he was far wrong. Such a round boy
he was ! — round arms, round legs, a little
round back, and the roundest of round
faces ! How he used to laugh ! Ever since
that day when he laughed at his father out

B 2

j£r^r^ JEHU zrur •4f»Uf^T-«sL

of hii CTifciJi. mr^ ti^sxt^ i£frc xc die first

laughing. Arsi ibi!i io^r bi wv?dd tumble
about: He wvc:ii r, — S!g cct of bed,
tumble up-stiir^ r,:r::Kc iowT>$ci5jSy tumble
off die kiy-^Cicks^ run^cCe o^nsrr die gates,
tumble out of die cirs^ jltnI temble off the
horses* backs. Yet be xhraTs nunased to
escape broken bones> and tumble 2s he would
had alwavs a merrv lau^h altervrardsw His
big brothers used to call him '^'^^ FooriMJl.**
They kicked him about veiy roughly, but
he liked nothing better.

This time it was only Annie and the
yard-boy that were waiting for him. They
showed him at once his seat on old Anna's
t>ack. There were two baskets at her sides
frrt' the apples, A litde pair of steps was
fii^tcncd to these* The steps made an

Alfred and the Apple-Trees.

arch over the boy's head, as he sat astride
the ass, his feet coming over the animars
neck. Away they went along the road.
How Alfie shouted with glee a« the ladder
knocked against his head I How he chat-
tered to old Anna, stroking her long ears,
and trying to peep into her face !

I am afraid he did not do much work
when they got to the apple-trees. He
thought he was very busy. The brothers
were calling him all the morning. " Here,
Football, bring us a basket ! " " Alfie, my
lad, a hand this way ! '' Do you think his
little hand was of much use ? I fancy, do
you know, that in truth the great fellows
were so fond of thdr little pet, that they
liked to have him with them. Yet they
teased him well.

At one time he was up at the top of a

6 Alfred and the Apple-Trees.

tree all alone. Brother Ben would not help
him down, till Annie begged ever so hard
with the tears all ready to fall. Alfie did
not cry. He sat there, one arm round the
hpugh, munching away at his rosy apple.
Ben said he would leave him there, and the
birds would take his red cheeks for pretty
peaches, and come and eat them up ! I
half think Annie believed him, but the boy
only answered by his own merry laugh.

At last came the resting-time, when they
were all hot and tired. Then they made
Alfie a pillow for Will's great, heavy head.
He shouted and laughed and kicked, but a
strong arm held the little legs, and he could
nai move. A great struggle did it, how-
k'^ti y down went Will's head on the grass.
\h a moment the child was astride his
\^(ii\ii^i'^ chest, eating his bread and cheese.

Alfred and the Apple-Trees.

and taking many a sly bite from the green
apple*

" Alfie," said quiet Annie at last,
^' Mother won't like you to eat so many
apples, I'm sure. How many have you
had ? " " T'ree," said the boy, gravely.
" Oh, Alfie, that's not true, I know ! You
must have eaten six at least." " T'ree,
just t'ree, 'xactly," said the child again.
" Football, I fear you are a story-teller ! "
said Will, as if he were very grave. " Ben,
we must beat him, we must! " " If 'ou can,"
cried Alfie, starting up and darting ofF.
His tall brother was soon on his feet.
Away they went, in and out among the
trees. They shouted, and dodged, and
raced. Then Alfie was caught. He was
brought back, laughing and fighting, flung
over his brother's shoulder, his litde rough

8 Alfred and the Apple-Trees.

head hanging down, his feet in Will's hand.
What shall be done to him ? Shall they
leave him up in a high tree to scare away
little thieving boys ? How he laughs at the
idea ! No ; Will has another plan. He
carries him ofF, away from the trees. Then,
at the top of a grassy hill, he sets him rolling
down. Over and over and over he goes.
Faster and faster and faster he rolls. At
last, I think, he would have really tumbled
into the ditch at the bottom if a great foot
had not come in the way. At the same
moment a strong hand catches him up. He
never even looked at the long red scratch
6n his arm. Out of breath he was, but his
'Vnly cry was, " Do it again, do it again ! "

f?iTt there was other work to be done.
^ ^.^ 'hfr\t cart must be loaded with apples,
-^'C k,^:^r^ rniist draw it. They set to work

Alfred and the Apple-Trees.

in earnest. Yet now and then a shower of
little hard apples came down on Alfie's head.
How fast he caught them up and threw them
back I When all was done, they started for
home. How did the child get there ? Part
of the time on the ass's back. Once he
was in a sack, swung about between the
boys. When they got to the door, he
sprang from Ben's shoulder to his mother's
lap. There he hid his little hot face, and
his rough head, crying out all the time,
what " sp'endid fun " he had been having.

But before tea was over he had fallen
fast asleep. He lay curled up on the
hearth-rug, his head on his father's feet, his
little fat hands clasping them tightly. And,
as Ben said, he was smiling merrily even in
his sleep. So ended Alfie's day among the
Apple-trees.

BERTHA IN THE BEECH-WOOD.

Bertha and her brothers play

In the old Beech- wood,
Brittle branches gather they,

Fire's readiest food.

Bring the bundles, Billy, bring,

Withered sticks and dry.
Set the fire, clap and sing,

See it rising high !

Blow the blaze and jump and shout !

In the smoky air.
Quick short flames are darting out,

Children, oh ! beware !

BERTHA AND HER BROTHERS.

" But, Betty, you always say that, and I
never know what you mean ; you might
just as well tell me all about it, how little
Bertha got burnt and all the rest, and not
be so cross."

So said little Bertie to his young nurse
as she caught him up and carried him
off the hearth-rug with the usual cry,
"I declare. Master Bertie, if you doo*t get
all alight some day like our Bertha at home,
poor little dear, it will be a wonder,
that's all/'

" I wasn't doing any harm," he went
on ; ^^ I only just rolled up that bit of brown

12 Bertha and her Brothers.

paper, and it looks just like the thing
Brother Fred makes a smoke with in his
mouth. If you'd only let me light it, I
would blow it out at once, and you*d like
it very much then. It isn't any harm."

" Any harm indeed !" said Betty sharply ;
" no more it was of those boys to set our
Bertha burning, I suppose I But come,"
she added more gently, as she saw the little
boy rubbing his eyes, " you nestle down
here on my lap and I'll tell you all about
it, a nice story before Nursie comes home
and Baby I "

" Oh do, Betty," said the boy, and Betty

began :

" It was not long ago, only just before
1 came to be your nurse, when I was
at home in the winter. It was just after
Christmas, and our boys were not going to

Bertha and her Brothers. 13

school for a whole week. Mother and I
had enough to do to keep the house from
being turned out of windows."

'^ Why, Betty, they couldn't turn the
house out of windows, for the windows are
in the house."

" Yes, yes. Master Bertie, but that's how
the saying goes. Anyhow they went tramp,
tramping about enough to bring the floor in.
We were glad enough when they were out
of doors, playing about among the trees.
It's in a wood we live, and Father has to cut
the trees down. There are lots of them
lying about, great beech trees, ever so big.
Here and there they grow so close that it's
quite dark and gloomy. You would like to
go with me there some day and play hide-
and-seek, I know. Well, our little Bertha
was always after the boys ; Bob and she

14 Bertha and her Brothers,

couldn't be long apart, and go where they
would, she was sure to be trotting after
them. Mother didn't mind much, for she
thought the child could take care of herself.
But she had a lesson at last.'*

" Your mother had a lesson, Betty !
Why, my mamma doesn't learn lessons ; it's
only Charlie and Nellie that do that.
Charlie says /shall soon, but I don't want to."

" Not that kind of lesson. Master
Bertie I Mother learned not to trust the
boys, that's what I mean. It was very cold
that day, I know, and Mother put a warm
little coat on Bertha before she let her run
out after the others — Bob and the two
elder ones. Then Mother went to wash,
and I began to peel the potatoes for dinner.
I was busy, I remember, when Jack came in
and took two or three of the biggest in his

Bertha and her Brothers. 15

hands very slyly and ran off with them. I
called after him, but it wasn't any use ; so
I let him go, and went on peeling. I could
hear them outside playing with the red
leaves that made a kind of pretty carpet all
through the wood. You can't think how
pretty it is. Master Bertie — ^^all the red leaves
and the green moss and the ivy, and the
great blackbirds hopping about it all. After
a little tke boys went farther off. Once I
heard the little one half crying, and she said
she was cold, and wanted to come home.
And then Bobbie called out : ^ Never mind.
Bertha, we are going to get a lot of sticks,
and you'll be warm enough by and by ! '
I couldn't think what he meant, and even
when Bill came past the door with a great
bundle of sticks in his arms, I never thought
what they were about. They had gone

1 6 Bertha and her Brothers,

round to the back of the house, and I could
hear them talking very fast. Once I thought
the boys were fighting. But I was busy
thinking, wondering about the little children
I was to go and take care of soon, right away
in London. I was singing over all the litde
songs I thought I should want, and I never
dreamt what was coming. All of a sudden
I heard the boys shout out, * Hurrah !i
hurrah I ' and there was a great clapping of
hands. Then I could hear Bill's voice : ^

* Now for the praties.' "

" Praties ! what did he mean by

* praties?'" asked little Bertie eagerly.

" Oh, Master Bertie, don't you know ?
That's what boys like Bill call the potatoes
when they're at play. I found out after-
wards that they had made a little fire there
all among the logs, and that they were

Bertha and her Brothers. 17

trying to bake the potatoes that Bill had
taken. They Were very quiet then, as chil-
dren always aye when they are in mischief.
I almost forgot all about them. But all of
a sudden there came a great shriek that
seemed to go all through the woods, and
then a great cry of all the children at once.
I hadn't time to run out and see what was
the matter when Bob came rushing in,
shouting, * Mother, Mother, Bertha's all on
fire !' In another minute Mother was out,
and had caught the child, though she looked
like nothing but a bundle of flames, out of
Bill's arms. Quick as thought she turned
the washing-tub over upon her, there on the
brick-floor of the kitchen. In no time the'
flames were out, but the poor child lay quite
still; her screams had stopped almost at
once, and she seemed to have fainted away.

c '

1 8 Bertha and her Brothers,

Mother said a piece of the burning wood
must have fallen on her frock without their
seeing it, and scorched away till the wind
came and blew it all into a flame. Bill was
across the wood and down the hill to the
village for the doctor almost before we had
time to tell him to go. When Dr. Brown
came he shook his head, for the poor little
feet and arms and legs were terribly burnt
The little dear's screams were dreadful when
he dressed them. Bobbie couldn't stand it
anyhow ; he went and hid . away in the wood,
and we could not find him for ever so long."
But didn't Bertha ever get well any
more ?

" She didn't seem like it for days and
days. She just lay still and quiet when you
didn't touch her, and took no notice of
anything. Mother fretted and fretted, and

Bertha and her Brothers. 19

thought she was pining away. We couldn't
get as much as a look from her, but she just
kept her eyes shut ; or if she did open them,
they had a look in them as if she had
enough to think about in the pain. The
doctor said the burns were getting well
nicely, but he didn't know if she would ever
get over the ^ shock/ as he called it. At
last, one day when it was getting dark, and
we were watching her. Mother and I, by the
firelight — we had put her cot close down
by the side of the fire — Mother said to me all
of a sudden, ^ Betty, my dear, I wish you'd
try a-singing to her a bit ; maybe it would
rouse her up, do ye see!' And I tried,
though there did seem a lump in my throat
at first I sang the bits of songs I had
all ready for you, Master Bertie: ^The Little
Clock,' that you're so fond of, and the ^ Little

20 Btrtha and her Brothers.

Birds ' that were stolen, you know, and the
hymn, ^ Glory, glory/ She did not seem- to
care for any of them till I came to the one
you like best of all, about the ' Busy Bee.'
When I began to sing that she turned her
large eyes, that looked so sad, to my face;
and when I had done, she gave a great sigh,
and said, * Over 'gain/ The second time
there came the least little bit of a funny
smile over her face. When I had finished
she called softly, *• Mammy 1 ' And then
how Mother did cry and kiss her, and kiss
her and cry again 1 We gave her something
good to take, and then she went off to sleep.
When she woke up she was quite a difierent
child; and every day she got better and
better, till I came away to you here in
London. The boys will have it, it was
* Busy Bee' that made her well. Mother

Bertha and her Brothers. 21

shakes her head, and says they didn't deserve
to have her well again at all, but she is so glad
about it that she can't scold them much."

" And is she quite well again now*j^
Betty? "

" Mother writes in her letter to-day that
she is running about again, and that the
boys can't call her anything but ^ Busy
Bee.' Yet she is not half so strong or rosy
as she used to be. So that's what comes
of playing with the fire, you see, Master
Bertie!"

But Bertie did not seem to see it at all.
He had caught the sound of Nurse's voice
coming upstairs with Baby, and finding that
the story was done, he slipped off Betty's
lap, and ran away to meet her.

CLIMBING AND CHIMINa

Chime away ! chime away !

Set the old Bell swinging.
Send its music o'er the woods,

Ringing, sweetly ringing!

Gasp and cling! clasp and ding!

Spite the merry chiming.
Cool of head and calm of nerve

Need ye be in climbing!

Come away! come away!

Catch at beam and rafter.
Clambering thus is fearful chance,

Spite your careless laughter !

•":l

'V=.5=%^fe'. .iSBj; '■

=^^^

COWARD OR NO COWARD.

" Couldn't ! I couldnt do it ?"
" No, you couldn't, Charlie."
" I couldnt ! Do you mean what you

say ? Do you dare "

" Come, come, Charlie, you know you
couldn't ! " said Christie Campbell to his
young comrade as they walked home together
from school. They had just been talking,
boy-like, of all the grand feats they could
perform. They were rough, brave, fearless
fellows, both of them, with this difference,
Christie talked, and talked loudly, of what he
could do ; Charlie boasted of what he could
not do. In other words, Charlie thought his
powers much greater than they were. He

24 Coward or no Coward.

would say in an ofFhand, careless w^ay,
" Now, if I liked, I could swim across that
pond," everybody being quite sure that he
could do no such thing. This time his boast
had been that he would some day "climb
the church-tower, say * How do you do ? '
to the owls at the top, and take a look in
at the litde slits of windows and see if the
old bell was all right." He would soon
have forgotten all about it, if it had not been
for Christie's provoking, " Come, come,
Charlie ! " This chafed his proud spirit, and
he answered, tossing his head, " Oh, well,
doubt me if you will ! Anyhow, to-morrow
afternoon sees me looking at that bell, ay,
and sitting astride it too, if I'm not mistaken.
And what's more, Chris, if you were a lad
of courage, you'd be with me."

Courage ! That was hard to standi but

Coward or no Cowards 25

Christie only bit his lip and walked on.
The boys had their caps full of cherries, and
as they walked, they ate. For some minutes
nothing was said. It was a splendid after-
noon. Their way lay across a kind of waste
of heather and broom, dotted over with small
young firs. A little before them rose a hilly
wood, just beginning to take its autumn
colours, and at the edge of the wood was
seen a fine old church-tower, very ancient
in appearance, and thickly covered with ivy.
Nothing more was said of the great climbing
feat for a time. The cherries were eaten,
there was a long chase after a butterfly, and
at last the wood was passed, and the village
street came in sight. But first there was the
churchyard to cross, and for some time the
two boys stood looking up at the grand old
tower. Charlie pointed out the thick trunk

26 Coward or no Coward.

of the ivy, ** as strong as strong could be.**
He showed how thickly and closely it grew,
pointed out places of firm footing among
its knotted stems ; in fact, he declared the
whole thing mere "child's play," hardly
worth doing. However, he added in a
minute, " Oh, well, my lad, be a coward,
and leave the name and the fame to me."
This was enough. Before they parted at
the other gate, it was setded that they
should meet to-morrow after dinner and
spend their half-holiday in making " a name
and a fame" for themselves. And so Charlie
went home and boasted of what he was
going to do. His mother looked frightened,
but his father only laughed at the idea, and
nothing was said to stop him. The whole
thing was treated as a joke.

Christie felt very differently. He was

Coward or no Coward. 27

hot and uncomfortable as he went slowly
home. His grandmother was looking for
him. She had begun to get uneasy because
he was late. He sat on his stool by her, his
chin in his hands, very silently, as she stroked
his head and fondled him. ^^ God bless 'ee,
my dearie," she said, " what should I do
without 'ee then?" How guilty he felt !
The colour rushed into his face ; he had a
fight to keep the tears back. Was his
promise to Charlie right or wrong ? At last
he went up to bed. He stood for some time
looking out of his window. There lay the
quiet churchyard in the evening light, half
twilight, half moonlight. He thought he
could almost read the words on the slab of
wood along the grave under the wall :

" A faithful friend, a mother dear,
A loving wife, lies buried here."

28 Coward or no Coward.

And his thoughts went from the dear mother
there to the sailor father far away on the sea,
and back to the kind old granny, who
always called him her only comfort. Then
came the thought of a slip ! — a crash I — a
fearful death ! — Granny's tears. How he
shuddered ! But in a moment something
seemed to whisper "Coward!" in his ear.
Again he looked up at the grand old tower,
stretched his arms, seemed to feel his hold
on the ivy, fancied the bounding delight of
being up there indeed, and pulling himself
up to his full height, with a merry laugh, he
turned round and went to bed.

