Part 3

"Of course I will," Mr. North answered, good-humoredly. "Come, can ye git in there?" and he lifted the little figure into the back of the wagon, where, with many bundles, there was a pile of straw. "You be about as wet as water. I declare to mercy! Where _hev_ you been?"

Jesse was comfortably seated on the straw by this time behind Mr. North's burly figure, and as the wagon jogged on he almost forgot his fright and fatigue.

"I've been in to market with butter and eggs," he said, "and brought back a basketful of things for Aunt Jemima."

"Humph!" Mr. North's exclamation was characteristic as he looked around at the delicate face of the child, which had about it so many tokens of refinement that it was hard to believe he really was the nephew of the coarse, hard-featured woman who lived in grim seclusion at Holsover Farm.

"I say, Jesse," he said, shortly, "how comes it you be a relation o' hern?" He jerked his head toward the cross-roads they were approaching.

Jesse's face flushed. "I'm not, _really_," he said, with a little quiver of the lip. "I know I have a real aunt somewhere in Boston, if I could only find her; but Aunt Jemima never will tell me anything about her." There was a pause, and then Jesse added, quickly: "Oh, Mr. North, _do_ you suppose you could hunt for her when you go to Boston next time? Oh, I know her name--Marian Lee. I know that because I have a book of hers. 'From Helen to Marian Lee,' it says in it, and Helen was my mother"--the child's eyes looked very wistful and pleading. "And when Bill was home he told me it was my aunt's, and she lived in Boston. I never could get him to say any more."

"Why, how come you to be up to Miss Holsover's?"

Jesse shook his head. "I don't know," he answered. "I've always been there."

They jogged on a few minutes in silence. Jesse felt the soothing effect of the warmth and stillness, and half dozed. Mr. North turned a compassionate gaze on the sad young face which in sleep showed such worn lines.

"No Holsover blood there!" he muttered.

Mr. North was the only expressman, or carrier, in this very obscure part of the country. Twice a week he came and went, carrying letters and packages, as well as occasionally a traveller, to the different villages of towns about. Once a month he visited Boston. His own house stood on a country road about three miles from Holsover Farm. There he lived almost alone, his widowed mother being too infirm to be considered very much of a companion for a hearty, burly, good-humored man like himself.

The old farm-house in which Miss Holsover lived stood near the cross-roads. It was a long low building with one story and an attic, above which rose the slanting roof. Some old trees grew at one side, but everything about it was dismal and uninviting to visitors. Miss Holsover said she was glad of this. She liked to shut herself away as much as possible from her fellow-creatures.

Not a human being in all the country about ever remembered a sympathetic word or look from her. She was a tall grim woman of sixty, with bushy eyebrows, gray hair, and thin, bluish lips. What comfort she could take in life every one wondered, but it was whispered that she was hoarding money; that if the truth was but known, untold sums lay hidden somewhere in the old house.

Certainly Jesse Grey saw nothing of the kind. As the boy had said to Mr. North, he did not know _how_ he had come to Holsover Farm. Jesse only knew that he had "always been there." There were no dim remembrances in his mind of any past which did not include the desolate house, and Miss Holsover's cruel face and figure. The only variations in his surroundings had been visits from the one human being Miss Holsover had ever shown any fondness for. This was her reprobate nephew Bill.

The boy had appeared and disappeared so many times in the course of Jesse Grey's remembrance that he had felt as if he might expect him any particularly windy night, or any time when things were going on a little comfortably. For Bill's visits to the farm were his seasons of terror. Bill was a coarse, violent-tempered lad, who delighted in terrifying him in every way possible, who forced his so-called aunt into new cruelties to the helpless child, and who seemed only to know that he could suffer.

Of late Jesse had begun to wonder when Bill would reappear. Last year, just at this season, he had suddenly arrived, and how well Jesse remembered his saying with a coarse laugh that he had come back as a valentine! What _was_ a valentine? Jesse wondered. He looked at Mr. North's spacious back a moment before he said,

"Mr. North, can you tell me what a valentine is like?"

