Part 2

Suddenly Farmer Hurlbut seized his paper, and began to look over what he had been reading, passing his finger patiently along the lines.

"I thought so!" he exclaimed at last, pinning a particular place with his big thumb. "I thought I see the name of the superintendent of the society, 'n' I did. He'd know, I s'pose."

"Know what?" asked his wife, mildly.

"Why, how to get at 'em."

"Oh!" Aunt Sereny brightened up wonderfully.

"How d'ye s'pose 'twould do to ask a whole raft on 'em to come?" asked Farmer Hurlbut, reflectively.

"I'd be kinder afraid on 'em, so many, seems to me"--with a little deprecatory laugh.

"Thet's so," said her considerate husband. "They be wild little critters, so I've heerd. Mebby five or six would be enough. My! how their eyes would shine to see them nuts!"

Aunt Sereny laughed--a wholesome, sunshiny laugh as ever was heard.

"'N' I know," continued Farmer Hurlbut, affectionately, "that you'd feed 'em up, 'n' pet 'em, 'n' do 'em more good 'n all the mission schools in creation."

Aunt Sereny protested modestly, but was sure she would be willing to try and see what she could do.

There was a little time of silence, during which the clock struck nine.

"Wa'al, what say, Sereny?" said the old farmer at last.

The old lady understood him perfectly.

"I say, Josiah," she replied, with considerable emphasis--"I say, do just as you've a mind to."

The consequence of this conversation was a letter from Farmer Hurlbut to the superintendent, and later, the appearance of six ragged boys, equipped with bags, on a pleasant Wednesday morning in early November, at the railroad station in the city, ready to take the train which would reach Farmer Hurlbut's at nine o'clock in the forenoon. That is, six boys were expected. But when the gentleman who was waiting at the station to put the little party on the cars came to count them, behold! there was a seventh figure, very much smaller than any of the rest, holding on tight to a bigger boy's hand.

It was a shrunken little mite, with a big coat on it that came to the floor, and a hat that must have belonged to somebody's grandpa--a comical, pitiful, heart-breaking little figure as ever was seen.

"Who's that, Tim?" asked the gentleman of the boy to whose hand the little creature was desperately clinging. He didn't know Tim very well, and had never encountered this tiny object before.

"I don't know as you'll like it," gasped Tim, apparently in great terror lest he was going to be circumvented, "but it's the Baby, 'n' he's five years, on'y he's little, 'cause he hasn't growed, 'n' he's been sick, 'n' mother said as how a whiff o' country'd do him good, 'n' mebby he could go 'stead o' me. Philly here'll see to him."

"Yes, sir," said Phil Barstow, whose outfit was only less imposing than the Baby's own. "I know the Baby, 'n' the Baby knows me, 'n' if you think it's too many for Tim to go too, we kinder decided--Tim's mother 'n' Tim 'n' me--that mebby the Baby'd better go 'stead o' Tim, or," added Phil, with unexpected heroism, and swallowing hard, "or 'stead o' me."

"It's all right," said the gentleman, who was sure, from the tone of Farmer Hurlbut's letter, that he wouldn't mind having seven any more than six. "It's all right, Tim. Now take good care of him, and sit still, all of you."

So "the Baby" was put on board, and the cars moved slowly off.

At the end of their journey, there was Farmer Hurlbut with his big lumber wagon, which had three boards laid across it for seats. The boys, with their bags and their dreadful costumes, filed out as soon as the train stopped, their glowing faces revealing unmistakably their identity.

They were immediately pounced upon and conveyed to their seats in the wagon, where Aunt Sereny was waiting for them.

Farmer Hurlbut was overflowing with joviality and good-humor. Two great suggestive baskets and a mighty jug were packed into the front of the wagon, and behind were various boxes and barrels to hold the surplus nuts.

"And who's this?" asked Aunt Sereny, beaming delightfully from the front seat of the wagon, and fixing her gaze particularly upon the forlorn little straggler clinging tight to Tim's hand.

