CHAPTER IX.

MR. TOMPKINS’S SMALL STORY.

“It must be a small one,” said Mr. Tompkins.

“Oh, yes! we’ve agreed to that,” said Mr. Plummer.

Mr. Tompkins then asked if they were willing it should be merely a hen-story.

“We’ll take the vote on that,” cried Hiram. Then, turning to the company, he said,—

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is known to you that our friend Mr. Tompkins has paid his forfeit, and that he has been judged to redeem it by telling a story. It was no more than right for him to pay a forfeit; for he laughed at a quiet old lady who never did him any harm, and treated her in an unkind manner. Mr. Tompkins now wishes to know if his small story may be merely a hen-story. All who are willing that Mr. Tompkins’s small story shall be merely a hen-story please to say ‘Ay.’”

“Ay, ay, ay, ay!” was shouted many times by young and old; and, what with the shouting and the laughing and the hand-clapping, there was such a racket as set Snip a-barking at the top of his voice. Josephus crowed, and made his feet fly, and patted cakes, and tossed them up so high, that he nearly threw himself over backward. The cat hopped out of her private box, her tail standing straight in the air: and it is more than likely that the kittens’ eyes came open with wonder; which would have been a very great wonder indeed, seeing that the nine days were not much more than half over.

Mr. Tompkins then told the following short and simple story, which was written down upon the spot by the only person present who had a lead-pencil:—

* * * * *

There was once a hen who talked about another hen in a not very good way, and in a not at all friendly way. The hen she talked about was named Phe-endy Alome. Her own name was Teedla Toodlum. They both belonged to a flock of white hens which lived in the far-away country of Chickskumeatyourkornio.

Now, the one that was named Teedla Toodlum went around among the other hens, making fun of Phe-endy Alome on account of her having a speckled feather in her wing. She told them not to go with Phe-endy Alome, or scratch up worms with her, or any thing, because Phe-endy had that speckled feather in her wing.

One of the hens that Teedla Toodlum talked to in this way was deaf, and therefore could not hear very well. She had become deaf in consequence of not minding her mother. It happened in this way: A tall Shanghai roost-cock crowed close to her ear when she was quite small; when, in fact, she was just hatched out of her shell. She had a number of brothers and sisters who came out at almost the same time. The Shanghai stood very near, and in such a way that his throat came close to the nest, and he crowed there. The chicks wanted to put their heads out from under their mother, and see who was making such a noise. Their mother said,—

“No, no, no! Keep under! You might be made deaf: I’ve heard of such a thing happening.”

But one chick did put her head out, and close to the Shanghai’s wide-open throat too, and when he was crowing terribly.

Then her mother said,—

“Now I shall punish you: I shall prick you with my pin-feathers.”

And the chick was pricked, and she became deaf besides; so that, when she grew up, she hardly could hear herself cackle. And this was the reason she could not understand very well when the hen named Teedla Toodlum was telling the others that the hen named Phe-endy Alome had a speckled feather in her wing.

One day, the hen named Teedla Toodlum scratched a hole in the sand beneath a bramble-bush, and sat down there, where it was cool; and, while she was sitting there, a cow came along at the other side of the bramble-bush, with a load of “passengers” on her back. The cows in the country of Chickskumeatyourkornio permit the hens to ride on their backs; and, when a great many are on, they step carefully, so as not to shake them off. In frosty weather they allow them to get up there to warm their feet. Sometimes hens who have cold feet fly up and push off the others who have been there long enough.

The cow passed along at the other side of the bush, and by slipping one foot into a deep hole which was hidden with grass, and therefore could not be seen, upset the whole load of passengers. She then walked on; but the passengers staid there, and had a little talk together,—after their own fashion, of course. The deaf one happened to be among them; and, seeing that the others were having great sport, she wanted to know what it was all about. Upon this the others—those of them who could stop laughing—raised their voices; and all began at once to try to make her understand. And this is what they said:—

“Think of that goose of a hen, Teedla Toodlum, telling us not to go with Phe-endy Alome because Phe-endy Alome has a speckled feather in her wing, when at the same time Teedla Toodlum has _two speckled feathers in her own wing, but doesn’t know it_!

Teedla Toodlum was listening, and heard rather more than was pleasant to hear. She looked through the bramble-bush, and saw them. Some had their heads thrown back, laughing; some were holding on to their sides, each with one claw; and some were stretching their necks forward, trying to make the deaf one understand, while the deaf one held her claw to her ear in order to hear the better.

“Ah, I feel ashamed!” said Teedla Toodlum to herself. “I see now that one should never speak of the speckled feathers one sees in others, since one can never be sure that one has not speckled feathers one’s self.”

“Why, that’s the way _our_ cow does!” cried the Jimmyjohns as soon as Mr. Tompkins had finished.

“What! talks about speckled feathers?” asked cousin Floy.

“No: lets hens stay on her back.”

“Her parents, or grandparents, or great-grandparents, then,” said Mr. Tompkins, “probably came from Chickskumeatyourkornio.”

FLOWERS WAKING UP.

“It must be that spring has come,” said the Pansy, “or I should never feel so uneasy, and so very wide-awake. I’ve a great mind to put my head up out of the ground, and see. Hark! Yes, there are the birds. They are calling to the flowers. ‘Awake!’ they say, ‘awake, and come forth! There’s nothing to be afraid of now; for Old Winter has gone away. He can’t hurt you any more. Violet! Snowdrop! Pansy! Don’t stay down there any longer. We little birds are lonesome without you.’ Yes, birds, we are coming, and that right soon; for it is quite time the spring work was a-doing; and as old Goody Grass says, if some of us do not spring up, there will be no spring at all.

“Ah, how charming to breathe fresh air, and to be in the light! Why, I feel all alive, all astir! This warm sunshine thrills me through and through. ’Twas very dismal down there; but how light and cheerful it is up above! And here are all our old neighbors; come to spend the summer, I hope. Dear Violet, I’m so glad to see you! When did you come up?”

“Only just this moment, Pansy. When the birds began to call, I felt that we ought to start immediately. It is really very pleasant to be awakened by music; pleasant, too, to meet old friends once more. And, oh, how good it is to be alive! I have just your feelings, and cannot keep myself quiet. What is the charm that works upon us so?”

“I believe,” said Pansy, “that the great shining sun up there has something to do with it, in a way we don’t understand.—Ah! Neighbor Snowdrop, how do you do? No doubt, being so early a riser, you were one of the very first upon the ground.”

“Why, yes,” said Snowdrop, “I do make a practice of coming early. It seems as if the birds should have some one to welcome them back: it must be hard work singing to bare ground, after what they’ve been used to at the South. And, besides, my dreams were so unpleasant, that I was really glad to shake them off. Probably I slept too near the surface; for the terrible uproar above ground disturbed me, even in my sleep. I dreamed that a mighty giant was striding about, shaking the world to pieces; that he stamped upon the flowers; and was so cruel to the trees as to make them groan dreadfully. Once I half awaked, and shuddered, and said to myself, ‘Oh! what can be going on overhead?’ then fell asleep again, and dreamed that the whole beautiful earth was covered with something white and cold, and that a voice said, ‘Go up through the snow!’ to which I answered, ‘Oh! I’m afraid to go alone.’

“When I awoke, the voice seemed still saying, ‘Go up!’ Then I remembered the birds, and came, but came trembling; for the cold white snow was truly here, and I feared that dreadful giant might be real also. My good friends, did you have no bad dreams? and were you not disturbed by the tumult?”

“Not at all,” said Pansy. “When our mother told us the good Summer who loved us had gone, and that there was a dreadful old Winter coming, who would growl and pinch and bite, and that we’d better keep our heads under cover, then I went to sleep, and slept soundly. I haven’t heard any thing of all this rowdedow you say has been going on overhead, but, on the contrary, have had very charming dreams. I dreamed of being in a place where the sky was made up of the most beautiful colors,—purple, yellow, pale gold, and straw-color; and there were purple and yellow rainbows reaching down from the sky to me. At last I awoke, and heard the birds calling. Wasn’t that pretty? Now, little Violet, what did you dream?”

“In my dreams,” said the Violet, “the sky was all over blue,—a deep, beautiful blue. And I can’t tell you how it was,—the dream was a strange one,—but, while it lasted, this blue seemed to fall upon me,—to fall gently, as the dew falls; and with the blue came a delightful perfume. It was a very sweet dream.”

“Now I slept here quite accidentally,” said a young Sunflower, starting up; “but I, too, had my dreams. I dreamed of seeing something round and bright and glorious moving across the sky,—something which I so worshipped, so longed to be like, that, wherever it went, I never failed to turn towards it; and, in return for my worship, this glorious object sent me down floods of its golden light.”

“As for me,” said a Damask Rose-Bush, “I haven’t been to bed at all, but have slept standing; and in my dreams the sky was the color of the east just before sunrise, and every object seemed bathed in its lovely light. There was a fragrance, too, in the air about me, and whispers, very faint whispers, which sounded like this,—‘Love, love, love!’ and there were little winged boys hovering around.”

“Now I,” said the Woodbine, “slept leaning against the house, and my dreams were chiefly of climbing. Nothing would satisfy me but getting higher. And really the dream seems to have meant something. I have strange sensations: I feel active, restless. What has got into me, I wonder. It must be the sap. Well, here I go!”

* * * * *

The other dreams seemed to have meant something too: for the Snowdrop bore a flower the color of snow,—a pale, trembling blossom, that looked as if it were afraid old Winter would come back, and have a grab at it yet; and the Pansy’s flower was of the wondrous hues she dreamed of,—purple, yellow, and straw-color; the Violet’s was blue, and shed around it a delicious perfume, like that which in her dream came down with the blue from the heavens.

The Sunflower grew up very tall, and produced a flower which always turned to the sun, from the time of his rising in the east to his setting in the west, and thus drew into itself such floods of golden light, that at last this devoted flower came to resemble somewhat the sun it worshipped.

The buds of the Damask Rose were used by lovers when they wished to tell their love in the most beautiful way; and no doubt they and those who received them heard whispers in the air like those the Rose-Bush dreamed of; and if they did not see the little winged boys,—why, they might have been there, for all that.

As for the Woodbine, it climbed till the house-top was reached, and, at last accounts, was still creeping up the roof.

THE LITTLE PULLWINGER’S DREAM.

“You must know, children,” said uncle Joe, “that I have taken great pains to collect dreams. Whenever strange ones or funny ones are told me, I write them down in this ‘dream-book.’ Some of them would make you laugh till the tears ran out of your eyes. It is really curious what singular things do come to us in dreams,—such wonders! such jumbles! such sillinesses! and yet they all seem right enough when we are dreaming them.

“Now, there was little Barnabas Springer, who dreamed he was ploughing with an ox on the sea-shore, (of all places in the world to be ploughing!) and that the ox made a stifled, ‘rumble-grumble’ sound in its throat several times. He dreamed, that, when they reached the end of the furrow, he saw standing there a tall lady, whose head—now mind this—was set on in such a way that her face came over her right shoulder; and that this tall lady spoke to him in a loud voice, like a person scolding,—

“‘Barnabas Springer! that ox was trying to tell you to say “Gee” to him, so that he might “gee,” and not wet his feet.’

