Part 4

“Hi! hi!” said the big man, putting aside his newspaper, “what’s all this? Hey?”

The Boy could not speak for fright; but the poor woman answered, “It’s the dear little gentleman offering me his seat for the baby, sir! The Lord bless him for a little jewel that he is!”

“Hi! hi!” growled the big man, getting heavily up from his seat and still holding the boy’s arm, which he had grasped as the child fell, “this won’t do! One gentleman in the car, eh? And an old fellow reading his newspaper! Here, sit down here, my friend!” and he helped the woman to his seat, and bowed to her as if she were a duchess. “And as for you, Hop-o’-my-thumb—” Then he stooped and took the Boy up, and set him on his left arm, which was as big as a table. “There, sir!” he said, “sit you there and be comfortable, as you deserve.”

The Boy sat very still; indeed, he was too frightened to move. Since the man had called him Hop-o’-my-thumb, he was quite sure that he must be an ogre; perhaps the very ogre from whom Hop and his brothers escaped. The book said he died, but books do not always tell the truth; Papa said so.

When the big man began to feel in the right-hand pockets of his gray coat, the child trembled so excessively that he shook the great arm on which he sat.

The man looked quickly at him. “What is the matter, my lad?” he asked; and his voice, though gruff, did not sound unkind. “You are not afraid of a big man, are you? Do you think I am an ogre?”

“Yes!” said the boy; and he gave one sob, and then stopped himself.

The gray man burst into a great roar of laughter, which made every one in the car jump in his seat.

Still laughing, he drew his hand from his pocket, and in it was—not a knife, but a beautiful, shining, golden pear. “Take that, young Hop-o’-my-thumb,” he said, putting it in the Boy’s hands. “If you will eat that, I promise not to eat you,—not even to take a single bite. Are you satisfied?”

The boy ventured to raise his eyes to the man’s face; and there he saw such a kind, funny, laughing look that before he knew it he was laughing, too.

“I don’t believe you are an ogre, after all!” he said.

“Don’t you?” said the big man. “Well, neither do I! But you may as well eat the pear, just the same.”

And the Boy did.

MERRY CHRISTMAS.

(_Air: “Es Regnet.”_)

MERRY CHRISTMAS! Merry Christmas! we sing and we say. We usher in joyful the joyfullest day. Bring cedar and hemlock, Bring holly and yew, To crown Father Christmas with majesty due. _Chorus._—To crown Father Christmas with majesty due.

Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! the snow-field lies white. The river’s a crystal to mirror delight. On skates and on snowshoes, In sledge and in sleigh, We’ll meet Father Christmas, and lead him our way. _Cho._—We’ll meet Father Christmas, and lead him our way.

Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! the hearth is piled high. The yellow tongues flicker, the fleet sparkles fly. Bring apples and chestnuts, And corn-popper here! We’ll pledge Father Christmas, and make him good cheer! _Cho._— We’ll pledge Father Christmas, and make him good cheer!

Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! we say and we sing. All honor and life to the winter’s glad king! Ring, bells in the steeple! Shout, maidens and men! To greet Father Christmas, and greet him again. _Cho._—To greet Father Christmas, and greet him again.

IN the Land of Rinktum, (Riddle, riddle, rink,) All the happy people-weople Never stop to think. Through the streets they laughing go, Courtesying to high and low, With a nod, and a wink, With a jig, and a jink, Happy land of Rinktum Rink! I will go there too, I think.

In the land of Rinktum, (Riddle, riddle, rink!) Every little noisy-boysy Lemonade may drink. In the street, all a-row, Lemon fountains fall and flow With a splash, and a dash, With a gold and silver flash. Happy land of Rinktum Rink! I will go there too, I think.

In the Land of Rinktum, (Riddle, riddle, rink,) Every bud’s a rosy-posy, Every weed’s a pink. Candy shops, lollipops, Barking dogs and humming-tops, Happy land of Rinktum Rink! I will go there, too, I think.

IN THE TUNNEL.

WILL was digging a tunnel in the long drift. It was the longest drift that Will had ever seen, and he had meant to have Harry help him, but now they had quarrelled, and were never going to speak to each other as long as they lived, so Will had to begin alone.