Once or twice that night he started, and
awoke with a cry. But the morrow came.
Lessons were over, and the school shut up.
Another hour, and from the cottages round
appeared the children, come out for their

Coward or no Coward. 29

afternoon's fun on the green. Then Charlie
and Christie met, three or four boys with
them to see the joke, as they thought it
Coats were thrown off, and away went the
boys. Hand over hand like a couple of
cats they climbed. In truth it was not hard
for such nimble young fellows, for the tower
was in many parts much fallen to pieces,
stones were out of their places and gave
good footing, nor was the height very great.
At last Charlie reached the narrow opening,
and Christie was only just behind. The boys
below set up a cheer, and rushed into the
porch to set the bells ringing. They looked
up, for the old porch had almost lost its
ceiling, and there were the two climbers !
They had squeezed themselves through
the slit in the tower, had clambered along the
beam to which the bell was fixed, and were,

3© Coward or no Coward.

indeed and in truth, astride the bell itself I
How hard they pulled, and what a fiinny
muffled sound rang over the woods ! It
didn't last long, for it brought the clerk
down quickly, and he, in a terrible voice,
ordered the children ofF, and shouted to the
climbers to come down,

Christie was not sorry. His heart was
beating fast, his head seemed to go round
as he looked down below. How he got
through to the air again, how by clinging
with hands and feet he reached the ground
in safety, he never knew. When he heard
the shouts of the children, and indeed of
many older than children, he did look up
and try to copy Charlie's offhand way. But
a whisper had come to him from a little girl :
" Your granny's so frightened ; she's dread-
fully bad." As soon as he could he broke

Coward or no Coward. 31

away from them all, and rushed home. He
hardly looked at the kind neighbour who
was chafing the poor trembling, wrinkled
hands. In a moment his face was hid in
his granny's lap. It was her own voice he
heard then : " Thank the Lord I It's my
laddie, my comfort ! He did keep ye then,
after all ! " And she told them that she
was quite well now, and bade them leave her
with her boy. But when Christie looked up
again and saw what that afternoon's trouble
had done, — how the dear, loving face had
grown ashy pale, and looked twenty years
older than it did in the morning, — oh, how
he felt ! All the evening he kept saying
over and over to himself, that, let who would
call him coward, he would leave this climbing
to other people, that he would !

DISHONESTY.

Doing mean, dishonest deeds,

Ever leads to sorrow;
Short the pleasure won to-day,

Dark disgrace to-morrow.

Down, then, little pilferers, down!

Trust not to deceiving.
Dream not there are none to see.

Or detect your thieving!

Doubt not, doubt not, little sins

Are but the beginning.
Darker deeds do follow fast,

Deeper sorrow bringing.

DAN'S DISGRACE.

Daniel Deane was a hard-working man, but
a very poor one. Things had long gone
hardly with him ; work on the land had been
scarce, and no other work could Deane do.
They had, as his wife said^ " a large little
family," which it was not easy to feed.
Deane had left his old master to seek higher
wages, and had come away into a county
where nobody knew him. He had an idea
that he should find better work there ; but
he was disappointed. A day now and then
was all the work he could get. So the
children's clothes got very ragged, their
schooling could not be paid for, and they

34 Dans Disgrace,

wcTc often very hungry. Then the mother
would be, as she said, " very down and low."
She lost her spirit, and began to think that
they should all go to ruin.

The little ones seeing this, soon under-
stood that she did not try to manage them,
and they grew very wild and rough. This
was a great trouble to poor Deane. He was
not quick to see a thing; there was not much
sharpness about him. But he knew right
from wrong ; he might, as he often said, go
down in the world, but do a mean, dishonest
deed he never would. So he watched his
boys, and grew very anxious about them.
And the more he saw them getting wild and
unruly, the more he turned to his youngest,
the little sickly boy of two years old, who
could but just say " Dada " to him as he
came home, tired and vexed, after a long

Dans Disgrace. 35

search for work. Poor little fellow ! they
watched him getting thinner and paler with
aching hearts, for what could they give him
to save the dear life that was fast slipping
away ? It was altogether a heavy weight of
care that was dragging the poor man almost
down to the ground.

It was a beautiful part of the country
that the Deanes had come to live in. High,
steep hills ran up into the clouds, the sun
shining hotly on their grassy sides. Streams
of clear water came dashing down among
the rocky cuttings, making sweet music as
they ran along. These streams were in some
parts turned to good use. They were drawn
into pipes and made to turn water-wheels.
One such water-mill was not far from the
poor cottage of the Deanes. It was the
boys' favourite place to play in. There was

D 2

28 Coward or no Coward.

And his thoughts went from the dear mother
there to the sailor father far away on the sea,
and back to the kind old granny, who
always called him her only comfort Then
came the thought of a slip I — a crash I — a
fearful death ! — Granny's tears. How he
shuddered I But in a moment something
seemed to whisper "Coward!" in his ear.
Again he looked up at the grand old tower,
stretched his arms, seemed to feel his hold
on the iwjy fancied the bounding delight of
being up there indeed, and pulling himself
up to his full height, with a merry laugh, he
turned round and went to bed.

Coward or no Coward, 29

afternoon's fun on the green. Then Charlie
and Christie met, three or four boys with
them to see the joke, as they thought it
Coats were thrown off, and away went the
boys. Hand over hand like a couple of
cats they climbed. In truth it was not hard
for such nimble young fellows, for the tower
was in many parts much fallen to pieces,
stones were out of their places and gave
good footing, nor was the height very great.
At last Charlie reached the narrow opening,
and Christie was only just behind. The boys
below set up a cheer, and rushed into the
porch to set the bells ringing. They looked
up, for the old porch had almost lost its
ceiling, and there were the two climbers I
They had squeezed themselves through
the slit in the tower, had clambered along the
beam to which the bell was fixed, and were,

30 Ccward or no Coward.

indeed and in truth, astride the bell itself!
How hard they pulled, and what a funny
muffled sound rang over the woods ! It
didn't last long, for it brought the clerk
down quickly, and he, in a terrible voice,
ordered the children off, and shouted to the
climbers to come down.

Coward or no Coward. 31

away from them all, and rushed home. He
hardly looked at the kind neighbour who
was chafing the poor trembling, wrinkled
hands. In a moment his face was hid in
his granny's lap- It was her own voice he
heard then : " Thank the Lord I It's my
laddie, my comfort ! He did keep ye then,
after all I " And she told them that she
was quite well now, and bade them leave her
with her boy. But when Christie looked up
again and saw what that afternoon's trouble
had done, — how the dear, loving face had
grown ashy pale, and looked twenty years
older than it did in the morning, — oh, how
he felt ! All the evening he kept saying
over and over to himself, that, let who would
call him coward, he would leave this climbing
to other people, that he would !

40 Dans Disgrace.

escaped the miller did not get off without
a good beating. Night fell upon the whole
family in a sad state, — the mother fretting,
the sick baby wailing, and the boys grumbling
in the corner. Almost before daylight there
was a cry in the cottage that little Davy was
dying. There was running hither and
thither, the children getting things for their
mother, while the father was gone for the
doctor. What a change his coming made I
The kindest of white-haired gentlemen, he
soon soothed the weary moaning, and cheered
the mother, and brightened up poor Deane
himself. Then hearing the baby's constant
cry of " Dan, b'other Dan," he turned on
his heel and left the cottage. The whole
family were gathered round a good breakfast
sent from the doctor's own kitchen, when
the door opened and his pleasant face ap-

Dans Disgrace. 41

peared. Just behind him, almost clinging
to his coat, was young Dan. Tired and pale
he looked indeed, but so grateful to his
friend, so glad to be home again, that no
one could do anything but welcome him.

A kind friend was the doctor to the
whole family from that time. Young Dan
Deane became his errand boy, and afterwards,
in good time, his coachman. But never did
he forget to his dying day the danger and
disgrace which had followed his first and
last deed of dishonesty.

KDDIK AND HIS BROTHERS.

Kddie and his brothers,

liagcr, happy boys,
A stable is their playground,

And horses are their toys.

laddie and his brothers,

Happy as the day,
Perched upon the crossbeams,

Iwer)' one at play.

luldie and his brothers,

See each curly head
Shaking with the laughter

That echoes thro' the shed !

EARLWOOD FARM.

" Elizabeth/' said Farmer Ellis to his trusty
old servant one evening, " I shall be away
all day to-morrow at the market ; you can
just give an eye to the boys, you know."
" Very well, sir," she answered ; and then
added, " You couldn't take, maybe, one of
them with you, sir, could you?" "No,"
he said very quickly ; and then, turning
on his heel with a laugh, "You seem
quite afraid of the youngsters, Elizabeth."
^^ Dearie me ! and so I be, sir ! There
never was such a set of madcaps on this
earth before, sir, never ! It's patch and
mend, patch and mend from morning to

44 Earlwood Farm.

night, and yet they're nought but beggars
to look at after all ! And as for broken
heads and broken knees, why, it's plaster
and bind from year's end to year's end!
What the lads'U come to one of these days
I don't know, that I don't." And, shaking
her head very gravely, the old woman went
off to comfort herself in her kitchen.

Very rough fellows the farmer's three boys
were, in truth. Ever since their mother's
death, long ago, they had been left to run
wild. Eddie and Edwy were twins of ten
years old, Edgar was two years younger.
They were all just of one height, and were
said to be never apart. Their father sent them
to the school three rriiles off in the village,
but I am afraid they were not often there.
Yet they did not venture in their father^s
sight in school hours, for his hand was

Earlwood Farm. 45

rough and heavy, and they did not care
to feel it. Folks said they were mostly to
be found playing in the woods, or dabbling
in the brook, when they ought to have been
at their books. The master would come
and talk to the farmer sometimes, but the
boys were sure to find out that he was
there, and then they took good care to
avoid their father until he had had time
to forget it all.

At this time the harvest was going on,
so the school was shut up for a week or
more. This poor Elizabeth knew to her
cost.

An old, rambling place was Earlwood
Farm; many a long, low room and dark
passage might you pass through from the
front door and porch to the kitchen garden.
There was the farmer's business-room, and

46 Earlwood Farm.

the farmer's dining-hall, where he sat and
smoked with his friends ; there was the great
brick-floored kitchen where the farming-men
came in to dinner ; there was Elizabeth's
own kitchen, and store-rooms, and empty
rooms many and large. But go where you
would, she would say, there were always
those boys, with their muddy feet, their
birds'-nests, their whips, and their rubbish I
And this was why the good woman got up
on this particular Friday morning with a
very long sigh and a very long face. To
have the young ones at home, and the
master away, and to be actually told to keep
an eye on them too !

Well, the farmer went ofF on his horse.
The boys came down to their breakfast, and
they ate as boys will eat of all the good
things on that true farmer's table. Then they

Earlwood ^Farm. 47

ran about, in and out, up and down,
shouting at the geese outside, teasing the
sober old tom-cat inside, till Elizabeth
turned them all out and locked all the doors.
And afterwards, when she did venture to
look after them, where should she find them
but leaning head-foremost over the roof of
the house, hunting for nests under the eaves !
How could such children escape broken
heads ?

Well, the morning past, the three young
Turks came in with torn clothes, rough
heads, and dirty hands, and sat down to
eat a huge dinner of eggs and bacon.
They had not been so engaged very long
when something was said about some new
eel-baskets which had just been put into
the river by a certain old fisherman, com-
monly called Daddy Enfield. " I vote

48 Earlwood Farm.

we go and see them 1 " cried Eddie, starting
up, and in a minute the eager, untamed
boys had flung away knives and forks and
were off. " Mind ye are back to tea,"
called Elizabeth after them, knowing that
they had two or three miles to go. " Never
fear," shouted Edwy, and away they went.

They reached the river, and amused
themselves for some time with their old
friend and his eel-baskets. Then they
wandered about, took off shoes and socks
and jackets and paddled about in the water,
pretending to catch the tempting little fish
that swam about round their feet. Sud-
denly they caught sight of some horses
belonging to an outlying farm of their
father's. These horses had been ploughing
all day, and now their work was done.
They had just been brought down to the

Earlwood Farm. 49

river to drink. The boys instantly resolved
that they would ride them back to their
stable. This they did. And while the
horseman gave the animals their hay and
fastened them up for the night, Eddie,
Edwy, and Edgar were climbing about in
the top of the barn. The old man, who
was very deaf and dull, never thought of
them again, but having done his work,
went out and fastened the stable-door.
" Heigh ho, here's a joke ! " cried Eddie,
when he discovered it. " What's to be
done now ? " They shouted, shook the
heavy door, and tried to discover some way
of escape, but in vain. Then they made up
their minds to make the best of it, and
amuse themselves till some one came to
look for them.

All this time Elizabeth had been en-

50 Earhvood Farm,

joying the quiet time at home. Except for
the cawing of the rooks, the cackling of the
fowls and the ducks, and other pleasant farm-
sounds, everything was still. But at last the
day began to get cool and shady, the kettle
was singing on the fire, the toast was made,
the cows had long been milked, — ^in short,
it was past tea-time. Many a look did the
old woman take down the road and up the
road, but time went on, the sun set, the
moon rose, and the boys did not come. At
last, trot, trot, trot, came the sound of the
farmer's returning horse. How Elizabeth
feared to tell him all she began to think
about his children ! But he met her fears
with a laugh, and sat down to supper aiid
a pipe before setting out to seek the run-
aways. What a hunt he had I Even his
merry face began to look grave as he turned

Earlwood Farm. 51

away from Daddy Enfield's, where he
had made sure of finding them, and looked
doubtfully up and down the river's banks.
It was as he was coming thoughtfully home
by way of the distant farm, that, passing the
horses' shed, he heard a certain well-known
boyish laugh. Stopping and looking in
at the little window, he saw them — how?
Just as you see them, little reader. Ytry
happy, very merry, very snug they looked.
And as their father let them out and drove
them home before him, it was with many a
laugh at the idea of " his young ponies," as
he called them, being so nicely locked up
out of mischief, just when he could not
look after them.

E 2

FREDDY AND FANNY.

Far from the city, from its fun and frolic,
Lived little Freddy in the pleasant farm,

In the quiet fields lived in happy freedom,
Free and merry laughter filling all the calm.

Far from the city, from its fret and flurry.
Lived busy Fanny in the pleasant farm,

Baking and brewing, keeping house for father,
Willing-hearted Fanny with her firm, strong arm.

Fondly they lived, the sister and the brother;

See them together, working at the farm,
Filling the cider-trough, crushing the apples,

Happy and careless, and fearing no alarm.

Fondly they lived, the sister and the brother,
Fondest of friends in the pleasant farm,

Fred helping Fanny, Fan watching Freddy,
Firmly and kindly fencing him from harm.

FEAR, AND WHAT FOLLOWED

" Funny little Freddy, what a boy he is for
his sister I One would almost fancy he
would like to be tied to her apron-string 1 "
That is what the neighbours used to say
when they saw the two together, — the two
solitary children at the Fairleigh Farm.
And when you came to look at the little
fellow, you could well understand it all.
Such a small child for his age, such little
white hands, fair skin, fair hair, and such
deep, loving, pitiful, blue eyes, you could
not by any means fancy him among rough
boys. Fanny was very fond of him, too,
her little motherless brother I In fact,

54 Fear^ and what followed.

those great dark eyes of hers never looked
so bright and happy as when she had time
to feast them on him.

Time ? Yes, Fanny had not much time
to spare. Young as she was, she ruled her
father's house, saw to the bread-making,
cheese-making, cider-making, and all. And
wherever she went, he was with her, — ^in
the dairy, the farm-yard, at the cider-press.
Her strong arms would lift him on to the
tall horse, that he might guide him as he
went round and round, turning the great
round stone that crushed the apples for the
cider. In the dairy she would not forget to
fill his little hands with the parings ofF the
new-made cheese, nor his little cup with
the fresh, new milk he liked so much. In
the farm-yard she would throw a large
handful of seed to his pretty fan-tail pigeons,

Fear^ and what followed. 55

even if the other birds had to go without.
When the cider was making, he had many
a taste of the nice juice crushed out of the
apples. Ah yes, there could be no doubt
that Fanny loved Freddy if she loved
nobody else I But then she could never
forget how nearly she had been called to
forfeit that dear little brother, and how
fearful the prospect had seemed at the time.
And this was how it all happened.

Freddy had always been a shy, timid
child. He feared his father because of his
loud voice and bearded face. He feared
the farm-men because of their rough ways.
But more than all, Freddy feared a lie. He
could not and would not utter a falsehood.
His firmness in this had nearly cost him
his life.

There was a village-green near Fairleigh

56 Feary and what folkwed.

Farm, on which the children had all their
Saturday afternoon fun. Now, among the
boys who played there, there was a tall,
merry fellow called Frank Freeman. He
had, as they say, a thoughtless head on his
shoulders, and he had not been as well
taught as little Freddy. So when it hap-
pened one afternoon that his foot-ball went
bouncing up too high and too far and
broke the school window, he thought of a
foolish, naughty plan for getting out of the
scrape.

" I say, you young Freddy ! *' he called,
and the boy went to him. " Here's a
sweetie for you, my boy, and FU give you
four or five more if you'll do me a favour."

" What do you want?" asked the child.

" Why, don't you see I've broken that
stupid old fan-light over there, and I shall

Feary and what followed. 57

get into a horrid scrape. Now, you're a
favourite with the master, you know, and
I'm not. I shall get into a nice mess, and
a hundred to one I shall be flogged if you
won't help me."

" Oh, I'll help you if I can, Frank,"
said Freddy ; " I'll go and beg ever so hard
for you."

" No, no, my fine fellow ! " said Frank,
" iVe begged off once or twice too often for
that ! You must go and say you're very
sorry, hut jou broke the window. He'll let
you off, a little chap like you, and you'll
have saved a fellow a flogging."

" Oh ! I can't tell a story, Frank — I
can't indeed !"

" You can't, my lad, you can't I What
if I say you shall ? What if I make
you

?''

5 8 Fear^ and what followed.

" You shall not make me," said the
child, drawing himself up. " I'll speak for
you if you like, but you shall not turn me
into a liar — no, nor anybody else."

'^ Ho, ho I that's it, is it ? A very nice
fellow is Mister Frederick, forsooth I Suppose
I flog you now, instead of the master
flogging me ? But stay, here's Farmer
Firth's dog running like a mad thing;
he'll just do for me. At him. Fury, at
him I "

Little, indeed, did the foolish boy know
the mischief his idle threat would do.
Freddy had once seen a mad dog, and he
had dreamt of him many a time since.
What if Frank were really setting such a
beast upon him I The frightful idea seized
him. Away he flew like an arrow in his
fear. On he rushed, never doubting that

Fear^ and what folloFwed. 5 9

the fierce animal was upon him, far down
the road, through the open tiirnpike, away,
away I Terror and fright gave wings to his
feet ; it was downhill, there was nothing to
stop him. On, on, on he flew, farther and
farther from home and shelter. One by one
the houses were left behind him. Still he
fled in an agony of fear. At last a gate
appeared before him. Hoping to escape his
supposed foe, he sprang at it, missed his
footing at the top, fell, and lay senseless on
the stones beyond. Poor little fellow I fright
and the fearful race had well-nigh killed him.
Who was it that came, out of breath,
panting and terrified, to raise him up and
lift him in his arms ? It was the angry boy
who had been so carelessly the cause of all.
Gently, tenderly he carried him home,
longing in vain for one word from the little

6o Fear^ and what followed.

pale lips, one look from under the white
eyelids that had fallen so heavily over the
blue eyes. Frightened indeed was poor
Fanny, as they brought him home and laid
him in his little bed. Very fond and tender
was her nursing through the long, doubtful
illness that followed, the long fever, and the
weary time of '* getting better" afterwards.
Yet scarcely less fond a nurse was the young
fellow so often watching by the bedside.
Poor Frank seemed as if he could never do
enough to make up for the mischief his
anger had done.

