Chapter 2

Tucked into one of his mittens were ten nickels. He had never earned so much money before in his life. When he found that it was all to be his, he was so delighted he could hardly speak, but his bright smiling face spoke for him. After he had run home to take the money to his mother, John said:

“We have corn enough left to send Bernard out ever so many times. May we do it again?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Meredith, “you may send him every Saturday morning, if you will pop the corn for him yourselves. John, will you agree to take charge of the work?”

“Indeed I will,” replied John, and he kept his word. For many weeks, every Saturday morning, no matter what plan was on foot, no matter how good the coasting or skating, he saw that the corn was all popped, the paper bags filled, and arranged in the basket when Bernard arrived.

People began to watch for the “little pop-corn boy,” and every week he had at least fifty cents to take home, and often more. And all this was because of John’s bright idea, and the way he carried it out.

A SAD THANKSGIVING PARTY.

Four hungry-looking animals All seated in a row; Why does not some one speak to them? That’s what I want to know.

They all of them were bidden to A fine Thanksgiving feast, And now, it seems to me, their host Might welcome them, at least.

‘Twas Master Pug invited them, Why does he not appear? ‘Tis plain they think his absence looks Extremely rude and queer.

Alas! poor Pug’s in trouble sore, The host he cannot play; No feast for self or friends has he On this Thanksgiving Day.

He saw a turkey, large and fat, Upon the kitchen shelf. “That’s just the very thing I want,” Said he unto himself.

He caught the turkey, but the cook Caught him with firmer grasp, And shook him till he could not bark But only choke and gasp.

Meanwhile, those hungry animals, Who’d waited there in vain, Declared they never would be guest Of Mr. Pug again.

GUY AND THE BEE

One day a jolly bumble-bee, In coat of black and yellow, Got caught inside a window-pane; The silly little fellow.

He buzzed and buzzed against the glass, To Guy’s great enjoyment, Who thought to watch this funny thing Was just the best employment.

But soon to touch those gauzy wings, Became Guy’s great desire, Although mama had told him that A bee could sting like fire.

But Guy, silly as the bee, Paid no heed to mama, He touched the bee, then gave a howl Which could be heard afar.

Mama a soothing poultice mixed, And on his finger laid. “Another time you’ll be more wise,” Was everything she said.

A MEAN BOY.

Harry Burton woke one night and heard a strange noise in his closet. He got out of bed, crossed the floor in his bare feet, and carefully opened the closet door. The noise stopped, instantly.

“Ah!” said Harry, “I knew it was mice made that noise. How I wish I could catch them.”

The next morning he told his mother about the noises he had heard.

“I will get you a mouse-trap,” she said.

“I don’t want the kind that kills the mice, I only want to catch them and tame them,” said Harry.

His mother laughed and told him when he had tamed his mice he must keep them well out of her way.

The trap was set, the mice were caught, and sure enough, in a short time were so tame they would eat from Harry’s hand. He made a little house for them, and kept in it his bedroom. Whenever he went out, he always shut the door carefully.

Now it happened that among Harry’s acquaintances, there was one very disagreeable boy. His name was Dick Taft. Harry did not play with him very often, for he was so ugly it was hard to get along with him.

Dick never liked to be beaten at any game, and sometimes made it very uncomfortable for the one who got ahead of him.

One day Harry happened to beat him at one of their school games. Dick called after him when it was over, “I’ll pay you for this, see if I don’t.”

Harry only laughed as he walked away going in the opposite direction from his own house.

When he was out of sight, Dick ran to Harry’s house, made some excuse to go up in his bedroom, and let in the big cat, who was eagerly watching outside.

When Harry came home, the mouse house was open, and not one of his pets was to be seen. The poor fellow was almost heart-broken. He asked every one in the house who had left his door open. The maid told him she thought it must have been that boy he sent up to his room.

She described the boy, and Harry knew in a moment that it was Dick Taft.

“So that is the way he paid me for beating him at a game,” cried Harry. “Well, never again, so long as I live, will I play with a boy who is mean enough to do such a trick as that.”

And he kept his word.

A NAUGHTY PUMPKIN’S FATE.

