Chapter 2

"What do you mean?" asked the boy glancing along the trim row of palings.

"Why, you are putting the pickets too close together," said Marjorie. "They don't look well that way, and they are too near the ground, besides. I was just speaking to my friend about it, and I thought that I ought to tell you, as well."

"Thank you," said the boy, gravely; and then:--"Do you know what I am building this fence for?"

"No-o," said Marjorie. "I supposed it was just--just a fence."

"Well," said the boy, "a fence usually has some particular purpose; and, as a general thing, the person building it knows that purpose better than any one else, and just what sort of a fence is best in that especial case."

Marjorie said nothing, and the boy went on.

"I am fencing in a place for some white rabbits. Some of them are very small, and so I had to put the pickets near together and close to the ground. Do you see?"

"Oh," said Marjorie, "I didn't know what you were going to keep inside! Of course you would have to build it this way for the little rabbits. If I had known what it was for, I wouldn't have said anything."

"Was it necessary for you to know?" asked the boy. "It is _my_ fence."

Marjorie flushed, "I don't think that you are very grateful," she said; "and, anyway, the pickets don't look well so close together, even if you do have to have it that way," and she turned and went back to the road.

"Well?" said the Dream, as she approached.

"He was disagreeable," said Marjorie, "and acted as if I had no right to tell him of his mistake."

"But is he going to change the pickets?"

"No," said Marjorie, "he has to have them that way to keep some rabbits inside. I told him it didn't look well, anyway."

"Of course that helped some," said the Dream, "since he must have them so, whether they look well or not."

"Yes," said Marjorie. "See, he has come out into the road to look at them. I guess what I said sort of worried him. I don't think those pickets are a good shape, either. I like them better where they are cut sort of curly on top, instead of just plain points."

"Yes," said the Dream. "And did you tell him about that too?"

"No," said Marjorie, "I didn't think about it then; but--say--where do you suppose those rabbits are now? You don't think that they are shut up in that little dark shed over there, do you? Wouldn't that be dreadful? There, those people heard what I said, and they are wondering too. See them look,--and I suppose that they will tell others about it. Isn't it too bad? And he's such a nice appearing boy too. I'm sure he doesn't mean to be cruel. I think that some one ought to speak to him. Poor little things, shut up in the dark on a beautiful day like this! It ought not to be allowed. I'm going to talk to him!" and Marjorie ran across the road again.

The boy glanced up as she approached; but waited for her to speak. Marjorie looked him straight in the eye. "Where are your rabbits?" she asked, severely.

"In the shed," he replied, motioning with his head in the direction of the building she had noticed.

"What!" she exclaimed. "A lot of lovely white rabbits shut up in that little dark shed! Oh, how can you be so unkind?"

"They have been there only about two hours," said the boy, "and I shall let them out as soon as I have nailed on these last few pickets. It will be only a little while; and besides, the shed is not dark, there is a big window on the other side, and they have cabbage and things to eat, and a great armful of clover."

"But they are shut up!" cried Marjorie. "How would you like to be shut up in jail, even if you did have a lot of cabbage and clover? You ought to let them out right away. Don't you love them at all?"

"Of course I love them," said the boy; "but can't you see that if I let them out now I will lose them? And, besides, they are tame rabbits and don't know how to take care of themselves, and would get into all sorts of trouble, and probably spoil all of the gardens in the neighborhood."

Marjorie looked unconvinced. "Your arguments sound all right," she said; "but I am sure that they must be wrong somewhere, because it certainly isn't right for those poor, dear little rabbits to be shut up that way. They ought to be let out right now. The fence is nearly done and they wouldn't try to go through the opening while you are working on it; they would be afraid. If you don't let them out, every one will be talking about how cruel you are. I suppose that is what those people are talking about now," and Marjorie pointed to the persons who had overheard her comments a few moments before.

The boy glanced toward them anxiously, and then toward the shed. "Well," he said at last, doubtfully, "perhaps I can manage it;--if only they won't go through the gap before I can get back to it after opening the door," and he turned and walked unwilling toward the shed.

"I'll watch the gap," called Marjorie after him.

When he reached the building, he hesitated for an instant, and then he drew the bolt and threw open the door; but before he had time to turn and head them off, out scrambled a white wave of rabbits; big and little, fat and thin; and with one accord made straight for the opening in the fence. The boy ran after them, calling excitedly to Marjorie to stand firm and not let them through; and for a moment Marjorie did stand firm before the oncoming army of waving ears and flying feet; but when she felt the first scrambling of paws about her ankles, she lost her nerve, and in a sudden panic she fled wildly across the road and on to the top rail of the fence on the other side; and by the time that the boy reached the opening, the rabbits were scattered in every direction up and down the road and over the fields. For a few moments he stood, looking after them, and then, without glancing toward Marjorie, he took up in his arms one trembling little white fellow who had failed to find the opening, and turned toward the shed with it.

Marjorie climbed slowly down from the fence and walked along the road, silently and with her head down.

Presently the Dream spoke. "Was it your work that the boy was doing?" he asked.

"No," said Marjorie.

"Was he worried and uncertain when you came along? Did he ask for your opinion or advice?"

"No," said Marjorie.

"And what did you do?"

Marjorie spoke in a very low voice, but very steadily. "I criticised him unjustly; I talked about him in the hearing of other people, and some of them will never know that he was right and I was wrong; and I interfered, and now--" Marjorie stopped and swallowed hard.

"And now--what?" asked the Dream.

"I am sorry," said Marjorie humbly.