It was many a long, long week before the
little feet were heard in the farm-yard again,
or the merry laugh sounded from the horse's
back at the cider press. And when he could
run about again, and seemed fairly well, was
it any wonder that he loved to follow dear,

Fear^ and what followed. 6 1

watchful Fanny wherever she went, caring
not to join the rough village boys, but rather
findihg his fun and frolic where she could
find it with him ?

^ •"••^^•^•'- - ^— — ««

# •

«• - '--''^.■*- -'*-^»-' i'jT-V •-^v ^' 1

» *' • "J ▼"!

/: \r^/ic^^. hr^r.cr.t^ r.^rd to £nd:
y; ':;ty /r^y^- \kxn. the axe they seized
^ -t -A-^t brittle boughs they pleased,
7/K';ri i!I at or.ce, with gun in hand.
7 h^-y '/:': the forest- keeper stand I
'lO time for flight or vain excuse,
H'; \y'MV', no word, deals no abuse,
V':t v/ill not grudge one strong, green bough,
'I o give them what they merit now.

.■^. ^-5 '. >;

GASPARD AND GUILLOT.

" Go, Gaspard, go with your brother, and
mind you get me a great bundle of wood
before I see you again ! " This was said by
a good, hearty-looking Frenchwoman as she
called her boys from their play to do her
errand. Gaspard and Guillot were her
eldest boys. The eldest of seven children,
they were taught to share the work for
the little ones with their mother. Merry
active Guillot, nothing came amiss to him !
Minding Baby, washing little faces and
hands, sweeping the room, going mes-
sages, all was good fun to him. But
Gaspard — he was always dreaming. He

64 Caspar d and Guillot.

wanted to be a great man, he meant to be
a great man, he wished to get on in the
world. And this took a great deal of
thinking about. And so it was that he
would sit for hours, if you let him,
merely thinking. His elbows on his knees
and his chin in his hands, he sat now on
a stool just before the fire. Guillot was
there, cap in hand, waiting. " Go, Gaspard,"
repeated his mother, and in a few minutes
they were gone.

They went quickly, for the air was sharp
and the snow hard on the ground. Gaspard
told his brother, as he always did when
alone with him, all the strange thoughts in
his head. How he meant to get on at
school. He was at the top of the second
class already. How he meant to work and
work till he njade himself a great man*

Caspar d and Guillot. 65

And Guillot thought it all very grand, and

never doubted that it would come true.

All this time they were walking towards the

forest* It was a large one, and belonged to

a rich gentleman, M. Gr^goire. The boys

had leave to pick up as much wood as they

could find. But Gaspard had, as Guillot

said, " talked away the time," and before

they could gather a bundle it would be

dark. So after a little search, when no big

sticks would show themselves, they began to

get tired and cross. " I say, Gaspard, this

won't do," said Guillot ; " Mother wants

the sticks, and to-morrow's Christmas Day

and we must have a fire, and a good one

too. Nobody will ever see if we chop off a

bough or two." Now Gaspard knew this

was not right, but just then his thoughts

were out "wool-gathering," as Guillot

66 Gaspard and Guillot.

would say j so he did not stop to think,
but lent a hand, as Guillot wished, to hold
the tree. Guillot*s hatchet was in the air.
In a moment it had sounded through the
wood, when a voice was heard : " Ha !
young good-for-noughts, I have caught you,
have I?" It was Gustave, the new keeper,
a young man with great ideas of his duty.
Guillot cleared the bank at a bound, and was
off like a young gazelle. Gaspard was not
so fleet of foot, and the man's rough hand
was soon on his collar. Very quietly he
lifted him to the level ground, and picking
up a stout stick, gave him four or five smart
cuts on the back. Then taking up his gun
again from the snowy grass where it lay, he
said, " Now, young gentleman, you may go,
and do not let me see you at that game
again."

Gas par d and Guillot. 67

Gaspard went. Was this the end of all
his grand dreams? To be flogged by a
keeper indeed I He ground his teeth with
rage. Was not his father head-gardener at
the chateau? Shouldn't Gustave pay for it,
that was all ! So he went home, coming in
with a look that made the young ones sud-
denly silent, and Guillot stop in the middle
of his story. The grave, grim look of
" our gentleman," as the little toddling
boys had learnt to call their elder brother,
kept them all in awe that evening. The
next day was Christmas Day.

A good, honest, right-thinking man was
Gervais the gardener. He had heard of
his boy's trouble, and could see well enough
his galling sense of it. He did not fail to
notice how he passed the keeper at the
church gate that glorious Christmas morning,

F 2

68 Caspar d and Guillot.

with a proud scorn of his friendly greeting.
Yet he said nothing. Dinner was over,
the smoking soup was gone, the sweets and
fruits were gone, the orange-peel was
sending out a pleasant smell from among the
burning wood on the hearth ; — it was " all
gone ! " as little To to said, lifting up his
chubby hands with a sigh. The short day-
light was gone too, and they were sitting
chatting round the fire. " Grandfather," as
Guillot was playfully called from his love
for the little ones, was lying on the rug
with them all on the top of him. Father
was in his own arm-chair, and Mother
rocking Baby — the one girl — in her cradle.
Gaspard sat a little apart, looking gloomily
into the fire. It had not been a very happy
Christmas to him. That feeling of wounded
pride was hard to bear — harder than the

Gaupard and Guillot. 69

sdflhess that that heavy stick had left upon
him. He knew, too, that he was not doing
right when he helped to cut the wood.
Guilt made the pain greater. He was
wrong to be angry now, wrong every way.

Just as he was thinking thus his father
spoke, " Christmas time is a grand time,"
he said ; " giving and forgiving all the world
over I Do ye know, wife, it would go hard
with me now if I were not at peace with
everybody. It would be right grievous to
me if I thought I'd a grudge against any of
my neighbours this blessed night when we
mind us of the best of all gifts sent down
from heaven."

There wasn't much in the good man's
words, but they sank down into one young
heart.

Supper was over^ and Mother and Guillot

yo Caspar d and Guillot.

were gone upstairs to get the little ones to
bed, when Gaspard, getting his cap, went
softly out into the snowy night. Half an
hour after Gervais was quietly smoking his
pipe at his fireside, when a small hand was
laid on his shoulder and a boyish voice said
in his ear : " I've just been over to speak to
Mr. Gustave, father 1 '* The father turned
quickly round with a very bright, kind look,
and said heartily, " Glad to hear it, Gaspard,
my boy, right glad to hear it, that I am!
Depend upon it, lad, it's a true word that
says it's better to rule one's own spirit than
to take a city ! Go on this way and you'll
be a great man some of these days, never
you fear ! "

And Gaspard went up to bed that night
with real Christmas gladness in his young
heart.

Gaspard and Guillot. 71

The year that followed that Christmas
Day found Gustave and young Gaspard
becoming great friends. The boy was often
at the side of the keeper as he went his
rounds through the forest, carrying his gun
or telling him all his wonderful hopes for
the future. In fact, one might suppose
that their little quarrel on Christmas Eve
had been the very means of bringing them
to know each other.

HAPPY BIRDS.

Happily, happily, twitter and fly!
Beautiful swallow-bird, hovering nigh :

Ha! never fear,

Nobody here
Will harm thee, or hurt thee, my birdie so shy!

Happily, happily, twitter and sing!
Hither and thither and still on the wing,

Building a nest! ♦

Seeking a rest!
A home for the homeless, wee fluttering thing!

HARRV5 HOME.

Home ! what a strange, unknown word that
seems to little HaiTj Hill ! All his life long
he has been a lonely, hapless boy, wandering
about the great city all day, and sleeping at
night under some archway, with no one to
think about him or to care for him. And
now there has suddenly come to him a kind
old man, who calls himself his grandfather,
and has taken him to his home ! Sad as it
seems to say so, it was indeed a happy thing
for Harry when his wretched father died and
left his little boy to one who would take real
care of him. It was strange to the child to
leave all his haunts, all the courts and streets
he knew so well, and to set off on the long

74 Harry s Home.

coach-journey. Soon the houses were left
behind, and Harry's eyes had enough to do
to take in all the new things he saw. The
high hills, the trees, even the green fields,
were all strange and funny to him. He
would have laughed and , talked with all his
heart, but that he had a kind of dread of
the white-headed, grave old man by his side.

It was not till it was getting quite dark
that the coach rattled over the stones of the
little village where they were to stop. Harry
was tired and sleepy as they led him into his
grandfather's cottage. But he felt that there
was something home-like and pleasant about
it that he had never known before.

It did not take him long to get at home
with his cousins. He had soon taken the
measure of Hugh, and found that he had
more than his match in him. The girls.

Harry 5 Homt. 75

Hannah and Hattv, he did not take much
account of.

The next morning he awoke, feeling
strange in a real bed — ^a thing he hardly
remembered to have seen before. He heard
the children's voices under the window, and,
jumping into his few ragged clothes, he was
soon among them. There was Hugh kneel-
ing by the well, with something in his hands
that they were all looking at. It was a
baby-swallow that had fallen out of the nest
under the roof. Hannah was saying, as
Harry threw himself down on the bank to
look, " Grandfather says it's a good sign the
swallows coming back to our house. I
think it shows that they know what's good,
that's all ! "

" Ho, ho 1 " cried Hugh, " so you think
everybody that comes to our house must feel

76 Harry s Home.

at home there, do you ? What do you say
to that, youngster ? "

Hatty left Harry no time to answer, for
she cried, clapping her hands, ^^ Yes, yes !
Harry and the little swallow have come just
both at once, and well take care of them
both, won't we, Grandfather, and make them

both so happy they'll always want to come
back herel" And the little maiden ran
indoors very pleased at her own thought.

Harry followed slowly, feeling hot and
red all over. He did not like the idea of
being compared to the little outcast bird, nor
could he see why Hugh was to call him
" youngster." In fact, he was just going to
double up his fists and declare aloud that he
wouldn't stay there, he hated them all, that
he did 1 — when he caught sound of some
words which soothed him. " Hannah," said

Harry s Home. jj

little Hatty under her breath, " Harry isn't
much like our little pet swallow, is he ? He
is so rough and untidy. But, Hannah, what
pretty eyes he's got ! Do you know, I think
I shall like him if he likes me 1 "

It is funny what a little praise will do,
especially when it takes us by surprise.
Nobody had ever told Harry his eyes were
pretty, nobody had ever oiFered to like him.
It was quite a new idea, and rather nice,
Harry thought. After that day he was so
kind as to "like" Hatty, and they became
great friends.

Hugh and he did not get on so well.
Hugh was a tease. He would laugh at
Harry, and call him a little " cockney," till
Harry got into a great heat and hit him very
hard. Then Hugh would catch him by the
wrists and twist them round till tears came

78 Harry s Home.

into the dark, angry eyes. At last, however,
Hugh went away to be a sailor-boy on the sea.
By this time Harry had become quite at
home, and as happy as could be. To his
own delight his cheeks had got quite round
and red, so that nobody would ever guess
that he was not a country-boy. And before
Hugh left them, his mother had found out
that his little town cousin had many handy
ways that her village lad had not. As Harry
grew bigger and bigger it was a great plea-
sure to him to be a help to " the mother,"
as he always called her. Indeed, her own
children used to say they thought he had
more than his share of her. They did not
know quite what had so bound him to her :
how she had helped him at first in the hard
fight to break off the bad habits and wicked
words which his homeless, wretched infancy

Harry s Home. 79

had taught him. So he lived happily among
them until, like Hugh, he too went ofF to
make his way in the world.

Years passed away. Many changes had
taken place. The old house, however,
looked much the same, and the swallows twit-
tered about, building their nests under the
thatch as they used to do. Hatty, a fine,
healthy young woman, was watching them,
when she caught sight of a tall, handsome
soldier coming up the hill. It was Harry
back from the wars ! How they all wel-
comed him, and how happy they all were !

It was Harry who reminded Hatty that
spring evening of how she had proposed
years ago to make the swallows and a certain
little houseless boy so happy in their home
that they should always want to come back
again 1

HARRY'S HOME.

Home 1 what a strange, unknown word that
seems to little Har;-y Hill ! All his life long
he has been a lonely, hapless boy, wandering
about the great city all day, and sleeping at
night under some archway, with no one to
think about him or to care for him. And
now there has suddenly come to him a kind
old man, who calls himself his grandfather,
and has taken him to his home ! Sad as it
seems to say so, it was indeed a happy thing
for Harry when his wretched father died and
left his little boy to one who would take real
care of him. It was strange to the child to
leave all his haunts, all the courts and streets
he knew so well, and to set off on the long

74 Harry 5 Home.

coach-journey. Soon the houses were left
behind, and Harry's eyes had enough to do
to take in all the new things he saw. The
high hills, the trees, even the green £elds,
were all strange and funny to him. He
would have laughed and , talked with all his
heart, but that he had a kind of dread of
the white-headed, grave old man by his side.

It did not take him long to get at home
with his cousins. He had soon taken the
measure of Hugh, and found that he had
more than his match in him. The girls.

Harry s Home. 75

Hannah and Hatty, he did not take much
account of.

The next morning he awoke, feeling
strange in a real bed — a thing he hardly
remembered to have seen before. He heard
the children's voices under the window, and,
jumping into his few ragged clothes, he was
soon among them. There was Hugh kneel-
ing by the well, with something in his hands
that they were all looking at. It was a
baby-swallow that had fallen out of the nest
under the roof. Hannah was saying, as
Harry threw himself down on the bank to
look, " Grandfather says it's a good sign the
swallows coming back to our house. I
think it shows that they know what's good,
that's all ! "

" Ho, ho ! " cried Hugh, " so you think
everybody that comes to our house must feel

76 Harry s Home.

at home there, do you ? What do you say
to that, youngster ? ''

Hatty left Harry no time to answer, for
she cried, clapping her hands, ^^ Yes, yes !
Harry and the little swallow have come just
both at once, and we'll take care of them
both, won't we, Grandfather, and make them
both so happy they'll always want to come
back here!" And the little maiden ran
indoors very pleased at her own thought.

Harry followed slowly, feeling hot and
red all over. He did not like the idea of
being compared to the little outcast bird, nor
could he see why Hugh was to call him
" youngster/' In fact, he was just going to
double up his fists and declare aloud that he
wouldn't stay there, he hated them all, that
he did ! — when he caught sound of some
words which soothed him. " Hannah," said

Harry s Home. 77

It is funny what a little praise will do,
especially when it takes us by surprise.
Nobody had ever told Harry his eyes were
pretty, nobody had ever offered to like him.
It was quite a new idea, and rather nice,
Harry thought. After that day he was so
kind as to "like" Hatty, and they became
great friends.

78 Harry $ Home.

into the dark, angry eyes. At last, however,
Hugh went away to be a sailor-boy on the sea.
By this time Harry had become quite at
home, and as happy as could be. To his
own delight his cheeks had got quite round
and red, so that nobody would ever guess
that he was not a country-boy. And before
Hugh left them, his mother had found out
that his little town cousin had many handy
ways that her village lad had not. As Harry
grew bigger and bigger it was a great plea-
sure to him to be a help to " the mother/'
as he always called her. Indeed, her own
children used to say they thought he had
more than his share of her. They did not
know quite what had so bound him to her :
how she had helped him at first in the hard
fight to break off the bad habits and wicked
words which his homeless, wretched infancy

Harry s Home. 79

had taught him. So he lived happily among
them until, like Hugh, he too went ofF to
make his way in the world.

ISABEL AND IDA.

Ida, prying Ida,

Peeping, spying there,
On the ladder standing,

Silly child, beware !

Isabel and Ida

Leaving all their play,
Tempted, lightly tempted.

By the steps away!

Idle girls and foolish,
What is there to see ?

Trust me, some one finds them
Peeping curiously !

IDLE WORDS AND IDLE WISHES.

" Ida, Ida, what are you doing ? Aunt
Ingram said you were to be quick. We
haven't half filled our basket, and we must
get plenty of flowers, and it's ever so late !
Oh, Ida, do be quick!"

"I can't, Isabel; I like to lie here and
look up through the trees and be comfortable.
Never mind the flowers — come and have a
talk. I want to ask you something."

Isabel went slowly and unwillingly to
the great cedar-tree under which Ida was
lying. She was the elder of the two sisters,
yet she was always the one to give way.
On their voyage from India, Ida had been

82 Idle Words and Idle Wishes,

very ill, and, in consequence, very much
indulged. The three weeks in their grand-
father's house had not been long enough to
wear ofF the ill effects of this spoiling.

" Well, Ida, what do you want ?" asked
Isabel.

" Why, really I forget now,** said Ida,
yawning ; " my ideas never stay In my head
very long. I was going to ask you some-
thing, though. Oh, I know 1 I want to
know what Grandpapa meant by what he
said at breakfast this morning. You re-*
member he told Aunt Ingram to notice that
every sentence I uttered began wim the same
letter. You laughed, and I am sure you saw
what he meant, so you are to tell me,
Isabel.*'

" Why didn't you ask him himself?*
said Isabel, with a laugh.

Idle IVords and Idle Wishes. 83

" I did ; I teased him ever so long, but
hit only looked at me with that horrid
twinkle in his eye, and told me to find out
myself. I can't find out; it's too much
trouble to try. You must tell me, Isa ? "

" Who is it you think most about,
Ida ? "

" What a question, Isabel ! I don't
know ; I don't think much at all, it's too
much trouble."

