Chapter 2

The favorite seat was in the balcony, where Nettie could watch the sea-gulls come and go, and where you may see them all this minute, Nettie, and her mother, and Mrs. Betrand, with her basket of flowers. Nettie's cheeks are getting round and rosy, and it is hard to say who is happiest of them all; but Mrs. Bertrand must be, because you know it says: "It is more blessed to give than to receive."

WARREN'S VERSE.

He is a little bit of a fellow. He can't read any more than a mouse can; but he is very fond of standing in this way, beside his mother, while she points to the words and pronounces them; then it is easy to read them.

Last Tuesday morning he was reading this verse: "A fool despiseth his father's instruction: but he that regardeth reproof is prudent." There were two listeners to this lesson. Warren's father in the study was having a great hunt after some papers, but in his haste he couldn't help stopping to listen to the sweet little voice repeating the long words.

"Mamma," he called at last, "seems to me that is a long verse, and one almost beyond the little man's understanding isn't it?"

Mamma laughed. "I think so," she said. "But the trouble is Warren doesn't; his sister Laura has been learning this verse, and he wants to."

In the little reading-room opening from the study, Uncle Warren, a gay young chap who was boarding at his sister's, listened and laughed over the words that sounded so queerly, coming from the baby lips. Over and over they were repeated: "A fool despiseth his father's instruction: but he that regardeth reproof is prudent." As he listened Uncle Warren's handsome face grew sober, he was writing letters, and many papers were strewn before him. He took up one of them and read it over:

"Dear old fellow:--You have buried yourself in your sister's arms long enough. Don't be tied to her apron-string; come down to-night, we are going to have a real jolly time in Joe's room. Mum is the word."

Uncle Warren laid it down again and took up another. It read:

"Don't allow yourself to be caught in places where everything is to be kept secret. When boys begin to keep their pleasures from their best friends, it generally shows there is something wrong. I've been a little worried about your evenings. I hope you will be prudent as to how you spend them. Remember you are your father's only son."

Over the first reading of this letter, Warren had said, "Poh! Fiddlesticks! He thinks I am a baby," and laying it down had begun a reply to the other, that read thus: "Dear Dick:--I'll be on hand, though I don't suppose our governors would like it much."

Little Warren, in the other room, went on struggling with the long words, "A fool despiseth his father's instruction: but he that regardeth reproof is prudent." How exactly to the point it was, even about the prudent part. It startled him a little. He tore Dick's letter into little bits, while he listened and thought. Then he took up his father's letter once more and read it over slowly; then with a sudden decided movement, he tore the letter he was writing into halves, and put it into the waste basket, and rapidly wrote this in it's place: "Dick:--I can't come. My father wouldn't approve; neither will yours. In haste, Warren."

Then he went out and kissed little Warren on his nose, on his eyes, on his chin, three times for each; and that was all that either the little boy or his mother knew about the work that had been done in the library.

BROWN TOMMY.

Not Tommy Brown, but Brown Tommy. He was all in brown from tip to toe. His hair was brown by nature, and the sun had browned his face and hands. His eyes were a lovely dark brown. He went on a journey on the cars with his mamma, and this is the way he was dressed. He had a brown merino dress, kilt skirt and jacket, with rows and rows of brown buttons all over it; there were two pockets in the jacket; his brown cloth gloves were peeping out of one, and the corner of his handkerchief, that hung out of the other, had a brown flower on it. His stockings were all brown, and his waterproof cape that was hanging on his shoulders was just the color of his stockings. Then he had a Centennial hat, three-cornered, such as old soldiers used to wear a hundred years ago; it had a long brown plume on it. This was Brown Tommy.

How did he act? Well, not so nicely as he looked, I am sorry to say. On the cars, in the seat before him, was a lady who tried to talk with him, but he saw fit not to answer any of her questions. She seemed to think he was a timid little boy, who must be coaxed into knowing her; so she talked on, in a pleasant winning voice. At last she turned to his mamma, and said: "Your little boy _can_ talk, I suppose, or is he too young?" Just that moment, up spoke Brown Tommy, and what he said was: "Did you ever count all the buttons on your dress, or don't you know how to count so many?" This seemed to astonish the lady very much. Her dress was trimmed in the new fashion, with rows and rows of buttons, and Tommy, who is rather mixed up in his counting, seemed to think that it would take a very smart woman to count them all. Having once found his tongue, he kept on pouring out the questions till the lady must have wondered what had become of his timidity. He asked her what was the name of the place where she lived, and how many churches there were, and whether she went to church every Sunday, and whether she sat as still as a mouse. By the time they reached their journey's end, Brown Tommy and the lady knew each other very well; at least, he knew all about her. She said she had never been asked so many questions before in her life.