Mr. North peered around with a queer smile at his little companion. "Wa'al," he said, slowly, "there's all kinds. I think it's sort o' good luck, or good wishes, like as if you wuz to do me a favor. I don't know as I've seen many in my day. They hev 'em in store winders--paper things, with Cupids; but they say on 'em, 'I'm your valentine.' Neow ef eny one wuz to say he wuz _my_ valentine, he'd oughter do me a good turn; seems to me as if a valentine _oughter_ be good luck."

It was a long speech, and Mr. North delivered it with some difficulty, flecking his horses with his whip now and then, and apparently taking a great interest in the weather.

"I wish _I_ could have something like a valentine, then," sighed Jesse.

"Wa'al," said Mr. North, "ter-morrow's the day."

But the boy only laughed sadly.

The dark road suddenly seemed to come to an end. Jesse jumped up and looked out. There across the fields lay the gloomy brown farm-house. He felt his heart sink within him as he thanked Mr. North, got down from the wagon, and taking the basket turned in at the gate.

The door was opened with a click, and Miss Holsover stood there holding a candle-light above her head.

"'Sthat you?" she said, in a shrill voice.

"Yes," answered Jesse. His entrance into the house was helped by Miss Holsover giving him a decided push by the shoulders.

Jesse put the basket down, and began at once taking off his coat. In spite of his rest and little sleep, he was shivering with cold and fatigue.

"What's the matter?" said Miss Holsover, giving him another shake by the shoulder.

"I'm wet and tired," said Jesse, timidly.

"Wet and fiddlesticks!" retorted the old lady. "None of that nonsense! You've plenty to do to-night, let me tell you. I'm goin' across fields."

Jesse knew what this meant. Once in a while Miss Holsover took it into her head to pay a visit to a cousin of hers living at the next village--"across fields," as she called it. These nights were the child's especial horror. Unhappy as was the farm-house _with_ Miss Holsover, it had an element of terror for the child when he was left alone--and then on such a night! Jesse stood still a moment looking at Miss Holsover with dilated eyes, anticipating all the horrors of the lonely evening; not all the work he knew there was left for him to do would keep him from being frightened at every gust of wind that blew around the old house, or moaned in the group of cedar-trees.

"Don't stand gapin' like that," exclaimed Miss Holsover. "Sit down and eat your tea, and then go out and do your chores."

Jesse obeyed. The supper--some weak milk and stale bread--was soon eaten, and then he followed Miss Holsover, who laid his work out, and gave him his instructions for the night. He was to perform the tasks she had set him, and not think of going to bed until she returned.

Jesse was too well accustomed to the hardships of his life to rebel against anything. He stood still, listening quietly, and even helped the old lady to go away in comfort.

Instead of going at once to work, he knelt down a moment before the fire, thinking about the questions Mr. North had asked him.

Jesse never knew how it came into his head that _perhaps_ there might be some escape for him. I suppose that in the loneliness of his position that evening, and with the fear of being by himself in the desolate house, there came a certain sense that he could do as he pleased. Then, too, he knew absolutely nothing of the world, and it gradually seemed to him quite feasible that he should run away, and try to find his real aunt in Boston.

His plan, childish as it was, developed very quickly. Jesse had an idea that he could walk very far before morning, and that he might meet Mr. North somewhere on the way. He knew there was no time to lose, and so, running up to his little attic room, he began hastily putting together such things as seemed necessary for his long journey. The book with his aunt's name was carefully tied up in the bundle. Jesse thought that the name written there might perhaps help him in some way.

He had only a small bit of candle, and it so happened that this went out before he had quite finished his preparations. He was standing by the little dormer window, and almost at once he felt rather than saw the gleam of a lantern. It was moving, and seemed to come from the barn loft. In a moment there was a second flash, and this time it illumined a man's figure.