“Now, ‘gee’ means ‘turn to the right,’ and the tall lady’s face looked over her right shoulder; and, when Barnabas woke up, he was lying on his right side, with his eyes, nose, and mouth in the pillows: all of which is something to think of.

“Then there was my pet niece Susie dreamed she was her own kitten, trying to catch her own canary-bird, and that she understood every thing the bird said in his flutterings, and just what his feelings were. The poor child cried herself awake, and no wonder.

“But among the strangest of the strange ones in this collection,” said uncle Joe, opening his dream-book, “is that of Jimmy, my little nephew. He dreamed he was a fly, and that he talked with a sorrowful butterfly (which died in the dream), and with a bluebird, and also with a curious being who wore five tall black-and-white plumes,—one in his hat, and two on each shoulder. The curious being also wore a cow’s horn, standing in front of his hat; for which reason he was called the ‘Great Head-Horner.’

“He had ten ‘helpers.’ These helpers had each one plume, but no horn. Their plumes stood up straight, in the middle of the crowns of their tall hats. You will hear about them presently; for I have the whole dream written down here, just as Jimmy told it to me, dialogue-fashion.

“It happened in this way: One summer afternoon Jimmy had been doing something naughty (you will find out what it was by and by); and his mother, after talking with him, read to him a story about a boy who had done the same thing, and other things somewhat like it. She also told some true stories of cruel men whom she had known, and read several short pieces of poetry on the same subject.

“Now that I have spoken the word ‘cruel,’ I may as well say that Jimmy had been tormenting insects in ways which it would give me pain to tell, and give you pain to hear, and that the men of whom his mother spoke had been cruel to dumb animals.

“While she was talking, three or four officers in uniform passed by. I mention these things in order that you may the better account for Jimmy’s curious dream.

“Jimmy fell asleep during the reading of the verses, and dreamed of being in a strange place, where he saw close beside him a large golden-spotted butterfly. He dreamed that it was a moaning, sighing, sorrowing butterfly, and—what seemed more strange—that it spoke to him, and called him a fly; and, stranger yet, that he thought, for a time, he was a fly, though he felt like himself all the while. Even this, however, is not so strange as the rest.

“In the dream-dialogue I call Jimmy by his true name, because, as he said, he felt like himself. You will observe that the sorrowful butterfly begins.”

_Butterfly._—Speak to him; ask him not to do it, dear, pretty fly!

_Jimmy._—You are not talking to me, butterfly, are you?

_Butterfly._—Yes, fly, I am talking to you.

_Jimmy._—But I am not a fly, butterfly: I am a boy, a Jimmy.

_Butterfly._—You are a fly, and this will prove it. Can a boy hear butterfly-talk, and know the meaning of it?

_Jimmy._—But if I were a fly, butterfly, I could fly.

_Butterfly._—So you can fly, fly. Flap, and try!

“He flapped in his dream, flew up, then flew down.”

_Jimmy._—But if I were a fly, butterfly, I could crawl on the wall.

_Butterfly._—You can. Flap again, fly; fly to the wall, and crawl!

“He flapped in his dream, flew to the wall, and crawled.”

_Butterfly._—Now do you believe you are a fly?

_Jimmy._—Yes, butterfly: I am a fly, and I am a Jimmy; I am a Jimmy-fly.

_Butterfly._—Oh, oh, oh! Help, he comes!

_Jimmy._—Who comes?

_Butterfly._—The giant. Ask him not to do it, dear, good fly! See, see the sharp rod! I tremble, I quiver!

_Jimmy._—What will he do with it, butterfly?

_Butterfly._—He will run it through my body. Oh, dear! oh, dear!

_Jimmy._—Why don’t you fly away?

_Butterfly._—The window is shut. Do, _do_ speak to him!

_Jimmy._—A fly cannot talk to a giant.

_Butterfly._—But you can buzz to him. A poor butterfly cannot even buzz. See, he comes near!

_Jimmy._—That is not a giant: that is only a boy.

_Butterfly._—Oh, it is a giant! Won’t you, _won’t_ you, buzz to him?

_Jimmy._—What shall I buzz to him?

_Butterfly._—Buzz that I want to live; that I long to live.

_Jimmy._—What shall I buzz that you want to live for?

_Butterfly._—To rock in the lily-bells.

_Jimmy._—What else?

_Butterfly._—To float up and down, up and down, all the summer-day.

_Jimmy._—What else?

_Butterfly._—For the honey of the flowers.

_Jimmy._—What else?

_Butterfly._—And for their fragrance. Flower fragrance is the breath of life to a butterfly. Buzz all this to him. Quick! Ah, too late, too late! Oh, oh, oh!

_Jimmy._—Will it take a great while to die?

_Butterfly._—A very great while. (Gasps for breath.) Oh, oh, dear! Cruel, cruel, cruel giant!

“The Jimmy-fly flies up to the ‘giant’s’ ear, and tries to buzz ‘Cruel, cruel, cruel!’

“A great hand strikes him off. He gets lost in the air; and when, after a long time, he finds his way back, the golden-spotted butterfly is almost dead. It takes no notice of any thing around, but murmurs, faintly and more faintly, of ‘clover, bees, honey, perfume, roses, mossy banks, lily-bells, dewdrops, humming-birds,’ and so passes away in a pleasant butterfly vision.

“The Jimmy-fly flies up again, and buzzes in the giant’s ear, as well as he can, ‘Cruel, cruel, cruel!’

“The window is opened, and he is driven out. He flies to a tree near by, where sits a bluebird. The bird appears frightened, and-utters cries of distress.”

_Jimmy._—Bluebird, what troubles you so?

_Bluebird._—There’s a gun below. It will kill me! Oh, if I could only live!

_Jimmy._—It is strange. The butterfly wished the very same thing. Now, what do you want to live for, bluebird?

_Bluebird._—Why, to sing with the other birds, and to swing on the boughs; to take care of my little birdies, and to spread my wings, and fly away and away over the treetops; also to go South with the summer. Oh, but we birds have rare sport then! Have you heard of the sunny South? Do you know that we go where the orange-trees bloom? We find no frost there, but sunshine always, and flowers, and a mild air. And then the fun of going all together! We sing, we fly races in the sky, we follow the leader. Ah! a bird’s life is a happy life, and—

“A gun has been fired.

“The Jimmy-fly flies down, and finds the bird on the ground, gasping for breath. Its bright eyes are closed. Its head fails on its breast. One little flutter of the wings,—_dead_! The bluebird will never sing again, nor swing on the boughs, nor fly away and away over the treetops, nor go South with the summer.

“And here enters into the dream the curious being spoken of just now, namely, the ‘Great Head-Horner,’ or captain, with his five tall black-and-white plumes,—one in his hat, and two on each shoulder. Behind him, in single file, all keeping step, march his ten helpers.”

_Captain_ (in a loud voice).—Halt! Here is the boy.—Boy, step this way!

_Jimmy._—I am not—a boy. I am—a—a—fly.

_Captain._—Ha, ha! He says he is a fly. Ha, ha! Pass it along.

“It passes along the line, each helper saying to the next,—

“‘Ha, ha! He says he is a fly. Ha, ha! Pass it along.’”

_Captain._—If he is a fly, why doesn’t he fly?

“All repeat this, one after the other, ‘If he is a fly, why doesn’t he fly?’ till the noise of so many voices sounds like the bumbling of hoarse bumble-bees.

“Jimmy flaps his arms, but cannot rise.

“A laugh passes along the line.”

_Captain._—Which are you now,—fly, or boy?

_Jimmy._—I think—I am—a boy.

_Captain._—He thinks he is a boy: _we_ think he is a pullwinger-boy. Wheel about, my helpers.—Boy, these are my first company of helpers.—Wheel about, my helpers; form a hollow square around the boy; take him to the great “Bondenquol;” let him see what is being done there!

“Jimmy is now taken to the great ‘Bondenquol.’”

_Captain._—First company of helpers, begin your work: bring in the abusers of dumb animals. (The ten helpers march out.)

_Captain._—Helper No. 1, enter!

“Enter helper No. 1, driving before him a red-faced man who is harnessed to a wagon in which is a load too heavy for him to draw. Wagon moves slowly: man pulls with all his might. Helper No. 1 strikes him with a whip: man cries out, tries to move faster, but cannot. Another blow: he groans, quivers, bends himself nearly double.

“Meantime other helpers have come in at other doors, each driving a man who is trying to draw a load heavy beyond his strength. The helpers use their whips. The men suffer pain: some of them are lame; some blind; some are half starved, and so weak that their joints tremble. The great ‘Bondenquol’ resounds with shrieks and groans.”

_Jimmy_ (to the captain).—What are they hurting those men for?

_Captain._—To let them know how whip-blows feel. Those are the cruel: they abuse dumb animals. Do you know, that, were horses not dumb, whoever passes along the street would hear shrieks and groans worse than those you are now hearing? But come. You are waited for.—Boy-punishers, roll the wall.

“The heavy wall moves along on rollers. The noise of this, together with fright at the prospect of being punished, woke Jimmy from his sleep. A wagon loaded heavily with coal was passing the house. It was this which waked him. It came to a steep place in the road. The horses could scarcely move. The driver swore at them. He took his whip, and laid on the blows,—terribly hard blows!

“Jimmy ran out.

“‘Oh, don’t, Mr. Driver!’ he cried. ‘Please stop whipping the poor horses! You don’t know how it hurts!’

“The driver could hardly tell what to make of it to be spoken to in that way, and by a boy.

“‘And do _you_ know?’ he asked.

“‘Yes, yes!’ cried Jimmy. ‘I dreamed all about it.’

“The driver seemed more puzzled than ever. He stood still, looked down at Jimmy; and at last said he,—

“‘Well, to please you, I’ll stop.”

HOW THE BARN CAME FROM JORULLO.

TOLD BY THE FAMILY STORY-TELLER.

It was not a new story; indeed, it was hardly a story at all: but the children liked the family story-teller’s way of telling it and of acting it out. The family story-teller made a big matter of that barn-moving. He put in words enough to describe an earthquake, or a West-India hurricane, or a volcano pouring out red-hot melted lava, or a steamboat bursting her boiler and blowing herself up. He also wanted plenty of room in which to fling his arms about, and shake his fists, and make other kinds of motions, so as to act out what was done, and especially what the oxen-drivers did.

“Oh, yes!” the family story-teller said, taking a leap into the middle of the floor: “I’ll tell how the barn came from Jorullo. All keep quiet. The story is going to begin now. One morning the barrel-man—a collector of barrels—went forth from his house by the back-door; and there he stood with folded arms (like this), looking at all his carts, wheelbarrows, barrels, haystacks, garden-tools, and many other things. And he said, ‘Behold, I have carts, wheelbarrows, barrels, haystacks, garden-tools, and many other things, but have no roof whereunder to shelter them.’ And he said, ‘Behold, in Jorullo there stands a barn,—a brown barn, a right goodly barn. This barn will I buy. And I will get oxen (horned oxen with their drivers) and horses, and moving-men with their stout wheels, and timbers, and great iron chains; and the timbers shall be raised upon the wheels, and the barn shall be raised upon the timbers, and the oxen shall draw, and the wheels shall roll, and the barn shall come from Jorullo; and in that will I shelter my carts, barrels, wheelbarrows, haystacks, garden-tools, and many other things.’