" Who is it you try to please ? Whom
are you pleasing now, Ida ? "

" Just now, Isabel ? Oh, myself of
course ; I'm lying here on the grass to
make myself comfortable. The flowers may
pick themselves for all I care, and walk up
into Auntie's room too, if they feel inclined .
So Grandpapa meant that I always begin by
thinking about myself, did he ? He would

G 2

84 Idle Words and Idle Wishes.

say that every sentence I utter begins with
the letter ^ I,' would he ? I suppose he
thinks that I have no ideas beyond my own
ease. Indeed, he is very unkind to think
so. Oh dear me, I wish I was back in
India ! "

" That's an idle wish, Ida dear/*

" Idle ? Yes, of course it is ! Every-
thing I do is idle, and everything I don^t do
shows that I am idle. That's what you all
say. As for Nurse, let me do what I will, I
am always the ^ idlest young lady she ever
did see,' just because I don't like sewing and
stitching from morning to night."

"Ida, Ida, how can you talk so?" said
Isabel. " What has put you out to-day?**

" I don't know, I am sure ; I am in an
ill-temper, I do think. Here," she added,
springing to her feet, " let's have some fun

Idle fFords and Idle Wishes. 85

to forget it ; I'm a very bad girl, I do believe,
and perhaps people are right to call me idle
and selfish, after all."

They ran about on the grass for a little
while picking flowers for the vases, and
watching the blackbirds and thrushes dig-
ging up the worms with their beaks.
Suddenly Ida cried out : " Oh, Isabel,
only look 1 There are the steps put up
against the window of that room on
purpose, I do declare ! I do so want to see
into that room, because I know it is full of
old playthings of Aunt Ingram's that she is
going to show us. I have tried the door
ever so many times, but it's always locked.
It makes me so impatient, and Aunt is
always putting off. Now we'll have a peep ! "

" Oh, Ida, you oughtn't to ! " said
Isabel ; but as usual she gave way and

86 Idle Words and Idle Wishes.

followed her sister, even climbing the steps
at the same time.

They were both peeping in, holding on
by the ivy and each other, when a voice
underneath startled them. '* Ida and Isabel,"
called their grandfather. Oh, how ashamed
they felt I But he was a funny^^ kind old
man, and when they came down, all red
and confused, he ©nly pretended that he
was going to beat them with his great
walking-stick.

" What were you doing up there ? *' he
asked.

" I wanted to see what was inside," said
Ida, her pretty face getting fretful and cross,
" and the door is always locked."

" So you thought you would get in like
a thief, and steal the pleasure you could
not get fairly ?"

Idle Words and Idle Wishes. 87

" But I wanted so to see in 1 **
" / wanted to I Oh, little Ida, what a
hard master is self ! And what a lot of
trouble he will bring upon you, if you don't
break ofF his chains ! I — I — I \ that's the way
we go on ! / want, / must have, / w/7/ take j
that is the way all the thieves in the world
are made. Give it up, little woman, forget
this wretched self and be happy, — happy in
working and loving and thinking of others ! '*
And the kind old man, seeing the blue eyes
look very moist, added quickly : " But no
more lecturing now I Here we go I OfF
for a game of hide-and-seek in the shrub-
bery I And the little girl that finds Grand-
papa first may turn out his pockets and see
what little bits of silver are hidden away in
the corners of them ! "

JOSEPH'S WOOD-SLEDGE

Just when the sun is setting,

Setting in crimson glow,
I hear the young children playing

Joyously to and fro !

Just when the day is over,
The hours of labour done.

There cometh the sound of laughter.
Jesting and mirth and fun !

Just when the brave wood-cutter
Hath stored his logs away,

Round and about the wood-sledge
Methinketh I hear them play.

Just till the darkness falleth,
Just till the stars appear;

Then in the vast calm silence
Fade their young voices clear.

■^•^ . * .J

JEANNETTE AND JEANNOT.

" Just to sit and think of all the happy time
Jeannot and I had of it when we were young
ones like these ! Why, the very going over it
in one's mind seems to do one good," old
Jeannette used to say as she sat in the warm
corner in the wood-cutter's cottage.

And the little ones catching the smile
on the dear wrinkled face, would cluster
round her, asking, " What was it. Grand-
mother? what did you and Father Jeannot
do? Tell us all about it."

" Father Jeannot I Yes, you call him
Father Jeannot now, and his hair's a deal
whiter than mine, but then he's eighty-three,
and I'm only just turned eighty come St.

go yeannette and yeannot,

John*s Day. Yet it does not seem long,
my dears, since he was a curly-headed laddie
like litde Jacques there. Ah, then, how the
time goes, to be sure 1 "

And so the young ones would coax and
coax till they got the story they liked to
hear 5 of how, in the days of long ago,
Jeannette and Jeannot played and rambled
about among the great mountains and dark
woods, just as their grandchildren did now-
a-days.

It was a pretty home in which that boy
and girl lived those many years ago ; a home
among the high hills, with the woods of oak,
and fir and pine creeping down to the edge
of the noisy, rushing mountain-stream that
ran past their cottage-door. A tumble-
down place was this old cottage. From a
very broken chimney did the wreath of

yeannette and yeannot. 91

smoke go up among the tall trees, and the
keen mountain blasts found it very easy to
get through the walls and doors and windows
of the little house. But what did all this
matter to the . hardy wood-cutter's boy and
his little sister.

*^Jeannette," said he one early morning,
^^ I'm off to the woods to help Joseph Franz
with his sledge of logs down the mountain.
Are you coming too ? "

" Ay, to be sure,^' was the answer ; and
the scanty breakfast over, away they went.
Their little curly dog, Joujou, was at their
heels, of course, as they journeyed along
up the banks of the stream.

It was a long, long trudge, in many
places hard and stony. Far beyond and
above them stretched away the blue line of
mountains. But the sky was clear and the

92 Jeannette and Jeannot.

air fresh. The brave mountain-boy with his
rosy cheeks seemed not to know what it was
to tire, and hk sister was not far behind him*
Many a hard climb they had, holding on to
the roots and brushwood where they could
not find the path; many a slip and stumble
they got. Then came the fresh, glad feeling
when one high point was gained, and they
could look down on the valley below with a
joyous feeling of victory.

With all her heart Jeannette loved the
mountains, and often did she cry out, as slie
looked at the wide plains beneath, " Oh,
Jeannot, how could one ever live in those
flat, low places I Only look at those people
down there in the fields, how small they
look, and how slowly they move I Would
you ever leave our grand old rocks, or that
snug little cottage of ours, tucked away by

jfeannette and jfeannot. 93

the brook, half-way up, for the poor
wretched life down there ? "

But Jeannot shook his head . " It's all
very grand and fine up here," he said, " but
you'll not find me wasting my life perched
up like a bird in a tree. Til be down in the
great city one of these days, trust me, and
I'll come back and tell all the folks here
what I see. I shall have fine stories to tell
you then I "

But Jeannette hoped that time would be
far enough off. While her brother sat throw-
ing great stones down the mountain-side,
she was dreaming of the joyless life it would
be on the hills without him. But he started
up, and bade her join him in the farther
climb. And so, between playing and resting,
and climbing and talking, the great pine
forest was reached at last.

94 jfeannette and Jeannbt.

They soon heard the wood-cutter's axe*
Joujou set up a shrill bark and darted oiF.
They followed more slowly, and were soon
beside Franz and his.boyj

Joseph was a bigger boy than Jeannot,
and more used to hard work. His sledge
was half full already, and when they had all
rested a little, had drunk of the quiet, mossy
streamlet that ran under the dark trees, and
eaten heartily of what rough fare they had,
the young ones started down the descent.
There were many clumsily hewn steps in the
steep path^ and the sledge of wood was
cleverly guided by the young wood-cutter,
holding the curved handles and letting it slip
down behind him. On they jogged, a merry,
happy party. Many a shout of laughter
sounded through the mountain air. And
when at last level ground was reached, and

yeannette and "Jeannot. 95

the logs disposed of, they went into the
cottage, and did full justice to the good hot
soup that Jeannot's mother had prepared
for them.

Then came the game in the open air.
The empty sledge was turned on end, was
tumbled about, climbed over, and in every
way made to serve as a plaything. Jeannette
had many a ride in it, and the boys' strong
arms were always ready to help her. Was
it any wonder that the mountain maiden
found her free life a happy one, with few
troubles and many joys to look back upon ?
And then at the end of her long life she
could tell the little grandchildren around
her that she too had been merry with the
merriest, happy with the happiest.

KASPER KELLER.

Kasper Keller, Kasper Keller,
Toiling hard from dawn till night,

Clear Kirschwasser, cherry water,
He is making, pure and bright

Kasper Keller, Kasper Keller,

Kind and hearty, brave and strong,

He is working night and morning,
He is working all day long.

Kasper Keller, Kasper Keller,
In the mountains far away

Lies his home all dark and lonely.
Where the shadows ever play.

KATHCHEN'S KITTEN.

Kasper Keller's home was at the edge of
a dark wood among mountains. Wouldn't
you like to have seen it ? It was in a strange
place; dark rocks and deep black-looking
chasms were all around. The heavy thick
forest ran along the mountain side, stretching
upwards to the bleak heights that were at
last capped with snow.

The light of that dark home was little
Kathchen — a wee, black-eyed child of merry,
clinging nature. How her father delighted
in her ! He used to call her his " Katze,"
his "pussy-cat ;" and when evening came and
he could leave his work, he would sit and

98 Kathchens Kitten.

watch her and listen to her prattle and never
weary. Kathchen loved her father. She
had no mother, and the brisk, scolding
Karoline, who was so active and clever in
the little hut, was no companion to the
merry child. So Kasper could go nowhere
without his litde one. Whether he were
roaming the warm hill-sides and bright val-^
leys in the summer in search of the wild
black cherry for his work, or whether he
were at home in his dark sdU-room making
the strong Kirschwasser, or cherry-water
as you would call it, — wherever he was,
those litde pattering feet were sure to be
close behind him.

But I must tell you of Kathchen's other
friends, for she had others besides her father.
First after him in her heart came Karl, the
kind brother whose hand helped her so

Kathchens Kitten, 99

cleverly over the rocks and through the
thickets. How Kathchen delighted in the
very sight of that rough-looking mountain
boy, with his ragged coat, his long whip,
and his horn hanging at his side. But Karl
was not often at home. For months to-
gether he was away on the mountains far
out of reach with his cattle. Lonely enough
would the litde sister have been then if it
had not been for her other friend.

That darling, precious kitten ! ^ How
shall I make you understand what a sweet
litde friend that pussy was to Kathchen ?
That soft grey tabby coat, that dear little
pink nose, and the two loving eyes that
looked up into Kathchen's face and almost
seemed to laugh at the funny stories she was
telling him ! Pretty kitten, he was indeed
dear to his little loving mistress.

H 2

loo Kathchens Kitten,''

One day a great trouble came to the little
girl. She had gone a long . way up the
mountain-path to meet Karl. She had been
away many hours, and came racing back into
the kitchen calling eagerly for her kitty.
But no kitty was to be seen. In vain she
hunted and called with a great many tears
in her voice. Karoline could not or would
not tell her anything. Her father was out ;
gone out on business, they said. Poor
KathchenI very sadly she sat down by the
door on a tiny stool of her own, to keep watch
for the " king of cats," as she called him.
Sadly she remembered her last talk with pussy.
She had been feeling very angry with Karo-
line, who had scolded her for letting .the
kettle boil over, and she told puss that she
thought she should run away, and go to live up
in the hills with Karl. Had pussy taken her.

Kathchens Kitten. loi

at her word and gone to look for her ? No,
no, litde Kathchen ; the father Keller knows
better than that, and that is why he is gone
out of the way of his little girl. He cannot
bear to tell her that her pet, in his play, has
jumped into the tub of the still and been
drowned.

I am afraid there was something of a
kind deceit in the way Kasper told his
daughter that night that the dear kitten had
been playing quite happily with him not
long ago, and never told her how he and
Karoline had found him dead at the bottom
of the tub. Only he listened gravely as she
talked sadly about pussy's wanderings among
the hills, and wondered if Karl would find
him and be kind and good to him. There
was something almost like a tear in the brave
man's eye many a time in the days that fol-

102 Kathchen^s Kitten.

lowed, as he watched the child's quiet ways
and frequent sighs. Poor little Kathchen !
She was very lonely at first. Often and
often did she creep round the house calling
gently. Sometimes she would wander into
the dark wood, and, peeping about among
the trees, murmur to herself: "Tm almost
sure he'll come back soon; he won't forget
me, I know, and Karl will send him back if
he sees him. I hope he won't fall down the
great deep places. I hope he isn't hungry.
Oh, I hope, I hope, he'll come back soon ! "
But the "king of cats" never came back
any more ; of course he didn't ! And little
Kathchen got merry again, and though she
didn't forget him — ^you don't think she did,
surely — yet she had great fun with her father
watching him at work and helping him all
she could.

Kathchens Kitten. 103

One day as she was standing at the door,
she heard the sound of Karl's horn outside.
She ran eagerly out to meet him, half hoping
he had come to bring her kitten back. Ah,
no, nothing so happy as that. Yet, funnily
enough, Karl seemed to know all about her
trouble, and kind brother that he was, had
found out a way to comfort her.

There in his strong arms was the prettiest
little white kid that ever you did see. A
little blue collar was round his neck, and his
soft eyes almost reminded Kathchen of the
" king of cats'* himself. How she danced
about for joy, how she kissed and thanked
good Karl, how she loved her kid the first
moment she saw him, we mustn't stop to
tell you. You can fancy it all for yourselves.

LOVING AND LAUGHING.

Little laughing lassie,
Full of fun and glee,

Look at mother toiling,
Toiling hard for thee !

Little laughing lassie,
If thy life be bright,

'Tis because she toileth,
Toileth day and night

Little laughing lassie.
Light of heart and gay.

Love thy mother toiling,
Love her night and day !

^^^^^^W "^^^^PRk ^ ^^bam — U

KiKjl?!

pijjB^yLjj

PT^lMI

i\*^^^mB

"iSfrnJli^^^^B^^C^ ^^^H^Ml' 1

^t^SH^"^^

ilill

LOUIE AND LUCIE.

" Little one, little one, why those grave
looks?" said a gentle-looking lady to her
little girl one bright, sunny afternoon.

The child was sitting on a low stool by
her mother's side, her chubby face resting on
her hands, her large eyes fixed gravely on the
beautiful landscape beyond the open window.
A very pretty sight it was indeed, those lovely
hills, and the high blue mountains beyond
them; but little Louie had found a week
among the mountains long enough. The
little English girl had begun to think that tp
be at home in Papa's nice rectory was much

io6 Louie and Lucie.

better than to be even in such a beautiful
village among the French hills. She started
at her mother's question, and at the tap of
the loving fingers on her curly head. " Oh,
I don't know, Mamma! Only I wish we
could go home again. I wish Papa hadn't
been ill, Mamma, for I shall not ever like to
stay here, I know."

" Not ever, Louie ? Then you won't
be much like Mamma. Mamma likes to be
here very much indeed."

** Oh, Mamma, do you ? Don't you
want to see our dear Longlake again? I
think it is a much prettier village than
this old French place » And the people,
Mamma, and the flowers in our garden, and
Lion, dear old dog, and the church, and all
the school-children, and — and — all the rest,
Mamma ?" And little Louie's eyes almost

Ldmie and Lucie. 107

filled with tears at the thought of ^^ all
the rest." Mamma smiled at the fumiy
mixture.

** Why, Louie, what's the matter ?
Papa's little bright Lu-lu is quite dull
to-day ! ''

^^Oh, Mamma, the people here are so
stupid! When I was out to-day, I tried to
talk to some of the village children, just as I
should have at home. There is a little girl
who lives down the road, whose mother is
always washing in the brook close to the
little bridge. She has got such rough hair,
but her eyes look nice. Directly I asked her
what her name was she began to laugh, and
chattered that French stuff so fast I couldn't
make her out a bit. Mamma, why don't
any of the children talk English ? I did so
wish I could just meet Lucy Smith or Lottie

io8 Louie and Lucie.

Lewin, or even Sally Collins. It would be
so nice to see some of them again."

"Well, Louie dear, it will be nice when
we see them all again. But you and I must
try if we can't make friends with some of
the little French girls and boys. I know
the little girl you mean. Her mother works
very hard indeed, and she and I are great
friends and have done a great lot of talking
together. I think I will ask the two chil-
dren to come here some afternoon, and we
will see if we can give them a little hot
soup ; they don't often get a good meal at
home. I believe there were some kind
English people here before in this house who
took notice of them. So you will fiiid
that Lucie can understand a word or two
of English."

" Oh, Mamma, that will be fun !

Louie and Lucie. 109

Ask Ker to come to-morrow, won't you,
dear Mamma ?"

So it was all settled. The poor
mother was working hard, washing away at
the little brook, while Lucie — that funny,
laughing, chattering girl — played see-saw on
the plank over the bridge, when the message
came, summoning the children up to the
English pastor's house.

It was funny to see the two children
together. As Mrs. Langley said, Lucie could
speak a word or two of English, but little
Louie knew nothing at all of the " French
stuff," as she called it. She was a quiet
little pussy herself, and she could not at all
understand Lucie's peals of laughter, and
lively, quick way of moving about. Lucie
seemed to be always making jokes, and play-
ing funny tricks. Louie thought she should

no Louie and Lucie.

like little Lili much better — z, pale, sickly-
looking child in a large hood* They both
ate their soup, as Louie said, " as if they
liked it." Louie and her nurse walked home
with them afterwards ; and the little French
girl showed them many fine flowers on the
way. Louie ran in, on her return, crying out
to her Mamma to look what she had got.

Mrs. Langley looked up and admired
as much as ever little Louie wished. ^* So
you got on very well with Lucie ? "

^* Oh yes. Mamma, she is so funny I I
like her very much. Only she says ^ dis'
and ^ dat' so oddly, and every now and
then out comes a lot of French stuff/'

** Well, Louie, I think she is a good
little maiden, and they are such nice
respectable people, I hear, that you may go
and talk to her just as you would to the
little Lewins at the glebe at home."

Louie and Lucie. in

And so it came to pass that the French
peasant-child was constantly seen following
the little lady about, bringing her beautiful
flowers, and learning, I fancy, many an easy
Bible story from the English pastor's child.
And when the time came for Louie to say
good-bye to the blue mountains, it was with
a heavy sigh she said, " Well, it will be very
nice to see dear Longlake again, and the
flowers at home, and Lion, and the rest, but
I do wish Lucie could come too. I can
understand all she says now. Mamma, and
she does love me very much, she says. I
shall come back some day, I know, if it
isn't till I'm a grown-up lady. And I shall
not ever forget you, Lucie, not ever, ever
at all ! "

MERRY AND BUSY.