Jesse shrank back in fear and trembling. Who could it be? But though afraid of the lonely house, it frightened him still more to think of not finding out who was in the barn. He hesitated but a moment, and then sped down stairs, and creeping across the space between the house and barn, slowly unlatched the door. He was scarcely inside the barn before he caught the sound of voices. Two men were speaking, and Jesse's heart sank within him as he recognized one voice as that of Bill Holsover.

The boy's feet seemed rooted to the spot. He was standing just by the ladder leading to the loft, and in the absolute stillness and darkness it was easy to hear what the men were saying. The first sentences were of no importance, but suddenly the strange voice said,

"Do you know where she keeps it?"

Then came Bill's answer: "I'm most sure it's in the cupboard to the right of the fire-place, under the floor."

"Will there be trouble getting it?"

"Not if we make sure she's in bed. There's that little young 'un around; but we won't have any trouble keepin' him quiet."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

BRAN'S CONSCIENCE.

There is not the slightest doubt that Bran had a conscience. No dog who was not fully aware that he had misbehaved himself, and deeply penitent on account of it, could have shown so much sorrow and contrition.

We were staying at Yarmouth, and Bran, who was allowed perfect liberty, was _lost_ for one entire day.

At night, just before the house was shut up, he made his appearance, very tired and travel-stained. Being met at the hall door, he was rebuked, and his offered paw not taken, in token that he was in disgrace.

His nightly resting-place was a cellar, where he had a comfortable straw couch provided for him, and his usual custom was to run down stairs immediately to his bed and supper; but on this evening he remained at the top of the stairs, and cried and whined piteously.

Presently my brother said, "You must come and make it up with Bran, or the poor fellow will cry there all night."

Accordingly we opened the door, and one by one shook Bran's paw in sign of forgiveness, whereupon he quietly walked down stairs, and after eating his supper with avidity, curled himself up on the straw and went to sleep.

OUR BALLOON.

BY JIMMY BROWN.

I've made up my mind that half the trouble boys get into is the fault of the grown-up folks that are always wanting them to improve their minds.

I never improved my mind yet without suffering for it. There was the time I improved it studying wasps, just as the man who lectured about wasps and elephants and other insects told me to. If it hadn't been for that man I never should have thought of studying wasps.

One time our school-teacher told me that I ought to improve my mind by reading history, so I borrowed the history of _Blackbeard the Pirate_, and improved my mind for three or four hours every day. After a while father said, "Bring that book to me. Jimmy, and let's see what you're reading," and when, he saw it, instead of praising me, he-- But what's the use of remembering our misfortunes? Still, if I was grown up, I wouldn't get boys into difficulty by telling them to do all sorts of things.

There was a Professor came to our house the other day. A Professor is a kind of man who wears spectacles up on the top of his head and takes snuff and doesn't talk English very plain. I believe Professors come from somewhere near Germany, and I wish this one had staid in his own country. They live mostly on cabbage and such, and Mr. Travel's says they are dreadfully fierce, and that when they are not at war with other people, they fight among themselves, and go on in the most dreadful way.

This Professor that came to see father didn't look a bit fierce, but Mr. Travers says that was just his deceitful way, and that if we had had a valuable old bone or a queer kind of shell in the house, the Professor would have got up in the night, and stolen it and killed us all in our beds; but Sue said it was a shame, and that the Professor was a lovely old gentleman, and there wasn't the least harm in his kissing her.

Well, the Professor was talking after dinner to father about balloons, and when he saw I was listening, he pretended to be awfully kind, and told me how to make a fire-balloon, and how he'd often made them and sent them up in the air; and then he told about a man who went up on horseback with his horse tied to a balloon; and father said, "Now listen to the Professor, Jimmy, and improve your mind while you've got a chance."