"So is the boy," said the Dream.

Marjorie said nothing.

"Aren't you afraid you'll get the habit?" asked the Dream, presently.

"What habit?"

"You've said 'I'm sorry,'--how many times to-day?"

Marjorie shook her head. "It seems as if I have said it oftener than anything else. But I ought to be sorry when I make mistakes, oughtn't I?"

"Yes. Only don't hold on to it after you have learned your lesson, that's all. The lesson is the only good thing about being sorry;--and you and the boy, each, had a lesson this time."

"Yes," said Marjorie, "and mine is that other people's work--"

"Make it short," said the Dream. "Call it 'mind your own business.'"

Marjorie nodded gravely. "And the boy's lesson is--"

"'Be sure you're right, then go ahead, 'Don't mind what people say.'"

hummed the Dream.

Marjorie nodded again. "But it is so hard to 'be sure you're right,' when other people think that you are wrong."

"Not if you keep an honest WHY in sight," said the Dream.

"Listen," said Marjorie, "I hear singing," and she looked all about her eagerly, but could see no one. "How sweet it sounds," she said; "there must be quite a number singing together. Oh, there they are!" and she pointed to where a group of five or six children were just emerging from a shady lane and turning into the road, all singing gaily to a tune which Marjorie knew very well. "Come," she cried, "let's catch up. I'd love to sing with them," and she hurried her steps.

As she came up behind the children, several turned and saw her. "Come and sing with us," called one of them.

"Thank you," said Marjorie. "I was just wishing you'd ask me," and she eagerly joined the group. However, as they took up the song again, Marjorie did not take part in it; but, instead, a little wrinkle came between her eyebrows, and she glanced anxiously at the Dream, who did not seem to be looking in her direction at all.

Presently, one of the children who was walking beside her, stopped singing and turned toward her. "Why don't you sing?" he asked.

"I--I don't know those words," said Marjorie.

"Do you know the tune?" asked the boy.

"Oh, yes," said Marjorie; "but I always sang different words to it."

"Well, you can learn these easily," said the boy. "I'll teach them to you."

Marjorie hesitated. "You are very kind," she said; "but--but--"

"But--what?" said the boy.

"Well--" Marjorie was thinking hard, "--I am not sure but that I ought to be going on--"

"You said that you wanted to sing," said the boy.

Suddenly Marjorie's face brightened. "Oh, I know!" she exclaimed. "Did you ever try singing the multiplication table to that tune? It's lots of fun. Let's try it."

"All right," said the boy, "only I don't know it all."

"This will help you to learn it," said Marjorie. "I remember it, so you just follow me. We'll begin with the fives, because they're easy;" and they dropped a little way behind the others and began to sing, softly, putting their own words to the tune. The boy was delighted to find how easily the words fitted, and presently they went on to the "Sixes," and began to sing a little louder; and then another of the children dropped back to find what they were doing, and joined in, with gusto. This attracted the attention of others, who gradually joined them, until soon the words of the multiplication table rose high above the silly and senseless words of the song which they had been singing;--and Marjorie's voice led them, singing true to note and to the facts of the table.

"Good!" said the boy who was walking beside Marjorie, as they stopped for breath. "I always thought the 'Sixes' were hard; but they are easy this way; for the tune makes me think of the right words to put in. Now let's try the 'Sevens.'"

And so they tried the "Sevens" and the "Eights," some of the children stumbling badly at first; but soon getting into the swing of the tune and the words, until their voices all blended smoothly and sweetly. By and by the children began dropping out of the group, as they came to their homes on the road; each one calling a cheery good-by to Marjorie, and going away singing by himself.

"I'm going to teach it to my brother and sister," called one, as he turned in at his gate, "so that we can sing it together at home."

"And so am I," "And so am I," called the others; "and we'll sing it coming from school every night until we know it all."

When Marjorie and the Dream were again alone, Marjorie continued humming the little tune, happily.

"The world is more beautiful than it was. Don't you think so?" said the Dream, presently.

"Yes," said Marjorie.

"I suppose you know what was the best thing that you did there?" said the Dream.

"Yes," said Marjorie. "It was putting something true into their song, in place of what was silly and meaningless and untrue."

"And you did it without making one of them feel cross or contrary. You only showed them something better than they had, and did it without being obtrusive. Every one wants what is better than he has;--if he is allowed to take it of his own accord, and doesn't have it thrust upon him."

After this they walked along in silence for quite a long way, until they came to the top of a hill, and sat down to rest for a few moments. Marjorie heaved a sigh as she looked away over the low, green hills, the shady woods, and the winding stream. "I've come a long way," she said, "and I haven't done much;--but I wanted to,--you don't know how I wanted to."

"And what are you going to do now?" asked the Dream.

"Keep on," said Marjorie, bravely.

"In just the same way?"

"No. I've learned some things,--and I shall learn some more. I've made ever so many mistakes--"

"But you've seen them," said the Dream.

"Yes. I don't think I'll make the same ones again;--and I'll try to watch and think, so that I will not make so many as I have,--and--but I wanted, so much, to find some real work to do!"

"Do you remember what I told you, a while ago, that real work is?"

"Yes. Just helping, wisely."

"And how can you help best?"

Marjorie mused for a moment. "By loving, and living love," she said; "and having your hand ready." And then, after a moment, "Do you suppose that I will ever find something big to do, instead of just the little bits by the wayside?"

"It is all 'by the wayside,'" said the Dream; "and the big things will come,--when you are big enough for them."