He dug and dug, taking up great solid blocks of snow on his shovel, and tossing them over his shoulder in a workman-like manner. As he dug, he kept saying to himself that Harry was the hatefullest boy he ever saw in his life, and that he was glad he shouldn’t see anything more of him. It would seem queer, to be sure, not to play with him every day, for they had always played together ever since they put on short clothes; but Will didn’t care. He wasn’t going to be “put upon,” and Master Harry would find that out.

It was a very long drift. Will had never made such a fine tunnel; it did seem a pity that there should be no one to play with him in it, when it was done. But there was not a soul; for that Weaver boy was so rude, he did not want to have anything to do with him, and there was no one else of his age except Harry, and he should never see Harry again, at least not to speak to.

Dig! dig! dig! How pleasant it would be if somebody were digging from the other end, so that they could meet in the middle, and then play robbers in a cave, or miners, or travellers lost in the snow. That would be the best, because Spot could be the faithful hound, and drag them out by the hair, and have a bottle of milk round his neck for them to drink. Spot was pretty small, but they could wriggle along themselves, and make believe he was dragging them. It would be fun! but he didn’t suppose he should have any fun now, since Harry had been so hateful, and they were never—no, never going to speak again, if it was ever so—

What was that noise? Could it be possible that he was getting to the end of the drift? It was as dark as ever,—the soft, white darkness of a snowdrift; but he certainly heard a noise close by, as if some one were digging very near him. What if—

Willy redoubled his efforts, and the noise grew louder and louder; presently a dog barked, and Will started, for he knew the sound of the bark. Just then the shovel sank into the snow and through it, and in the opening appeared Harry’s head, and the end of Spot’s nose. “Hullo, Will!” said Harry.

“Hullo, Harry!” said Will.

“Let’s play travellers in the snow!” said Harry. “This is just the middle of the drift, and we can be jolly and lost.”

“All right!” said Will, “let’s!”

They had a glorious play, and took turns in being the traveller and the pious monk of Saint Bernard; and they both felt so warm inside, they had no idea that the thermometer was at zero outside.

PRACTISING SONG.

_Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-tum!_ Here I must sit for an hour and strum: Practising is good for a good little girl, It makes her nose straight, and it makes her hair curl.

_Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-ti!_ Bang on the low notes and twiddle on the high. Whether it’s a jig or the Dead March in Saul, I sometimes often feel as if I didn’t care at all.

_Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-tee!_ I don’t mind the whole or the half-note, you see! It’s the sixteenth and the quarter that confuse my mother’s daughter, And the thirty-second, really, is too dreadful to be taught her.

_Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-to!_ I shall never, never, never learn the minor scale, I know. It’s gloomier and doomier than puppy dogs a-howling, And what’s the use of practising such melancholy yowling?

But—_ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-tum_! Still I work away with my drum, drum, drum. For practising is good for a good little girl: It makes her nose straight and it makes her hair curl.[A]

[Footnote A: This last line is not true, little girls; but it is hard, you know, to find good reasons for practising.]

QUEEN ELIZABETH’S DANCE.

THE Spanish ambassador came to see Queen Bess, the great and glorious; He was an hidalgo of high degree, And she was a maid victorious.

He bowed till he touched her gilded shoe, And he kissed the royal hand of her, And said if she’d marry King Philip the Two, He’d take charge of the troublesome land of her.

_Chorus._—Oh! she danced, she danced, she danced, And she pranced, she pranced, she pranced. Oh! high and disposedly, Tips-of-her-toesedly, Royal Elizabeth danced.

The Queen replied with a courtesy low, “King Philip is courtly and kind, too! But my kingdom is smaller than his, you know, And rule it myself I’ve a mind to. Supreme is the honor, of him to be sought; Oblige him I’m sorry I can’t, oh! But lest you should think you’d come hither for nought, You shall see how I dance a coranto!”

_Cho._—Oh! she danced, she danced, she danced, etc.

The Spanish ambassador hied him home, And told how he had been tried of her; And His Majesty swore by the Pope of Rome, He’d break the insular pride of her. But vain was his hope! He never could ope, In the land of that marvellous lass, a door; For she danced in the face of the King and the Pope, As she danced for the Spanish ambassador.

_Cho._—Oh! she danced, she danced, she danced, etc.

A STORMING PARTY.

