Part 12

“Yes, and what did his father apply to him?”

“A golden-rod,” two or three shouted.

“What office did his father occupy in the church?”

All seemed puzzled. Finally Elsie said, “Was it elder?”

“Right. What was the young man’s name, and what did he write it with?”

“That is a poser, Trudy. You’ll have to tell them, I guess,” suggested Will.

“Jonquil, don’t you see?”

“Bah!” exclaimed the General, while the others laughed.

“Irving, what candy do you usually buy?”

“He doesn’t know,” said Will, “but wait a moment and I’ll show you some,” and he went to a closet and brought back a box of buttercups.

“Well, what did John do when he popped the question?”

“Aster,” yelled the General.

“That is correct, General. See if you can tell what ghastly trophy he offered her.”

“Oh, that is easy. A bleeding heart.”

“Well, what did she say as John knelt before her?”

“Why, Johnny-jump-up, of course.”

“That’s right. You are fine at this game, General. Can you tell me what minister married them?”

“Oh, Jack-in-the-Pulpit,” exclaimed Penelope.

“What did she wear in her hair?”

“Bridal-wreath.”

“What flowers bloomed in her cheeks?”

“Roses.”

“What did John say when obliged to leave her for a time?”

“Forget-me-not.”

“That is all. It is a fine game, Will. Where did you find it?”

“Oh, I came across it in a paper, and I know Pen likes that sort of thing, so I cut it out. But I forgot all about it until you two were talking over Covent Garden and the early market.”

“I think I can add one to that list of questions,” and Penelope arose and, drawing me up by the hand, said, “What flower should we put in the candle tray at night?”

“Poppy,” came the quick reply, and Bob quoted,

The Rock-a-bye lady From Hush-a-bye street, The poppies they hang From her head to her feet.

“—— oh, I say, Pen,” he called, as we were on the stairs, “what shall we all do when Gertrude leaves us?”

“Do you mean that as a Floral Test question?”

“Yes.”

“I know what I’ll do, but I don’t know any flower or plant to describe it.”

“Why, Penelope, we’ll all balsam.”

HOURS WITH THE POETS.

“Felicia Hemans was an American, born ‘down East’ somewhere; I think in the same section Nora Perry hails from,” was the startling announcement uttered in my hearing, by a “sweet girl graduate” of so short time ago as June, 1892.

“Pardon contradiction,” I called from my end of the library, “but Felicia Hemans was an Englishwoman, and her birthplace was Liverpool.”

The surprise the above incident created caused my own thought to revert to the honored and beloved poets who have so lately left us, as well as to the mighty revered army, from Chaucer down, who have more or less an abiding-place in our hearts.

And then followed another thought,—would it not be a wise use of time for some of us to study the lives and works of these poets, the minor as well as the more prominent ones, and so save ourselves from similar ludicrous blunders as the one above given?

And particularly do I appeal to the young girls just out; but even the busy schoolgirl would have the opportunity if she would only systematically arrange her work. Afternoon classes might be formed, or evening ones if preferred; the latter would have the advantages, as then the big brothers might come. Simple refreshments, too, would not jar on harmony, but rather tend to sociability. These could be provided by the hostess, for the girls should take turns in having the class meet at each house. It would also be found to be a benefit to have a president and secretary for such a class, or, if an old person could be gotten, popular and wise enough to take charge, that would prove still more satisfactory.

It is quite the fashion now to be a member of a dancing class, why not be a member of a poets’ class, and so take care of your head as well as your heels? Indeed, classes are the “order of the day,” for language, music, riding, cooking, wood-carving, needlework, indeed everything, and the young girls or boys who may read this sketch certainly want to be into things as well as their fellows.

In these hours with the poets, take a different poet for each time the class meets. Before the close of one meeting decide on who will be the next one taken up. For example, will it be Keats, Saxe, Bayard Taylor, or Jean Ingelow? That settled, name who will be the one to give a biographical sketch of the poet. This may be in the form of an original paper, or read directly from an encyclopedia. Also name two or more members to read or recite poems from the poet under consideration. Discussion and criticism should be freely allowed, and unanswerable questions should be always answered at the next meeting before entering on the new poet. It would save time to have the hostess answer the questions left from the week before, as she could have numerous books at hand, and of necessity would be present.

Do not say this is too difficult a task. Nothing is too difficult for those who try.

And do not think such study and hours are unnecessary. If you do, find out how many of your classmates can at once answer whom Ben Jonson adopted as his poetical son? He was a pastoral lyrist, and left behind him thirteen hundred poems. He was a bachelor, though he lived to be eighty-four years of age. He was born at Cheapside, London, in 1591, and died in 1674, at Dean Prior, which living was presented to him, for at times he was very poor. His name was Robert Herrick.