Merry it is in this sunny bright weather,

Thus knitting and chatting and laughing away.

While sweet overhead sing the blackbirds and thrushes,
Bidding farewell to the warm, merry day.

Merry it is, as the needles fly sparkling.
To laugh and to chatter beneath the green trees,

Making bright plans for the mom and the morrow,
While to-da/s task is finished in comfort and

MAMMA AND HER LITTLE MAIDS.

"Making plans, Mother mine; that's what
we're doing," said Maggie Miller to her
Mother, in answer to the question what
May and she could find so much to talk
about out at the gate. " Yes, we're making
lots of plans, and they're all about you ; but
you must have a nap now like a good, dear
Mother, or you will be knocked up before
Martin comes home to-night."

" Yes," added May, " and then Dr. Mac-
dougal won't pay us that pretty compliment
again. You know he said we were your
good little maids, and had all the credit of
getting you well. So you must really try
and rest a litde now, and not think of any-

114 Mamma and her Little Maids.

thing till you hear me pouring out tea an
hour hence." This was said lovingly as she
settled the pillow in the easy-chair and
spread the shawl gently, kissing the pale
brow, and stroking the soft smooth hair.
There was a very loving, tearful smile in
the Mother's eyes as she looked at the merry
face, and promised to go to sleep if she
could. Then May went back to her place
at the gate, took up her knitting, and the
talk began again in a low tone.

" Isn't it a comfort to see the dear Mother
so much better, Maggie ? " said May ; ** I
really think she looks quite bonny this
afternoon."

"Yes, she does indeed," answered
Maggie, counting her stitches as she spoke;
" only I wish we could get her out of the
mopes."

Mamma and her Little Maids. 115

" Mopes ! O Maggie, Mamma is never
mopey ; you don't find her fretting like old
Margery down the street."

" Well, I don't mean that, of course ;
you know what I mean. I don't like to
see her eyes .getting full of tears so often.
O May, I'm sure my plan would do her
good. We'll ask Martin if he doesn't think
so. He could easily borrow the pony
carriage from the Manse, and we could
drive so easily and comfortably to Mary's
house away past the Mill. Mamma could
rest so nicely in her little shady room at
the back of the cottage, and watch us
pic-nicking on the hill that runs down to
the burn. We should get home quite early,
and it would do us all good, and take away
the Mother's thoughts from Martin's leaving
us the day after to-morrow."

I 2

1 1 6 Mamma and her Little Maids.

Prudent May was doubtful, but she
promised to talk it over with Martin. And
so. she did that evening by starlight in the
garden. Tall, sunburnt Martin, how proud
his Mother and sisters were of him 1 Merry
middy as he was with his brass buttons,
active ways, and funny sayings, care and
anxiety had made him a man long before
his time. Martin was of Maggie's way of
thinking ; and when he looked at May's face,
pale with long nursing, he was doubly sure
that a day's pleasuring would be a good
thing. It was only his merry, loving words
that persuaded Mrs. Miller to consent to it.
It was his arm that helped her so well to
the carriage, and his laughter and jokes
made the drive short and pleasant to the
invalid.

It was early afternoon when they drove

Mamma and her Little Maids. 117

past the Mill, under the great sails that went
round and round, cutting the air with a
whizzing sound. Mrs. Miller was led into
the neat little cottage where her old servant
had lived ever since her marriage. What
with cushions and shawls, the old arm-chair
was made almost like the sofa at home, and
May looked charmed to see her mother's
face brighter and less weary than ever since
her long, terrible illness,

Martin and Maggie, rejecting the offer of
the round wooden table, were soon spreading
out the good things they had brought on
the grassy hill-side. The two made little
journeys backwards and forwards to the
window to wait on those inside. Mary
protested much at this ; she couldn't [see
that ** the more the trouble the better was
the fun,'* Then came a long merry ramble

II 8 Mamma and her Little Maids.

along the burn, all three young ones to-
gether ; while Mary was only too pleased to
have a long talk with her mistress, heaifing
all about the dear young ladies and their
clever nursing, and the fine young master
grown so manly, and yet every bit as merry
as when he ran about in the nursery and
floated ships in the old bath.

And after that, the very identical nursery
tea-tray was brought out of the cupboard,
and the whole party made merry over Mary's
best tea and whitest sugar. The sun was
only just getting low when the pony was
put in and seats taken again in the carriage
for the home drive.

■

And so in the end Mrs. Miller gets back
to her own easy-chair, Martin half lying on
the ground beside her. He is having his
last evening chat with her before' leaving her

Mamma and her Little Maids. 119

again for the winds and the waves. Fain
would his mother keep that merry face
always in sight ; it does her more good than
many Dr. Macdougals and all their medicine.
Yet there is a brave, hearty manliness about
the boy that makes her trust him anywhere ;
he has made up his mind, humbly, earnestly,
what Master he will serve, and she feels that
he is going the right way.

Maggie and May have left them together,
and are again in their favourite place at the
garden-gate. Martin's socks must be finished
to-night, and they must make up for lost
time. And as their fingers go, so do their
tongues, and thus their task gets finished just
as the moon, rising over the trees, sends her
first cold ray on the branches above them.

NEDDY IN THE SNOW.

Naughty little Neddy,
He has lost his way

Loitering on his errand.
Stopping st31 to play.

Nobody to help him.
Tell him where to go^

Tired out they find him.
Sleeping in the snow.

Nero, he has found him.
Licks his face for joy.

Sister Nanny wakes him^
Little wandering boyi

NANNY NORTON.

** Never mind, Neddy, you will soon be
there, and then you must come straight back
as fast as you can, and you will be home
again before dark."

It was Nanny Norton speaking to her
young brother as he stood fastening his plaid
round him, looking gloomily out at the
snowy weather.

Now Nanny and her brother lived a
very long time ago, when little children, ay,
and big ones too, were kept very strictly, and
had not half the playthings and pleasures
that they expect nowadays. They lived in
a lonely house at the end of a narrow lane.

12 2 Nanny Norton.

and behind the house were several fields
and a few out-houses and barns ; in fact,
a small farm. The owner of this farm
was their aunt, Mistress Norton, a prim,
upright, severe old lady, who had a great
idea that all children needed to be kept well
in their place. She never called the children
by any name but " niece " and " nephew,"
and they never thought of her but with the
greatest awe.

Beside these three, there lived ia the.
house the farm-man, old Nathan, who had
grown grey in the mistress' service, and his
wife, who was still strong and hearty, but as
deaf as a post. You would have called it a
dull home for a merry boy of nine years old
if you could have peeped through the lattice
window on one af the long winter nights.

There at the. table of plain de^l, but

Nanny Norton. 12;^

(jlean as much scrubbing could make it, sat
the mistress, straight as possible, with her
high cap, white neckerchief, and tight sleeves,
her lace-pillow before her, for she was never
idle, and none in the country could make
such lace as hers. At her side, busy with
her knitting, from which she scarcely dared
to look up, sat Nanny, several years older
than her brother. Behind them, hidden away
in the immense chimney-corner, which looked
as if it were made to hold the whole family,
sat, Nathan in his large, rough beaver-hat,
smoking his pipe, and now and then kicking
with his heel the logs in the fire on the
ground at his feet. If all the work were
done, his wife would probably be at his side,
nodding her head in a doze.

On this particular afternoon Neddy had
been told by his aunt to carry a basket of

124 Nanny Norton,

new-laid eggs to a poor neighbour. Now,
neighbour, in that part of the world, meant
any one living within a few miles of one*s
house. So when Neddy set forth on his
errand, he knew that he had a long walk in
the wind and snow before him. He did
not like the job, and, like many a naughty
boy both before and since, he loitered and
played in the wood till the twilight began to
fall. A blinding snow-storm came on, and
young Ned, who had not often been that
way before, stood still and began to wonder
where he was. Then, getting frightened he
began to run wildly among the trees, beating
ofF the snow and rubbing bis eyes. Heated
and tired with his run, he stood still at
length, put his basket down, stretched him-
self, and, in the end, lay down on the snow
and fell fast asleep.

Nanrty Nertwi, 125

All this time a kind sister at home was
thinking of the little heedless boy. Nanny
watched the falling dakes anxiously, and
counted the minutes till Neddy's return.
And when the time came and passed, and
the snow ceased to fall, and the sky grew
clear, and still he did not come, she slipped
out of the kitchen, called Nero, hb dog, to
follow her, and set out. Springing over the
sdle, she was soon in the dark wood, calling
gently his name. No answer came, and
Nanny stx>oped to the dog, patted him, and
whispered, '* Good dog, good dog, whcre's
thy master?" .\way went Nero, sniffing
and peering about ; then, with a short bark,
he set off at a fast trot. Nanny followed
as well as she could, till she saw him spring
through a mass of broken branches close to
a fallen tree, and knew by his whine that he

126 Nanny Norton.

had found the boy. There Iky the child,
sound asleep, the basket of eggs at his side,
his plaid lying loosely over him. Nanny
called him and shook him before she could
rouse him. It was too late now to finish
his errand ; besides, Nanny feared he would
catch cold in his snowy clothes. So she
made him run quickly home at her side
while she carried the basket.

Reaching the lane, the good sister went
forward to explain all to her aunt. Mistress
Norton was strict and precise indeed, but
she was not unreasonable, and she was ne^er
angry. So when the boy came shyly up to
her, she only took hold of his two hands,
looked gravely at him, and said very slowly :
" Nephew, if thou hadst not loitered, thy
poor neighbour had had her eggs this night;
by thy fault she must now suffer." Then

Nanny Norton. 127

she sent him to change his clothes, and, with
her own hands, got him some hot elder-wine
to warm him after his sleep in the snow.
And Neddy, sitting in old Nathan's corner,
swung his feet backwards and forwards,
sipping the nice hot stufF, and thinking that
he wouldn't ever be such a silly boy again.
I wonder whether he kept his good reso-
lution or not]

OCTOBER GALES.

Oh, how the wind is blowing,
Blowing the clouds along,

Breaking the willow branches
Singing its own wild song

Oh, how the gale is driving
Over the wild, wild shore.

Over the fallen osiers.
Fallen to rise no more!

Over the low bridge blowing,
A wild October gale,

Now in a fury raging.

Now dying away in a wail.

OSCAR O'BRIEN AND HIS SISTER.

" OcH, thin, and it's we that'll niver get
home the night, I'm thinking ! " shouted
Aileen O'Brien to her brother, as they
struggled against the storm that swept over
the wild Irish bog that autumn night. It
was only now and then, at a lull in the
storm, that it seemed of any use to speak.
A raging, outrageous storm it was, bending
and breaking great boughs from the strongest
trees. Aileen had wrapt her cloak round
her, and over her head. Stout and strong
as she was, it was almost too much for her,
and she thought of the mile or two before
her with a sinking heart. But Oscar's cheery
voice made itself heard above the tempest.

138 Pride and the Pascals.

often asking each other where he had
picked up all his wisdom with so few
pence ever in his pockets. His wife was
proud of him, and so were his boys, much
as they feared him. Yet his pride often
came unpleasantly in their way. He was
waiting, he used to say, for the time when he
should find a " position," as he called it. In.
the meantime his wife and boys were poor,
very poor. Once the good Pasteur of the
village had sent Madame Pascal a coat nearly
new to cut up for Paul and Philippe, but
the same evening the poor woman brought
it back with many thanks and apologies;
the schoolmaster could not receive charity 1
The poor little fellows looked longingly at
the coat as it was being done up.

But if good clothes and good food could
not be theirs, they made up for their loss by

Oscar O'Brien and his Sister. 131

" Och, now," said the boy again, for
wild as the storm was, it was not much in
his nature to be silent ; " och, now, it be
a wonder, ben't it, how these cratures are
wise-like and undcrstandin', and if it was
as many pigs I was a-drivin', I'd have a
pretty work of it this night, I'm thinking.
There's the Masthcr, thin, he's for ever
miscallin' me a goose. I'd like niver a
worse name than that same ! Och, thin,
me darlint, do ye see how the bastes follow
one after t'other, niver swerving a bit, niver
at all?"

Aileen was too busy struggling with
the wind to answer, and if she heard half
he said it was a wonder, so high every
moment grew the tempest. When at last
" the House " came in sight, it was all she
could do to get round to the little back-

K 2

132 Oscar 0^ Br ten and his Sister.

door. When Mrs O'Neil, the good-natured
cook, opened the door, she found that the
poor girl had fallen against it utterly over-
done. Then there was a bustle and hurrying
to and fro, bringing hot flannels, chafing
Aileen's hands ; till at last she opened her
eyes to find herself in the old arm-chair by
the blazing kitchen-fire that she had so
longed for out in the windy bog.

There stood Oscar, just come in from
housing his geese, talking away in his Irish
warmth, and behind him was Miss Olivia,
the lady of the house. In Aileen^s eyes
there was nobody in the world like Miss
Olivia. She had been very kind to the
orphans, and both Oscar and Aileen loved
her with true devotion. Once a week she
.gave up an evening to teach them what, but
for her, they would never have learned, to

..I

Oscar 0^ Br ten and his Sister. 133

read, to write, and to cypher. This was the
evening. But Aileen was much too weary
for the books or slates to-night. So she lay
back in Cook's comfortable chair, dreamily
watching Oscar as he bent his back nearly
double over his slate.

As she lay there she thought, as she had
never thought before, how much she owed
to the gentle lady who was so patiently
teaching her rough, blundering brother.
Goose was the word at the top of his slate,
in remembrance of his evening's work. Poor
Oscar! those two round O's that would
persist in turning out pointed or square,
how they did try his temper! Many a hot
word was bursting from his lips, but Miss
Olivia's kind smile stopped them all. At
last the slate was full, and Oscar's rough
hand ached so, — he had clutched the pencil

134 Oscar O* Br ten and his Sister.

with such a grasp, — that he was sent to a
warm seat opposite Aileen's chair, while the
lady sat down to tell them a story. This'
was always the treat of the evening. Aileen
thought there was nothing in the world like
Miss Olivia's stories. Yet while Oscar
could always afterwards tell all about Jack
or Pat, and their doings and sayings, it was
Aileen who remembered all the week after
the little odds and ends of good advice that
came in here and there.

The one word that she carried home
that night to their poor little cabin was the
word " Ought." Let there be this reason for
all you do every day, " I ought to do it"
That was what Miss Olivia's story was about
that night ; " and sure I won't forget it, niver
a bit," was Aileen's promise as she lay down
to sleep.

Oscar O'Brien and his Sister. 135

And all through the next day, from the
moment of getting up in the dark fog, to
the time when, tired out with rough work,
she lay down on her hard bed, that one word
was in her mind. " I ought to work hard,"
she said to herself; " it's my duty, an' sure
Miss Olivia would be tellin' me so too I "
And the scrubbing and cleaning seemed to
get done in double quick time, because it
was done as it ought to be done.

PLAYING AT THE SMITHY.

Play, little schoolboys,
School-time is done;

Play away, play away!
Plenty of fun !

Poor little schoolboys,
Ragged and rough.

Poorly clad, poorly fed,
Hungry enough !

Poor though the jackets be,

All the feet bare,
Play away, play away!

What do ye care ?

PRIDE AND THE PASCALS.

Proud ! Yes, that was what all the world
said of M. Pascal, the poor schoolmaster.
He is proud, they said, and they would
sometimes add, too proud to prosper. He
had not prospered as yet, that was certain.
There in a little out-of-the-way village
among the mountains he lived, in his own
poor house, with his poor wife, patient in
her poverty, and his two poor boys in their
rags. There was a good deal of pride in
the family, I am afraid. M. Pascal had
something to be proud of, perhaps, in his
hard-won learning, and his head full of
deep thoughts. People wondered at him.

138 Pride and the Pascals.

But if good clothes and good food could
not be theirs, they made up for their loss by

Pride and the Pascals. 139

plenty of play. No sooner did they see
their father lock the school-house door,
pocket the key, and disappear into his own
house, than they were off to their games.
They were very sure that he would never
stir from his own arm-chair till supper. If
now and then they peeped in at the little
window, there he was, spectacles on nose,
pen in hand, the old yellow-looking books
before him, his whole heart and soul plunged
in some wonderful dream.

So away they went to the blacksmith's
forge, where their friend Pierrot was sure to
be hard at work with his father, hammer-
ing out sparks in the most delightful way.
Palotte, the blacksmith, was that jolly,
hearty sort of man that all youngsters delight
in. His laugh was known everywhere, and
his jokes went the round of the village.

14^ Pride and the Pascals.

" Now, Pierrot, my boy," he would say as
he saw the young Pascals running down the
road, " down with vour hammer, and ofF to
your play ! '' All three boys were equally
fond of the brave man ; all three thought it
an honour to hold a horse for him, or to
tetch him a draught of water from the pump
when he was hotter than usuaL

They were in the height of fun and en-
joyment one afternoon. Palotte was shoeing
a horse, — a wild, half-tamed animal. The
boys had helped to fasten him into one of the
strong wooden frames or racks in front of the
forge, and now they were at play on the
other. It was a grand place for climbing,
and many a loud laugh from the blacksmith
saluted each youngster as he came rolling
on his back on the grassy road.

Just as the fun was greatest, and the

Pride and the Pascals. 141

roars of laughter merriest, there appeared in
sight a man on horseback. Stopping at the
forge, he called to Palotte to ask the way to
the house of " a M. Pascal." Open-mouthed
the boys looked at the stranger ; and when,
adding that he had " a packet of importance
for that gentleman," he rode off, a perfect
storm of exclamations burst from them.
But it was of no use wondering, and cer-
tainly no one could venture to follow. After
a time the game began again, and it was
getting dark before the boys set off running
home to supper.

Hungry boys are said to have no eyes for
anything but food, yet Paul and Philippe
could see between each mouthful of their
soup, that something had come over their
father. His bony, pale face was flushed, his
hand trembled as it brushed back the thin.

142 Pride and the Pascals.

long hair from his broad, furrowed brow,
and his tight lips were nervously compressed ;
all told his secret. By and by, out it all
came. M. Pascal had found a position in
the world ! A position of trust had been
offered him at Paris ! Thither they must all
go in a {^y^ weeks' time. Everything had
been settled that afternoon, and it only
remained to prepare. Hard work, then, was
in store for the mother. Mending, making,
cutting out and patching went on from
morning to night. And when at last the day
came, and hand-in-hand the boys stood by
their parents, waiting for the coach, or " dili-
gence " as they called it, you would hardly
have known them. People held up their
hands in wonder at the two little gentlemen,
and could scarcely believe that they were
the poor schoolmaster's once ragged boys.