IT was at Stirling Castle. People who did not know might have called it the shed, but that would show their ignorance. On the ramparts was mustered a gallant band, the flower of Scotland, armed with mangonels, catapults, and bows and arrows; below were the English, with their battering-rams and culverins and things. Ned was the English general, and led the storming party, and I was his staff, and Billy was the drummer, and drummed for the king. The Scottish general was Tom, and he had on Susie’s plaid skirt for a kilt, and his sporran was the rocking-horse’s tail that had come off.

Well, there was lots of snow on the roof,—I mean the ramparts, and they hurled it down on our heads, and we played ours was Greek fire, and hit them back like fun, I tell you. There was quite a mountain down below, where Andrew, the chore-man, had shovelled off the deep snow; and we stood on this, and it was up to my waist, and I played it was gore, because in Scott they are always wading knee-deep in gore, and I thought I would get ahead of them and go in up to my waist.

I hit General Montrose (that was Tom) with a splendid ball of Greek fire, and it was quite soft, and a lot of it got down his neck, and you ought to have seen him dance. He called me a dastardly Sassenach, and I thought at first he said “sausage,” and was as mad as hops, but afterward I didn’t care.

Then Ned called for volunteers to storm the castle, and we all ran to the ladder; but Ned climbed up the spout, ’cause he can shin like sixty, and he got up before we did. He took the warder by the throat, just like the Bold Buccleugh in “Kinmont Willie,” and chucked him right off the roo—ramparts into the gore. That made Montrose mad as a hornet, and he rushed on Ned, and they got each other round the waist, and went all over the roof, till at last they got too near the edge, and over they both went. Billy was scared at that and stopped drumming, but I drew my mangonel (Susie says that isn’t the right name, but I don’t believe she knows) and rushed on the Scottish troops, which were only Jimmy Weaver, now that Montrose and the warder were gone. I got Jimmy down, and put my knee on his chest and shouted, “Victory! the day is ours! Saint George for England!”

But then I heard somebody else yelling, and I looked over the ramparts, and there was Montrose with his knee on Ned’s chest, waving his culverin and shouting, “Victory! the day is ours! Saint Andrew for Scotland!”

I was perfectly sure that our side had beaten, and Tom was absolutely certain that he had won a great victory; but just then mother called us in to tea, so we could not fight it over again to decide. Anyhow, Montrose got so much Greek fire down his neck that he had to change everything he had on, and I didn’t have to change a thing except my stockings.

AT THE LITTLE BOY’S HOME.

IT was a very hot day, and the little boy was lying on his stomach under the big linden tree, reading the “Scottish Chiefs.”

“Little Boy,” said his mother, “will you please go out in the garden and bring me a head of lettuce?”

“Oh, I—can’t!” said the little boy. “I’m—too—_hot_!”

The little boy’s father happened to be close by, weeding the geranium bed; and when he heard this, he lifted the little boy gently by his waistband, and dipped him in the great tub of water that stood ready for watering the plants.

“There, my son!” said the father. “Now you are cool enough to go and get the lettuce; but remember next time that it will be easier to go at once when you are told as then you will not have to change your clothes.”

The little boy went drip, drip, dripping out into the garden and brought the lettuce; then he went drip, drip, dripping into the house and changed his clothes; but he said never a word, for he knew there was nothing to say.

That is the way they do things where the little boy lives. Would you like to live there? Perhaps not; yet he is a happy little boy, and he is learning the truth of the old saying,—

“Come when you’re called, do as you’re bid. Shut the door after you, and you’ll never be chid.”

THEN AND NOW.

(_A disquisition on the use of gunpowder, by Master Jack._)

WHEN they first invented gunpowder, They did most dreadful things with it; They blew up popes and parliaments, And emperors and kings with it.

They put on funny hats and boots, And skulked about in cellars, oh! With shaking shoes they laid a fuse, And blew it with the bellows, oh!

They wore great ruffs, the stupid muffs, (At least that’s my opinion) then; And said “What ho!” and “Sooth, ’tis so!” And called each other “minion!” then.

But now, the world has turned about Five hundred years and more, you see; And folks have learned a thing or two They did not know before, you see.

So nowadays the powder serves To give the boys a jolly day And try their Aunt Louisa’s nerves, And make a general holiday.

In open day we blaze away With popguns and with crackers, oh! With rockets bright we crown the night, (And some of them are whackers, oh!)

