Part 1

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

Pansy's Home Story Book

Edited by MRS. G. R. ALDEN. (Pansy)

AUTHOR OF "FOUR GIRLS AT CHAUTAUQUA," "CHAUTAUQUA GIRLS AT HOME," "ESTER RIED," "LINKS IN REBECCA'S LIFE," "JULIA RIED," "HOUSEHOLD PUZZLES," "RUTH ERSKINE'S CROSSES," "THE RANDOLPHS," "WISE AND OTHERWISE," "A NEW GRAFT ON THE FAMILY TREE," "WHAT SHE SAID, AND WHAT SHE MEANT," "THE POCKET MEASURE," "HALL IN THE GROVE," "SOME YOUNG HEROINES," "EUGENE COOPER," ETC.

_FULLY ILLUSTRATED_

BOSTON LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY

Copyright, 1896, BY LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY. ——— All rights reserved.

CONTENTS.

YOUNG PEOPLE AT HOME.

EUGENE COOPER.

STELLA WESTON AT HOME.

JOHN MAYNARD.

SOMEBODY'S TROUBLE.

SOME YOUNG HEROINES.

A LITTLE WHITE CASKET.

HOUSEKEEPING. BY REV. G. R. ALDEN.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

BROKEN.

CHARLIE SMYTHE.

GRANDMOTHER BROWNSON.

A FOOLISH LITTLE GIRL.

FLORENCE AT HOME.

MINNIE LEE AND HER KITTEN.

ONLY A SPARK.

ROBERT HALL.

A LETTER FROM BIRD-LAND.

HARVEY IN TROUBLE.

TWO SINGERS.

HE WENT IN. BY REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

[JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL]

A THANKSGIVING SHOWER.

THE OTHER SINGER.

NAILS. BY REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

THE SPARROW IN THE SNOW.

THE BOY WHO WANTED TO BE A HERO.

RUFUS MAKES A POCKET MEASURE.

TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT IT.

THEIR FAITH.

HOW SIDNEY GOT THE PLACE.

THE LITTLE YELLOW DOG. BY MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.

STORIES FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

WHO DID IT?—A STORY IN TWO CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.

A DAY THAT JOHNNY NEVER FORGOT. BY MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

THREE LITTLE M'S.—A THREE-PART STORY. BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS.

P. S.

SIDE BY SIDE. [PART I.]

"THE OTHER ONE."

THE THREE LITTLE M'S.—PART II. BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

WHO DID IT? PART SECOND.

SIDE BY SIDE. [PART II.]

THE THREE LITTLE M'S.—PART III. BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

PANSIES P. S. THOUGHT.

WHO DID IT? PART THIRD.

SIDE BY SIDE. [PART III.]

PANSY'S HOME STORY BOOK

YOUNG PEOPLE AT HOME

EUGENE COOPER.

"WELL, begin," said George Dunlap.

The other boys laughed.

It was just at the close of summer vacation, and the five friends having met under the old tree, had agreed to give the story of their travels. It had not been decided who should be first speaker, so there seemed nothing to do but laugh over George Dunlap's direction.

"All of us do you mean?" Charlie Smythe asked.

"No, I mean you; or, no, the fellow that took the longest journey shall have the first chance."

"I went just twenty-four miles," said Charlie, meditatively.

Then they all laughed again.

"We needn't laugh, yet," George Dunlap said, when his laugh was over. "It may happen that Charlie saw more in those twenty-four miles, than we who went a thousand."

"I don't believe a single one of us went a thousand miles."

"Oh ho! You don't? Then you are mistaken. I went very nearly two thousand." This from Eugene Cooper.

"Then begin," said George Dunlap. "You're the very fellow."

"Well, from the very beginning, do you mean? It will take a week! In the first place we struck a bee line for Albany, in New York State, you know."

"How do you go to Albany?"

"Well now, that depends on what point you start from; I met a fellow who walked to Albany every Monday morning, and walked back on Friday; but we went by rail."

"Of course; I mean what road?"