“And he sent round about into all the country; and there came twenty oxen, and horses besides, with their drivers, from South Stromriffe and Smithersville and Mt. Lob and Trilerbite Four Corners; and the Paxhamborough moving-men came with their stout wheels, and their timbers, and their great iron chains; and the timbers were raised upon the wheels, and the barn was raised upon the timbers. Then the drivers began to shout, and flourish their whips (like this): ‘_Get up there!_’ ‘_Gee!_’ ‘_Haw!_’ ‘_Come along!_’ ‘_Hi, hi, hi!_’ ‘_What’re ye ’bout?_’ The horses and oxen began to draw with mighty strength; the wheels began to roll; and the barn began to move from Jorullo.

“And first they came to a telegraph-wire, and there they stopped. ‘Take down that telegraph-wire!’ shouted the head moving-man, ‘and let it stay down till the barn passes by.’ Then out came the ladders, and up climbed the men, and down came the telegraph-wire.”

“And _out jumped a cat_!” cried one of the little boys.

“Yes, out jumped a cat from the barn-window, with a kitten in her mouth. She thought ’twas time to move into some other building. She went back to Jorullo and left her kitten, and came back and jumped in at the same window just as they were going to start again. ‘Ready!’ cried the head moving-man. Then the drivers began to shout, and flourish their whips (like this): ‘_Come along here!_’ ‘_Haw!_’ ‘_Whoa!_’ ‘_Go on!_’ ‘_Gee!_’ ‘_Get up there!_’ ‘_What ye ’bout there?_’ The horses and oxen began to draw with mighty strength; the wheels began to roll; and the barn moved on.

“And next they came to a railroad-crossing, and there they stopped. Across the way was a signboard; and on the signboard were capital letters, ‘LOOK OUT FOR THE ENGINE WHEN THE BELL RINGS.’ ‘Take down that signboard!’ shouted the head moving-man, ‘and let it stay down while the barn passes by.’ Then out came the ladders, and up climbed the men, and down came the signboard.”

“And _out jumped the cat again_!” cried the same little boy.

“To be sure, out jumped the cat again, with another kitten in her mouth, and ran. She had farther to go this time; and, before she got back, the head moving-man called out, ‘Ready!’ Then the drivers began to shout, and flourish their whips (like this): ‘_Move along now!_’ ‘_What are ye doin’ there!_’ ‘_Hi, hi!_’ ‘_Get up!_’ ‘_Go on!_’ ‘_Haw!_’ ‘_Haw!_’ ‘_Keep a-movin’!_’ The horses and oxen began to draw with mighty strength; the wheels began to roll; and the barn moved on.

“And next they came to a great oak-tree, whose limbs overhung the road, and there they stopped. ‘Chop off a few of those limbs!’ shouted the head moving-man. Then out came the ladders, and up went the men with their hatchets; and _crack_, _snap_! went the limbs. Soon ran somebody from a little house a long distance off, bawling away, and shaking his fists, ‘What you doin’ up there? Stop chopping; stop chopping! I’ll make you pay damages!’—‘All right! I’ll pay damages!’ cried the head moving-man; and just then the cat came back, and jumped in at the window. The drivers began to shout, and flourish their whips (like this): ‘_Come up!_’ ‘_Gee!_’ ‘_Gee, I say!_’ ‘_Come along!_’ ‘_Whoa!_’ ‘_Back!_’ ‘_Get up now!_’ ‘_Hawbuck!_’ ‘_Mind there!_’ ‘_Hi, hi, hi!_’ ‘_Now go ’long!_’ The horses and oxen began to draw with mighty strength; the wheels began to roll; and the barn moved on.

“At home, Hepsy Bacon and another woman, Sophrony by name, sat at the chamber-window, peeling potatoes. They had come to help the barrel-man’s wife get the dinner ready; for the Paxhamborough moving-men, and all the oxen-drivers from South Stromriffe and Smithersville and Mt. Lob and Trilerbite Four Corners, must have their dinners. And the barrel-man had said, ‘Watch out from the chamber-windows; and, when the barn comes in sight, _put your potatoes in the pot_.’

“Three great dinner-kettles were set boiling on the stove, besides tea-kettles, frying-pans, stew-pans, sauce-pans, coffee-pots, tea-pots, and many other things.

“At two o’clock the great brown barn came in sight, with all the horses and oxen and drivers, and a crowd of men and boys and dogs following on. Then ran Hepsy Bacon and Sophrony, and dropped into the pot their peeled potatoes, along with the meat, cabbages, parsnips, squashes, turnips, carrots, rye-dumplings, and many other things; and the table was set with plates, spoons, cups, saucers, forks, knives, napkins, tumblers, and many other things.

“At half-past two the great brown barn came rolling past the windows, with all the twenty oxen (twenty horned oxen) and horses (horses with tails), and crowds of men, and drivers cracking their whips, and boys shouting, and dogs barking, and a grand hurrah all round. The barrel-man’s lame horse whinnied and ran; the cow mooed and ran; the geese squawked and ran; the turkeys gobbled and ran; the old pig grunted and ran; the little pigs squeaked and ran; the hens cackled and ran; the two cats mewed and ran, and one jumped up on the house; the dogs barked; while Hepsy Bacon and Sophrony, with their long necks out the window, waved white handkerchiefs. When the barn stopped, out leaped the cat that came from Jorullo, with another kitten in her mouth. The boys hooted her,—‘Meauw, meauw!—’st, ’st!—quish! pr—rr—rr—rr—rr!’—and back she went again. Somebody chased her in, and found she had one kitten there besides the one in her mouth.

“When every thing was ready, the men came in to dinner,—tall men, short men, fat men, lean men, dark men, light men, young men, old men, curly-haired men, straight-haired men, men with shaggy coats, men with butchers’ frocks, men with bruised hands, men with bad coughs, men with pains in their shoulders, all tired, and all very hungry; for they had eaten nothing since early in the morning, and had walked all the way from their homes in South Stromriffe, Smithersville, Mt. Lob, Paxhamborough, and Trilerbite Four Corners. The barrel-man’s wife and Hepsy Bacon filled up the dishes as fast as they were emptied; and Sophrony, with the coffee-pot in one hand and the teapot in the other, asked each one, ‘Tea, or coffee, sir?’

“One poor sickly man who was troubled with a very bad cough was asked to stay all night, so that he needn’t take anymore cold; and Hepsy Bacon and Sophrony made for him in the frying-pan a cough-medicine of molasses and castor-oil and pepper and sugar and butter and vinegar, and many other things.

“Next morning there were four kittens in the barn. That cat must have gone all the way back to Jorullo in the night, and brought those others, one at a time.

“And now, children,” said the family story-teller in conclusion, “stand around—little and big, old and young—while I show you the beautiful, graphic, and animated drawings which the barrel-man made himself on the very day that the barn came down from Jorullo.”

A POTATO STORY WHICH BEGINS WITH A BEAN-POLE.

The family story-teller, being asked to tell one of his “ten-minute” stories, said, “If it will content you, I will tell you a Potato story which begins with a Bean-Pole.

“Once there was a Bean-Pole which was stuck into the ground by the side of a Potato-Hill.

“‘Dear me!’ cried a young Cabbage, growing near, ‘what a stiff, poky thing that is! and of no earthly use, standing there doing nothing.’

“But very soon a Scarlet-Bean, running about in search of something to climb upon, found this same Bean-Pole.

“‘All right!’ cried the happy little Bean. ‘You are the very thing I want. Now I’ll begin my summer’s work.’

“‘Well, to be sure!’ cried young Cabbage. ‘Every thing comes to some use at last. But who would have thought it!’

“The Scarlet-Bean was a spry little thing. She ran up that pole just as easy! Being of a lively turn, she began, at last, to make fun of the Potato-Plant.

“‘How sober you are!’ said she. ‘Why don’t you try to brighten up, and look more blooming?’

“The poor Potato-Plant, though doing her best, could only show a few pale blooms.

“‘You don’t mean to call those things flowers?’ cried the frisky Bean. ‘Just look at my beautiful blossoms!’ And she held up a spray of bright scarlet.

“The Potato-Plant kept quiet.

“‘What stupid, useless things those Potato-Plants are!’ said young Cabbage; ‘and how much room they take up!’

“Summer passed. The Bean began to fill her pods, and proud enough she was of them.

“‘Why don’t you do something?’ she cried to the Potato-Plant down below. ‘Only see what I’ve done! There’s a summer’s work for you!’ And, sure enough, she had hung her full pods all up and down the pole.

“‘Yes, why don’t you do something?’ cried Cabbage. ‘Your summer is gone, and nothing done. Can’t you come to a head? Any thing but idleness!’

“The Potato-Plant still kept quiet: but when digging-time came, and the hill was opened, and the pile of ‘Long Reds’ appeared, her neighbors could hardly believe their senses.

“‘Dear me! what a surprise!’ cried the Bean. ‘So we can’t always tell by appearances.’

“‘I declare!’ cried Cabbage. ‘Then you were doing something all that time! But how could I know? There’s that Bean: she hung her pods up high, so that everybody could see. Well, well, well! After this, I’ll always say of a plant which makes but little show, “Wait: _potatoes inside there_, maybe.”’

“There are a great many Scarlet-Beans among the people I know,” said the family story-teller, “and some Potato-Plants too, and perhaps a few young Cabbage-Heads.”

THE WAY MRS. MACGARRET’S TEA-PARTY WAS BROKEN UP.

Mrs. MacGarret was an attic cat, and lived in the garret; but Mrs. O’Cellary lived in the cellar. Mrs. MacGarret had three children, and Mrs. O’Cellary had three children. Mr. MacGarret had gone away, and so had Mr. O’Cellary. Mrs. MacGarret’s children were all of an age, and Mrs. O’Cellary’s children were all of an age. The names of the MacGarret children were Spotty MacGarret, Tabby MacGarret, and Tilly MacGarret. The O’Cellary children were named, the first, Dinah O’Cellary, after its mother; the second, Thomas O’Cellary, after its father; while the third was called Bengal Tiger O’Cellary, after one of their grand-relations.

One day Mrs. MacGarret said to her children, “My dears, I have decided to have company this afternoon. I shall invite Mrs. O’Cellary and her family. Behave well, or you will be punished. At supper eat the poorest, and give the best to the company. Be very quiet, and never interrupt. That you may look your best, I shall put up your tails in curl-papers. Now, don’t cry if I pull some.” And they shut their mouths tight, and never uttered a sound.

“Good children!” said Mrs. MacGarret. “Now you may go down and invite the company.”

“What, in curl-papers!” cried Spotty. “Oh, not in curl-papers!” cried Tabby. “You can’t mean in curl-papers!” cried Tilly.

“True,” said their mother: “you can’t go in curl-papers. I’ll step down myself.”

“But we’re afraid to stay alone!” cried Spotty and Tabby and Tilly. “Don’t go!” “Don’t go!” “Don’t go!” And each held up her fore-paw, and begged and prayed and wept.

“Poor darlings!” said Mrs. MacGarret: “how can I leave you? Now, if we were but good friends with Mr. Rat, how easily he could do the errand! for yonder rat-hole leads to the cellar straight.”

“Can’t you speak down to her?” asked Spotty. “I think you might speak down,” said Tabby. “Do speak down!” cried Tilly.