A queer little pumpkin, a jolly fat fellow, Stood close to his mother so rotund and yellow. “What a stupid old place! how I long to aspire,” Cried he, “I was destined for something much higher.”

“My son,” said the mother, “pray do be content, There’s great satisfaction in life that’s well spent!” But he shrugged up his shoulders, this pumpkin, ‘t is true, And acted just like some bad children will do.

With a shout and a whoop, in the garden they ran, Tom and Ned, for they’d thought of the loveliest plan To astonish their friends from the city, you see, With a fine Jack-o’-lantern--“Ah, this one suits me!”

Neddie seized the bad pumpkin, and dug out his brains, Till he felt so light-headed and brimful of pains; Then two eyes, a long nose, and a mouth big and wide, They cut in a minute, and laid him aside

Until night, when they hung him upon a stout limb, With a candle inside; how his poor head did swim, As they twisted him this way, then twirled him round that, Till at last, with a crash, he fell on the ground flat,

A wreck of the once jolly, fat little fellow, Who stood by his mother so rotund and yellow. Just then a lean cow, who was passing that way, Ate him up, just to finish HER “Thanksgiving Day.”

SOMETHING ABOUT FIRES.

It was a cold day. Fred was tired of reading, tired of looking out of the window, and so he poked the fire for a change.

“I suppose there are a good many different sorts of fires,” he said to his mamma, as he laid down the poker.

“Yes, indeed,” she answered. “It is very interesting to know how people keep warm in all parts of the world, especially where fuel is scarce and dear. In Iceland, for example, fires are often made of fish-bones! Think of that. In Holland and other countries a kind of turf called peat is dug up in great quantities and used for fuel. And in France a coarse yellow and brown sea-weed, which is found in Finistere, is carefully dried and piled up for winter use. A false log, resembling wood, but made of some composition which does not consume, is often used in that country. It absorbs and throws out the heat, and adds to the looks of the hearth and to the comfort of the room.

“The French have also a movable stove, which can be wheeled from room to room, or even carried up or down stairs while full of burning coke. In Russia the poorer people use a large porcelain stove, flat on top like a great table, with a small fire inside which gives out a gentle, summer-like warmth. It often serves as a bed for the whole family, who sleep on top of it.

“There are, besides gas-stoves, oil-stoves, various methods of obtaining warmth by heated air and steam, and, doubtless, other devices that I never heard of.

“In some countries, however, no fires are needed. In looking at pictures of tropical towns you will at once notice the absence of chimneys.”

Fred looked admiringly at his mamma as she paused.

“There never was such a little mother,” he said; “you can think of something to say about everything.”

His mamma was pleased at this pleasant compliment.

“Oh!” she replied, laughing, “I could go on and tell you more about bonfires, beacon-fires, signals, drift-wood fires, and gypsy-tea fires; but I have told you enough for to-day.”

THE ICE-KING’S REIGN.

The sun had gone down with promises sweet, When, keen from the north, the wind Came blustering along on its coursers fleet, And left frozen tracks behind.

Maude stood at the window; the moon shimmered down On whirling leaves, stiff and dead, All piteously driven; she turned with a frown, And soft to herself she said:--

“The old tyrant Winter leaves nothing to prize, Leaves nothing that’s bright or fair; He has stolen the blue from the bending skies, The warmth from the earth and air.

“The summer’s dear blossoms are withered and dead; My garden is brown and bare; The chipper of birds in the nest overhead Is hushed, for no birdlings are here.

“The woodlands no longer are shady and sweet, Dry leafage encumbers the ground; The pathways, once verdant and soft to my feet, In fetters of ice are bound.

“The pride of the barn-yard sits humped with the cold, One frozen foot under his wing; And the sheep huddle closely, for warmth, in their fold; The ice tyrant reigns as king.”

She turns from this picture of ruin and death, And seeks the broad casement again; And, lo! from the dews of her wasted breath Great forests have grown on the pane.

Such beautiful trees! such ferns! and such flowers! Such rivers and mountains bold! Such charming cascades! she gazes for hours, And worships the ice king cold.

MALMO, THE WOUNDED RAT.