Pride and the Pascals. 143

Greatly excited indeed they were, over-
joyed at the idea of seeing Paris — Paris the
great, splendid city ! Yet there had been
one hard struggle in leaving home. There
was the terrible parting from their little
friend Pierrot and his father. Ah, they had
hugged and kissed and cried ; and then
poured out torrents of farewell words, as
only little French boys know how. It was
hard, too, to leave the forge and the horse-
racks and all their old haunts.

But it was over at last ; they took their
places in the rattling " diligence," and away
they went, one great idea shutting out every-
thing else, that one idea being " Paris ! "

150 ^estions and Answers.

you, then; after all, I daresay bare feet do
best for paddling in the brook. Bring me a
good basket of fish when you catch them."

Quintin was shuffling out of the room,
glad enough to get his dirty feet safely off
the beautiful carpet, when the old lady
called him gently back. How Quintin liked
to look at her, that quiet, loving old lady,
in her soft grey silk dress and white cap \.
He seemed to think more of her kind smile
and gentle words than even of the large
slices of cake, one for himself, and one for
his little Queen at home, which she gave
him. Then with many an awkward bow,
and " thank'ee, ma'am ; please, ma'am," he
backed out of the room, glad enough to
escape the master's questions.

You may be quite sure that her little
Majesty was made very happy by the cake

i^estions and Answers. 151

full of plums; indeed, I rather think she
had more than her share of the nice stuff.
And Quintin did not forget to tell his
niother that the master said, " as how he
guessed bare feet 'd do best for fishing in
the brook/'

ROGUISH GRINDERS.

Round and round, round and round!

Turn the handle round,
Hold it firmly, hold it well.

Till the edge is -ground !

Round and round, round and round!

Pour the water fast!
Hear it hissing, see it shine!

'Twill be sharp at last !

Round and round, round and round !

Stop! — I hear a noise!
'Tis the master! — run, oh, run!

He will catch you, boys!

QUINTIN AND HIS FISHING.

Quietly, quietly,
Watchinor thev wait

For a pull at the line
And a bite at the bait

Quietly, quietly.

Swimming away.
The bright little fish

Do frolic and play.

Quiedy, quietly.

Patience and time.
For " Tr\- again, tr\- again/'

Saith the old rhxTiie.

148 ^estions and Answers.

" I don't understand ; explain yourself,
Quintin/'

" Please, sir, I sits 'stride the pipe, sir, —
by the bridge, sir, — feet hanging, sir, — boots
fall ofF, sir, — can't wear boots, sir, nohow.''

*^ Quintin, you are the queerest fellow I
ever saw," said Mr. Quin, laughing. " What's
your mother going to do with the boots if
you won't wear them ? "

" Please, sir, Mother '11 keep 'em, —
Queen'U wear 'em some day, sir, please, sir."

" The Queen wear them I What can
you mean ?"

" Please, sir, our little Anne, sir, — we
calls her Queen Anne, sir."

" Oh, that's it, is it ! Well, she has a
queer set to reign over, Quintin, if you are
one of her subjects. A pity she does not
look after you better, my lad*"

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

" Queer, very queer, very queer indeed," re-
peated Mr. Quin to himself as he walked up
and down his large dining-room. Mr. Quin
was an old gentleman with a bald head, and
white hair falling on his neck, large white
whiskers, a very wrinkled brow, and keen
eyes under heavy eyebrows. He was a rich
old man, the owner of a large park, and of
the grand house in the middle of it. His
wife, the gentle old lady sitting in the easy-
chair by the fire, had once been a Quaker,
and even now she had much in her dress,
and in her calm, quiet manner, to remind
you of the Friends.

150 ^ est ions and Answers.

you, then ; after all, I daresay bare feet do
best for paddling in the brook* Bring me a
good basket of fish when you catch them/'

Quintin was shuffling out of the room,
glad enough to get his dirty feet safely off
the beautiful carpet, when the old lady
called him gently back. How Quintin liked
to look at her, that quiet, loving old lady,
in her soft grey silk dress and white cap 1
He seemed to think more of her kind smile
and gentle words than even of the large
slices of cake, one for himself, and one for
his little Queen at home, which she gave
him. Then with many an awkward bow,
and " thank'ee, ma'am ; please, ma'am," he
backed out of the room, glad enough to
escape the master's questions •

You may be quite sure that her little
Majesty was made very happy by the cake

Shiest ions and Answers. 15 1

ROGUISH GRINDERS.

Round and round, round and round!

Turn the handle round,
Hold It firmly, hold it well,

Till the edge is -ground !

Round and round, round and round!

Pour the water fast!
Hear it hissing, see it shine!

'Twill be sharp at last!

Round and round, round and round !

Stop! — I hear a noise!
Tis the master!— run, oh, run!

He will catch you, boys!

1 •. • ■ £

A RUNAWAY RAMBLE.

Ren^, Robert, and Raoul were three little
boys whose home was in one of the narrowest
and dirtiest streets of the town of Rouen.
Their father was a rough sort of man whose
work was at one of the great sugar refineries
of the city. Their own mother had died
six or seven years ago when little Raoul
was only a wee baby, and the new mother
•whom their father had lately brought home
to them thought more of her fine ribbons
and flowers than of the three little fellows
left to her care. Sometimes she would be
kind and loving to them, especially to the
baby, as she called him ; but at other times

154 ^ Runaway Ramble.

she was cross and angry without much
cause.

Rene and Robert could easily keep out of
her way at such times, but Raoul was often
in trouble. He was rather a spoilt baby, I
fear; and when he got a rough box on the
ear from his stepmother, he made much more
noise about it than he should have made.
R^ne and Robert would generally laugh at
his crying, and call it one of " RaouFs
roarings ; '' but one day a very foolish,
naughty plan came into their heads. They
were sitting at the door-step, their heads
very close together, when Raoul came out
with red eyes and pouting lips. They
called him to them, made room for him
between them, and began eagerly to tell him
their scheme. What do you think it was ?
Why, foolish fellows, they were planning to

A Runaway Ramble. 155

do what little English boys call " playing
Robinson Crusoe" in the country far away !
Of course little Raoul had no objection to
make. To get away from " the mother, so
cruel," was all he wanted, never thinking,
little silly boy, that he would be very ready
for her help when supper-time came !

Well, it was no sooner said than done !
Off they set on their rambles, out of the
town, through the green grass by the river-
side, and along the dusty road. Just before
they left the streets, some kind ladies in a
carriage, taking them for little beggar boys,
threw them a paper-bag of cakes. These
they picked up and carried with them, and
by and by, when they got tired, they threw
themselves down under a tree and ate them.

It was hot summer weather, and many
a drink did the boys take whenever they

156 A Runaway Ramble.

came to a pond or running stream. The
sun went down just as they came in sight of
a farm, standing nearly alone in the open
country.

Rene soon made up his mind what
to do. Taking off his cap, he went be-
fore his little brothers to the back-door, and
in a very humble voice begged for some-
thing to eat. There was a kind, motherly
woman in the kitchen, and she was pleased
with the boy's face and manner. She was
just getting supper ready, and she handed
him a large bowl of soup and a great big
spoon, telling him to eat it outside and bring
back the bowl. What a nice supper the
three boys made I Then they found a spug
corner of an empty shed, where they could
lie down on the straw for the night.

Rene was the first to awake next liiOfn-

A Runaway Ramble. 157

ing. Before any one was moving on the
farm, he was peering and peeping about.
No sooner were his brothers at his side than
he told them his plans for the day. There
was a great dark wood before them on the
side of a high hill. That was the way they
must go. Probably, somewhere near the top
of the hill, they would find some cave
where they could make their home. Very
likely they would meet robbers or wolves,
or even lions and tigers, Rene said, but he
was prepared for that. He had found out-
side the shed a great stick with an iron
point; perhaps it had been used on the
farm, but they would take it now to fight
with.

The only thing was that it might not be
quite sharp enough ; it would do to make
holes in the ground for the seed, but not

158 A Runaway Ramble.

quite so well to make holes in the lions and
tigers. But clever Rene had a thought.
There was a whet^stone near the shed ; they,
could sharpen it. Away they went to work,
little Raoul holding the stick, Rene turning
the handle, and Robert pouring quantities of
water out of an old can that stood there
handy, to keep the stone wet. Just as they
were very busy, the farm-door opened !
What if they were caught ? Away went stick,
can, handle, and all, and oiF ran the three
boys.

Nobody followed them, so they went
straight on to the wood, and then came to
a full stop. How were they to get on
without their spear to fight with? Well,
there was nothing like courage, R6ne said,
so on they trudged. They had a weary time
of it that day. Tired, hungry, with nothing

A Runaway Ramble. 159

to eat but berries, and a crust of bread found
in the grass, thrown away by some passer-by,
RaouFs cries were soon heard through the
trees. His brothers laughed at him and
soothed him and scolded him by turns, but
in vain.

At last he fell asleep on the grass, and
the boys watched him gloomily enough.
When he awoke he began to cry to go home,
and very sadly they wandered in and out
among the trees. At last, to their surprise,
they heard the sound of cart-wheels, and,
peeping through the brushwood, they dis-
covered that they were close to a high-road,
and that a heavy country cart was passing.

In a moment Rene had scrambled out
into the road, and in his pretty, winning
way was begging leave to climb into the cart
and to bring his little brothers. It chanced

i6o A Runaway Ramble.

that the carter was on his way to Rouen.
Right glad were the children now to find
themselves going home. Two days' ramble
had been enough to tire them all, and there
was no wish now to play Robinson Crusoe in
the wood.

It was getting quite dark as they
crept in at their own door, but there was a
pleasant sound even in the rough greeting
of the mother, though she did call them
rogues and runaways. They could see
through it all that it was a relief to her to
have them safe back again, even if she did
not quite confess to having been uneasy about
them.

She soon brought them some hot soup,
and some brown bread ; and when they had
finished their supper, she sent them off to
their beds at once. Next morning they had

A Runaway Ramble. i6i

almost forgotten their hunger and weariness ;
but they never forgot how lonely they had
felt when they were all alone in the woods ;
and though they often had to put up with
rough words from their stepmother, they
never set ofF again on a runaway ramble.

SUSY'S LETTER.

S, crooked S,

Sweetly-scented letter,
Have you seen on printed page

A fairer or a better?

S, crooked S,

Softly, sweetly blending
Rose and rosebud, bud and bloom,

Each its beauty lending.

S, crooked S,

Susy's hands have twined thee ;
Mingled blossom, bud and leaf,

Susy's hand shall bind thee.

THE SCHOOL TREAT.

" Sissy, come and tell me if my flowers will
do/' shouted little Susie Sinclair to her sister as
she saw her crossing the lawn. Miss Sinclair
stopped and came towards the side, of the
house, where the child was busy making a
large " S " in all kinds of flowers with the
help of the servant, who was at this moment
tying a difficult knot in the bend of the letter.

"Yes, Susie dear, you have done it
beautifully. Papa will be so pleased, and so
will the children when they come/'

" When will they come. Sis ? You have
not told me what time you fixed."

" Directly after dinner ; so you must be

M 2

164 The School Treat.

ready by that time. Look, there is a piece of
convolvulus gone astray there at the top," and
Miss Sinclair went round to set it right.

" And now I must go in, Susie ; there
is the cake to be cut, and everything to be
got ready. Don't you keep Papa waiting for
dinner."

You will have guessed by this time what
was going to happen. It was the grand day
of all the year for the children of Seawood
village. It was the school treat, and little
Miss Susie's birthday into the bargain;
when frocks must be very clean, and hair
very tidy, and little girls and boys very steady
and good. There was to be a grand romp
in the Rectory garden, Mr. Sinclair himself
in the thick of it all. Then there was to be
the cake, and plenty of tea, as many mugfuls
as they could drink. And after that, there

. .A'al/^Vi.l'

The School Treat, 165

was to be the march down to school, and
the examination there, and the singing, and
the Rector's merry jokes, and the Rector's
easy teaching, and last, but not least, the
Rector's beautiful prizes !

But, do you know, after thinking it
over, I don't believe there was any one there
that enjoyed all the fun half so much as the
Rectory people themselves. There was lots
of work to be done, to be sure, but then
the good servants liked to do such work
as this. And as for Miss Sinclair, the tall,
grave, kind young lady, with that sweet smile
and those gentle, loving ways, why, she was
just in her element with all her dear school-
children round her. And Susie, little merry-
hearted Susie, what could be better for her
than running and jumping and swinging and
racing with her little friends ? Didn't she

1 66 The School Treat.

take her place among them every Sunday,
learning the same lessons ? and was she not
going to be one of them that evening, in
question and answer and song? Oh, she
would not have missed that day for all the
world !

And so it came to pass that Susie made
the great ^^ S " to be put high up in the school-
room. Some people wondered what the " S "
was to stand for ; whether it meant Susie, or
Sinclair, or Sunday, or School, or what. But,
if you don't mind, I think we will say that it
meant them all.

So the afternoon came and went, and the
evening came and went too, and the children
said, or rather they sang, "Good night, dear
friends, good night," and went home to sleep
off all their excitement. And the last thing
Susie did before she left the schoolroom was

The ScJiool Treat. 167

this. Great big girl as she was, ten years
old that very day, she climbed on her father's
shoulder and pulled out the large, beautiful
rose from the middle of the great S and
carried it home ; and there it was in a glass,
close to her bed, when her father came and
kissed her as she lay fast asleep, a couple of
hours after.

TURNING THE WINE-PRESS.

Turn away, turn away!

Toiling all together,
Pleasant work is pleasant play,

In the bright, warm weather!

Turning still, turning still !

See the grape-juice flowing,
In a tiny, dropping rill.

Ever bigger growing!

Toil away, toil away!

Turning all together.
Pleasant work is pleasant play,

In the sunny weather!

i.W

TRYING TO HELP.

Therese, little thoughtful Therese, what a
useful child she was ! Father lying ill in
bed, Mother overworked and anxious, what
would the house have done without
Therese ?

Only think of all she had to do!
There was the house to keep in order, to
begin with. There were the boys' clothes
to wash and mend — and dirty and ragged
enough they often were ; there was Father
to wait upon, his broth to make, his calls to
answer, and the many little things to fetch
that he was always wanting ; and there was
Mother to cheer up and to help all day long.

170 T't'ying to Help.

They were helpful children, all of them,
from little Toto, still in petticoats, to rough-
head Tobie; but as Mother used to say,
" Boys will be boys all the world over, and
it's only a girl that can be of any real use in
the house."

It was a beautiful evening; the poor
father was sitting at the door of his house,
looking pale and ilL He had a heavy coat
flung loosely over his shoulders, the sleeves
hanging down, a thick blanket over his legs,
his felt hat on the back of his head, his pipe
in his mouth. As his little daughter looked
at his sunken eyes, and hollow, unshaven
cheeks, she thought he seemed worse than
when lying on his pillow. She* slipped
down on a stool at his side, and laid her
little head against him. It was a piece of
the prettiest French scenery that lay before

Unkindness. 177

boys, at his last wish, were sent off to his
wife's brother in the little fishing town.
They were strange playmates for Una.
With an unbounded admiration for their
fair cousin, they could not understand her,
nor in the least comprehend her frequent
tears and little fretful ways. They delighted
in her, and cared for nothing better, after
a long tramp in the wet sand and rocks
after shrimps and crabs, than to take her for
a walk or a game on the shore. They had
been doing this now, when in their rough
fun this terrible disaster had occurred !

Tommy Utter worth understood little
Una; she had been his playfellow long
before the boys came to their uncle. He
led her to a nice place under the cliffs, where
they could sit down on the shingle and
throw stones into the sea.

ij2 Trying to Help.

But in a few minutes he was grave
again. Then he laid, his hand on the
child's head, his long, thin hand, and said,
" God bless ye all, for the most thoughtful
children man ever had ! But go and call
the lads in here, and bring little Toto to his
poor dada."

And very happy was the curly-headed
boy as he nestled down among the coats
and blankets, and heard his father thank him,
just as if he were a man, for his work at the
wine-press, and promise him a good taste of
the sweet stuff by and by. And so they
all talked of the dear father soon getting well
again, and the old bright days coming back
for them all.

Yet there was one of their number who
didn't join much in the merry talk, and that
one was Tobie. He had been very much

•j._ --» .

Trying to Help. 173

offended when Therese had told him how
the good Father laughed when he heard of
the wine-press, and his work at it. Talienne
saw his black looks, but he took no notice at
first. He went on talking about the good
times coming, adding, ^^You younger ones
will have to do without Tobie when the
vintage comes ; he will have to lend his
strong arms to Father then, and work hard
all day, I can. tell you ! "

It was funny to see how the boy's eyes
sparkled then. To be a man and help
Father, and do really hard work, as hard as
turning the wine-press, all day long, — what
a grand idea ! I wonder whether the little
fellow liked it as well when it came to the
point. To be a man is so nice in prospect;
is it as nice in realit)", do you think ?

UNA'S HOOD.

Underneath, the water rushing,
Well may make his senses swim ;

If he lose his hold or balance,
What would then become of him ?

Underneath, far underneath them,
See the little snow-white hood;

Will they get it, can they reach it,
Clinging to the slippery wood ?

Utterly unmoved by danger.

They are nearer and more near ;

Straining, reaching, clinging, climbing.
They will have it, never fear !.

■- V^.v

-'i - » ,

. . '..i.

•J

.: .-*

UNKINDNESS.

" Unkind I he is so dreadfully unkind to
me, he always is ! " muttered little Una
Unwin to her friend young Utterworth on
the bridge. " Urban is trying every minute
to tease me and make me cry, he knows he
is ! It's all his fault that my hood fell over
there ; he knocked it off himself, and the
wind took it all away ; it'll go right down
into the water, and then get carried into
the sea, I know it will, and I shall never get
it any more ! Oh, oh, oh dear, dear, dear ! "
and tears and sobs came thick and fast.
Utterworth bent his head and listened very
kindly. It did not seem to him quite so

176 Unkindness.

sad a matter, and he was afraid he should
laugh if he looked into the little sorrowful
face. Urban and Ulrich, the child's two
cousins, were somewhere far down over the
bridge, fishing with a great stick for the lost
hood. Perhaps they would get it soon ; so
Utterworth persuaded the little girl to let
him tie his handkerchief over her head, and
then he led her away down to the beach to
wait for them.