The next day Tom Maginnis and I made a balloon just as the Professor had told me to. It was made out of tissue-paper, and it had a sponge soaked full of alcohol.[3] and when you set the alcohol on fire the tumefaction of the air would send the balloon mornamile high. We made it out in the barn, and thought we'd try it before we said anything to the folks about it, and then surprise them by showing them what a beautiful balloon we had, and how we'd improved our minds. Just as it was all ready, Sue's cat came into the barn, and I remembered the horse that had been tied to a balloon, and told Tom we'd see if the balloon would take the cat up with it.

[3] We would caution our boy readers in regard to the terrible results that may come from pouring alcohol on burning substances. The flame will catch the stream as it falls, and, mounting to the bottle, accidents of the most disastrous character may ensue.

So we tied her with a whole lot of things so she would hang under the balloon without being hurt a bit, and then we took the balloon into the yard to try it. After the alcohol had burned a little while the balloon got full of air, and presently it went slowly up. There wasn't a bit of wind, and when it had gone up about twice as high as the house, it stood still.

You ought to have seen how that cat howled; but she was nothing compared with Sue when she came out and saw her beloved beast. She screamed to me to bring her that cat this instant you good-for-nothing cruel little wretch won't you catch it when father comes home.

Now I'd like to know how I could reach a cat that was a hundred feet up in the air, but that's all the reasonableness that girls have.

The balloon didn't stay up very long. It began to come slowly down, and when it struck the ground, the way that cat started on a run for the barn, and tried to get underneath it with the balloon all on fire behind her, was something frightful to see. By the time I could get to her and cut her loose, a lot of hay took fire and began to blaze, and Tom ran for the fire-engine, crying out "Fire!" with all his might.

The firemen happened to be at the engine-house, though they're generally all over town, and nobody can find them when there is a fire. They brought the engine into our yard in about ten minutes, and just as Sue and the cook and I had put the fire out. But that didn't prevent the firemen from working with heroic bravery, as our newspaper afterward said. They knocked in our dining-room windows with axes, and poured about a thousand hogsheads of water into the room before we could make them understand that the fire was down by the barn, and had been put out before they came.

This was all the Professor's fault, and it has taught me a lesson. The next time anybody wants me to improve my mind I'll tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself.

MAKE WAY FOR HIS MAJESTY!

Oh dear! what a fuss! It is certainty true. Sweet Love is our ruler, whatever we do. The lions and tigers his dainty whip feel; He harnesses both to his chariot wheel. Oh, none can escape. The eagle's fleet wing Is no manner of use, or the hare's rapid spring. The ostrich may stride, the eagle may fly, But Love is their ruler--he ever is nigh. The quick little rogue, with his whip and his wings, He is ever about, and he ruleth all things; And Mollie and Ted, as they hurry along, Are only two more in his worshipping throng.

Oh, Love in the school-room has tenses and moods. And Love in the kitchen quite often intrudes, And Love o'er the ledger drops fancies of bliss. Till the figures get mixed with the thought of a kiss; And Love on the avenue raises his cap To Love in the parlor with work in her lap, And Love in a cottage or Love in a palace Drink nectar alike from a cup or a chalice: Let cross people scold, and let prim people frown. Love reigns like a prince both in country and town. Hurra for sweet Cupid! Ye laggards, give way, While the lads and the lasses greet Valentine's Day.

"AS STUPID AS A GOOSE."

This is a very common saying indeed, and is used to denote the extreme of stupidity, and as regards geese in general it is near enough to the truth.

But all geese are not stupid. History tells us that the cackling of geese once saved the city of Rome, and we find in a Scotch newspaper the following instance of sagacity and reasoning on the part of a persecuted goose:

"A haughty and tyrannical chanticleer, which considered itself the monarch of a certain farm-yard, took a particular antipathy to a fine goose, the guardian of a numerous brood, and accordingly, wheresoever and whenever they met, chanticleer immediately set upon his antagonist. The goose, which had little chance with the nimble and sharp heels of his opponent, and which had accordingly suffered severely in various rencontres, got so exasperated against his assailant that one day, during a severe combat, he grasped the neck of his foe with his bill, and dragging him along by main force, he plunged him into an adjoining pond, keeping his head, in spite of every effort, under water, and where chanticleer would have been drowned had he not been rescued by a servant who witnessed the proceeding. From that day forward the goose received no further trouble from his enemy."

