Part 2

Then she flounced out of the room, shut the door behind her, and sat down on the lowest steps of the side piazza, where Cora could not come because of the dampness. Here she meant to have a good time going over all her grievances. She was right in the midst of them, her face as gloomy as night, when the solemn "toll, toll, toll" of a bell made her look up and down the street, and wonder if there was a funeral coming. Yes, there was the hearse, drawn by white horses, and with white plumes all around it; some little child in the white casket inside; then a long line of carriages followed, slowly, slowly, oh, so solemnly.

"Who is dead?" This question she asked of Carrie Phillips as she stopped at the gate to wait for the procession to pass.

"Oh, Emma Barstow! Didn't you go, after all? I didn't either; don't you think, I missed the train. But then I don't care, it was because brother Aleck came home unexpectedly. Why, that little bit of a Marshall girl is dead; don't you remember her? They live away up on Selwyn avenue."

"What, that little curly-haired girl?"

"Yes; the one that looks like your Cora. I went to see her, after she died, and she did look just exactly like her."

"I didn't know she was sick," said Emma with a little shiver. "What was the matter with her?"

"Why, she had the measles, you know; she got all well; then she took cold, and they went to her lungs, or something, and she didn't live but a few hours. Oh Emma, Aleck brought me some lovely presents."

"I must go right in to Cora," said Emma, rising suddenly, her face as white us the dress she wore. She trembled so that she could hardly get across the piazza. That little thing who looked "exactly like" their Cora, being carried by in a white casket, on her way to Laurel hill. It might have been their Cora. Her heart stood still while she thought of it, and of all the hard thoughts she had had about staying with her darling sister.

What a sister she was for the rest of that day! The first thing she did when she came in, was to seize upon Cora and hug and kiss her until the little thing was almost smothered. Then she was ready for anything. The duet? Why, she was willing to play it through twenty times; she would dress and undress all the dolls; she called in the kitten and let it climb on her shoulder and paw at her hair; and every few minutes she kissed Cora, and called her "Emma's darling pet."

"Emma was just as good and sweet as two angels," explained Cora earnestly, when the mother came home; and not a word said the forgiving little girl about the first half hour of misery when the cat was kicked, and everything went wrong.

"I am very glad," said the Mother, with a relieved sigh; "Emma was disappointed, and I was afraid she would not be able to rally. She is a dear girl."

And Emma, with quivering lip, and face that was still pale, felt that she could hardly wait until Cora was asleep, for a chance to confess to her mother, about that first miserable half hour, and how the slow tolling bell and the little white casket recalled her to her senses.

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HOUSEKEEPING.

BY REV. G. R. ALDEN.

THEY built their nests in a shady nook, Where the trees were all fresh and green, Where never a lad had been known to look, Or to hide him to read either paper or book, Or a hunter had stopped his dinner to cook Of meat, either fat or lean.

Two loving birdies, indeed, were they, Each willing to do his share. With a welcome song would they greet the day, And as happily "work" as if it were "play," And never for once caused any delay Till their nest was done, I declare.

But why build a nest with so much care? As soon a boy's pocket unused! So into this nest, so soft and fair, One laid little eggs, so round and rare, Then patiently, constantly waited there, Though 't was dull, she never refused!

But one fine morn, the time to awake, There something happened that I must tell: 'Twas just as the day began to break When the little shells began to shake; And I'm so glad, for birdies' sake! For what was within each shell?

Why, a little birdie, as you must know. Three sisters and a brother In that sweet nest were there to grow A little each day, though very slow; While parents keep flying to and fro, Each trying to help the other.

May you in your home as happy be, In work, or study, or play. Taking each kindness as thankfully, Waiting God's time as patiently, Doing each duty as faithfully As the birdies up in that tree!

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

I DO not know that this story would ever have been written, had it not been for Rupert Strong, who really was not "strong" at all, but a very weak boy because he could not resist the temptation to do mean things.

One night grandmother Burchard left her dear old arm-chair out on the side porch, and in the morning it was gone.