And “pop!” and “fizz!” and “bang!” and “whizz!” Sounds louder still and louder, oh! And that’s the way we use, to-day, The funny gunny-powder, oh!

PLEASANT WALK.

“WHERE are you going, Miss Sophia?” asked Letty, looking over the gate.

“I am going to walk,” answered Miss Sophia. “Would you like to come with me, Letty?”

“Oh yes!” cried Letty, “I should like to go very much indeed! Only wait, please, while I get my bonnet!”

And Letty danced into the house, and danced out again with her brown poke bonnet over her sunny hair.

“Here I am, Miss Sophia!” she cried. “Now, where shall we go?”

“Down the lane!” said Miss Sophia, “and through the orchard into the fields. Perhaps we may find some strawberries.”

So away they went, the young lady walking demurely along, while the little girl frolicked and skipped about, now in front, now behind. It was pretty in the green lane. The ferns were soft and plumy, and the moss firm and springy under their feet. The trees bent down and talked to the ferns, and told them stories about the birds that were building in their branches; and the ferns had stories, too, about the black velvet mole who lived under their roots, and who had a star on the end of his nose.

But Letty and Miss Sophia did not hear all this; they only heard a soft whispering, and never thought what it meant.

Presently they came out of the lane, and passed through the orchard, and then came out into the broad, sunny meadow.

“Now, Letty,” said Miss Sophia, “use your bright eyes, and see if you can find any strawberries! I will sit under a tree and rest a little.”

Away danced Letty, and soon she was peeping and peering under every leaf and grass blade; but no gleam of scarlet, no pretty clusters of red and white could she see. Evidently it was not a strawberry meadow. She came back to the tree, and said,—

“There are no strawberries, at all, Miss Sophia, not even one. But I have found something else. Wouldn’t you like to see it? Something very pretty.”

“What is it, dear?” asked Miss Sophia. “A flower? I should like to see it, certainly.”

“No, it is not a flower,” said Letty; “it’s a cow.”

“What?” cried Miss Sophia, springing to her feet.

“A cow,” said Letty, “a pretty, spotted cow. She’s coming after me, I think.”

Miss Sophia looked in the direction which Letty pointed, and there, to be sure, was a cow, moving slowly toward them. She gave a shriek of terror; then, controlling herself, she threw her arms around Letty.

“Be calm, my child!” she said, “I will save you! Be calm!”

“Why, what is the matter, Miss Sophia?” cried Letty in alarm.

Miss Sophia’s face was very pale, and she trembled; but she seized Letty’s arm, and bade her walk as fast as she could.

“If we should run,” she said, in a quivering voice, “it would run after us, and then we could not possibly escape. Walk fast, my child! Don’t scream! Try to keep calm!”

“Why, Miss Sophia!” cried the astonished child, “you don’t think I’m afraid of that cow, do you? Why, it’s—”

“Hush! hush!” whispered Miss Sophia, dragging her along, “you will only enrage the creature by speaking aloud. I will save you, dear, if I can! See! we are getting near the fence. Can’t you walk a little faster?”

“Moo-oo-ooo!” said the cow, which was now following them at a quicker pace.

“Oh! oh!” cried Miss Sophia. “I shall faint, I know I shall! Letty, don’t faint too, dear. Let one of us escape. Courage, child! Be calm! Oh! there is the fence. Run, now, _run_ for your life!”

The next minute they were both over the fence. Letty stood panting, with eyes and wide mouth open; but Miss Sophia clasped her in her arms and burst into tears.

“Safe!” she sobbed. “My dear, dear child, we are safe!”

“Yes, I suppose we are safe,” said the bewildered Letty. “But what was the matter? It was Uncle George’s cow, and she was coming home to be milked!”

“Moo-oo-oo!” said Uncle George’s cow, looking over the fence.

A GREAT DAY.

“CHILDREN,” asked Miss Mary, the teacher, “do you know what day this is?”

“Yes, ma’am!” cried Bobby Wilkins, looking up with sparkling eyes.

“Does any one else know?” asked Miss Mary.