“To be sure,” said Mrs. MacGarret: “of course I can. ’Tis often done in hotels. What smart children you are!”

Then Mrs. MacGarret spoke down, and invited Mrs. O’Cellary and her family to tea at seven o’clock; and Mrs. O’Cellary answered up that they would be most happy.

At quarter before seven the curl-papers were taken out.

“Charming!” cried Mrs. MacGarret. “All stand in a row, that I may see. Charming! Don’t move!”

At seven o’clock Mrs. O’Cellary arrived with all her children, and two young cousins who were paying her a visit: and, as it was a grand occasion, supper was laid out on a black leather trunk bordered with brass nails; and nothing could have been more elegant.

Now, this was what Mrs. MacGarret set before them for supper: first, mouse; second, scraps; third, codfish dried; fourth, squash in the rind, brought up from the kitchen in the dead of the night. Mrs. MacGarret lamented that she was out of milk; but their saucer was licked dry at dinner, and the milkman had not been round. But the company all said they seldom took milk, and that every thing was lovely. The talk was very entertaining, being mostly about the boldness of a mouse, who would peep out of his hole at them, but who popped back again the minute they stirred. They also talked much of the bad boy. A new little whip had been given him, and travelling through the passages was really quite unsafe.

“We were in great danger coming up, I assure you,” said Mrs. O’Cellary.

“Very great danger, ma’am,” said Thomas.

“We ran for our lives, ma’am,” said Bengal T.

“Be not so forward to speak in older company,” whispered Mrs. O’Cellary.

After supper a neighbor dropped in from the next attic, bringing her children; and there was a very merry party; and all would have gone well but for Tabby MacGarret, who did not do the right thing. This is how it happened.

All the mothers sat down on a spinning-wheel to have a cosey talk, and the children had great sport with the funny little mouse. First he would peep out of his hole, and wink at them; and, when they all jumped for him, he would dodge back again; and the next thing they knew his little black eyes would be peeping out from another hole. Then they would jump again. But he always popped back just in time.

“Now do come out, mousey, and play with us,” they said.

Said mousey, “I like this better.”

Now, Mrs. MacGarret had given the children all that was left at supper to divide among themselves. They chose one to divide it; and Tabby MacGarret was the one chosen. Pretty soon Spotty saw her clap something under her paw in a very private way; and, guessing that all was not right, she stepped softly round behind, and just bit the end of her tail. This made Tabby lift up her paw, and then—they all saw! She had taken the best piece for herself!

Such a time as there was! “O shame!” “Shame!” “Shame!” cried Spotty and Tommy and Dinah; and “Shame!” cried Bengal Tiger O’Cellary. And they all hissed and sputtered; and Tabby ran down the garret-stairs with all the others after her, and all the mothers behind. The bad boy was standing in the passage with his new whip; and he snapped it and cracked it till they were frightened out of their wits, and scampered to hide where best they could.

And it was in this way that Mrs. MacGarret’s tea party was broken up.

GETTING UP IN THE WORLD.

“Mother, do butterflies remember when they were worms and caterpillars?” inquired Natty.

“What puzzling questions you children do ask!” said his mother. “The idea never entered my head. You must ask your uncle Joe.”

“Uncle Joe,” asked Natty, again, “do butterflies remember when they were worms and caterpillars?”

“Why, no!” said uncle Joe. “I should say not, if all stories are true.”

“What stories do you mean, uncle Joe?”

“I am thinking now,” said uncle Joe, “of a story I once heard, which perhaps you will like to hear. Yes? Then I will tell it.

“A poor tired worm was one day crawling slowly along the ground, seeking for food; while above her happy insects darted through the air, their bright wings flashing in the sunlight.

“‘Alas!’ sighed the worm, ‘what a toilsome life is ours! We move only by great labor, and, even with that, can never travel far. Kept near the damp ground, liable at any moment to be crushed, toiling up and down rough stalks, eating tough leaves,—for it is only now and then we find a flower,—oh, it is truly a wearisome life!

“‘Yet none seem to pity our sorrows. Those proud insects flitting overhead,—the miller, the butterfly, the dragon-fly, the golden bumble-bee,—they never notice us. Oh, but life goes well with them! Flying is so easy! Wherever they wish to be, they have only to spread their wings, and the summer wind bears them on. Dressed gayly, at home with all the flowers, living on sweets, seeing fine sights, hearing all that is to be heard, what care they for us poor plodders? Selfish creatures, they think only of themselves. Now, for my part, if I had wings, and could move about so easily, I would think sometimes of the poor worms down below who cannot fly. I would bring them now and then a sip of honey, or a taste of something nice from the flower-gardens far away. I would come down and speak a kind word; tell them something good to hear; in short, be friendly. Oh, if one only had wings, how much good one might do! But these selfish creatures never think of that.’

“Not long afterward, this complaining worm was changed into a butterfly. Spreading her light wings, she passed the happy hours in flitting from field to field, rocking in the flower-cups, idling about where the sunshine was brightest, sipping where the honey was sweetest. Oh! a right gay butterfly was she, and no summer day ever seemed too long.

“One morning, while resting upon an opening rosebud, she saw below her a couple of worms, making their slow way over the ground.

“‘Poor creatures!’ she said. ‘Life goes hard with them. Dull things, how little they know! It must be stupid enough down there. No doubt their lives could be brightened if proper means were taken. Some few pleasures or comforts might be given them; and I hope this will be done. If I were not so busy—but really I haven’t a moment to spare. To-day there is a rose-party, and all the butterflies are going there. To-morrow the sweet-pea party comes off, and all the butterflies are going there. Next day the grasshoppers give a grand hop, and at sundown there will be a serenade by the crickets. Every hour is occupied. The bumble-bees and hornets are getting up a concert. Then there is a new flower blossoming in a garden far away, and all are flying to see it. The two rich butterflies—Lady Golden-Spot and Madame Royal-Purple—have arrived in great state, and they will expect great attentions. The bees have had a lucky summer, and, in honor of these new arrivals, have promised to give a grand honey-festival, at which the queen herself will preside. The wasps are on the police; and they will, I trust, keep out the vulgar. The gnats and mosquitoes have formed a military company, called the Flying Militia, which will serve, if needed. It is to be hoped that no low creatures, like the two creeping along below, will intrude themselves. Poor things! If I had the time, I really would try to do something for them; but every sunny day is taken up, and stirring out in the wet is not to be thought of.

“‘Besides, one meets with so much that is not pleasant in mixing with low people. Their homes are not always cleanly: I might soil my wings. And, if once taken notice of, they will always expect to be. Why make them dissatisfied? They are well enough off as they are. Perhaps, after all, it is my duty not to meddle with them: in fact, I have no doubt of it.

“‘Here comes Miss Gossamer. Welcome, Miss Gossamer! All ready for the rose-party? How sweetly you look! Wait one moment till I have washed my face in this dew-drop: the sun has nearly dried it up while I have been pitying those mean worms below there. It is folly, I know, to thus waste the time; but my feelings are so tender! I actually thought of calling! What would Lady Golden-Spot think, or Madame Royal-Purple? Have you seen them pass? They are sure to be there. Do you suppose they will take notice of us? If they don’t, I shall be perfectly wretched. Come, dear Miss Gossamer, one more sip, and then away!’”

THE STORY OF FLORINDA.

A party of small cousins were spending New-Year’s at grandma Bowen’s; and, while waiting for tea, they begged her to tell them the story of Florinda,—some because they had never heard it, others because they had. The old lady was more than willing. “Yes,” said she, “we Bowens ought to keep alive the memory of Florinda, the faithful hired girl; and I will tell you the story just as your grandfather told it to me, and just as his grandfather told it to him, and as _his_ grandfather told it to _him_. Your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather remembered Nathaniel Bowen very well; and _his_ father—Nathaniel Bowen’s father, the first Mr. Bowen of all—came over from England in the bark ‘Jasper’ more than two hundred years ago. He brought his family with him, and they settled in this very place where we live now. The country was covered with woods then. Indians, buffaloes, deer, wolves, and foxes had it pretty much to themselves.

“But, if I am going to tell the story,” continued the old lady, suddenly raising her voice, and sitting straight in her chair, “there is something to be done first, so that we may seem to see just how they lived in those days. For instance, carry out the furniture, and the stove, pictures, carpet (_make believe_, you know); then tear the house down, leaving only this one room, and let this one room pass for that one-roomed hut. But knock away lath and plaster: the walls must be made of logs; the same overhead. Cut square holes for windows, and hang wooden shutters inside (one of the square holes may have four small panes of glass); cover the others with oiled paper (there was no glass made in this country then). Let a stone chimney run up through the logs overhead at one end; and at the other end a ladder, leading to a loft: the fireplace must be very large. And now, to furnish the hut, bring in a bed, a meal-chest, a large, heavy clothes-chest, a spinning-wheel, a bench or two, and a few chairs. Can you _see_ that hut now?”

“And the _stumps_!” cried some of the listeners, who knew the whole story.

“Yes, dears,” said the old lady, looking pleased, “and some stumps of trees, sawed off short, for the children to sit on.

“There was one house beside in the valley, and only one, and that belonged to a man named Moore. It stood nearly an eighth of a mile off in that direction” (pointing). “Four miles off in _that_ direction” (pointing the opposite way), “at the Point, called then Mackerel Point, there were some dozen or twenty houses, a store, and a mill. There was no road between here and the Point: there was only a blind pathway through the woods. Those woods reached hundreds and hundreds of miles.

“When Mr. Bowen had lived in this country a little more than a year, his wife died, leaving three children,—Philip, not quite eleven years old; Nathaniel, six; and Polly, three: and to take care of these children, and to keep his house, he hired a young girl named Florinda LeShore, who came over from England as servant in some family. This Florinda was born in France; but she had spent the greater part of her life in England. She was only fifteen years old,—rather young to take the care of a family. There were so few whites in this country then, however, that Mr. Bowen was glad to get even a girl fifteen years old. I suppose he little thought she would be the means of saving the lives of two of his children.

“Florinda hired out to Mr. Bowen some time in November. On the 29th of December, as Mr. Bowen and Mr. Moore were saddling their horses to go to the store for provisions, word came that they must set out immediately for a place about fifteen miles off, called Dermott’s Crossing, to consult with other settlers as to what should be done to defend themselves against the Indians; for there were reports that in some neighborhoods the Indians were doing mischief.

“So the two men turned their horses’ heads in the direction of Dermott’s Crossing. It was woods most of the way; but they knew the general direction of the bridle-path, and thought they should make good time, and be back by noon of the next day. Florinda baked corn-meal into thin cakes, and put the cakes and some slices of bacon into the saddle-bags along with corn for the horses. The men were to return by way of the store, and bring provisions.

“Two days and two nights passed, and they had neither come, nor sent any message. By that time there was not much left to eat in either house. Florinda and the children slept both nights at Mrs. Moore’s. Mr. Bowen said it would be better for them to sleep there. He did not fear any actual danger (the Indians in this neighborhood had never been troublesome at all): still, in case any thing should happen, Mrs. Moore’s house was much the safer of the two. It was built of heavy timbers; and its doors were oak, studded with spikes. The Indians never attacked a strong house like that, especially if it were guarded by a white man with fire-arms. Mrs. Moore was a feeble woman. She had two little children; and her brother was then living with her,—a young man named David Palmer, at that time confined in doors on account of having frozen his feet badly.