Battered and bruised was the old chair, yet how Grandmother Burchard loved it. It had been young when she was, and had come home to the new house with her, a bride. And "father," as for fifty years she had called Mr. Burchard, always sat in it at family worship, and when he read the newspaper, and took his little after-dinner naps. Only once since "father" went to heaven, ten years before, had she left the chair on the porch, forgotten.

One time was enough fur Rupert Strong. He thought it would be "funny" to drag the old chair away, tie Jonas Barker's great yellow cat to it, and send it floating down stream. "Another Moses in the bulrushes," chuckled Rupert.

This plan was never carried out, for the reason, among others, that Jonas Barker's cat was not to be found. Rupert got tired of dragging the chair around with him, and finally left it in the grove through which he passed on his way home.

There it was that Ralph Burns found it nearly a week after it had been stolen. He knew the chair at once; he had often sat in it and eaten one of Grandmother Burchard's cookies. He dragged it home, a poor, forlorn chair. Rain had soaked it through and through. Wind had rolled it over and over, and battered and bruised it on every side, and two of the rounds were gone entirely. Whether the birds carried them away for fishing-rods, or what became of them. Ralph never knew. Ralph's heart swelled with indignation.

Rupert's attempt at "fun" had tickled him so much,—the plan that he meant to carry out and didn't,—that he told it to some of his friends, and the story leaked out.

So Ralph, when he found the old chair, had no trouble in deciding how it got to the woods. "I'll tell you what it is," he said to his mother that evening, "I know a bit of fun worth a dozen of Rupert's plans; wouldn't it be nice to take that old chair to Mr. Rice and get him to fix it up; put on a new head-piece, and new rounds, and paint it, and all, and then take it back to her?"

"I'm afraid it would cost almost as much as a new chair," said his mother.

"Well, but if it did, it is worth more than all the new chairs in the country to Grandmother Burchard. I've got a dollar; I should think that might fix it up nice; you wouldn't mind having me spend my dollar in that way, would you?"

"I don't think I would," said his mother.

I want you to understand, that in her secret heart she was very much pleased with Ralph for having thought of such a kind, unselfish thing to do, but of course she didn't want to tell him so.

Mary, however, Ralph's sister, was not so quiet. "I think that is a real nice plan." she said, decidedly, "and I mean to make a cushion for it; that crimson shawl that you said was too worn-out to do anything with, would make a splendid cushion, mother."

And the mother agreed that it would.

"Very well," said Grandmother Burns, from her handsome chair in the corner; "I'll knit her a tidy for it, such as we used to knit in the old times."

Every one of these plans was carried out,—secretly, too.

Grandmother Burchard had given up talking about her dear old chair; many a time though she sat in her straight, high-backed one, and thought about it. I have neglected to tell you that she was poor, so far as chairs and things of that kind were concerned. She was rich enough; being one of the people described in the second chapter of James, fifth verse.

One lovely summer afternoon the chair was done, glistening with paint, glowing in a red cushion all over its back and seat; gleaming with a white tidy, made after the pretty pattern of forty years ago; and Ralph put it in his hand-cart, and trundled along over the hill with it towards Grandmother Burchard's little cottage. It was a great pleasure of course to him, to meet Rupert Strong, who stared at the chair, not recognizing it, and said, "My eyes! Ain't that a beauty!"

Ah, but what did Grandmother Burchard say? You won't be disappointed, I hope, to hear that the first thing she did was to cry.

"I'll tell you what it is," she said to Ralph, when she was quieted down a bit; "the angels came all around that chair once, and stood and waited; and it's my opinion they've set store by it ever since, and that's the reason you were told to do such a thing as this, for Grandmother Burchard; and your dollar bills are none of the plentiest either, bless your heart."

"Angels!" said Ralph, with wide open astonished eyes.

"Yes, angels. Father was sitting right in that chair, reading in his Bible, when they come after him; and I make no doubt that they waited for him to finish his chapter, for he said, with his eyes on his book, 'Wait a bit.'

"And I said, 'What did you say, father?'