"Oh, we went down the New York Central,—took it at Buffalo, you know. We went by steamer to Buffalo, down Lake Erie. That's a splendid ride: great handsome steamer, saloon all carpeted, and curtains and mirrors and sofas, finer than some folks' parlors. I went on deck, and one of the sailors walked around with me and showed me the life-boat, and how they lowered it, and the ropes, and everything. I was sorry when we got to Buffalo. There we took the train. Little narrow cars, not like the Erie, that I've been used to riding on; nice enough, though, and they go like sixty. Why, we were in Albany by dark, and it is two hundred and ninety-eight miles!"

"Well now, we shall be more likely to be astonished, if you tell us what time you left Buffalo."

"Why, in the morning, about ten o'clock."

"That 'was' doing pretty well. Better than my father did; he went from Albany to Buffalo about fifty years ago, and it took him three weeks."

"How long is it since the Central Railroad was built, anyhow?"

"Look here, boys," interrupted Eugene Cooper, "you are stealing my time; I didn't promise to tell about the Central Railroad, nor the way folks used to travel before it was built."

"All right. Tell us about Albany. How big a town is it?"

"Oh, it's big enough, eighty or ninety thousand or so; a handsome old city I tell you! Nice wide streets, some of them; State street is the handsomest,—wide and clean, and straight up a hill. We stopped at the Delavan house; that's the nicest in the city I guess,—nice enough to suit me, anyhow. My! But it's elegant.

"Do you fellows know about Delavan? Father says he was a poor boy, a boot-black, and he used to hear the folks talking a good deal about a house, somewhere in Albany, that cost a great deal of money and was considered very grand in those days. And Delavan stood looking at it one day, and says he to himself, 'I'll build a bigger house than that, one of these days.' He did it, too; father says the house they used to think so fine was just nothing by the side of the Delavan."

"He did a bigger thing than build the Delavan house. I think," said George Dunlap.

"Why, what did he do?" chorused the boys.

"He was a grand temperance man, and worked for the cause and gave money for it."

"Did you go down the Hudson?" questioned Robert Hall, whose mind was on travel, and not on great men.

"I reckon I did! Boys, the Hudson is just the grandest river on this continent I do believe. I got up before daylight to see the palisades."

"I haven't the faintest kind of an idea what the palisades are." This, Charlie Smythe said, stretched out at full length on the grass, a wistful look in his eyes. About twenty-four miles had been the extent of his travels every year, but he longed to see and know.

"Why, my child, the palisades are, are—well now it's difficult to explain things to people who have never seen them."

This was the most comprehensive answer that Horace Brooks, with his extensive opportunities could make, and the boys roared.

"They are rocks, my child, great splendid rocks, from three to five hundred feet high, straight up and down, and they are as much as fifteen miles long. What do you think of such a showing of rocks as that!"

"Where's the sense in calling them palisades? I thought palisades were nothing, but a row of sharp-pointed sticks, built up around a fort, or something of that kind."

This time the boys stared at each other instead of laughing; Charlie was always asking questions that were hard to answer.

"I don't know," said Eugene, frankly. "Do any of you? They look as though they might have been built up for forts, that's a fact. I shouldn't wonder if they took their name from that. Anyhow, they are grand to look at. Oh, that reminds me! Don't you think I saw—"

Just at that moment came an interruption,—a young man tearing down the road in hot haste, waving his hat, and shouting lustily to some one in the distance.

"What's that he is yelling?" asked four of the five boys.

And none of them answering, George Dunlap said, "He's scared at something; let's go and see."

Then every one of those fellows sprang up and took to their heels, regardless of the wonders of travel and the beauties of the Hudson.

══════════

STELLA WESTON AT HOME.

OH, yes, she was at home, curled up in the corner of the couch, with the last number of the "Wide Awake" in her hand, buried in a story. Much good it did to have her at home! Little Miss Amie Weston was also at home, and was supposed to be under Stella's care. Such care! Anything short of pulling the house down about her ears, would have failed to arouse Stella until she reached the end of her story. It is a mercy that the nursery was heated from a black hole in the floor, instead of by a grate-fire, or the house might have been well under way, burning down, before Stella would have known it.

Amie had been established with her blocks, and told to "be a good child, there's a dear, and let sister read." And she was doing it. The blocks, to be sure, did not last long; hadn't she played with them a thousand times? She wanted something new. There was kitty, pushing softly in from the hall. Dear me! What black paws kitty had! She must have been in the coal-cellar after a mouse.