“On the second morning, Philip begged Florinda to let him take his hand-sled and go to the store and get some meal and some bacon for themselves and Mrs. Moore. Florinda felt loath to let him go. It was a long distance: there was snow in the woods, and no track. But Philip said that he wasn’t afraid: the oldest boy ought to take care of the family. And at last Florinda said he might go: indeed, there seemed no other way; for, unless he did, they might all starve, especially if there should come on a heavy snow-storm.

“Philip had a hand-sled made of barrel-staves. He took this hand-sled, and took a shovel to dig his way through the open places where the snow would be drifted. Mrs. Moore had him start from her house, because she wanted to be sure he was well wrapped up. She, as well as Florinda, felt badly about his going. There was danger that he would lose his way; and there were other dangers, which neither of them liked to speak of. He left home in good spirits, about nine o’clock in the morning, on the thirty-first day of December, promising to be back before evening.

“Florinda spent the day in spinning and in other work for the family. As soon as it began to grow dark, Mrs. Moore sent her little boy over to inquire. Florinda sent word back that Philip had not come, but that she expected him every minute, and that she should wait until he did come before going over to Mrs. Moore’s.

“After the boy had gone back, Florinda barred the door, and shut all the window-shutters but one. She left that open, so that Philip might see the firelight shining through. The children began to cry because Philip was out all alone in the dark woods; and Florinda did every thing she could to take up their minds. Nathaniel told afterward of her rolling up the cradle-quilt into a baby for little Polly, and pinning an apron on it; and of her setting him letters to copy on the bellows with chalk. He said she tied a strip of cloth round his head to keep the hair out of his eyes when he bent over to make the letters. He remembered her telling them stories about the people in France, of their out-door dancings and their grape-pickings; and that, to amuse them, she took from her clothes-box a spangled work-bag that was made in France; and then took out a funny high-crowned cap her mother used to wear, and put the cap on her own head to make them laugh; and that, when little Polly wanted a cap too, she twisted up a handkerchief into the shape of a cap for her; and he remembered her stopping her wheel very often to listen for Philip. He always spoke of Florinda, as a sprightly, bright-eyed girl, who was pleasing both in her looks and her manners.

“At last little Polly fell asleep, and was placed on the bed. Nathaniel laid his head on Florinda’s lap, and dropped asleep there, and slept till she got up to put more wood on. It was then nearly twelve o’clock. He woke in a fright, and crying. He had been dreaming about wolves.

“In the midst of his crying there came a tap at the door. Florinda made no answer. Then a voice said, ‘’St, ’st’ Still she made no answer. Then the voice said softly, ’_Florinda!_’ It was the young man David Palmer, Mrs. Moore’s brother. He had crawled all the way from the other house to see if they were safe, and ask if they would not come over. Florinda said no; that it would soon be morning; that she had plenty of work to do, and that she was not afraid: the Indians had always been kind to the family, and the family to them. The young man told her that what had happened in far-off neighborhoods might happen there; that, at any rate, the window-shutter ought to be shut to keep the light from shining out, in case any Indians passed through the woods; and that, when Philip got within half a mile of the house, he could keep his course by the brook. Florinda closed the shutter. He pointed to a knot-hole in the shutter, and she hung a shawl over it. Then he dried his fur mittens a few minutes longer at the blaze, and went back to stay with his sister.

“When the young man had been gone a little while, Nathaniel climbed up and looked through the knot-hole, and told Florinda he saw a fire in the woods. Florinda said she thought not; that maybe it was the moon rising; and kept on with her spinning. By and by he looked again, and said he did see a fire, and some Indians sitting down by it. Florinda left her wheel then, and looked through, and said yes, it was so. She kept watch afterward, and saw them put out the fire, and go away into the woods toward the Point. She told Nathaniel of this, and then held him in her arms and sang songs, low, in a language he could not understand. By this time the night was far spent.

“On the back-side of the hut, near the fireplace, there had been in the summer a hole or tunnel dug through to the outside under the logs. It was begun by a tame rabbit that belonged to Nathaniel. The rabbit burrowed out, and got away. The children at play dug the hole deeper and wider, and it came quite handy in getting in firewood. This passage was about four feet deep. They called it the _back doorway_. When winter came on, it was filled up with sand and moss. Florinda thought it well to be prepared for any thing which might happen; and therefore she spent the latter part of that night in taking the filling from the _back doorway_. The outer part was frozen hard, and had to be thawed with hot water. When this was done, she took the work-bag out of her clothes-box, and put into it Mr. Bowen’s papers and the teaspoons (among the papers were deeds of property in England). Little Polly waked and cried, and both children complained of being hungry. There were a few handfuls of meal left. Florinda baked it into a cake, and divided it between them. She said a great deal to Nathaniel about taking care of little Polly; told him, that, if any bad Indians came to the door, he must catch hold of her hand, and run just as quick as he could, through the _back way_, to Mrs. Moore’s. Her chief care, then and afterward, seemed to be for the children. And, when danger came in earnest, she made no attempt to save herself: her only thought was to save them.

“While she was talking to Nathaniel in the way I have said, they heard a step outside. It was then a little after daybreak. Some one tapped at the door; and a strange voice said, ‘A friend; open _quick_!’ She opened the door, and found a white man standing there. This white man told her that unfriendly Indians were prowling about to rob, to kill, and to burn dwelling-houses, and that several were known to be in that very neighborhood. The man was a messenger sent to warn people. He could not stop a moment. This was on the morning of the 1st of January. As soon as the man had gone, Florinda double-barred the door, raked ashes over the fire, put on her things and the children’s things, and got ready to go with them over to Mrs. Moore’s. She made up several bundles; gave one to each of the children, and took one herself. But, before starting, she opened the shutter a crack, and looked out; and there she saw two Indians coming toward the door. She flung down her bundle; snatched the children’s away from them; hung the work-bag round Nathaniel’s neck, whispering to him, ‘_Run, run! you’ll have time; I’ll keep them out till you get away!_’ all the while pulling at the clothes-chest. He heard the Indians yell, and saw Florinda brace herself against the door, with her feet on the chest. ‘_Run, run!_’ she kept saying. ‘_Take care of little Polly! don’t let go of little Polly!_’

“Nathaniel ran with little Polly; and on the way they met the young man, David Palmer, creeping along with his gun. He had got the news, and had come to tell Florinda to hurry away. Just at that moment he heard the yells of the Indians, and the sound of their clubs beating in the door. David Palmer said afterward, that it seemed to him he never should reach that house: and, when he had almost reached it, his gun failed him; or rather his hands failed to hold it. He started without his mittens; and his fingers were stiff and numb from creeping over the frozen snow.

“He threw the gun down, and went on just as fast as a man could in such a condition, and presently saw two Indians start from the house, and run into the woods, dropping several things on the way,—stolen articles, some of which were afterward found. He listened a moment, and heard dogs barking; then crept round the corner of the house. The door had been cut away. Florinda lay across the chest, dead, as he thought; and indeed she was almost gone. They had beaten her on the head with a hatchet or a club. One blow more, and Florinda would never have breathed again. David Palmer did every thing he could do to make her show some signs of life; and was so intent upon this, that he paid no attention to the barking of the dogs, and did not notice that it was growing louder, and coming nearer every moment. Happening to glance toward the door, he saw a man on horseback, riding very slowly toward the house, leading another horse with his right hand, and with his left drawing something heavy on a sled. The man on horseback was Mr. Moore. He was leading Mr. Bowen’s horse with his right hand, and with the other he was dragging Mr. Bowen on Philip’s hand-sled.”

“_Philip?_” cried two or three. “Did _he_ come?”

“No,—yes; that is, he came at last. He had not come, though, at the time of their finding his sled. Mr. Moore found the sled, or rather Mr. Moore’s dog found it, as they were riding along. Those two men had a good reason for staying away; though such a reason can hardly be called _good_. Coming home from Dermott’s Crossing, Mr. Bowen was taken sick. They knew of a house a mile or two out of the way, and went to it. There was nobody there. The family had left on account of the Indians; but Mr. Moore found some means of getting in.

“Just as soon as Mr. Bowen was able to be bound to his horse, and carried, they set out for home, but had to travel at a very slow pace. When they had almost reached home, Mr. Moore’s dog, in racing through the woods, stopped at a clump of bushes; and there he sniffed and scratched and yelped, and made a great ado. Then Mr. Bowen’s dog did the same. Mr. Moore hitched the horses, and went to see, and found Philip’s sled among the bushes, with a bag of meal on it, and a shoulder of bacon. Mr. Bowen being then weary and faint, and much travel-bruised, Mr. Moore put the bag of meal and the bacon on the horse, then covered the sled with boughs, and laid Mr. Bowen on top of them, and drew him along. It was supposed that the barking of those dogs frightened away the Indians.

“Philip himself left the sled under those bushes. That day he went to the Point, he had to wait for corn to be ground, which made him late in starting for home. He heard a good many reports concerning the Indians, and thought, that, instead of keeping in his own tracks, it would be safer to take a roundabout course back; and, by doing this, he lost his way, and wandered in the woods till almost twelve o’clock at night, when he came out upon a cleared place, where there were several log-huts. The people in one of these let him come in and sleep on the floor, and they gave him a good meal of meat and potatoes. He set out again between four and five in the morning, guided by a row of stars that those people pointed out to him.

“A little after daybreak, being then about a quarter of a mile from home, in a hilly place, he thought he would leave his sled, the load was so hard to draw, and run ahead and tell the folks about the Indians. So he pushed it under some bushes; and then, to mark the spot, he took one of his shoe-strings, and tied one of his mittens high up on the limb of a tree.”

“One of his _leather_ shoe-strings!” cried some of those who knew the whole story.

“Yes, my dears,” said the old lady, looking pleased again, “one of his leather shoe-strings; and then he ran toward home. Just as he came to the brook he heard some strange sounds, and climbed up into a hemlock-tree which overhung the brook, to hide out of sight, and to look about. He lay along a branch listening, and presently saw Nathaniel, with the work-bag around his neck, hurrying toward the brook, leading little Polly, and was just going to call out, when he caught sight of three Indians, standing behind some trees on the other side, watching the two children. Little Polly was afraid to step on the ice. She cried; and at last Nathaniel made her sit down and take hold of a stick, and he pulled her across by it. Philip moved a little to see better, and by doing this lost sight of them a moment; and, when he looked again, they were both gone. He heard a crackling in the bushes, and caught sight of little Polly’s blanket flying through the woods, and knew then that those Indians had carried off Nathaniel and little Polly; and, without stopping to consider, he jumped down and followed on, thinking, as he afterward said, to find out where they went, and tell his father. Philip was a plucky fellow, as you will find presently. His pluck brought him into danger, though; and, if it had not been for an Indian woman of the name of Acushnin, he might have lost his life in a very cruel way. This woman, Acushnin, lived in a white family when a child. She had a son about the age of Philip. It was perhaps on account of both these reasons that she felt inclined to save him. But I must not get so far ahead of my story.