"Please, mum," said Tim, eagerly, "it's the Baby, 'n' he's sick, 'n' mother was for havin' him come 'stead o' me, but they said mebby you'd take us both."

"Take you both!" exclaimed the dear old lady, wiping her eyes vigorously, and kissing the Baby's weazened little face, "I guess we will! It'll do him good, likely's not, bless his heart! Josiah, mebby"--as the horses started off briskly--"mebby," significantly, "the boys are hungry after their journey. Just get out the little tin cups 'n' I'll give them a drink o' milk apiece, 'n' mebby a sandwich 'n' a turn-over as we're riding along. It's a good ways up to the north pastur'," continued the old lady, as she dealt out the things liberally, and watched them grasped eagerly by the half-starved little creatures.

"There's plenty, boys; eat all you want. Goodness me! Josiah Hurlbut," she whispered to her husband, "they haven't had nothing to eat for a week--I know they haven't!"

But the chief ecstasy was on the back seat, where the Baby was ensconced between Tim and Philly, and eagerly swallowing a cup of Aunt Sereny's rich yellow milk.

"Massy, Phil," cried Tim, admiringly, "see the Baby a-drinkin'! How does it taste, Baby?--good?"

The Baby nodded, a grave smile settling upon his poor little visage under the big hat.

"More," he said, weakly.

"More! My gracious!" said Tim, in the wildest spirits--"more! He wants more, Philly. Hain't et or drinked so much as this for a month, I sh'd think. Can he have some more, mum?" reaching out a claw-like hand with the tin cup, which went back brimming full.

Pretty soon the boys began to talk.

"See there!--quick! That's a squirrel, boys--a reg'lar squirrel. Ever see one before?"

"Trout in that brook, bet you a cent, boys! Won't the rest o' the fellers stare when we tell 'em what we've seen?"

"Are there more nuts 'n that"--pointing to a heavily laden tree which they were passing--"in the place we're going to?"

"Humph!" returned Farmer Hurlbut, the sight of whose ponderous fist had impressed his wild little crew as much perhaps as his kindness and generosity; "there's more nuts up in the north pastur', where we're a-goin', than you'll see all the way put together."

In about an hour the north pastur' was reached, and the boys tumbled out of the wagon amid a jumble of sweet-fern and pennyroyal, and other sweet woodsy-smelling things.

Aunt Sereny found a comfortable seat near by, and fell to knitting as usual, and Farmer Hurlbut, going to a thicket close at hand, pulled out two long stout poles, which he had prepared for this very occasion, and laid away a week before.

Then Jim Bowker and Sammy Jones, two of the biggest boys, were sent up two of the best trees, and once well up, they lay flat along the great branches, and plied the poles vigorously. The glossy brown nuts and prickly burrs came flying "fast and furious."

The Baby crept timidly out of the wild bombardment, and sat down beside the ample figure of Aunt Sereny. His tiny hand--the fac-simile of Tim's only less skinny--grasped her dress firmly. Aunt Sereny put her hand into her pocket and drew forth unheard-of treasures of peppermints, sweet-flag root, and caraway-seeds. These the Baby gravely took and devoured.

Noon coming ever so much too soon, Aunt Sereny, amid great applause, suggested something more in the line of refreshments. She accordingly spread a white cloth over a great flat rock, and set forth a feast calculated to drive a hungry boy crazy with delight. Even the Baby fairly laughed aloud.

"I tell you, boys," said Tim, springing to his feet as he heard it, and even dropping a precious tart in his enthusiasm--"I tell you the Baby hasn't laughed like that since I can remember. Hi! ain't it jolly?"

The meal fairly over, they lay a little while on the warm dry grass enjoying the mild sunshine, Aunt Sereny knitting peacefully on. Two or three boys dozed a little, and the Baby crept up to his old place beside Aunt Sereny, and gathering up his tiny figure upon her dress, went fast asleep. She spread a light shawl over him, and drew him closer, amid affectionate and admiring glances from Tim. Tim adored anybody who was good to the Baby.