Little fair-haired Una was the only child
of an honest fisherman who had petted and
spoiled her ever since her mother, dying, had
left the pretty baby to his care. It was
only of late that the two rough boys, Urban
and Ulrich, had come to share the cottage
on the beach Vith the old man and his little
plaything. Their father, a German sol-
dier, had been killed in the wars, and his

Unkindness. 177

'* Una," $aid be whe^Q the. ^obi^ hqd dkd
away, and a little, quick UugK ^vccy now
and then took their place,, " you'ne a fortu-
nate little woman to have $Meh great, strong
fellows txeaking their necks for you over
that bridge.*'

<* They're unkind to pore," said tlpie chii4y
half pouting ; " they kopqked n^y hood off,
they did I"

" Oh^ come, Una, I expect it w^ the
wiftd did that ! "

** They do always hurt m^,'* said Una 5,
" they do be so rude cvcsry day, they
dol"

** Not just now> it strikes i»e," said the
boy; "why, Una, just look back there at
Urban I he's hanging head downwards* I
shouldn't wonder one bit if he fell, and then
he'd break his head all to little pieces. And

UnHndn^ss. 179

that would be all for you, Una ! Td not be
so ungrateful, I wouldn't ! ''

^^ Oh, Tommy, go and stop them," cried
little Una, her lips quivering again. " Tm
not ungrateful, I don't want them to be
killed dead all for me, — stop them. Tommy,
do I"

Utterworth got up slowly, but before he
had gone many steps the boys were over
the bridge, rianning down the beach, with
loud " hurrahs." The hood was on the
end of the stick, and Urban placed it
triumphantly on the child's head, and
catching her hand roughly set oiF for a
race. Utterworth saw that the uproar had
nearly upset the little one again, but he said
nothing. " It's no use meddling," he said
to himself; " they'll have to get used to each
other, one of these days." So he turned on

N 2

1 8 o Unkindness.

his heel and went home. Only once, as he
looked back, he was glad to see Una perched
on Ulrich's shoulders, beating his head
merrily with her two hands. " Unkind/'
he murmured, with a laugh ; " who's unkind
now, I wonder ! "

When he saw Una the next day, she
was sitting at the doorway of their little hut
singing merrily to herself, and swinging her
white hood backwards and forwards by the
string.

" What's that you're singing, Una ? "
asked he, for he couldn't understand her.

" I don't know," said the child. " Urban
likes it, and says it's what his father did sing
when he was at the wars. He teached me,
but I don't know what it means^ Daddy
says it's foreign stujfF. I like it 'cause
Urban do."

Unkindness. 1 8 1

" Oh, then you've forgiven him for
losing your hood ? "

" He did not lose it one bit ; he picked
it out of the water for me. I like Urban ;
w^hat for do you laugh ? "

" Oh, nothing, only you're a little turn-
about, Una, that's all. But all the better if
you've found out that they're not as unkind
as you thought. Good-bye."

VENTURESOME TRAVELLERS.

Vi:ry rough \v«is the wind, very stormy the weather,
V^'^hen they carried the baby away;

Vainly they folded the shawl and the wrapper,
For trcmblinjj and panting he lay.

Very rough was the wind, very stormy the weather,

And it shivered full many a bough
Of the trees that were bending around them, above them,

They resting on yonder lone plough.

Very rough was the wind, very stormy the weather,
As onward, still onward they went,

Vexed with the tempest, and vainly contending.
Their strength and their energy spent.

VINCENT VIVIAN,

Vincent Vivian, — the little, fair-haired boy
in black velvet, standing at the window of the
great house in Vivian Park, — how came he
there ? He was not born there, was he ?
Oh, no ; his father's house was many miles
away, not far from one of the large towns
in Ireland. But little Vincent was born in
dark times, when, instead of loving each
other, the Irish people were vexing each
other, and even fighting and killing one
another. And so it happened that one
windy night in the autumn, a great number of
very naughty men came to Captain Vivian's
house, broke the doors and windows, and did

184 Vincent Vivian.

a great deal of mischief. But they were not
content even then, for they got some strong
cords and tied the Captain's arms together
and carried him and his wife away from
their home. And what became of their
little baby boy ? you ask. Ah, that's the best
part of the story; that's what Vincent himself
is so fond of hearing over and over again.

^^ Grandmamma," says the little fellow as
he leans on her knee by the drawing-room
window, " I'm tired of playing ; won't yoi
tell me a story ? "

" What story shall I tell you, my pet ?
answers the kind old lady. " About t^
monkeys and the red caps ?"

" N9, not that. Grandmamma ; tell
about when I was a tiny mite, and Ni
Vernon had to bring me here, you kr
Was it very stormy then, do you thin

Vincent Vivian. 185

" Very stormy indeed, Vincent, quite a
tempest. Nurse had to take you out of your
cot, all fast asleep as you were, and bring you
out into the wind. She waited to see your
dear Papa and Mamma taken away, and till
all the naughty men had gone, and then she
wrapped you up in a warm cloak and carried
you all through the house, full of broken
glass, and broken tables and chairs, and out
into the howling, howling wind/'

" Vic came too, didn't he. Grandma ? "
" Yes, good Vic wouldn't leave his
master's baby, so they made two bundles of
things, and away they came. They had to
walk many, many miles, and they didn't
know how to get any food, for fear of meet-
ing the bad men. Only when they could
get into a house where they were known,
they rested a little."

And didti't I cry very tnxich indfeed ? "
Yes, dearie, Vernon thought you would
get ill. She was afraid you would catch cold.
Once when she was very tired, ready to drop,
they found a plough in the ground for her
to sit upon; but the wind seemed as if it
would blow down the trees over their heads,
and in spite of all Vernon could do, the wind
got in to your little neck and made you
shake all over."

" I think it's a wonder I ever got here,
Grandmamma."

** It is, darling ; but there were many
people thinking about you and praying for
you. So you were brought safely to me, you
see.

<* Weren't you surprised to see tne 5?
first ? "

" Not very much, Vincie ; I had tc

Fiftcent Ftvian. 1:87

them to send you to me in case of trouble,
and I was quite ready to love my own dear
boy's baby."

" And did you love me then, just as much
as you do now, dear Grandmamma ? " and the
little arm goes round the old lady's neck,

" Not quite as much, my treasure. I
loved you a great deal then, and a great deal
more every day since. And when Papa and
Mamma come back to see the little baby they
left behind them six years ago, and want to
take him away to England, — what will
Grandmamma do then?"

^^ Oh, we won't go away. Grandmamma !
We'Jl all live together, and you shall tell
them all about it, just as you tell me. And
they will love you as much as I do, — a very
large, large piece, dear Grandmamma ! " And
then come a number of kisses.

l88 Vincent Fivian.

— M

" And now, my darling, you must run away
to Vernon, for I am going to be very busy."

So the small feet go pattering up the
broad stone staircase, and along the gallery
to the large, light nursery, where Vernon sits
at her sewing.

" Nursie, Grandmamma has been telling
me all over again about my coming here
long, long, long ago, and how you and Vic
brought me all through the wind, and I've
been thinking — O Nursie, I've been think-
ing such lots of things, about what I will do
when I am a man. You shall never go away
from me, Nursie — not when I am as old as
Grandmamma; you shall stay and be so happj
here, and I will take care of you when yo
are quite old, and make you comfortable, ar
give you all my sugar-plums. And I sh
tell all the little boys about the way you to

Vincent Vivian. 189

care of me in the storm when I was a tiny
mite ! "

" Master Vincent, how you do run on,
to be sure I " says Vernon ; but for all that
she looks at him as if she loved to hear her
little chatterbox and to watch his bright
sparkling eyes.

WILLIE'S CARDS.

Will not stay! they will not stay
When I take my hands away ;

Down they fall

One and all !

Only see how well they do !

'Tis a first-rate W;

So, — just so! —
Down they go!

Well, well, well, they will not stand
When I move away my hand !

Put them by,

I shall not try!

VINCENT VIVIAN,

184 Vincent Vivian.

2l great deal of mischief. But they were not
content even then, for they got some strong
cords and tied the Captain's arms together
and carried him and his wife away from
their home. And what became of their
little baby boy ? you ask. Ah, that's the best
part of the story; that's what Vincent himself
is so fond of hearing over and over again.

" Grandmamma," says the little fellow as
he leans on her knee by the drawing-room
window, " I'm tired of playing ; won't you
tell me a story ? "

"What story shall I tell you, my pet?''
answers the kind old lady. " About the
monkeys and the red caps ?"

" N9, not that. Grandmamma ; tell me
about when I was a tiny mite, and Nurse
Vernon had to bring me here, you know.
Was it very stormy then, do you think?''

Vincent Vivian. 185

"Very stormy indeed, Vincent, quite a
tempest. Nurse had to take you out of your
cot, all fast asleep as you were, and bring you
out into the wind. She waited to see your
dear Papa and Mamma taken away, and till
all the naughty men had gone, and then she
wrapped you up in a warm cloak and carried
you all through the house, full of broken
glass, and broken tables and chairs, and out
into the howling, howling wind."

'^ Vic came too, didn't he. Grandma ? "
" Yes, good Vic wouldn't leave his
master's baby, so they made two bundles of
things, and away they came. They had to
walk many, many miles, and they didn't
know how to get any food, for fear of meet-
ing the bad men. Only when they could
get into a house where they were known,
they rested a little."

194 What Fgr^ and Why?

" Willie, the first bell has rung, you will
never be ready," cried Winnie.

" Oh yes, I shall. Win. But look here,
don't you wish these stupid cards would stay
like that of themselves ? I should see the W,
and then I should remember not to say the
*what for' that you and Mamma hate so.
They would stand for * Will's wicked
words,' don't you see ? "

** You could remember without that, if
you only would. But really, Willie, you
must be quick."

" Well, well, away with the things then.
Here goes j" and in a wonderful way the books
and playthings and cards were huddled iitto
their places, and with a loud bang of the
door the boy ran ofF.

" Oh, Master Willie, if you would but
shut those doors quietly ! " cried Nurse, at

What For^ and Why? 195

the boy came rushing upstairs three steps at
a time. " Here's baby awake again, and

when he'll stop crying, I can't say, I'm

»»
sure.

"Oh, give him to me, I'll quiet him,
trust me."

And Nurse let him have his way as
usual, and the merry brother soon turned the
child's tears to smiles with his funny ways.
After that, I am sadly afraid he went
unwashed to dinner.

o 2

XANTHIPPE THE SCOLD.

Xanthippe, the famous scold,
Lived in far-off days of old,

Yet, I think, I see her still
In the cottage on the hill !

Xanthippe ! why, only hear !

Little children flee in fear,
And her husband, timid man,

Makes his exit as he can !

Xanthippe ! ay, listen, pray !

You can hear her far away!
Storming, scolding, screaming still

From the cottage on the hilL

W^L^""^.

lEi'

-' J '

^^^^^r ^^1

lb 1

^^^^\ W*

XANTHIPPE, OR LONG WORDS.

" Xanthippe ! oh, Auntie, what does Xan-
thippe mean ? I do wish Herbert wouldn't
say such words, just 'xactly what I can^t
understand ! He never used to, but now he
always does talk so that I can't make out
what he says ! "

" Why, Edie, what's the trouble now ?
You were so glad yesterday to have brother
Herbert home again, and now you seem
quite hot and angry with him."

" Yes, Auntie, he does vex me so.
When he was going round the garden, and
I was showing him all my flowers, and
I thought he was looking and listening, he

198 Xanthippe., or Long Words,

burst out all of a sudden with a lot of hard
words, and what he called Greek hexam —
hexam . . . something, I don't know what he
called them. And just now, when we were
laughing at the way that Mrs. Dix scolds
her husband, he said, * Why, Edie, she's a
regular Xanthippe.' Oh, Auntie, tell me
what he means ! "

" Xanthippe was the wife of a very wise
man, Edie, who lived a long time ago.
She had a bad temper, and used to scold hei
wise husband very often. That is wh]"
Herbert called Mrs. Dix after her."

" Well, I don't like Mrs. Dix a bit ; si
is so cross, and all the children run aw
from her ; and little Dicky Dix told me t
other day that his daddy said, * Moth'
voice was enough to frighten a cat.' "^
that what Herbert meant, Auntie ? ^.

Xanthippe^ or Long Words. 199

how, I wish he wouldn't use long words.
Why does he, Auntie, do you know?"

" Well, Edie, I expect this is it.
Brother Herbert is growing up to be a man
now. In a few months he will go to
college, and wear a cap and gown, and
have to read a great many hard books for a
great many hours every day. And, you see,
he is getting ready for this beforehand, by
reading books with long words and Greek
verses in them. And his head is so full of
these things that he can't help talking about
them."

" But, Auntie, Papa doesn't talk Latin
and Greek, and yet he is a great deal wiser
than Herbert, though Herbert is a college
boy ! "

^^ Yes, pussy, Papa has outgrown this
habit. When he was a young man, he used

200 Xanthippe^ or Long Words.

to be just as fond of making speeches to
himself as Herbert is. And I used to try
to say his Latin proverbs, too, because I
could understand them. But when we both
got older and wiser, we saw that it was
more sensible to talk short words that even
little girls could understand/'

" Oh, then Herbert will forget the long
hard words some day, won't he ? I'm so
glad I Then I shall understand him again.
That'll be nice I "

" There he is ; go and ask him, Edie I ''
" Herbie, oh Herbie, where are you
going ? Stop for me, oh do stop I "
" Well, young one, what is it ? "
" Catch me, Herbert, I want to get on
your shoulder. There, that's nice. Now,
Herbert, Auntie says when you are quite a
man, quite like Papa you know, you won^t

Xanthippe^ or Long IVords. 201

call Mrs. Dix, Xanthippe, but just a short
name that I can understand. So won't
you grow up very quick, Herbert? because,
you see, I do like to know quite 'xactly what
you mean. You do use such hard words
now, Herbie dear I "

" Do I, little oddity ? And so you
have been vexing your little pate to make
out what Xanthippe could mean ! Come
along with me and FU read you a capital
story about her, and the shameful way they
treated her grand old husband!"

" Oh do, Herbert ! and put it into little
easy words just for me, won't you ? Good-
bye, Auntie ; here we go I "

YOUNG FOLKS AND THE JUGGLER.

Young ones, blithe and merry,
Hark to the rolling drum!

Hear the music playing!
See the juggler come !

Yonder, see him yonder,
All so strangely drest,

See his feet above you
Pointing east and west!

Yes, you laugh ; yet listen :
He would shake his head,

Saying, hard the labour,
Thus to earn his bread.

YES OR NO?

^^ Yes or No, youngster ? Quick, make up
your mind and have done with it ! Will
you go, or won't you ? "

" Oh, I don't know, Yorke, I can't settle
a bit. You know what a scrape we got into
yesterday. They are sure to catch us out of
bounds, and then we shall suffer for it !"

" Well^ well, you're a coward, that's
clear ; however, decide one way or the other.
Yes or No?"

"Is that the question, young masters,
the great question of Yes or No?" said a
voice behind them. The two boys were
standing leaning over the low stile leading

204 Tes or No?

into a kind of common by the side of the
dusty country highway, and they had not
noticed the strange-looking figure crouching
on the ground behind them. It was a
sallow, hollow-cheeked man ; a long cloak
was over his shoulders, half covering the
peculiar dress which showed him to be a
juggler or strolling player. At the sound
of his voice the lads turned round. Yorke,
the elder, with a half laugh, played with his
blue cricket-cap as he eyed the strange man ;
the younger boy listened in earnest as he
went on.

" Ay, but, young sirs, that same question
was put to me once, and if I had only had
the courage to say ^ Yes ' to the right, and
^ No ' to the wrong, I might have been a
happier man now, that I might I It was a
fair bit of schooling I had before I went as

Tes or No? 205

errand-boy to Dr. Yelling down at our place
in Yorkshire. He was a hard man, so he
was, but he meant right, and it wasn't likely
he'd put up with my idle ways. I was as
wild a young scamp as you would soon see,
oftener on my head than my heels, never sick
of climbing, tumbling, and that sort of thing.
And so it happened that I came across the
old juggler, Youngman, and he asked me,
ofFhand, would I come and make my fortune,
as he called it, with him, — ^ Yes or No ?'
And wasn't it that same night my master
caught me hanging by my feet from the
hand-rail outside his house, and my medicine-
basket all out in the road ? Ah, I mind me
even now of his face when he asked me,
cane in hand, if I would mend my ways, be
honest and active, or go on idling and cheat-
ing him,— ^ Yes or No ? ' I wasn't man

2o6 Tes or No?

enough, nor brave enough, to give him a
hearty * Yes ; * and while I stammered, the
thing was done, my wages paid, and I turned
ofF. And that same night I went straight
ofF to Youngman, and a weary life I've had
of it since 1 Trust me, young gentlemen,
it's well enough to play in playtime, and to
have your juggling when you like it. But
play in earnest is hard work. I've stood on
my hands on the bar across the chairs, the
young ones round, laughing and joking and
wondering, and all the while I've longed and
longed to change places with the wretchedest
stone-breaker on the road ! Anything, any-
where, to get away from the drumming and
the piping and the tumbling I Mark my
words, put the *Yes' in its place, and the
* No ' in its place, and the better for you in
the end."

Tes or No ? 207

And here the man crouched down again
and munched away at his bread and cheese ;
and Yorke, with a laugh, vaulted over the
stile, calling to his schoolfellow to follow
him. But Sydney's look was grave, and with
a few words he turned into his own home.
When his little sisters asked their usually
idle brother that evening if he would play,
or must he work, they were surprised at the
decided answer, " Yes, work ! " And at
school next morning, Yorke's question,
" Well, what about this nutting ? are you
going ?" got such a strong, short " No," that
the young fellow felt, in spite of his laugh,
that there was no chance of yielding there,
and he turned away without a word.

It was some few days after this, that
Sydney's little sister came running into the
drawing-room with the eager question^

2o8 Tes or Nof

"Mamma, who is that funny man in the
kitchen ?"

" It is a poor juggler, dear ; he is very
tired, and he has such a cough that I told
him to come and rest a little and have a
cup of tea."