Amie resolved that she ought to be washed before she was allowed to jump on the sofa.

She spoke to Stella, about it, but Stella was buried, you know, and heard nothing.

So, with much tugging and groaning, she succeeded in bringing the china bowl to the floor, and pouring a little water in it, and a good deal over the carpet. This she carefully wiped up with one end of the Persian rug, that lay before the toilet-stand. Then she made a lovely lather with cashmere bouquet soap, and splashed poor kitty in, head and ears. There was much squealing, and spitting, and a little bit of scratching, but Amie, being a brave girl, endured it, and brought one of the heavy damask towels from the rack to wipe the wretched kitty's eyes; then the hair brush of real bristles, and with inlaid handle, was dipped into the suds, and did duty in brushing kitty's soaking fur and whiskers.

Just what Amie would have done next will never be known, for the cat suddenly resolved that she would not endure such treatment another minute, and, giving a skilful jump from her tormentor's hands to the side of the bowl, and from the bowl to the floor, with a fearful "yowl," departed through the open door.

I am sorry to tell you that in her flight she overturned the bowl of suds.

"Sakes!" said Amie, in dismay.

That yell from the cat roused even Stella, and she dropped her "Wide Awake," and sat upright.

"What on 'earth' is the matter?"

Then, catching sight of the plight that Amie was in, with a lap full of foamy water, she started up.

"Why, Amie Weston! What 'have' you done now? I never 'did see' such a child! You are always doing mischief!"

Oh, dear! What trouble there was in that home, Amie's dress was stained with the soapsuds, and her shoes and stockings were wet, and the hair brush was spoiled, and Stella's temper was spoiled, and the mother, when she came, was tempted to scold both Amie and Stella, and punish the poor cat.

To whom do you think Stella laid all the blame? When she found that Amie was really too little to know better, and remembered that the cat never had any sense, she threw the "Wide Awake" down on the floor, and kicked it under the sofa, and said, "It is all the fault of that hateful old book! If it hadn't been for that, all these mean things wouldn't have happened."

JOHN MAYNARD.

FANNY STUART sat for fully twenty minutes, biting the end of her lead pencil, or making little irregular scratches with it, on the paper before her. At last she said in her weariest and most discouraged tones, "Oh, dear me! I 'can't' think of anything. I wish we had a different subject."

"What's the matter now?" It was her fourteen-year-old brother who asked the question, as he closed his Latin dictionary.

"Why, this subject. Miss Parsons is always thinking of hard things. She wants us to write about heroism. Something that we think would be real grand, you know! I can't think of anything grand."

"Why don't you tell a true story of a hero?"

"I don't know any."

"I'll give you one; tell about John Maynard."

"John Maynard, who was he?"

"He was a pilot on Lake Erie; a good man, and a grand man, I think. Don't you remember hearing father tell the story of the burning boat?"

"I don't believe I ever heard of it."

"Well, he was bringing a steamer from Detroit to Buffalo, and the first thing they knew great puffs of black smoke were coming up from somewhere. A man was ordered below to see about it, and he reported the ship on fire. Then there was all awful time, the captain shouting orders, and the people running in every direction to obey them, and the passengers streaming. To make matters worse, the boat was loaded with tar and resin; they soon saw that there was no hope of saving her.

"They were only about seven miles from land, and could make it in three quarters of an hour; but, mind you, where the pilot stood, the fire was growing hotter and hotter. They crowded forward, passengers and sailors, only John Maynard; there he stood, with the flames bursting out all around him, and the heat getting fiercer every minute. Suppose he had gone forward too? The captain kept shouting out to know whether he could stand it, and he would answer, 'Ay, ay, sir!'

"The fire grew hotter, and hotter, and it grew every minute more terrible for John Maynard. Only five minutes more, and if the pilot could stand it, they would reach the shore. There he stood at his wheel, his hands blistered, his face scorched, working away at his wheel.

"'John Maynard!' the captain shouted, putting up his trumpet, 'Can you hold on five minutes longer?'

"And this is what he answered, Fanny,—

"'By the help of God I will, sir.'