“Philip, by one way or another, kept on the trail of those Indians the whole day. Once it was by finding the stick that little Polly dropped; once it was by seeing a shred of her blanket; another time it was by coming across a butcher-knife the Indians had stolen from some house: and he had wit enough to break a limb or gash a tree now and then, so as to find his way back; also to take the bearings of the hills. When the Indians halted to rest, he had a chance to rest too.

“At last they stopped for the night in a sheltered valley where there were two or three wigwams. He watched them go into one of these, and then he could not think what to do next. The night was setting in bitter cold. The shoe he took the string from had come off in his running; and that foot was nearly frozen, and would have been quite if he had not tied some moss to the bottom of it with his pocket-handkerchief. The hand that had no mitten was frozen. He had eaten nothing but a few boxberry-plums and boxberry-leaves. It was too late to think of finding his way home that night. He lay down on the snow; and, as the Indians lifted the mats to pass in and out, he could see fires burning, and smell meats cooking. Then he began to feel sleepy, and, after that, knew nothing more till he woke inside of a wigwam, and found two Indian women rubbing him with snow. They afterwards gave him plenty to eat. He did not see Nathaniel and little Polly: they were in another wigwam. There were two Indians squatting on the floor, one of them quite old. Pretty soon another came in; and Philip knew he was one of those that carried off the children, because he had Florinda’s work-bag hanging around his neck. He thought, no doubt, from seeing it on Nathaniel’s neck, that there was the place to wear it. Philip suffered dreadful pain in his foot and hand, but shut his mouth tight, for fear he might groan. He said afterward, when questioned about this part of his story, that _he_ was not going to let them hear a white boy groan.

“It was probably from seeing him so courageous that they decided to offer him to their chief’s wife for adoption. It was a custom among them, when a chief’s wife lost a male child by death, to offer her another, usually a captive taken in war, for adoption. If, after seeing the child offered in this way, she refused to adopt him, he was not suffered to live.

“Now, one of those two squaws in the wigwam, the older one, was the _Acushnin_ I spoke of just now; and she felt inclined to save Philip from being carried to Sogonuck, which was where the chief lived: so next morning before light, when the Indians all went off hunting, she sent the other squaw out on some errand, and then told Philip in broken English what was going to be done with him, and that it would be done in two days; and told him in a very earnest manner, partly by signs, that he must run away that very morning. She bound up his foot; she gave him a moccasin to wear on it; she gave him a bag of pounded corn and a few strips of meat. Philip had found out that the Indians supposed him to be a captive escaped from another party; and he thought it would be better not to mention Nathaniel and little Polly, but to get home as quick as he could, and tell people where they were.

“When the young squaw came in, the old one set her at work parching corn, with her back to the door; then made signs to Philip, and he crept out and ran. After running a few rods, he came unexpectedly upon a wigwam: this made his heart beat so that he could hardly breathe. There was a noise of some one pounding corn inside; and, when that stopped, he stopped; and, when that went on, he went on, and so crept by.

“As soon as it began to grow light, he kept along without much trouble, partly by means of the signs on the trees: but as he got farther on, there being fewer of these signs (because they came so swift that part of the way), he took the wrong course,—very luckily, as it proved; for by doing so he fell in with two men on horseback, and one of these carried him home.

“As they came near the house, Philip saw by the chimney smoke that there was some one inside, and began to whistle a certain tune.

“Up to this time, Mr. Bowen had not been able to shed a tear; but, the moment he heard that familiar whistle, he fell down on the floor, and cried like a little child.

“Florinda seemed dull, stupid, indifferent, and scarcely noticed Philip at all. It was found that she had no clear recollection of any thing that took place after Mr. Bowen’s going to meet the council. Indeed, even after she was her own self again, she never could wholly recall the events of those few days; which was, perhaps, quite as well for her.”

“And did those two ever get found?” asked a small listener.

“Yes. Philip described the place; and that very night a party was sent out, which captured the Indians, and brought back Nathaniel and little Polly.”

“And the work-bag, and the papers, and the teaspoons?”

“Yes, all. Florinda had half the teaspoons. She was married, not many years after all this happened, to David Palmer; and Mr. Bowen gave them to her for a wedding-present. Mr. Bowen did a great deal for Florinda, as well he might. One of those spoons has come down in the Palmer family, and is now owned by Mr. Thomas Palmer of Dermotville.

“And here is one of those that Mr. Bowen kept,” continued the old lady, going to a corner cupboard, and holding up a small, thin, slim teaspoon, very oval in the bowl, and very pointed at the handle. “This was given to your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather by Mr. Nathaniel Bowen himself. Nathaniel Bowen was your ancestor. Your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather remembered him very well, as I told you at the beginning. You may be sure that this story is every word true; for the Palmer family have it in writing, copied from the account which David Palmer wrote down at the time it happened.”

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.

Oh! Jack was the fellow who lived long ago, And built him a house, as you very well know, With chimneys so tall, and a cupola too, And windows set thick, where the light could go through. And this is the house that Jack built.

Now, Jack he was so tender-hearted and true, He loved every dear little childling that grew. “The old folk can do very well without me, And I’ll be the friend of the children,” quoth he.

So away in his store-room he stored up a heap Of corn-bags well filled, full seven yards deep; While ranged very near them, in beautiful show, Were a great many corn-poppers, set in a row. And this is the corn that lay in the house that Jack built.

And a blazing red fire was ever kept glowing By a great pair of bellows that ever kept blowing; And there stood the children, the dear little souls! A-shaking their corn-poppers over the coals.

Soon a motherly rat, seeking food for her young, Came prying and peeping the corn-bags among. “I’ll take home a supply,” said this kindest of mothers: “My children like corn quite as well as those others.” And this is the rat, &c.

Run quick, Mother Rat! Oh, if you but knew How slyly old Tabby is watching for you! She’s creeping so softly! pray, pray do not wait! She springs! she has grabbed you!—ah, now ’tis too late! And this is the cat, &c.

Too late! yes, too late! All your struggles are vain: You never will see those dear children again! All sadly they sit in their desolate home, Looking out for the mother that never will come.

When Pussy had finished, she said with a smile, “I think I will walk in the garden a while, And there take a nap in some sunshiny spot.” Bose laughed to himself as he said, “I think not!”

Just as Puss shuts her eyelids, oh! what does she hear? “Bow-wow!” and “Bow-wow!” very close at her ear. Now away up a pole, all trembling, she springs; And there on its top, all trembling, she clings. And this is the dog, &c.

Said Bose to himself, “What a great dog am I! When my voice is heard, who dares to come nigh? Now I’ll worry that cow. Ha, ha, ha! Oh, if she Should run up a pole, how funny ’twould be!”

Poor Bose! You will wish that you’d never been born When you bark at that cow with the crumpled horn. ’Way you go, with a toss, high up in the air! Do you like it, old Bose? Is it pleasant up there? And this is the cow, &c.

Now, when this old Moolly, so famous in story, Left Bose on the ground, all bereft of his glory, She walked to the valley as fast as she could, Where a dear little maid with a milking-pail stood. And this is the maiden, &c.

Alas! a maiden all forlorn was she, Woful and sad, and piteous to see. With weary step she walked, and many a sigh: Her cheek was pale; a tear bedimmed her eye. She sat her down with melancholy air Among the flowers that bloomed so sweetly there, And thus with clasped hands she made her moan:— “Ah me!” she said; “ah me! I’m all alone!

In all the world are none who care for me; In all the world are none I care to see;

No one to me a kindly message brings; Nobody gives me any pretty things; Nobody asks me am I sick or well; Nobody listens when I’ve aught to tell; Kind words of love I’ve never, never known: Ah me!” she said, “’tis sad to be alone!”

Now up jumps the man all tattered and torn, And he says to the maiden, “Don’t sit there forlorn. Behind this wild rose-bush I’ve heard all you said; And _I’ll_ love and protect you, you dear little maid! For oft have I hid there, so bashful and shy, And peeped through the roses to see you go by: I know every look of those features so fair; I know every curl of your bright golden hair. My garments are in bad condition, no doubt; But the love that I give you shall never wear out. Now, I’ll be the husband, if you’ll be the wife; And together we’ll live without trouble or strife.” And this is the man, &c.

Thought the maid to herself, “Oh, what beautiful words! Sweeter than music, or singing of birds. How pleasant ’twill be thus to live all my life With this kind little man, without trouble or strife! If his clothes are all tattered and torn,—why, ’tis plain What he needs is a wife that can mend them again. And he brought them to such sorry plight, it may be, ’Mong the thorns of the roses while watching for me!”

And, when this wise maiden looked up in his face, She saw there a look full of sweetness and grace.

’Twas a truth-telling face. “Yes, I’ll trust you,” said she. “Ah, a kiss I must take, if you trust me!” quoth he; “And, since we’re so happily both of a mind, We’ll set off together the priest for to find.”

Now hand in hand along they pass, Tripping it lightly over the grass, By pleasant ways, through fields of flowers, By shady lanes, through greenwood bowers. The bright little leaves they dance in the breeze, And the birds sing merrily up in the trees. The maiden smiles as they onward go, Forgotten now her longing and woe; And the good little man he does care for her so! He cheers the way with his pleasant talk, Finds the softest paths where her feet may walk, Stays her to rest in the sheltered nook, Guides her carefully over the brook, Lifts her tenderly over the stile, Speaking so cheerily all the while! And plucks the prettiest wild flowers there To deck the curls of her golden hair. Says the joyful maid, “Not a flower that grows Is so fair for me as the sweet _wild rose_!”

Thus journeying on by greenwood and dell, They came at last where the priest did dwell,— A jolly fat priest, as I have heard tell; A jolly fat priest, all shaven and shorn, With a long black cassock so jauntily worn. And this is the priest, &c.

“Good-morrow, Sir Priest! will you marry us two?” “That I will,” said the priest, “if ye’re both lovers true. But when, little man, shall your wedding-day be?” “To-morrow, good priest, if you can agree:

At the sweet hour of sunrise, when the new day Is rosy and fresh in its morning array, When flowers are awaking, and birds full of glee, At the top of the morning, our wedding shall be. And, since friends we have none, for this wedding of ours No guests shall there be, save the birds and the flowers; And we’ll stand out among them, in sight of them all, Where the pink-and-white blooms of the apple-tree fall.”

“Od zooks!” cried the priest, “what a wedding we’ll see To-morrow, at sunrising, under the tree!”

Next morning, while sleeping his sweetest sleep, The priest was aroused from his slumbers deep By the clarion voice of chanticleer, Sudden and shrill, from the apple-tree near. “Wake up, wake up!” it seemed to say; “Wake up, wake up! there’s a wedding to-day!”

And this is the cock that crowed in the morn, That waked the priest all shaven and shorn, That married the man all tattered and torn, That kissed the maiden all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, that worried the cat, that caught the rat that ate the corn that lay in the house that Jack built.

A LITTLE GUESS-STORY.

“O mother, look up!—look up in the sky! away, ’wa—y up there! Oh! isn’t a kite a pretty sight? Now it only looks like a speck of something. I wonder where it comes from.”

“Yes, Nannie, I think it is a pretty sight; and no doubt the owner of it thinks so too. I wish we could see him. Let’s guess about him: what do you say to that? Let’s play we could follow the string down, down, down, away down behind yonder hill, till we come to the boy at the other end.”