"But dear heart, he wasn't speaking to me, and they waited, for he finished his chapter, with his finger on the last verse, and then laid back his head, and then I went in a hurry to see what was the matter. They had taken him away! Oh, the dear chair! I hope they'll find me sitting right here in it, when they come for me."

That evening Ralph sat at home, with thoughtful face, and worked at a problem; not being able to get the answer, he went to his father for help.

"Father, you know about the old chair?"

"I should think I did," said his father, laughing.

"Well, you know how Rupert stole it, and all; now I was thinking, ought he to get a blessing, too, such as Grandmother Burchard says people get for kind things? Because, you know, if he hadn't stolen it, we'd never have thought of making it over new?"

"Do you suppose he stole it to please Grandmother Burchard, my boy?"

"Why, of course not."

"Then you will find the answer to your question in the 23d chapter of Proverbs, the 7th verse."

And Ralph, who rushed for the Bible, found this:

"As he thinketh in his heart, so is he."

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BROKEN.

"AREN'T they just 'lovely!'" As she said this, Estelle Brownson held the quaint, dark blue cream-pitcher aloft, to show how transparent it was.

"Oh, they are too pretty for 'anything!'" declared Frances Holmes, her dear friend and companion, and she wound her arms caressingly around a dark blue plate, as she spoke. "I don't believe another girl in our set can bring such a charming array of old things as you can. How came your grandmother to let you take them?"

"I'm sure I don't know; I didn't expect it; she thinks so much of them. Grandpa bought them, you know, when they first commenced housekeeping, sixty years ago. Just think, Frances, of having been a housekeeper for sixty years! I didn't expect to be allowed to touch these dishes, but I was telling mamma about the plans for the old folks' supper, how we were going to have all the nice old-fashioned things we could get, for the table. And I was complaining that our things were so distressingly 'new;' when grandma said,—

"'I suppose you would like the blue china tea-set to dress out your table with.'

"I gave a little scream, and said I guessed I would, better than anything else in the world. And when she said I might take it, I gave her such a hugging as to almost take her breath away. I wouldn't have one of the pieces broken for 'anything;' I'm really afraid it would break grandma's heart. I've been nervous all the morning, while I was wiping them and getting them ready. I shut Tiny up in the nursery for fear she would break something."

But somebody had let Tiny out of the nursery; she came skipping over the ground just at this moment, her heart full of some scheme of importance.

"Oh, Stella!" she said, as she came within hearing. "Mamma says I may go to the supper, and that she will dress me up in white pantalets, and a long-sleeved, high-necked white apron, just as little girls used to dress ever so many years ago. Won't I look too funny!"

And the happy little girl whirled on one foot, and came up with a thud against her sister just as she was turning to set the cream-pitcher down. Down it went, not on the table, but on the hard floor, and of course it broke, in—I don't know how many pieces.

Poor little Tiny! How suddenly the happy light went from her eyes, and her face grew pale.

But Estelle did not see it; all she saw was the cream-pitcher in hopeless ruins. "You naughty, careless, wicked girl!" she exclaimed, her voice hoarse with anger. "You hit my arm on purpose; I know you did! You are a perfect little nuisance! Always in the way; the idea of your bunting up against me in that manner! You ought to be whipped severely, and I'll tell mother so; see if I don't. Come into the house this minute!"

And she seized the arm of her frightened little sister, and dragged her up the steps, and through the hall in frantic haste. It was hours after that, in the cool of the afternoon, that Estelle knocked softly at the door of grandmother's room, then slipped in and sat down in a sorrowful little heap at her feet.

"Oh, grandma!" she said. "Have they told you? I'm so 'awfully' sorry! I could cry for a week if that would only mend it."

"So am I, child," said grandma, knitting away quietly on her red and white stocking; "I would cry, too, if that would do any good; but tears will not mend them; there were so many of them broken, too: that seems to make it worse."

Then Estelle lifted her sorrowful face. "Oh, grandma!" she said. "There was only one broken: that was bad enough; did you think there were more?"