Pretty soon Farmer Hurlbut roused them up to go to the walnut-trees, and two other boys were detailed for duty in the branches, which they beat and beat again with their poles. "Shucks" were new things to them all.

"Shure enough," said Larry O'Brien, with a fine brogue, "and now I'll know what they mane whin they say I don't know shucks--but I do, though."

This caused an uproarious laugh, and Larry kept on saying witty things, to the great amusement of all. Not Sydney Smith himself was ever the source of more delight.

The train was to start at five, and it was nearly that time when the tired, sunburned, happy little crowd drew up at the railroad station. Aunt Sereny had been having a whispered consultation with Farmer Hurlbut on the way home, and when they stopped, she took Tim and the Baby aside.

"Tim," she said, "can't you leave the Baby with us a little while--to stay a week or two, you know? You tell me where to write, and I'll let your mother know how he gets along. We'll take good care of him."

Tim gazed at her with open mouth and shining eyes. "The Baby?" he gasped. "Why--mother--and--me" (slowly) "can't get along 'thout the Baby. He sleeps with me"--his lip trembling--"every night. Seems 's if I couldn't sleep nohow 'thout his little hand hold o' mine."

"But he says he'd like to stay," Aunt Sereny answered, coaxingly. "I asked him"--for the mite had ridden home in Aunt Sereny's lap.

"Does he?" said Tim, brightening. "If he _wants_ to--mebby--well-- D'ye s'pose mother'd like it?"

But Aunt Sereny settled Tim's doubts, and the train finally rolled away without the Baby.

There he staid at the farm-house, and grew so strong and well that he was allowed to remain for many a long year. Tim and his tired, overworked widowed mother became frequent visitors to the same hospitable spot, as well as the rest of the boys who had formed the memorable nutting party. In fact, a nutting party in the north pastur' became an annual institution, which continues to the present time.

A PRIVATE CIRCUS.

BY JIMMY BROWN.

There's going to be a circus here, and I'm going to it; that is, if father will let me. Some people think it's wrong to go to a circus, but I don't. Mr. Travers says that the mind of man and boy requires circuses in moderation, and that the wicked boys in Sunday-school books who steal their employers' money to buy circus tickets wouldn't steal it if their employers, or their fathers or uncles, would give them circus tickets once in a while. I'm sure I wouldn't want to go to a circus every night in the week. All I should want would be to go two or three evenings, and Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. There was once a boy who was awfully fond of going to the circus, and his employer, who was a very good man, said he'd cure him. So he said to the boy: "Thomas, my son, I'm going to hire you to go to the circus every night. I'll pay you three dollars a week, and give you your board and lodging, if you'll go every night except Sunday: but if you don't go, then you won't get any board and lodging or any money." And the boy said, "Oh, you can just bet I'll go!" and he thought everything was lovely; but after two weeks he got so sick of the circus that he would have given anything to be let stay away. Finally he got so wretched that he deceived his good employer, and stole money from him to buy school-books with, and ran away and went to school. The older he grew the more he looked back with horror upon that awful period when he went to the circus every night. Mr. Travers says it finally had such an effect upon him that he worked hard all day and read books all night just to keep it out of his mind. The result was that before he knew it he became a very learned and a very rich man. Of course it was very wrong for the boy to steal money to stay away from the circus with, but the story teaches us that if we go to the circus too much, we shall get tired of it, which is a very solemn thing.

We had a private circus at our house last night--at least that's what father called it, and he seemed to enjoy it. It happened in this way. I went into the back parlor one evening, because I wanted to see Mr. Travers. He and Sue always sit there. It was growing quite dark when I went in, and going toward the sofa, I happened to walk against a rocking-chair that was rocking all by itself, which, come to think of it, was an awfully curious thing, and I'm going to ask somebody about it. I didn't mind walking into the chair, for it didn't hurt me much, only I knocked it over, and it hit Sue, and she said, "Oh my, get me something quick!" and then fainted away. Mr. Travers was dreadfully frightened, and said, "Run, Jimmy, and get the cologne, or the bay-rum, or something." So I ran up to Sue's room, and felt round in the dark for her bottle of cologne that she always keeps on her bureau. I found a bottle after a minute or two, and ran down and gave it to Mr. Travers, and he bathed Sue's face as well as he could in the dark, and she came to and said, "Goodness gracious, do you want to put my eyes out?"