“Oh, yes, mother! You guess about him, please.”

“I will try, Nannie. Ah, there he is! I’ve found the little fellow! He lies in the grass, flat on his back, paste on his hands, I think, and on his trousers too. The buttercups are thick about him,—bright yellow buttercups; but the dandelions are turning white.”

“Why do you shut up your eyes, mother?”

“Because I can guess prettier things with my eyes shut. The little boy holds fast to his kite-string. There’s a row of lilac-bushes near, and an apple-tree—a beautiful apple-tree—all in bloom; cherry-trees and pear-trees too, white as snow. I wish we were there, Nannie. A little brook goes dancing by all so gayly! Happy little brook, to be dancing so merrily on among the flowers! and happy little boy, to be lying there listening to its song, and smelling the apple-blossoms, with the south wind blowing over him! The clover-tops and the cool green clover-leaves come close to his cheeks,—his round, rosy cheeks; and there’s a little buttercup right under his chin, seeing for itself whether he loves butter or not.”

“And does he?”

“Yes, he loves butter. And now he has picked a dandelion-ball, and is blowing it to see—hold fast to your string, my boy!—to see if his mother wants him. Three blows.”

“Do they all blow off?”

“No, not all: a few stay on.”

“Then she doesn’t want him.”

“No, his mother doesn’t want him quite yet. He can lie there a little while longer, and watch his kite, and smell the flowers, and hear the birds sing. I wish I were a little boy lying in the grass.”

“How lovely is your little _guess-boy_, mother?”

“Oh! quite lovely, quite lovely. He has brown wavy hair, and bright eyes, and a right pleasant, laughing face. Two cunning pussy-flowers come close down, and tickle his ear.—Be careful, little _guess-boy_! don’t let the string slip. That kite is too good to lose. Great pains you took to make its frame light and smooth and even; worked hard with newspapers and paste; the tail was a trouble; the bobs got tangled: but that’s all over now.”

“What is your little _guess-boy_’s name, mother?”

“His name?—let me think. Ah! his name is Ernest. Now Ernest turns his head; now he smiles; now he whistles.”

“And what is he whistling for?”

“I think, his dog. Yes, yes! there he comes,—a noble shaggy fellow, leaping, frisking, bounding. Ernest calls, ‘Ranger, Ranger, Ranger! here, Ranger!’”

“How noble is Ranger, mother?”

“Very noble. Oh! he’s a splendid fellow!—a knowing, good-natured fellow. Now he comes bounding on. The boy laughs, and lets Ranger lick his face all over.

“‘Now _down_!’ he says,—‘_down_. Ranger, _down_, _down_, sir!’ Good dog: he lies down by Ernest, and winks his eyes, and snaps at the flies and the bumble-bees.”

“O mother! what is your little _guess-boy_ doing to his kite? It snakes; it pitches: oh, it is falling down!—blowing away!”

“My poor little boy! Perhaps a bumble-bee startled him: it flew right in his eye, I’ve no doubt, and made him let go. How he runs! Too late, my boy: your kite is gone, and will never return,—never, never!”

“Where has it gone, mother?”

“Far, far over the woods: now it falls into the river, and the river will float it away to the sea.”

“Can you see it go floating along?”

“Yes: it floats along by green banks where willow-trees are growing.”

“Please don’t open your eyes yet. Can’t you see some little _guess_-children coming to pick it out?”

“Perhaps I can. Now it gets tangled in the roots of a tree; now on it goes again; now it stops behind a rock. Yes, there are some little _guess_-girls, little frolicking _guess_-girls, coming to the bank of the stream.”

“Do they see it?”

“Yes; but they can’t reach. Take care, you little thing with a blue dress ruffled round the bottom! you are bending too far over. Ha, ha, ha!”

“What are you laughing at, mother?”

“Why, there’s a little bareheaded one tugging a long bean-pole. She’ll never do any thing with that. Now they throw stones. One hits; another hits. There goes the kite; and there goes the bean-pole; and there—dear, dear!—no; but she did almost tumble in. On, on floats the kite,—on to the sea.

“There’s a little boat coming, rowed by two children. They steer for that odd thing which floats upon the water. ‘What is it?’ they ask. An oar is reached out, and a kite-frame picked up,—nothing but a frame: the paper is soaked away.”

“And what has become of Ernest, mother? Is he lying down there now, smelling the blossoms, and hearing the brook go?”

“Ah, yes, poor little boy! he has lain down again among the buttercups; but I think he is not listening to the brook, nor smelling the apple-blossoms. I think he is crying. His head is turned away, and his face hidden in the grass.

“Now Ranger comes again, but not, as before, leaping and bounding; not frisking, and wagging his tail. Oh, no! he looks quite solemn this time. Dogs know a great deal. Ranger understands that something bad has happened. He puts his head close down, and tries to lick the boy’s face. Now he gets his nose close up to Ernest’s ear, as if he were whispering something. What is he whispering, I wonder. Poor Ernest! he seems very sad; and no wonder. Any boy would to lose a kite like that.

“But he jumps up; he smiles, and looks almost happy. Something good must have been whispered to him either by Ranger or by his own thoughts.”

“What was it, mother?”

“I think it was, ‘_Don’t cry for lost kites; don’t cry for lost kites! Run home and make another; run home and make another!_’”

“And will he?”

“I think so: I think he will. Yes, there he goes! He runs through the grass, leaps the brook, springs over the fence, whistling to Ranger all the while. Ranger is so glad, he barks and bounds like a crazy dog.

“There’s the house; and there’s his mother, looking out of the window, very glad to see her boy, if some of the dandelion feathers did stay on. I hope she’ll find some more newspapers for him, and let him make more paste on her stove.”

“O mother! please let’s go take a walk and find the little _guess_-boy, and see him make his kite.”

THE LITTLE BEGGAR-GIRL.

One day, when uncle Joe could think of no story to tell, he read to the children one which he had borrowed from a friend, and which was entitled “The Little Beggar-Girl.” The story was as follows:—

There were once two beggar-children, named Paul and Nora. Paul was ugly and cross; but Nora was so sweet-tempered, that nothing could make her speak an unkind word. She had beautiful eyes, and her hair was of a golden brown. These children had no home, and not a single friend in the world. On pleasant nights they slept in a market-cart; but, if it was rainy, they crept underneath. It was their business to wander about the city, begging whatever they could.

One day Paul found an old basket with the handle gone. “Now,” said he, “we will go into the bone business.”

“And then won’t you beat me any more?” said Nora.

“Not if you mind me,” said Paul, “and beg something nice for me every day. What have you got there?”

Nora showed him some bits of bread and dry cake, a chicken-bone, and a bunch of grapes, which an old gentleman had given her because her eyelashes were like those of his dear little grandchild who had died years before.

“Why didn’t you get more grapes?” said Paul. “I could eat twenty times as many. Here, you may have three, and the whole of that chicken-bone.”

Nora threw her arms about his neck, and said, “O Paul, how good it is to have a brother! If I didn’t have you, I shouldn’t have anybody.”

That night they crept under the cart; for it was rainy. But first they covered the ground with some old straw. “How good it is to have a cart over us,” said Nora, “and straw to sleep on!” But Paul bade her stop talking; for he was tired.

After he was asleep, Nora crept out to pay a visit to her window. She called it her window. It was on the back-piazza of a nice house. The curtains hung apart a little, leaving a crack; and every night she paid a visit here to watch the undressing and putting to bed of a little girl.

She could see the laughing face as it peeped through the long, white night-gown, and the rosy toes as they came out of their stockings. She could see the little girl’s arms holding tight around the mother’s neck, and the mother’s arms holding tight her little girl. She could also both see and hear the kisses; and, by putting her ear close to the window, could sometimes catch the very words of the evening hymn. Nothing seemed to her half as beautiful as this; for it was the only singing of that kind she had ever heard.

But on this particular night she dared not stay long at the window; for Paul had said they must start out of the city by daybreak to look for bones, and had bade her go to sleep early. She only waited to see the little girl’s hair brushed, and then to see her spat the water about in the wash-bowl.

After creeping under the cart, where Paul was sleeping, she put out her hands to catch the rain-drops, and washed her face. Molly the rag-picker had given her an old comb she had found in a dirt-barrel, and a faded handkerchief. For these she had given a bit of cake. To be sure, the cake was dry, and required a stone to break it; but it contained two plums; and, when Molly made the trade, she was thinking of her little lame boy at home. And so Nora sat up in the straw, and combed out her pretty hair. It was long (for there was no one to cut it), and of a most lovely color. To tell the truth, there was not a child in all the street whose hair was half as beautiful.

“I cannot be undressed,” she thought, “because I have no night-clothes; and I cannot be kissed or sung to sleep, because I have only Paul. And Paul—he couldn’t; oh, no! Paul doesn’t know the way; but I can do this.”

And, while thinking such thoughts as these, she combed out her long hair just as she had seen the little girl’s mother do; and, by tying the three-cornered handkerchief under her chin, she kept it smooth.

The next morning they set forth at sunrise to search for bones, swinging the basket between them.

“How bright the sun shines!” said Nora: “now our clothes will dry.” And, when they were out of the city, she said, “No matter for shoes now, Paul, the grass is so soft.”

“You are always being pleased about something,” said Paul. “Anybody would think you had every thing you want.”

Nora was still for a moment; and then she said, “Oh, no, Paul! I want one thing a great deal: I think about it every night and every day.”

“What is it?” said Paul. “Can’t you beg for one?”

“No,” said she, “I couldn’t.”

“Why don’t you tell?” said Paul, speaking crossly.

“I don’t like to say it,” said Nora.

“Tell,” said Paul, giving her a push, “or I’ll strike you.”

Nora crept up close to him, and whispered, “I want somebody to call me darling.”

“You’re a ninny,” said Paul: “you don’t know any thing. _I_’ll call you darling. Darling, hold up the basket.”

“But that isn’t real,” said Nora: “you don’t know the right way; and the darling isn’t in your eyes,—not at all. Yesterday I met a little girl,—as little as I. Her shoes were pretty, and a kind lady was walking with her; and, when they came to a crossing, the lady said, ‘Come this way, my darling;’ and it was in her eyes. You couldn’t learn to say it right, Paul; for you are only a brother, and can’t speak so softly. Did we two have a mother ever, Paul?”

“To be sure we did!” said Paul: “she used to rock you in the cradle, and tell me stories. I wasn’t but four then: now I’m eight, and most nine.”

“Was she like Molly?” asked Nora.

“Not a bit! her face was white, and so were her hands,—jolly white. She used to cry, and sew lace.”

“Cry?—a mother cry? What for?”

“Can’t say; hungry, maybe. Sometimes father hit her. But stop talking, can’t you? I want to run down this hill: catch hold.”

As they were walking along the road, at the bottom of the hill, breathing fast from running so hard, they met a wicked-looking man, whose whiskers were black and very heavy. His nose was long, and hooked over at the end. He had a short-waisted coat with a peaked tail. He laughed almost every time he spoke.

When he saw Paul and Nora, he said, “Where are you going, children?—going to take a walk? He, he, he!”

“To pick up bones,” said Paul. “I know a man that buys them.”

“I’ll buy your bones,” said the man, “and give you a good price for them. My shop is in this yellow brick house. Come this evening; come about eight; come to the back-door. Is this your little sister?”