Or does my reader know that Thomas Gray was a close student of Dryden, or that the author of the first important body of English sonnets was the romantic hero, Sir Philip Sidney, and that he died when but thirty-two years of age, having been conspicuous at the court of Elizabeth, was a soldier of great promise, a leading statesman, and has a prominent place in history?

“THANK YOU!”

“I sent her a basket of fruit for Christmas. The basket was of the finest Chinese straw, and decorated with handsome pale green satin ribbon; and the fruit, Bartlett pears, mandarins, and white grapes; but she has not acknowledged it by either verbal or written thanks.”

“Perhaps she never received it,” was the reply.

“I know that she did, for my daughter called one day and recognized the basket, which stood on the table in the hall through which she passed.”

“Well, but you know she is a very busy woman.”

“That is no excuse. People may be ever so busy, but they should not forget decent courtesy. Indeed, my experience has been that the busy people are, oftener than otherwise, the most polite people. My theory is, they do not allow themselves to rust in any direction; duty should be done, and is done. If an individual cannot take time to thank a friend for a Christmas gift, next year that friend may not take time to give one. I am sure it is not the question of time; it is the question of knowledge or carelessness. There are people who really don’t know enough to be polite; and others know, but are too indifferent to take the trouble, forgetting that their conduct reflects most disagreeably upon themselves. One would think a kind heart might dictate, if common-sense did not. But I suppose some people have neither common-sense nor kindness of heart.”

Overhearing the above conversation, the listener was reminded of a similar instance lately experienced in her own life. A letter had been written, which had honorably adjusted a money complication that concerned the gentleman to whom she wrote and a society which he represented, but did not concern or reflect upon the writer in the smallest degree excepting for the goodwill she bore her friend, and yet for this same letter she did not receive one word of thanks—not even the acknowledgment of its ever having been received. That it _was_ received was later proved by a printed report that it would have been impossible to set in order without it.

The examples given are by no means rare and peculiar, but may be duplicated over and over by every intelligent person. And in this age of letters, when printed matter was never so reasonable, and when teachers and schools may be really had “without money and without price,” when lectures on all topics are inexpensively if not, indeed, freely given, where is the excuse for knowledge not to be the power of all? It would almost seem as if even those indifferently educated could not help but have learned to say “thank you,” or to acknowledge by pen or voice any accommodation, help, or present.

Blood is sure to tell, and with Emerson we say that “man is physically as well as metaphysically a thing of shreds and patches, borrowed unequally from good and bad ancestors.” To those of gentle blood, rudeness would be impossible. If there are partial lapses of manner with those looked upon as the refined, the question is asked, “Where does she get that trait?” and possibly the answer may be, “Her great-grandmother.” For thus are the sins visited upon the children of even the third and fourth generations. The deportment of the real gentleman or woman can never be unpleasantly criticised. They could not be ungracious, no matter how hard they should try. If there is ever a question about how far politeness should extend, err on the side of too much rather than that of too little. Have too much manner rather than not enough. Be too profuse in thanks rather than too scant and meagre.

When a gift has been received or a courtesy of any kind shown you, at once acknowledge it, unless you are too ill so to do, or a positively important matter prevents. If it is impossible to write to the one you are indebted to that day, do it the next. But as it is so easy for most of us to have good intentions, do not put off for to-morrow what should be done to-day.

The note should not be long, but heartily and pleasantly worded. Some people might reflect, “I would not tell a falsehood, and how can I say I like a thing if I do not?” Or, as happened lately, two boxes of wild flowers were sent me from California by two little boys, with a note in one of the boxes containing the words, “Which flowers got to you best, Pierre’s or mine?” and I was obliged to at once put both boxes in the fire. Should I write of the sweetness of the blossoms and the purity and beauty of their coloring? By no means. But I would not wound the childish hearts by telling of the condition of the flowers at the time they were received. Remember the thought that prompted the gift. Dwell on that altogether if you will. Send a loving message to the donors, and they will never dream you did not like their offering in the one case or were obliged to burn it in the other.

After all, remembrance is the sweetest of all earthly gifts. When the dear ones with whom we journey are no longer here, we will miss their gentle ministry. May not any one of us then know the bitterness of remorse, but rather let us hasten to send abundant, hearty thanks to those who have taken time to think and care for us!

A STORY WITHIN A STORY

It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air,

that four young people were vivaciously talking on the front piazza at Aunt Mary’s.