No one spoke. The boy John knew very well what day it was, but he was off in the clouds, thinking of William the Conqueror, and did not hear a word Miss Mary said. Billy Green knew, too, but he had been reproved for chewing gum in class, and was in the sulks, and would not speak. Of course Joe did not know, for he never knew anything of that kind; and none of the girls were going to answer when the boys were reciting. So Bobby Wilkins was the only one who spoke.

“It is a day,” said Miss Mary, looking round rather severely, “which ought to waken joy in the heart of every American, young or old.”

Bobby felt his cheeks glow, and his heart swell. He thought Miss Mary was very kind.

“It is a day,” she went on, “to be celebrated with feelings of pride and delight.”

Bobby felt of the bright new half-dollar in his pocket, and thought of the splendid kite at home, and of the cake that mother was making when he came away. He had not wanted to come to school to-day, but now he was glad he had come. He had no idea that Miss Mary would feel this way about it. He looked round to see how the others took it, but they all looked blank, except the boy John, who was standing on the field of Hastings, and whose countenance was illumined with the joy of victory.

“It is a day,” said Miss Mary, with kindling eyes (for the children were really very trying to-day), “which will be remembered in America as long as freedom and patriotism shall endure.”

Bobby felt as if he were growing taller. He saw himself in the President’s chair, or mounted on a great horse, like the statues of Washington, holding out a truncheon.

“One hundred and eighteen years ago to-day,” cried Miss Mary—

“Oh! oh my, it ain’t!” cried Bobby Wilkins, springing up. “It’s only seven.”

“Bobby, what do you mean?” asked Miss Mary, looking at him severely. “You are very rude to interrupt me. What do you mean by ‘seven?’”

“My birthday,” faltered Bobby. “I ain’t a hundred anything, I’m only seven.”

“Come here, dear!” said Miss Mary, holding out her hand very kindly. “Come here, my little boy. I wish you very many happy returns, Bobby dear! but—but I was speaking of the battle of Bunker Hill.”

Poor Bobby! Miss Mary shook her head at the children over his shoulder, as he sat in her lap, as a sign not to laugh, but I suppose they could not help it. They did laugh a good deal,—all except the boy John, who was watching Harold die, and feeling rather sober in consequence.

A PASTORAL.

THE sun was shining calm and bright, The meadow grass was deep; The daisies and the buttercups Were nodding, half-asleep. And overhead the sparrows sat And crooned upon the bough, And all the world was sleepy then, When Johnny drove the cow.

The sun was like a flaming beast, The field was like the sea; The grass like angry snakes did hiss And wriggle at his knee. The sparrows turned to goblin imps That yelled, and fluttered on, As through a world, gone raving mad, The cow was driving John!

RICHES.

“MAMMA,” said Mabel, “I am _very_ glad we are rich!”

Mamma looked up with a little smile; she was patching Freddy’s trousers, and had just been wondering whether they would last till spring, and if not, how she was to get him another pair.

“Yes, Mabel dear,” she said. “We are very rich in some things. What were you thinking about when you spoke?”

“I was thinking how dreadful it would be to be hungry,” replied Mabel, thoughtfully. “I mean terribly hungry, like people in a shipwreck. Why, just to be a little hungry, the way Freddy and I get sometimes, makes me feel all queer inside; and besides, it makes me cross and horrid. So then I wondered how it would feel to be really hungry, and not to be sure that you were going to have good bread and milk for supper; and that made me feel so glad that we were rich.”

Mamma was silent for a few minutes. She was thinking of a house to which she took some work the day before. She had passed through the dining-room, and there, at the carved table, sat a little girl with her supper before her,—delicate rolls, and cold chicken, and raspberry jam, and hot cocoa in a china cup all covered with roses, and creamy milk in a great silver mug.

The child was about Mabel’s age, but her face wore a very different expression. She had pushed her chair back, and was crying out that she would not eat cold chicken. She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she _wouldn’t_! so there now! The nurse might just as well take it away, and she was a horrid cross old thing! Mamma was going to have partridge for dinner, and she wanted some of that, and she would have it.

Then, when the nurse shook her white-capped head and said, “No miss! your Mamma said you were to have the chicken; so now eat it, like a good girl, and you shall have some jam,” the child flew at her like a little fury, and slapped and pinched her. That was all that Mabel’s Mamma saw, but as she thought of it, and then looked at her little maiden, with a sweet face smiling over her blue pinafore, she smiled again, very tenderly, and said,—