Grandma gravely shook her white old head. "You are mistaken," she said, "there was more than one, child; I was in the sitting-room at the time, and heard the crash. Let me see, 'Bear ye one another's burden.' That was broken, I'm sure: poor little Tiny had to bear her own heavy burden. Then, 'Be ye kind, one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another;' I'm afraid that was dreadfully broken. Oh, there were a good many of them; I felt them rattling about my ears all the morning."

Not another word said Estelle. For ten whole minutes she buried her head in grandmother's apron.

Then grandmother said softly, "Take them to 'Him,' child, and try again."

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CHARLIE SMYTHE.

"LOOK here, old fellow," said Eugene Cooper, as soon as the boys were seated under their favorite tree, "you haven't peeped yet; it is high time you give us an account of some of your adventures."

"I told you I didn't go but twenty-four miles," said Charlie, chewing a clover top.

"Never mind that," chorused the boys, "tell us where you went and what you saw."

"I went to Adams' birthplace."

"What Adam?" asked George Dunlap. "John Quincy, or Samuel; or, no, it can't be that you went to Eden, where Adam the apple-eater began life!"

"I don't mean those Adams," laughed Charlie, "I means the second president of the United States."

"Oh, I declare I don't know where he was born."

"Oh, well it isn't a very remarkable place, and there wasn't a great deal to see; but I liked it because John was born there. It was at Quincy, Massachusetts, or Braintree, as they used to call it."

"Did the people have lots of stories to tell about Adams, when he was a boy? That's what they talk about, when you go to great people's birthplaces."

"I heard about his getting tired of Latin and wanted to give up the idea of an education, and how his father cured him."

"I don't remember any such thing," declared two of the boys.

"Nor I," said Horace Brooke; "tell us about it."

"Why, he was about fifteen; and he hated Latin. One day, he decided that he could not study it any longer, and he went to his father and told him, he did not like study, and wanted to go to work."

"'Very well,' his father said, and set him to work digging a ditch. 'See if ditching suits you, since Latin doesn't,' he said.

"But it didn't suit; by noon, he hated it worse than the Latin grammar; and by night he thought he had never been so tired in his life. He would have liked to go back to school the next morning, but he was too proud to give up, so he worked in the ditch for another day. At night, though, he told his father he would like to leave the ditch, and try the grammar again."

The boys all laughed, and Horace said he would have chosen ditching rather than Latin.

"Well, Adams became a fine scholar, even when he was young man," said George Dunlap.

"Yes," said Charlie, "he did. And a statesman, too; why, when he was only nineteen he wrote that letter, you know, which hinted that he believed this country would set up for itself. What a brilliant man he was! A lawyer, and a foreign minister, and a vice-president, and then president. Suppose he had stuck to that ditch, instead! Perhaps we should have had no Declaration of Independence."

"Why? He didn't write it."

"Well, he helped write it; and nominated George Washington for commander-in-chief of our army."

"When did Adams die?" asked Horace.

"On the Fourth of July, 1826. Wasn't it strange that he and Jefferson should die on the same day?"

"Why, did they?"

"Yes; on that Fourth of July, the first semi-centennial celebration. They were friends, you know, and lawyers, and makers of the Declaration of Independence, and foreign ministers, and presidents, and they died together. Adams' last words were, 'Jefferson survives.' It wasn't so, though; Jefferson died a few hours before."

"Upon my word, I didn't know much about it," frankly declared George Dunlap.

And Eugene Cooper said, "Look here, boys, we haven't heard a word about summer vacation travels; this young scamp has been giving us a lesson in American history!"

"Which we seemed to need," said one.

And then they all laughed, only Charlie, his face was grave; he was still thinking of John Adams.

"After all," he said, "I wish he had said something better than that to die by; he was a great man. But when my grandfather died, his last words were, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth.' And those were better words for last ones than anything that Adams said."

"I guess," said Horace Brooks, getting up from the grass, and shaking the dried leaves from his clothes, speaking slowly and gravely meanwhile, "I guess you've got to 'live' things, or you can't 'say' them when you come to die."

GRANDMOTHER BROWNSON.