Aunt Mary was everybody’s friend, but particularly beloved by the nephews and nieces, of whom this story tells. And her home, “just the jolliest kind of a place to visit,” Jo said, as he described beforehand the expected good times his sister Madeline with their cousins, Madge and Ernest, were to have in the week’s vacation given them for recuperation after the half-yearly examination.

Aunt Mary’s house was in New Jersey; of course, it was on a farm, for whoever would think of looking for such fun and frolic anywhere else? And as all the cousins came from city homes, and Jo and his sister from a small flat of a large apartment house, the freedom of space which the country had given, added to the bracing air and sunny, cheerful atmosphere, was a delightful contrast. But no one would have thought, though, that Madeline was seventeen years of age, or that Madge was called “Miss Propriety” at home, for they would race over the farm, playing the wildest of games “like a couple of tomboys,” their brothers said. But Aunt Mary let them do exactly as they pleased, and would always sigh when she would talk of their shut-in city life, and point to their red cheeks with great pride, which she assured them came from living with her. And the boys, too, had seemed wonderfully benefited by their running, racing, riding, ball and tennis playing. Even the hallooing “got plenty of fresh air in their lungs,” Ernest said, which, with other things too many to mention, had been done in this brief holiday.

To-morrow they must start homeward; and just because they were exhausted with one and another game, they are, at the commencement of our story, resting and talking on Aunt Mary’s front piazza.

Ernest is rubbing his right arm meanwhile, for he says, “It has pained me dreadfully ever since that last catch at the ball.”

And Aunt Mary has just joined them, carrying with her a big tin waiter on which is a large molasses cake, so fresh that it is yet hot from the oven, and a four-quart pitcher of milk, which Bessie, the brown-eyed Alderney, had given at the morning milking hour. At sight of their aunt thus laden, three cheers were laughingly and loudly given, for if there is one way quicker than another to young people’s hearts, perhaps it is by the way of hot molasses cake and ice-cold fresh milk, as rich as many city folks have their cream.

Jo, who was eighteen years old on his last birthday, is considered the young man of the party. He has always been a gentleman, and he at once rushed to the sitting-room for his aunt’s favorite rocking-chair. As Ernest has already disposed of the tray by putting it on a spruce-bark covered table which stands for all sorts of convenient purposes on the piazza, Aunt Mary is comfortably placed in her easy-chair before she realizes that Jo had gone for it. “Oh, what delicious cake!” “How kind you are!” “I must have another glass of that milk.” “Isn’t this lots better than being in school?” etc., were the pleasing comments and ejaculations which any stranger might have heard passing on the other side of the road from the house, or, indeed, a quarter of a mile beyond it.

After awhile, however, the eating and drinking were over, and “What shall we do now?” was the question. “I’m tired out, for one,” said Ernest, and “I for another,” continued Madge; “still, these are our last hours and we must do something; we cannot afford to lose a moment. Aunt Mary, you tell us what to do.”

“Will you promise to do what I tell you?”

“We will,” answered Madeline. “Of course we will,” continued Ernest; “a likely thing we could say no, now, of all times, after the way this cake and milk have disappeared.”

“Well, it’s agreed, then,” said Aunt Mary. “I want you to entertain me awhile by telling a story.”

“A story! How? We don’t exactly understand, do we?” asked Jo, looking at one and another perplexed face.

“The story,” answered Aunt Mary, “must be altogether, ‘made up,’ as Madge would say. It must be divided in four chapters or parts, as nearly equal in length as is possible. Jo can begin it, and, after talking, say for two minutes, Madge must follow, then Ernest and Madeline will close.”

These words were followed with whistles from the boys, and “Oh, my!” from the girls, to all of which Aunt Mary said, “You promised, and of course you will do it. And when the story is told, we will all drive over to Bear’s Gulch, and that will take the remainder of the afternoon.”

These words were followed by a halt and sighs. “But it would be a burning shame,” said Madeline, “not to please Aunt Mary; besides, of course, we can do it. We can do anything, if we try.”

“So say we all of us; so say we all,” sang Ernest.

And Aunt Mary laughingly replied, “The sooner the story is started, the sooner it is through, and the sooner it is through, the sooner we have the drive.”

“Well, as I’m the starter, here goes!” said Jo.

“And,” interrupted his aunt, “when your time is up I’ll call Madge’s name, and so on. Don’t let us have any breaks. Tell me a story just as smoothly as if you were reading it from a book. Now, Jo.”