Another writer gives the following incident, which he says was witnessed in the north of England:

"One morning, during very cold weather, the geese on a large farm were, as usual, let out of their roosting-place, and, according to their custom, went directly to the pond on the common. They were observed by the family to come back immediately, but you may guess their astonishment when in a few minutes the geese were seen to return to the pond, each of the five with a woman's patten in its mouth. The women, to rescue so useful a part of their dress from the possession of the invaders of their property, immediately made an attack, but the waddling banditti presented such a stout resistance that it was not till some male allies were called in that a victory could be obtained."

It would have been interesting had the geese been let alone, as we shall never know what they intended doing with those pattens. Who knows but they might have devoted them to some purpose that would have won geese a reputation for wisdom for all time?

So much for the saying, "As stupid as a goose."

THE NIGHTINGALE'S LESSON.

_"Unlearned is he in aught_ _Save that which love has taught,_ _For love has been his tutor."_

OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

The sweetest of letters. Miss Bessie, for you, From bonny Prince Charlie Or Little Boy Blue.

The brightest of letters, Sir Arthur, for you. From fair Lady Edith Or dear little Sue.

Your name is not Arthur? Your name's not Bess? Peep into your letter;' You'll find it, I guess.

For the loveliest missives Are flying all round As thick as the white flakes That fly to the ground.

And Our Post-office Box, Like a ship in the bay, Is crammed and is jammed This Valentine's Day.

* * * * *

DETROIT, MICHIGAN.

The other night, about eleven o'clock, as my father and Mr. Sherrill (he is a student, and my father is a doctor) were reading in the office, they heard a noise on the steps, and my father went out, and saw a large owl right before him. So he threw a rubber cloak over him, and brought him in, and Mr. Owl screamed and yelled like anything, but he was put safely into a bushel basket, and a cover clapped over it. The next morning we went out on the steps, and found a large dead rat, which the owl had brought there with the purpose of eating. The following night we let him go.

ROYAL T. F.

* * * * *

NEW YORK CITY.

My name is Paul. I live in New York, near Central Park. I am five years old, and go to school. My teacher is my beau. My teacher is Miss Lizzie C. I love her. I printed this all on my slate myself, and my mamma copied it off for me. I can draw a boat; and I can draw it nice, too. My big brother has a big boat. Susie helped me spell all the big words in this letter. Susie is eight. She is my sister, and she had a big French doll named Eva. Naughty Charlie broke Eva's head, and Susie cried. Charlie is our baby girl. We haven't any cat or dog, but the firemen on our block have a nobby little dog named Prince, and we boys all play with him. He sometimes follows me into our house, and we think he is so cute. I drew the boat all myself. Don't you think it a nice one?

PAUL L. L.

Yes, Paul, the boat you drew in your letter was very well done indeed for such a little boy. You must send us some Wiggles.

* * * * *

CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS.

I live in Cambridge, very near the famous Washington Elm, of which you gave an illustration in Vol. I., No. 25, page 340. It does not look very much like that now, but resembles any other large old tree, and has an iron fence around it, and an upright slab, with an inscription, saying,

Under This Tree

WASHINGTON

First Took Command

of the

American Army.

July 3d. 1775.

It is on Garden Street. On the north side is the Common, on the southwest is the Shepard Congregational Church. Near to this, though on another street, is Longfellow's house. I had Miss Anna Longfellow for my Sunday-school teacher last Sunday. I very much liked the picture in YOUNG PEOPLE entitled "Little Dreamer." I have had the two volumes of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE bound in your handsome cover. I am glad to have Tuesday come, because I get my paper on that day.

ARTHUR M. M.

* * * * *

WASHINGTON, D. C.