"IT is just wonderful to hear her read in the Bible," said Estelle, talking about her grandmother, as she was fond of doing. "It doesn't matter how dull a chapter you pick out, she is sure to have some sweet new thought about it. I wish I loved to read it as well as she does; and knew half as much about it. I don't believe you could pick out a place, from which she wouldn't give you a new thought."

"I do," declared Stuart Harper, who was leaning against the door, pulling yellow roses to pieces, and scattering the leaves on the piazza. Stuart was one of those boys who are always picking things to pieces. "My small brother was stumbling through a lot of hard names in his Bible-reading this morning, just because they belonged to the next chapter in his course; and I said to mother that I didn't believe there was any good to be gotten out of a list of names, if they 'were' in the Bible; I don't believe even your grandmother could make anything of them."

"Let's try her," exclaimed Estelle, "she is in her room with her knitting. She is always ready to read to us; let us all go in and ask her to read that chapter. Can you find the place, Stuart?"

No sooner thought of, than the whole troop of grandchildren with Tiny at their heels, and Stuart Harper, and Francis Holmes, following more quietly, started for grandmother's room. She received them cordially, in no way surprised, for she was used to many visits from the young people. Neither did it astonish her to be asked to read; this was a favorite Sabbath afternoon entertainment, and grandmother saw no reason why it should not be as pleasant a thing on Tuesday, as on the Sabbath.

"Stuart wants you to read from the first chapter of Numbers, beginning at the fifth verse," explained Estelle, "he wants to ask you some questions about it."

So grandmother read: "'And these are the names of the men that shall stand with you: of the tribe of Reuben, Elizur the son of Shedeur; of Simeon, Shelumiel the son of Zurishaddai; of Judah, Nahshon the son of Amminadab; of Issachar, Nethaneel the son of Zuar; of Zebulun, Eliab the son of Helon.'

"I never read over these names," said grandmother, looking up over her spectacles, "but I think of your father; when he was a little boy, he liked to read them, and to imagine how he should feel if he should read there, 'Tommy, the son of Jeremiah.' That was your grandfather's name, you know; and your father said, he knew he should hold up his head proudly at the thought of being the son of such a good man as Jeremiah.

"'But mother,' says he, 'what if father couldn't hold up his head, when my name was called, because he was ashamed of me.'"

And grandma laughed, and at the same moment wiped a tear out of her faded eyes, and went on with her reading.

"'Of the children of Joseph: of Ephraim, Elishama the son of Ammihud; of Manasseh, Gamaliel the son of Pedahzur.'"

Then she looked up again. "Did you ever think, children, what a beautiful thing it is that the Lord knows us so well he can call all our names? I love to think of him as speaking of my children and grandchildren, and setting them their tasks to do for him."

It was a solemn thought, as well as a sweet one, and ought to have sobered them. The grandchildren were quiet, but Stuart could not resist the temptation to clap his hands. This made grandma look up in wonder, and then the whole story came out.

"But I still think," said Stuart, "that it would take a woman like grandmother, to find the crumb in such verses as those."

"Read on, my boy," said grandmother, "read on to the last verse:

"'And the children of Israel did according to all that the Lord commanded.'

"Are these children doing so?"

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A FOOLISH LITTLE GIRL.

SHE was washed and partly dressed, and set up high and dry in a safe place while Mrs. Stuart went for more clothes. Her name was Margary, and she had been picked up in the streets. Mrs. Stuart meant to dress her neatly, and teach her to read, and sew, and sweep, and dust; in short, teach her how to be a useful girl, and earn her own living. They had made a queer beginning.

"Do you know how to wash yourself?" she had asked the dirty little girl, when she first brought her home.

"Yes 'm," said Margary, with twinkling eyes.

And as she seemed to know a great deal, for a little girl of her age, Mrs. Stuart had taken her to the bath-room and showed her how to draw the water, and where to put the towels, and the soaps, and had left her to herself, to see what kind of a bath she would take.

"I really didn't feel as though I could touch the little thing, until she got her dreadful rags, and some of the dirt off," said Mrs. Stuart in telling about it, afterwards.

One thing she forgot, that was to lock the door that lead from the bath-room into Miss Emma's dressing-room. What do you think little Margery did but slip in there!