“My title is, ‘The Adventures of an Irish Setter.’ When Ned Armstrong was so small a boy that he yet wore knickerbockers, he received a short visit from his cousin William Adams. He, too, was a little boy and was often called ‘Sweet William,’ on account of his sunny disposition, for, notwithstanding he was sole heir to great wealth, being the only child of rich parents, rich enough to count their wealth by many millions of dollars,—he was neither selfish, exacting, nor in any way disagreeable, thereby an example to some grown-up people we have met. When William came on this visit, he brought with him a large, well-trained dog. He was a magnificent fellow, and Ned, his cousin, was as amazed as he was pleased to find that the dog was a present to himself from William’s father, his Uncle Ned, after whom he was named. This uncle had long known he must sometime part with Moselle; he had been his own from the time Moselle was a puppy but two months old. The reason for the separation of master and dog was the giving up of housekeeping for life in a hotel, as Aunt Cornelia, Uncle Ned’s wife, was now too much of an invalid to continue caring for a house, even with the assistance of a housekeeper, of whom she had tried many, and dogs are among the ‘not allowed’ in hotels. So, Uncle Ned, remembering his little nephew in the country, and knowing how he would prize and kindly treat his old pet and friend, sent Moselle by his son William to him. This gift made Ned, however, nearly crazy with delight, and the old gardener often feared the results to his flower beds after the races which Ned and Moselle would take over them. Indeed the dog was not to blame if he forgot many of his well-trained ways, country life with the little boy was so ungoverned by comparison with what it had been with his staid, but kind old master.

“One day, five months after Moselle had changed his home, Ned was missing. No one knew where the child had gone. He did not have a regular nurse; but an old colored servant called Tamar had been in the family many years, and she, with other duties, was supposed to keep an eye on this child. But Tamar had been negligent this time. Ned was missing. The big garden was searched everywhere, thinking possibly he had fallen asleep under some of the rose or berry bushes, but Ned was not in the garden. Strangely enough, as the boy and dog were counted inseparable, Moselle was all right and contentedly sunning himself on a pansy bed, which was a favorite place of his, though often scolded and chased away for thus flattening the beautiful flowers——”

“Madge, it is your time.”

“As Ned was not found in the garden, the next place to look was all over the house, while the cry of ‘Ned! Ned!’ was heard in every room and from several windows, for as one after another looked they would throw up a window-sash, thinking Ned must be somewhere outside in the grounds and would surely hear them call, and they would hear his voice in answer, even if they did not see him. But it was all in vain. Ned could neither be seen nor heard, and his mother and sister Mary, a girl of twelve years old, who were the only ones of the family then at home, finally cried with fright and anxiety. But their fright was of short duration, for, before an hour had passed, Ned was back perfectly safe, without scratch or injury, and having the rested dewy look to his eyes which all children have who have lately woke from sleep.

“It was Isaac, the stableman, who found him. No one ever could really explain why Moselle was not with him at the time, but the child had wandered alone into the stable, and the man passing in and out had not noticed him, who, probably tired with play, had fallen asleep on the hay. While thus asleep, Isaac had closed the stable door and fastened it, preparatory to a three miles’ drive to the flour mill. On his return with the meal, the clatter connected with the moving of the stable door and getting the horses back had wakened the child, who came hurriedly out, rubbing his eyes as he ran, and calling at the top of his lungs for Moselle, not knowing others had as loudly been calling for him. But Moselle did not answer. There was no running, jumping and wagging of the tail from his dog-friend, for Moselle was now the missing one. In the gladness of Ned’s being found, neither Mrs. Armstrong, nor Mary, nor, indeed, any of the servants, had given the dog a thought, and it was not until Ned refused to be comforted that one of the help slowly said, ‘There was a poor old soldier here this morning, just at the time Isaac came home with the meal. I thought, perhaps, Isaac had given him a lift up. He asked for a cup of coffee, but I had none made, and didn’t want to take the trouble to make any, so I gave him a couple of slices of bread with apple-sauce between. I reckon he’s made way with the dog, the mean, contemptible wretch!’

“And he had. Moselle was already miles away from the house of little Ned Armstrong, and his companion was the same poorly-clad half-sick looking soldier that the housemaid had given the apple-sauce sandwich to that morning. The dog was prevented from running home by a strong cord fastened around his neck at one end and the other end firmly clutched by the man’s hand, and both dog and man had had several helps over the road, as their rested-looking condition proved. That night, in the city of Wilmington, North Carolina, the soldier sold the dog for twenty-three dollars to a handsome young army officer, at present stationed at Old Point Comfort, but who had a three days’ leave of absence to visit a sick relative at Wilmington. The dog and his new master had already started for ‘Old Point’ when the officer suddenly remembered—”

“Ernest, your time now.”

“That he had forgotten to ask the dog’s name, and, as he could not take time to hunt the man up from whom he had bought the dog, he decided to christen him Duke.