"The juggler that has been playing
tricks on the green ? " asked Sydney, raising
his head from his lesson book. ** He's a
very good sort of fellow, I believe."

" You, Sydney, what can you know about
the man ? " asked his mother in surprise.

" Oh, he began to speechify to me the
other day, and, somehow or other, he pre-
vented my doing a thing that would have
earned me a flogging at school. So you see
I owe him a good word, that's all I "

It was carelessly said, but the mother
saw that much was meant. When they

Tes or No? 209

were next alone she and her boy had a talk
about the matter, and about that saying of
the man's concerning " Yes and No," which
Sydney declared ^' bothered him all day long
when he wanted to be after fun instead of
work."

" Well, Sydney/' said the lady at last,
" I think, as you say, we must see if we can't
do something for the poor fellow. For if
,his story has the effect of giving you a little
more ^ back-bone,' as your father calls it, in
your daily work, we shall both of us owe him
many thanks. He must be changed enough
from what he was when he first took to his
trade, if what he says is true. I am inclined
to think the hospital would be the best place
for him now, but we shall see."

ZOE IN THE ZEPHYR.

ZoE, wee Zoe, the bright little prattler.
Hugging her sister and hushing her fears,

Closely together they watch and they whisper,
Noting each turn as the moonbeam appears {

Zephyr, good Zephyr ^ float well on the river.

Cutting thy passage through rush and through reed.

Carry them safely, the bairns and the mother^
For lonely their voyage and sore is their need.

'. -J'.- ■■

i ^

;<^-

ZACHARY'S WEE BAIRNS.

" ZoE, darling, Mother's bairnie, wake up !
Look, Mother's waiting, and wanting to dress
you both, and then we'll go down the river
to Father. Wake up, my birdie ! "

Little Zoe rubbed her eyes, stretched her
little arms and legs, and looked up from her
warm pillow. It helped her more than any-
thing to get those eyes open, to see that it
was still dark night. What could Mother
mean by getting them up before the bright
daylight came ? And to go on the river,
too ! Yet Zoe's questions did not get much
answer, and there was a look in her mother's
eyes that stopped them almost before they

p 2

212 Zacharys Wee Bairns.

were spoken. As for the little fat rosy
sister, her baby cries at being so roughly
roused were «oon hushed by the promise of
" going quick to dear Daddy." So the two
children were warmly wrapped and hurried
out of their home almost before they knew
where they were.

Poor dame Zachary, it was with a very
heavy heart that she left het dear, pretty home
that summer night ! Would she ever see it
again ? Who could tell ?

There was a fierce, cruel war raging in the
land. Zachary, the once comfortable farmer,
had left his fields unploughed to go and help
to man the walls of the great city, eight or
nine miles farther down the river. And now,
after weeks of anxiety, the news came to the
good wife that the soldiers were marching
down upon her home, and she must escape

Zachar/s Wee Bairns. 213

in haste. Where could she go ? There was
but one thought in her mind. The river ran
through the farm ; there was the good strong
boat : she would take it, unfurl the sail, and
trust herself and her little ones to the quiet
stream and the soft summer winds. There
was no time to lose; she must wake her
pretty babies and carry them away before
they knew it. Tears rose one after another
as she watched the sweet moonlight falling
on the old walls and windows and creeping
ivy and vines of her dear home, slowly left
behind her. But there was the rudder to
guide, and the sail to manage, and there was
no time for vain sorrow. The mother's
eye, too, rested on the little sisters, clinging
to one another in timid wonder at this their
strange journey.

Pretty little Zoe, her bright deep eyes

and little budding mouth so gently cheering
the half-frightened baby ! Surely Father
would be glad to clasp his little pets again,
even if it must be in the din of war, amid
the smoke and hurry of a crowded city.

All this time the children were getting
more at home in the boat. By degrees they
ventured to let go each other's hands and to
look about them. How cool and quiet the
water looked ! How pretty were the reeds
and rushes as they passed through them, the
drooping grasses close to the bank, the lily
peeping up from among its leaves into the
moonlight, and now and then the boughs of
a weeping willow " washing itself," as Zoe
said, in the cool dark water ! Then there
were pleasant, distant sounds sometimes
breaking on the quiet night, — the " ba, ba,*
of some wakeful mother-sheep that had lo

Zacharys IV ee Bairns. 215

sight of her woolly baby, or the bark of a
watch-dog at some farm on the hilly shores.

Dear little Zoe prattled of these things
to her baby sister, to keep her from thinking
of her warm bed at home, for the child was
tired and fretful.

" Hark, don't 'ee hear that dear dicky-
bird ? Only listen," said Zoe, as they passed
under a thick wood merry with the song
of nightingales.

" What for he sing all night ? " said the
little one ; " he be very tired, I sure I "

" Oh no, he isn't : he's singing his
babies to sleep ! Don't you wish you were a
little birdie up in the warm nest ? "

" De bough break, de cradle will fall,"

said the child ; " no, me stay with 'ou, dat

best I "

Then came a lot of kisses, till little Zoe's *

21 6 Zacharys Wee Batms.

eyes caught sight of a moor-hen very close
to the boat, and in a minute or two more of
a white, big swan sleepily swimming about
under a clump of tall reeds.

Then there was a talk of pulling out his
white feathers to make a feather-bed, and
after that, of catching one of the bats that
kept flying over their heads.

But, by and by, came a whine and a
whimper of "I so s'eepy, so very s'eepy,
Zoe ! " which Mother hearing, a plan was
found for the two to cuddle down in the
bottom of the boat, with Mother's shawl to
wrap them in, and there in each other's arms
to go fast asleep till morning.

And when they awoke it was to see the

bright sun shining down on a broad, swift

river, and Mother working very hard to keep

" the boat straight, other boats being near, and

Zacharys IVee Bairns. 217

the banks dotted over with houses, and the
great city just coming in sight.

I mustn't stop to tell you how they met
Father, nor anything at all about their life
for the next twelve months; Father's great
sword that frightened his baby so; Father's
gettihg a cut in his shoulder and being ill
for ever so long ; all Mother's watching and
weeping and fears ; no, I certainly mustn't
tell you all that. Only one more peep at
them, and then we have done.

They are in a boat again, the good old
boat the Zephyr^ only Father is managing
her and not Mother, and they are going
against the stream this time and not with it.

Father has left his sword behind him, he
won't want it any more ; and both he and
Mother are looking very happy as they watch
their little ones asleep again on the old shawl.

ZOE IN THE ZEPHYR.

ZoE, wee Zoe, the bright little prattler,
Hugging her sister and hushing her fears.

Closely together they watch and they whisper,
Noting each turn as the moonbeam appears 1

Zephyr, good Zephyr^ float well on the river,

Cutting thy passage through rush and through reed.

Carry them safely, the bairns and the mother^
For lonely their voyage and sore is their need.

•V '. '

.\.

:&■

ZACHARY'S WEE BAIRNS.

" ZoE, darling, Mother's bairnie, wake up !
Look, Mother's waiting, and wanting to dress
you both, and then we'll go down the river
to Father. Wake up, my birdie ! "

p 2

212 Zacharys Wee Bairns.

were spoken. As for the little fat rosy
sister, her baby cries at being so roughly
roused were soon hushed by the promise of
" going quick to dear Daddy/' So the two
children were warmly wrapped and hurried
out of their home almost before they knew
where they were.

Poor dame Zachary, it was with a very
heavy heart that she left het dear, pretty home
that summer night I Would she ever see it
again ? Who could tell ?

There was a fierce, cruel war raging in the
land. Zachary, the once comfortable farmer,
had left his fields unploughed to go and help
to man the walls of the great city, eight or
nine miles farther down the river. And now,
after weeks of anxiety, the news came to die
good wife that the soldiers were marching
down upon her home, and she must escape

Zachar/s Wee Bairns. 213

Pretty little Zoe, her bright deep eyes

2 24 Good-bye.

her face with his black moustache, the more
she crowed and laughed ! It was very odd!

Papa was wonderfully fond of his Baby !
Was that very odd? He looked fierce
enough sometimes, Major Percy did, but not
at his little Allie ! He was her horse, her
dog, her plaything; she could make him
mew, and bark, and do whatever she liked.
And even now, as they went under the low
porch of the pretty house by the sea, that
was at present their home, the little lady was
perched on his shoulder, so that he had to
stoop ever so much to get in.

How happy they looked at tea that
evening, the red sun shining in over the sea,
through the window ! Papa lounging back
in his chair. Baby nestled up in his arms,
helping herself to his spoon to make noisy
music on the tray.

Good-bye. 225

" You will make the child sick, you
know you will, Harry," said the young
mother, as another lump was stolen from
the sugar-basin.

" Nonsense, Alice ; all children thrive on
sweets, don't they, wee one ? There, don't
bite my finger off with those little white
grinders of yours ! "

Her little ladyship was in a very good
temper that evening; she did nothing but
laugh and chatter all the while, interrupting
all serious talk with her funny ways. "Baby
tea. Baby have 'poon, — more, — more ! " So
it went on all the time.

" N0W5 Baby, you and I'll have some
music. Come, Mamma, go and sing to us
while we stretch our legs on the sofa."

No sooner said than done. There lay
the tall soldier, his Baby's face close to his

2 26 Good-bye.

own, her white frock and blue ribbons sadly
crumpled by his heavy coat-sleeve. Some-
times Baby seemed to listen to the singing,
and her large eyes wandered from her father
to her mother. But she soon wearied of
that, and began to amuse herself by stuffing
handfuls of beard into her mouth, or putting
her little fist into her father's eyes.

At last the little rogue was carried oiF to
bed, and Papa and Mamma, left to them-
selves, stood together by the window look-
ing out at the beautiful quiet sea in the soft
twilight, and thinking how very soon it
would be rolling between them. Now,
I am not going to tell you all the sad,
loving things they said to each other, so
you needn't expect it. They had not
been talking long when the Major turned
round sharply :

Good-bye. 227

" Hark, that's Baby crying, I declare I
What's the matter, I wonder ? "

"Oh nothing, Harry; stop !" but he was
gone. Another minute and he appeared,
the child, half undressed, in his arms. He
tumbled her down all among the cushions,
and the crying was changed to merry crowing
in a moment.

" How you spoil her, Harry ; it's
shocking ! "

" Do I ? Well, she won't have Papa to
spoil her much longer anyway, so never
mind I There, you see, she puts out her
arms to you at once, little rogue ; she knows
who can manage her best ! "

And so they played with her till sober
old Nurse came down to see if Miss Baby
was ever to go to bed at all !

I fancy Major Percy thought often enough

2 28 Good-bye.

of those pleasant hours with his baby in the
midst of all his fighting and suffering in that
far-off Russia. And at last, when it was
all over, and the good ship was bringing him
every hour nearer to old England again, there
was nothing much brighter or sweeter in his
mind, than the picture of the fat, rosy face
of his little Allie, grown older indeed as he
tried to fancy her, but the same little Allie
for all that, waiting for him at home I

THE END.

R, day. Sons, and Taylor, Printers, London.

ILLUSTRATED BOOKS FOR CHILDREN.

LITTLE LASSES AND LADS.

VTith Colonnd Illustrations by Oscar Tlktscii. In royal 8vo. dr. (xi. cloth.

LITTLE ROSY'S VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD,

IN COMPANY WITH HER COUSINS PAUL AND TOTO.

Inlaige Sya With Forty-eight Illustrations by L. Fkui.icil. Price 6s. 6d, doth.

"If you want the most complete an<l extra' irdinnry Uxik fur the nursery that you ever set eyes on
yoa ihoold buy 'Little Rosy's Voyage Round the \\oT\dJ"''—Atknneum.

LITTLE ROSY'S VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY.

UNDERTAKEN IN COMPANY WITH HER COUSIN CHARLEY.
In large 8vo. With Forty- eight Engravings. 6s. 6</. cloth.

"Little Rosy*s Voyage exhibits a serie!> of delightful pictures ])y I^ircnz Frolich ; how Rosy and
Cliariey, smit with the love of travel, set out to seek adventures — how they crossed the stubble, forded
the brook, climbed the hill, and were finally, in their extreme need, ilisctjvered and rescued by Papa
and Dog Caesar. Nothinj^ can be prettier than these pictures. The ])atronizing boldness of the boy
and the shrinking admiration of the girl are excellently given, and the attitudes and expressioi\of the
chubby little pair in the various incidents they meet with tell the story without the need of words."—
Guardian.

LITTLE ROSY'S TRAVELS.

COUNTRY SCENES IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE.

Large i6mo. With Twenty- four Illustrations by L. Frolich. Price 6s, doth.

"A thorough child's story, capitally told, and beautifully illustrated.** — Record.

WHAT MAKES ME GROW.?

OR, WALKS AND TALKS WITH AMY DUDLEY.
With Twelve Engravings after L. Frolich. Price 3^. 6d, cloth.

" A very well-written work for thoughtful children ; one to be spoken of with aippro\9\**—Engiuk
CkitrckmoH.

ILLUSTRATED BOOKS FOR CHILDREN.

A BUTTERFLY CHASE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF P. STAHL.
VTith Twenty-four Illustrations by L. Frolich. In royal 8vo. Price 3^. 6d. cloth.

THE STORY OF A ROUND LOAF.

Large 8vo. Thirty-two Engravings from Designs by E. Froment. y, 6d. cloth.

** Little Louis, the baker's boy, is sent off* with one of those huge rings of bread which wevail in
France. It is a heavy load, and Louis finds it necessary to lighten his burden by many changes of
position. Sometimes he puts an arm through it, sometimes a leg ; he balances it on his head, he rolls
It down hill, he drags it behind him at the end of a stick. All these varieties are exquisitely portrayed
by £. Froment, who gives us the graceful curves and innocent face of a little chenio. Every picture
is a gtm.**— Guardian.

LITTLE FRIENDS IN THE VILLAGE:

A STORY FOR CHILDREN.

By the Author of " Aunt Annie's Stories."

In small 8yo. Twenty-three Illustrations, jx. 6d, cloth.

BROTHER BERTIE AND HIS FRIENDS IN THE

FIELDS AND FLOWER-BEDS.

By the Author of " Aunt Annie's Stories."

In large i6mo. With Twelve Coloured and Twenty-one Plain Illustrations.

Price 5^. cloth.

*' This story is decidedly above the average of tales for the nursery. It is only now and dien that
we can say as much for a child's story." — Athetutunt.

UNDER THE LIME TREES;

OR, GRANDMAMMA'S STORIES AT HURST FARM.
By the Author of "Aunt Annie's Stories."
With Twelve Coloured and Eighteen Plain Illustrations. 5^. cloth.
These tales are charming ; and better still are the finely-wrought portraits." — Athenteum.

BOOKS FOR CHILDREN.

THE WHALE'S STORY:

PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF A LEVIATHAN.
In square l6mo. With Six Engravings. 2s. 6J. doth.

HORSES AND DONKEYS.

TRUE STORIES FOR CHILDREN.
Square i6mo. Large Type. Engravings. 2s. 6d, cloth.

GREAT THINGS DONE BY LITTLE PEOPLE.

Large Type. Six Engravings. 2s. 6d.

THE DOVE, AND OTHER STORIES OF OLD.

Large Type. Eight Engravings by Harrison Weir. 2j. 6d,

THE LITTLE FOX :

THE STORY OF CAPTAIN M'CLINTOCK'S ARCTIC EXPEDITION.

Large Type. Four Engravings. 2s. 6d,

LITTLE FACTS FOR LITTLE PEOPLE.

In square i6mo. Large Type. Twelve Engravings. 2s. 6d. cloth.

TRUE STORIES FOR LITTLE PEOPLE.

In i6mo. Large Type. With Ten Engravings. Price 2s, 6d, cloth.

GOOD DOGS:

TRUE STORIES OF OUR FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDS.
In large Type. Eight Engravings. 2s, 6d. cloth.

WINGED THINGS:

TRUE STORIES ABOUT BIRDS.
In i6mo. Twelve Engravings. Large Type. 2s, 6d.

LITTLE ANIMALS DESCRIBED FOR LITTLE

PEOPLE.

In i6mo. Large Type. Eight Engravings. 2s. 6d, cloth.

WORKS BY MRS. CAREY BROCK.

The Twenty-second Thousand of

SUNDAY ECHOES IN WEEK-DAY HOURS:

BEING A TALE ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE COLLECTS.
With a Preface by the Lord Bishop of Winchester. Crown 8vo. $s. cloth.

The Tenth Thousand. In crown 8vo. $s, doth.
A second series of

SUNDAY ECHOES IN WEEK-DAY HOURS:

BEING A TALE ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE CHURCH CATECHISM.

"To illustrate the whole Catechism by a fictitious narrative so as at the same time to exalt the
doctrine, and keep the fancy awake, was a great undertaking. But it is well executed, and we predict
for the volume a large circulation." — Clerical youmal.

MY FATHER'S HAND,

AND OTHER STORIES AND ALLEGORIES FOR THE YOUNG.
In i6mo. With Four Engravmgs. Price 2s. 6d, cloth.

CHARITY HELSTONE: A Tale,

Fourth Thousand. Crown 8vo. Frontispiece.* 5^. cloth.

MARGARET'S SECRET, AND ITS SUCCESS.

Seventh Thousand. 5^. cloth.

THE RECTORY AND THE MANOR: A Tale.

Fifth Thousand. Frontispiecie. 5^. cloth.

CHILDREN AT HOME : A Tale from Real Life.

Ninth Thousand. Frontispiece. 5^. cloth.

WORKING AND WAITING: A Tale.

Eighth Thousand. Frontispiece. 5x. cloth.

HOME MEMORIES;

OR, echoes of a MOTHER'S VOICE.
Seventh Thousand. Frontispiece. 5^. cloth.

ALMOST PERSUADED: A Tale of Village Life.

Fifth Thousand. Frontispiece, is, 6d. cloth.

This book should be returned to
the Library on or before the last date
stamped below.

A fine of five cents a day is incurred
by retaining it beyond the specified
time.

Please return promptly.

■c r- •■

^,m^^^^ ''

Internet Archive Audio

Featured

Top

Images

Featured

Top

Software

Featured

Top

Books

Featured

Top

Video

Featured

Top

Mobile Apps

Browser Extensions

Archive-It Subscription

Save Page Now

Full text of "Letters Everywhere: Stories and Rhymes for Children"

See other formats