Just then the front-door bell rang, and Mr. Bradford (our new minister) and his wife and three daughters and his son came in. Sue jumped up and ran into the front parlor to light the gas, and Mr. Travers came to help her. They just got it lit when the visitors came in, and father and mother came down stairs to meet them. Mr. Bradford looked as if he had seen a ghost, and his wife and daughters said, "Oh my!" and father said, "What on earth!" and mother just burst out laughing, and said, "Susan, you and Mr. Travers seem to have had an accident with the inkstand."

You never saw such a sight as those poor young people were. I had made a mistake, and brought down a bottle of liquid blacking--the same that I blacked the baby with that time. Mr. Travers had put it all over Sue's face, so that she was jet black, all but a little of one cheek and the end of her nose, and then he had rubbed his hands on his own face until he was like an Ethiopian leopard, only he could change his spots if he used soap enough.

You couldn't have any idea how angry Sue was with me--just as if it was my fault, when all I did was to go up stairs for her, and get a bottle to bring her to with; and it would have been all right if she hadn't left the blacking bottle on her bureau; and I don't call that tidy, if she is a girl. Mr. Travers wasn't a bit angry; but he came up to my room and washed his face, and laughed all the time. And Sue got awfully angry with him, and said she would never speak to him again after disgracing her in that heartless way. So he went home, and I could hear him laughing all the way down the street, and Mr. Bradford and his folks thought that he and Sue had been having a minstrel show, and mother thinks they'll never come to the house again.

As for father, he was almost as much amused as Mr. Travers, and he said it served Sue right, and he wasn't going to punish the boy to please her. I'm going to try to have another circus some day, though this one was all an accident, and of course I was dreadfully sorry about it.

A LAWN TENNIS TOURNAMENT.

BY SHERWOOD RYSE.

Although the game of lawn tennis, which was introduced to the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE early in the summer, has made giant strides in popularity, it does not seem to carry its character in its face, for there are still people to be found who have seen the game and yet have not appreciated its merits. More than one person has said to me, "I don't see much fun in knocking a ball over a net for a person on the other side to knock it back again."

Now there is a great deal of reason in that. To knock a ball over a net for another person to knock it back again would be very poor fun. But, as we know, the object in knocking the ball over the net is that the other person shall _not_ knock it back, which is quite another thing, and which, indeed, is the essence of the game.

Should this view of the case fail to convince the ignorant persons above referred to that lawn tennis is a game deserving of respect, and that it is not, what Dr. Johnson called fishing, the pastime of fools, I would take them to see a lawn tennis tournament. I would do that, however, only out of pure good nature, for it would be a great deal more pleasant to look on at a tournament in company with some one who knows the game. And so, if you please, I will take my readers to the tournament at the St. George's cricket ground at Hoboken, New Jersey. The name of the club suggests that it is English in its origin; and that is a good omen, for is not old England the home of lawn tennis, as it is also of cricket?

Eight courts are laid out on the carefully prepared ground, which is refreshingly green even after this long dry summer, and several games are in progress.

Our artist has chosen for the subject of his illustration on page 41 the double-handed match between Messrs. Anderson and Henry, of the Seabright Club, and Messrs. D. and G. F. Miller, of Utica. Though the double-handed game is very interesting, it does not possess the same attraction, for players at least, as a single-handed contest, in which one player has to cover the whole of his court. Not that the young player who looks forward to taking part some day in a public tournament should neglect the double game. It is, indeed, a very necessary part of the practice required to make a player thoroughly at home in the game, for it teaches him how to "place" his "returns."