"One hand burned so that he could not use it any more; his hair was all burned from his head, yet there he stood, and guided the boat to the shore. And everybody on that boat was saved. But he gave his life for it, he fell overboard dead, just as his work was done.

"He was a hero, Fanny."

"Yes," said Fanny, in a low voice, "I think was. I can write that story. I'm sure Miss Parsons will think that was heroism. I like it for another thing, Allen, I don't believe John Maynard could have done that if he hadn't been a good man, one who asked God for help: he would have been afraid to die."

"Well, I don't know, perhaps not," her brother said, but he went away with a sober face; he liked the idea of being a hero, but if it took a Christian to make a hero, as Fanny said, then he knew he was not preparing for one.

══════════

SOMEBODY'S TROUBLE.

"Come, you little maiden, hush awhile your fretting,— Surely you have trouble with your ribbons, and your rings, And trouble with the rain,—which always is forgetting That you want to go to church,—and with many other things.

"Why, the first thing in the morning, if spring chance to be the season, After trouble with awaking, there is trouble with the dew; Yes, the May dew 'is' the meanest, and there ought to be no reason Why, to make your face look fairer, it should have to wet your shoe.

"You have trouble with the sun, which, instead of being pleasant— Only pleasant, nothing further—is too gracious with his heat; And there's trouble with the moon, which is sometimes just a crescent, When it 'should' shine full and golden through the shadow at your feet.

"You have trouble with the blossoms, which keep lying close and curly, Afraid of wind, and all that, although you want to wear A bud of rose or violet, that's 'out' a little early, To some beautiful pert party, in your muslins and your hair.

"You have trouble, through your books, with some hundred thousand cities, With a spicy lot of islands and a stormy set of seas; With your moods, sometimes imperative; and certainly one pities A golden head so sadly vexed with unknown quantities.

"You have trouble with all nations too, through history or tradition, With their manners, dress, religions, with their kings and with their wars; And perhaps, somewhat remotely, through the telescopic vision Of Professor This, or That, you have trouble with the stars.

"Now, since you must have trouble, since to bear it you seem able, (I fancy even trouble, may be made a little sweet), Suppose you take your trouble and arrange it on the table; Let the china, glass, and silver show that trouble can be neat.

"Suppose you try with trouble, if you cannot please the baby; He has many a petty failure, and many a grievous loss; And suppose you dust a chair or two, as charmingly as may be, And suppose you teach a housemaid just how not to be 'cross.'"

SOME YOUNG HEROINES.

THERE was to be a grand picnic on the Fourth of July up in Mr. Paxton's woods; a school picnic to which all the scholars, old and young, were invited. There was a great deal of planning to be done, and among other questions that came up, was that old one which has always to be talked over, as to what they were all going to wear. Half a dozen of them or more, met one evening at Fanny Easton's on the croquet lawn and discussed the matter.

"I shall wear my new Swiss mull," said Cora Lewis.

Now Cora was one of the best dressed girls in the school, and the rest always liked to follow her example as far as they could. They looked at each other in some dismay. If she was going to wear such an elegant dress as her new Swiss mull, what "should" they select to match it.

"I think I shall have to wear my summer silk," said Alice Wilmot, speaking somewhat faintly, "I suppose it is not very good taste to wear silk to a picnic, and mamma will not approve of it much, I'm afraid, but still I haven't another decent thing."

"I shall wear my buff organdie with blue ribbons," Estelle Porter said, and the girls, who knew how lovely the organdie was, and how exactly the blue ribbons matched her hair, could imagine what a picture Estelle, the beauty, would be.

Meantime Faith Halsted had not said a word; her face was quiet and thoughtful, and at last they, noticing her stillness, called out, "Faith, Faith Halsted what are you going to wear? You are getting up something to outshine us all, I do believe, and that is what keeps you so still."

Then Faith laughed. "I shall wear my new blue sprigged calico dress, and thick boots," she said brightly. "If you think that will be outshining the rest of you, I just hope you will follow my example."

Oh, what a chorus of eager and rather indignant voices there was then!