A poor man saw, by the roadside, a large white rat. It seemed to be dead. Moving it gently he found it was alive, but had a broken leg. He took it up and carried it to his lonely home. He bound up the bruised leg, fed the poor creature, and soon it was quite well.

Sam Tills trained the rat to gentle ways, and taught it many little tricks. Malmo was the only company Sam had. He worked in a cotton mill, and took Malmo with him. He rode in his master’s coat-pocket. It looked droll to see his white head peeping out.

Sundays both went to dine with Sam’s sister. Malmo’s funny ways made everybody laugh. When Sam said, “Malmo, go sit in my hat,” he went at once. He curled himself up in it, and nodded off to sleep.

When his master said, “Malmo, we’re going now; slip in,” the droll pet jumped from the hat, ran up to his pocket-nest, said good-by in his own fashion, and was ready to start. Evenings, when Sam was reading or singing from his mother’s hymn-book, Malmo had a nap on his master’s head. When it was time to go to bed Sam stroked Malmo’s soft fur. The rat rubbed himself against his master’s hand. It was their good-night to each other. Then Malmo crept into his basket, and the candle was blown out. Soon both were fast asleep.

MAMA’S HAPPY CHRISTMAS.

It had seemed to the little Wendell children that they would have a very sad Christmas. Mama had been very ill, and papa had been so anxious about mama that he could not think of anything else.

When Christmas Day came, however, mama was so much better that she could lie on the lounge. The children all brought their stockings into her room to open them.

“You children all seem as happy as if you had had your usual Christmas tree,” said mama, as they sat around her.

“Why, I NEVER had such a happy Christmas before,” said sweet little Agnes. “And it’s just because you are well again.”

“Now I think you must all run out for the rest of the day,” said the nurse, “because your mama wants to see you all again this evening.”

“I wish we could get up something expressly for mama’s amusement,” said Agnes, when they had gone into the nursery.

“How would you like to have some tableaux in here?” asked their French governess, Miss Marcelle.

“Oh, yes,” they all cried, “it would be fun, mama loves tableaux.”

So all day long they were busy arranging five tableaux for the evening. The tableaux were to be in the room which had folding-doors opening into Mrs. Wendell’s sitting-room.

At the proper time Miss Marcelle stepped outside the folding-doors and made a pretty little speech. She said that some young ladies and a young gentleman had asked permission to show some tableaux to Mrs. Wendell if she would like to see them. Mrs. Wendell replied that she would be charmed.

Then mademoiselle announced the tableaux; opening the doors wide for each one. This is a list of the tableaux: First, The Sleeping Beauty; second, Little Red Riding Hood third, The Fairy Queen; fourth, Old Mother Hubbard; fifth, The Lord High Admiral.

Miss Marcelle had arranged everything so nicely, and Celeste, the French maid, helped so much with the dressing, that the pictures all went off without a single mistake.

Mama was delighted. She said she must kiss those dear young ladies, and that delightful young man who had given her such a charming surprise.

So all the children came in rosy and smiling.

“Why, didn’t you know us?” asked the little Lord Admiral.

“I know this,” said mama, “I am like Agnes. I NEVER had such a happy Christmas before.”

CURED OF CARELESSNESS.

Mrs. Bertram sat reading a book one morning, or trying to. It was not easy to do so, for her little boy, Roger, was out in the hall playing with his drum. Suddenly the drumming ceased, and in a moment Roger rushed into the room crying as if his heart would break.

“I’ve burst it. I’ve burst it,” he sobbed.

“Your drum,” asked his mother. “How did you do that?”

“I was beating it with the poker and the tongs and--”

“With the poker and tongs!” exclaimed his mother. “Why, where were your drum-sticks?”

Then Roger stopped crying, and hung his head with shame.

“Where are your drum-sticks?” asked his mother, again.

“I--I--don’t know,” sobbed Roger.

“Have you lost those, too?” said Mrs. Bertram. She needed no words for answer. Roger’s manner was quite enough. “You know, dear, what I said would happen the next time you lost anything.”

“Yes,” said Roger, “I you said I must give away all my toys to some little boys who would take care of them.”

“Yes,” said his mother. “I see you remember. I shall send them all to-night to the Children’s Hospital.”