Watch the players carefully, and notice the quick decision required to place the ball beyond the reach of both their antagonists. In a single-handed game there is only one man's vigilance to outwit. In the double game there are two, and one of two partners, if they are both good players, should always be within reach of the ball wherever it may be placed. Thus you see that a young player who has learned to place his returns well in a double game will find that part of his work much easier when he has only one antagonist on the other side of the net.

But while I have been talking about "placing," the crowd has gathered around a court where a single-handed game is being played. Let us, then, practice what we preach, and place ourselves where we can see the game. It is between Mr. Anderson--the same whom we saw playing in the double game--and Mr. Cairnes, a young Englishman who is on a visit to this country, and has returned the hospitality he has received by beating the lawn tennis champion of the United States. Ah, well, we will forgive him, for he is young--barely twenty-one, judging from his looks--and he does not know any better. But he can play tennis.

As we take our places, the scorer calls, "Two games all." Anderson plays up well, and wins the next game, and still another. The doughty Englishman is getting beaten; he is playing carelessly. But see! It is very plain that he recognizes the fact that the games are going on too fast, for as soon as he learns that the score is four to two in Anderson's favor, his play begins to improve. He wins the next four games in succession, and so wins the set. And right well did he play.

It is difficult to say wherein lies his great excellence. It is not in his "service." Service is all very well, and it is very useful to have a good service, especially when playing against indifferent antagonists; but among the best players service does not count for much. The "return" is of very much more importance, if for no other reason than that one has many more balls to return than to serve. In the first place, you should make certain that your ball is going over the net. Youth is ambitious, and ambition every now and then gets a fall; and so the young player who tries to just skim the top of the net every time is very apt to drive his ball into instead of over the net. It is much better to send even the easiest kind of a ball for your adversary to return, for there is always a chance of his foot slipping, or something of the kind; or perhaps he will be ambitious, and drive the ball with great skill and precision into the middle of the net. The English player returned his balls very closely over the net, but they always went over, and doubtless his accuracy in that respect is the result of long practice.

Another point in which he excelled was the skillful manner in which he placed the ball close to the side lines in the back court. This is very pretty work, but it is also dangerous, for it must always be remembered that there is not a hair's-breadth between a "good" ball and a bad one, between just in court and just out. One is success, and the other failure. For young players there are many opportunities of placing a ball out of the opponent's reach without playing it right up to the base line or side lines of the court. In tennis, as in other things, a middle course is safest for beginners.

Although lawn tennis has sprung rapidly into favor, it is still but a new game in this country. It takes several seasons' play for a person to become a first-rate player. By the time most of my readers are old enough to take part in a public tournament, some of them will probably play better than the best players of to-day. As time goes on, the standard of the game grows higher. The best players to-day are men, and they did not have the great advantage of beginning to learn tennis when they were boys.

But it is not only a boys' game; it is quite as suitable for girls, and many girls and grown ladies play very well, in spite of the man who said in an article on the subject not long ago that all ladies were "duffers" at tennis. If some of our lady players were to express their opinions of that man, he would not be flattered by them, even if the ladies did not call him slang names.

In New York and other large cities there are winter tennis clubs, to which both ladies and gentlemen belong. Very cold work, perhaps you think, with snow on the ground, and the thermometer somewhere near zero; but indeed they care nothing for that. What are snow-storms and chilling winds to them when they are safely under cover in some hall that they have hired for one or two afternoons a week? That is how tennis is played in winter, and if it should be called floor tennis rather than lawn tennis, the game is the same, and the enjoyment perhaps as great as in the summer game.

But tennis is, after all, a summer game. Winter has its own sports and pastimes--skating, coasting, sleighing, and the gymnasium--to which my readers will devote their hours of recreation. So at the first flurry of snow they will hang their rackets as trophies over the mantel, and leave lawn tennis to the enthusiasts until the warm sun and soft rains of spring shall have spread over the court a carpet of fresh green grass.

AN ASIATIC STORY.

We suppose most of our young readers know that the people of far-off Asia have their folk-lore and their fairy stories just as we have them. This is one relating to a quarrel about the stupid question of "caste," which simply means whether one person is of better blood and position than another.