"Now Faith Halsted, I think that is real mean!" "O, Faithie, you 'can't' mean it!" "But Faith, what are you going to do that for, when you have such lovely dresses?" "Faith, does your mother agree to that way of dressing?" These are some of the exclamations and questions.

Then Faith sat down on a mossy bank and clasped her two pretty hands, and spoke her reasons. "Well girls, I'll tell you; you know Carrie Morris? Well, she is one of the sweetest girls in our class, I think, as well as one of the best scholars. She will have to be rather prominent that day, you know, because she stands so high in class. Now, I happen to know that she hasn't a nice thin dress in the world; her father has been sick all the spring, and they have just had to do without things. Carrie has a light calico, neatly made; she looks as fresh as a daisy in it, and I know she means to wear it. I've been thinking how unpleasant it would be for her to be in common calico, and all the rest of us dressed in our best, and I just decided to wear my new calico; mamma is willing; so now, you have my reasons."

Nobody seemed to be quite ready with an answer to this; they all stood and stared at each other, or looked off to sea for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, Cora Lewis came to the front.

"I'll tell you what it is, girls, let's do a new thing, and astonish everybody. We each have pretty calicoes, nicely made, let's wear them to the picnic; then people won't be staring at those two girls and wondering about it."

I told you Cora Lewis was a leader; the girls were all ready to be led; they clapped their hands over the new idea, and voted at once that it should be done. It was so new an idea to these fashionably-dressed people, and struck them so pleasantly, that, after all, I am not sure there was a heroine among them, except little five-year-old Lolly Porter. The tears were actually in her eyes when she said it, but she struggled to speak in a brave voice.

"Then I won't wear my new fancy top gaiters, but just my every day shoes, so Trudie Baker won't cry because she has to wear patched ones."

"Bless her little heart," exclaimed several voices, and Lolly was kissed until the tears turned to smiles.

"What are you girls talking about?" said Cora's handsome young brother, putting his head in among the group.

"Common sense," said Faith Halsted.

"Yes, and what's more, we are going to 'live' it, as well as talk it," added Estelle Porter. And they did.

══════════

A LITTLE WHITE CASKET.

SHE was just as cross us anybody that you can imagine. Not the little girl by the sofa with the dollies; oh no, that is Cora, she was very quiet and pleasant; a little bit disappointed, but bearing it bravely.

It was Emma, the older sister, who was hopelessly cross. She kicked the kitten and turned it out of the room.

And when Cora begged, she said, "No, indeed; did she suppose she was going to have that horrid little kitten under her heels all the afternoon?"

Then she sat down in the large rocker to nurse her wrath. With whom was Emma angry? Well, truth to tell, she would not have quite liked to own. She had had a heavy disappointment; a splendid meeting there was down town this very afternoon; a missionary meeting, and a real China-man in costume was to be there, and a little Japanese girl, and she, Emma, was to have read the report of their Band, and was one of the singers; so was Cora, for that matter, and here they both had to stay at home.

"Such perfect nonsense," said Emma to herself, rocking back and forth angrily. "Just a little sprinkle of rain that wouldn't hurt a kitten! Mamma is 'so' afraid of Cora; I know it isn't going to rain any more. Just because she has had the measles, she must be cooped up at home, and I have to stay with her. Other children who have had the measles caper about, and don't mind rain nor any thing; I think it just is too bad. Mamma might have stayed herself."

She didn't mean that last; she knew her mamma was the presiding officer and "must" be there, if it were a possible thing, and really she wouldn't have had her stay in her place for "anything;" but it was such a relief to think cross things. As she glommed over it, and thought how all the rest of the Band girls would be there, and how much they would miss her voice in the singing, and how horridly Alice Parker would be likely to read the report that she had written so carefully, she kept growing crosser every minute.

So when Cora, tired of her dolls, and lonely without the kitten, and trying to be brave without mamma, and bear her own great big disappointment es well as she could, came and leaned against her sister's chair, and proposed that they practise their duet so as to play it beautifully for mamma, she was pushed not very gently away.

"No, indeed; she never wanted to hear that silly little duet again; it was too babyish for a girl like her anyway; she wasn't 'going' to play it, ever. For her part, she wished she could ever play anything, or go anywhere, or do anything like other girls, without being always tied to a little baby."