“But, mama,” said Roger, “if I don’t have any toys to take care of, how can I learn to take care of them?”

Mrs. Bertram had to turn away so that Roger should not see her smile.

“I shall have to think of some other way to teach you to be careful. Now go and bring me all your toys.”

Roger went out of the room to do as his mother said. When he had gone, Mrs. Bertram sat thinking until he came back.

“I have decided that I want you to dust the library every morning.”

Roger looked astonished. “Boys don’t dust,” he said.

“Sometimes,” said his mother, smilingly. “Your Uncle Fred had to dust his own room when he was at West Point. Now if you dust the library every morning for two months faithfully, and do not break a single ornament, I shall know you have grown careful in one way, and that may help you to be careful in another.”

The next morning Roger began his work. At first he disliked it very much, but after a while he grew very particular. It was not pleasant to be without any toys, and he determined to earn them.

The day when his trial of two months would be up, would be Christmas Day. He did not know if his presents this year would be toys or useful things. All his mother had said about his work was, “My dear, you are improving.”

Christmas night came, and with it a beautiful tree. Imagine Roger’s delight when he saw on and about it new skates, a new sled, a new violin and a new drum.

And up in the highest branches, in letters of gold, these words: “For the boy who has proved he can be careful when he tries.”

A VISIT FROM A PRINCE.

Harry was playing with his letter blocks one afternoon, when a prince came to visit him.

Harry knew the prince very well, indeed. As soon as the prince came into the room Harry said:

“Hullo, old fellow, is that you?”

Was not that a very strange way to greet a prince?

And wasn’t it stranger yet for Harry to say next:

“Come, sit up, old boy, and give us your--”

Was it hand Harry was going to say? No, indeed, it was paw. “Sit up, old boy, and give us your paw.”

Prince was a beautiful dog, as black as a coal. Indeed, his real name, his whole name, was Edward, the Black Prince. Now you must ask somebody to tell you about the man who was called the “Black Prince,” the man for whom Harry’s dog was named.

When Harry asked Prince to give his paw, the dog did not do it as quickly as he ought to have done.

Did Harry beat him for that? No, indeed. Did he say, “Never mind, Prince, you need not obey me if you do not want to?” No, indeed, again.

He sat up himself, and then he made Prince sit up on his hind legs. Then he ordered Prince to give his paw. Prince did so. Then Harry made him do it again, then again and again and again, until the dog seemed to understand that he must learn to obey when he was spoken to.

After Prince appeared to have learned that lesson quite perfectly, Harry taught him something new.

He taught him to stand on his hind legs and hold a pipe in his mouth.

This he soon did so well that Harry clapped his hands and cried, “Good, good, you smoke as well as his royal highness, the Black Prince, himself.”

Which remark showed that Harry had not yet begun to study history. If he had, he would have known that in the country where the Black Prince lived, tobacco was never heard of until many, many, MANY years after his death.

STRINGING CRANBERRIES.

Arthur Bancroft was feeling very cross one morning in December. He had a bad cold, and his mother did not think it would be wise for him to go out-of-doors. That was why he was cross. The skating was finer than it had been that season; every other boy he knew was enjoying it.

He walked about the house with a very sulky face; would take no notice of books or games, and seemed determined to be miserable.

He was standing looking out of the window when his sister Laura came into the room. Laura carried in her hand a basket filled with cranberries.

She put the basket on the table, took a needle from her mother’s needle book, threaded it with a long, stout thread, and began stringing the berries.

Laura was a dear little thing! She was always busy. No one ever heard her say, “I wish I had something to do.” And she was generally doing something for some one else.

She made a sweet little picture as she sat bending over the basket of crimson cranberries. Some such idea may have come into Arthur’s mind as he turned and looked at her. As he watched her silently for some moments, the cross expression on his face became a little less cross.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Stringing cranberries for the Mullins’ Christmas tree,” answered Laura. “Don’t you want to help me?”

“It’s girls’ work,” replied Arthur.

“Isn’t a boy smart enough to do a girl’s work?” asked Laura.

“Of course, he’s SMART enough. I don’t mean that! Perhaps he doesn’t want to.”

“Oh,” said Laura, “I wish you did want to.”

“Why?” asked Arthur.

“I promised to string all these for the Mullins’ Christmas tree,” replied Laura. “The market-man brought them so late, I have not much time now.”

“Thread another needle,” said Arthur.

In a few moments he was working as busily as Laura, herself. As Arthur finished his last long string, he tied the ends together and threw it around Laura’s neck. When she bent her head a little, it reached the floor.

“There,” said he, “that proves that a boy can do a girl’s work.”

“Yes,” said Laura, “when”--then she stopped and smiled.

“When what?” asked Arthur.

“When he has a girl to show him how,” laughed Laura, as she danced out of the room with the cranberry strings.

CHRISTMAS IN CALIFORNIA.

“To think that this is Christmas Day!” Said Harold to his aunt, “I know it really is, and yet, Believe it--well, I can’t! I’ve had a tree, my stocking, too, This morning full I found, But how can I believe it With no snow upon the ground?

Look at the sea so bright and blue, And feel the soft, warm air, And there are roses all in bloom, And lilies, I declare! I think that California Is lovely, but it’s queer, How different Christmas is at home From what it is out here.”

“Ah, Harold!” gently said his aunt, “No matter where you go, In country strewn with flowers like this, Or clad in ice and snow, The birthday of the Christ-child is The same in every place, And happy greetings in His name, Bring smiles to every face.”

A TROUBLESOME CALL.

We were going, on Saturday, ever so far,-- My mamma and I,--to the Dollies’ Bazaar, Where fifty wax dollies,--the loveliest show, Went walking about when they wound ‘em, you know.

You wouldn’t believe half the things they could do: Why, one said “Good morning,” as plainly as you. One played the piano, and one, dressed in lace, Walked up to a mirror and powdered her face.

Well, when we were ready we stepped in the hall, And there was a lady a-coming to call. She said she just chanced to be passing that way, And she really had only a minute to stay.

We waited and waited, and hoped she would go, Till I saw it was almost the time for the show, For I heard the clocks striking all over the town, And I knew that the dollies would all be run down.

And so I just said, “I should s’pose, Mrs. Black, Your little girl wonders why don’t you come back.” That’s all that I spoke, every ‘dentical word; But she said, “Little girls should be seen and not heard.”

I guess that’s a proverb, so maybe ‘tis true; But, if people won’t see, what can little girls do? My mamma looked queer, but that ended the call, And we went to the Dollies’ Bazaar, after all.

BERTIE’S CORN-POPPER

Bertie had the desire of his heart,--a corn-popper! He had wanted it for a long time,--three weeks, at least. Mamma brought it when she came home from the city, and gave it to him for his very own. A bushel of corn, ready popped, would not have been half so good. There was all the delight of popping in store for the long winter evenings.

Bertie could hardly wait to eat his supper before he tried his corn-popper. It proved to be a very good one. He popped corn that evening, and the next, and the next. He fed all the family, gave some to all his playmates, and carried a bag of pop-corn to school for his teacher.

Trip, the shaggy, little, yellow dog, came in for a share, and Mintie too. Who or what was Mintie?

Mintie was a bantam biddy, very small, white as snow, and very pretty. She had been left an orphan chick, and for a while kept in the house, near the kitchen fire. She had been Bertie’s especial charge, and he fed and tended her faithfully.

As she grew older she would rove about with the larger hens, but was very tame, and always liked the house. She would come in very often. When Bertie happened to pop corn in the daytime she was pretty apt to be around, and pick up the kernels he threw to her.

One night he left his corn-popper on the kitchen table. It was open, and two or three small kernels were still in it.

Early next morning, long before Bertie was dressed, Mintie came into the kitchen. She flew up on the table, and helped herself to the corn in the popper. The girl was busy getting breakfast, and did not mind much about her. Presently she went down cellar, and Mintie had the room to herself.

When Bertie came down to breakfast there was a white egg in the corn-popper! It was so small that it looked almost like a bird’s; but it was Mintie’s first egg.

Bertie clapped his hands; he was very much pleased.

“Mamma! mamma!” he shouted. “See this pretty egg! Mintie put it into my popper, and must have meant to give it to me.”

And mamma said, “Very likely she did.”