“Yes,” said Paul.

“Well, bring your sister. I like your little sister. He, he, he! Good-morning, and good-luck to you.” Then he patted Nora’s head, and went away, laughing, “He, he, he!”

* * * * *

It was hard work for Nora, walking far out of town, and climbing fences, looking for bones which had been thrown out, or hidden by dogs; and many times they were driven away by cross servants.

“It’s all your fault,” said Paul. “You are always peeping in at windows. If you don’t stop it, I’ll strike you.”

“I only want to see what the little girls do,” said Nora. “They go up the steps, and the door shuts; and then, when I can’t see them any more,—then what do they do, Paul?”

“How should I know?” said Paul. “Can’t you stop talking, and give me something to eat? What have you got?”

Nora showed him all her broken bits, and then untied the corner of her handkerchief. There were a few pennies tied up there, given her by a lady who was pleased with her pleasant face. “What shall we do with these, Paul?” said she.

“Well,” said Paul, “I think—I think I’ll buy a cigar. I never had a cigar.”

“To be sure!” said Nora: “a boy ought to have a cigar.”

And, while Paul smoked his cigar, she sat upon a stone near by, watching the smoke. He leaned back against a tree, puffing away, with his feet crossed high up on a rock. Nora was so pleased!

“How glad I am I’ve got you!” said she. “If I didn’t have you, I shouldn’t have anybody. When I grow up, maybe I’ll be your mother, and give you good things.”

“You’re a little fool!” said Paul. “Stop your talk now, and go look for more bones. There’s no need of both of us sitting idle.”

“Oh, my feet ache so!” said Nora. But she minded Paul, and went searching about till he called her to go back to the city.

The walk back was so tiresome, that Nora almost dropped down from weariness. “O Paul!” said she, “my hands are too little; and they are sore, and my feet are too. I can’t hold on. Oh! it’s going, Paul! it’s going!”

Paul gave her a blow across the shoulders. “There!” said he. “Let that basket go down again, will you? Hurry up! Who wants everybody staring?”

Nora’s bare feet were bleeding, her arms ached, and her shoulders smarted where his hand came down. She was so little!—so very little! Poor thing! she did her best.

* * * * *

Upon reaching the yellow brick house, Paul and Nora walked directly in at the back-door, as they had been told. The wicked-looking man came to meet them, and took them into a room very low in the walls, and hung round with bird-cages. In these cages were canary-birds,—a great many canary-birds; also Java sparrows and mocking-birds. The room smelt strong of soap. In a door leading to the next apartment there were two squares of glass set: through this small window they could see a man’s face, tipped a little backwards, which the hand of another man was covering with soap-foam. By this they knew it must be a barber’s shop.

The wicked-looking man took Nora by the hand, and said, as he placed her in a chair, “All right, my little lady,—he, he, he! All right, my little beauty! I want to cut off your hair.”

“Oh, no! oh, no!” said Nora; and she covered her head with both hands.

“Oh, yes! oh, yes!” said the man. “I won’t charge you any thing,—not a penny: cheap enough,—he, he, he!” The wicked-looking man wanted Nora’s beautiful hair to make up into curls, such as ladies buy. He came close up with his shears.

“Oh, I want it, I want it!” said Nora, beginning to cry.

“Let the man have it, can’t you?” said Paul.

“Oh, I can’t let him! I can’t, I can’t!” said Nora, sobbing.

“Why not? what’s the use of it?” said Paul.

“Oh!” said Nora, “because—because—I like it. And I have no boots, and no night-clothes, and nobody to lead me; and so—and so—I want it.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said the man. “I’ll give you something for it. What do you want most?—he, he, he! Think now. Isn’t there any thing you want most?”

“Yes, sir,” said Nora; for she remembered what she had told Paul in the morning.

“Well,” said the man, “I thought so. What is it? Say.”

“I don’t like to speak it,” said Nora.

“Don’t like to? Why?”

“Because,” said Nora, sobbing, “you haven’t—it seems like—as if you couldn’t.”

Paul burst out laughing. “She wants somebody to call her darling,” said he.

“To call her _what_?”

“To call her darling.” And then he burst out laughing again; and the man raised both hands, and put up his shoulders, and burst out laughing, and they both laughed together.

At last the man took a walk round among his bird-cages, and said, “Come, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll give you a bird. If you’ll give me your hair, I’ll give you a bird.”

“A live one?” asked Nora.

“Yes, a live one. And, besides that, your hair will grow: then you will have both.”

“Will it sing?” asked Nora.

“When he’s old enough,” said the man. “And here’s a little basket to keep him in. It used to be a strawberry-basket. I’ll put some wool in it. It looks like a bird’s nest. I’ll hang it round your neck with this long string. There, how do you like that?—he, he, he!”

He hung it around her neck. The bird looked up into her face with its bright little eyes. Nora put down her lips, and kissed it. Then she looked up at the man, and said faintly, “I will.”

The man caught up his great shears, and in less than five minutes Nora’s hair lay spread out upon the table. She turned away from it, weeping.

But Paul pulled her roughly along; and she soon dried her tears by saying over to herself, “It will grow; it will grow. And I have two now,—the bird and Paul. Before I had but one,—Paul: now two,—Paul and the bird, the bird and Paul,—two.”

For a whole week after this, Nora could think of nothing but her bird. It was lame. The man had cheated her: he had given her a bird that would not sell. But Nora loved it all the better for this. She would sit on the curb-stone, and let it pick crumbs from her mouth. While she was walking about, the bird hung from her neck in its little basket. Nights, she let it sleep in her bosom.

Very often, ladies and gentlemen passing along the street would stop when they saw her feeding her bird. They seemed to think it a very pretty sight. Or if people met her walking, the basket hanging around her neck, with the bird’s head peeping out, they would turn and say, “Now, isn’t that cunning?”

But one day, at the end of the week, Paul came from fighting with some boys: they had beaten him, and this had made him mad and cross. Nora had begged nothing very nice that day. He called her lazy, and came behind, as she was feeding her bird, and knocked it upon the pavement.

“There!” said he: “now you will do something.”

The bird was killed. Nora caught it to her bosom, and sobbed out, “O Paul! my little bird! O Paul!” Then she lay down upon the pavement, and cried aloud. Paul ran off, and presently a policeman came and ordered her up.

Nora had now lost her only comfort: no, not her only comfort; for she could still watch the little girls walking with beautiful ladies; and could still listen, standing upon the back-piazza, to the singing of evening hymns. And one day she discovered something which gave her great joy.

Without knowing that she could, without meaning to try to sing, she herself sang. At first it was only a faint, humming noise: but she started with pleasure; for it was the very tune in which the lady sang hymns to her little girl. She tried again, and louder; then louder still; and at last cried out, “O Paul! it’s just the same! it’s just the same! I didn’t think I could! How could I, Paul?—how did I sing?”

That was a hard summer for Nora. They had to go every day out of town: and wearisome work it was, climbing fences, and walking over the rough ways; and very few pennies did they get.

When winter came, they fared still worse. Nora begged a few clothes for herself and Paul; but all they could get were not enough to prevent them from suffering with cold. On nights when they had not even a penny apiece to pay for a place on the floor in some filthy garret or cellar, they piled up what old straw the cartmen would give them, and crept under that, in the best place they could find.

One very cold evening, when they had no shelter, Paul said, “Now to-night we shall surely freeze to death.”

“Oh, no!” said Nora: “I know where there are such heaps of straw! A man came and emptied a whole bedful on a vacant lot just back of a church.”

And when it grew dark they brought bundles of this straw, and made a bed of it in an archway under the church.

“Now, if we only had something for a blanket!” said Paul: “can’t you beg something for a blanket?”

“Oh, no!” said Nora; “it is so cold! Let me stay here.”

“Go, I tell you,” said Paul.

“Oh! I don’t want to beg in the evening,” said Nora.

“You shall go,” said Paul; and he gave her a push.

Then, as he grew very cross, she said, “I’ll try, Paul,” and ran off in the dark.

It was a bitter cold night: the sharp wind cut through her thin garments like a knife. Men stamped to keep their feet from freezing. Ladies hid their faces behind their furs. Scarcely any one spoke; but all went hurrying on, eager to get out of the cold.

“None of these people have anything to give me for a blanket,” thought little Nora.

She ventured to beg at a few houses: but the servants shut the doors in her face; and she could hear them answer to the people above stairs, “Only a beggar-girl.”

For all it was so cold, Nora could not pass the window of the back-piazza without looking in for a moment. The curtain was partly drawn aside. No one was in the room; but through the door she could see another larger room, brilliantly lighted. There were wax candles burning, and a bright fire was blazing in the fireplace. There were vases of flowers upon the table, and the walls were hung-with large pictures in shining gilt frames. Around the fire many people were seated, and the little girl was there kissing them all good-night. Nora could see them catch her up in their arms. One gave her a ride on his foot, another gave her a toss in the air, and one made believe put her in his pocket; and to every one the little girl gave a kiss on both cheeks.

Then her mother led her into the room where Nora had so many times watched the going to bed; and Nora saw, as she had often seen before, the white shoulders catch kisses when the dress slipped off, then the bright face peep through the night-gown and catch a kiss, and the little rosy feet put up to have their toes counted. Then there were huggings, and showers of kisses; and the little girl was laid in her crib, and blankets tucked close about her.

Next came the evening hymn, which the mother sang, sitting by the crib. Poor little Nora was almost benumbed with cold; but this singing was so sweet, she must stop just a few moments longer. Wrapping her thin shawl tightly about her, she stood bending over, her ear close to the window, that not a note might be lost.

And soon, almost without knowing it, she, too, was singing. But, as Nora had never learned any hymns, she could only sing what was in her mind: “Nora is cold; Nora has no blanket; Nora cannot kiss any mother.”

She sang very softly at first; but her voice would come out. It grew louder every moment; and this so delighted her, that she forgot where she was, forgot the cold, forgot every thing except the joy of the music. And, when the tune ran high, her voice rang out so loud and clear, that a policeman came toward the gate; and then Nora was frightened, and ran away. She ran back to the place where Paul was lying. He was asleep now. She crept in among the straw, and sat there shivering, looking up at the stars. She looked up at the stars: but she was thinking of the good-night kisses in the lighted room around the fireside, and of the little girl lying asleep in her crib, with the loving mother watching near; and the more these pleasant thoughts passed through her mind, the more lonely and sorrowful she felt.

“O Paul!” she whispered, “if I didn’t have you, I shouldn’t have anybody in the world. Good-night, Paul.” She put her arms softly around him, stroked his hair, and then tucked her thin shawl closely about him, just as the lady had tucked the blankets about her little girl, and kissed him. “Good-night, Paul,” she whispered again.

Then she leaned her head upon his shoulder, and began to sing, but very softly, lest some one should hear. She sang of the blazing fire, of the candles burning, of the flowers, of the pictures, of the undressing, of the kisses, of the sleeping child, and then of other little children walking in the streets, led by beautiful ladies.

Then it seemed as if she herself were one of these little girls. In her dream, she, too, was dressed in gay clothes, warmed herself by glowing fires, or was led along sunny streets by a gentle lady: and all the while she seemed to keep on singing; and everybody—the loving mothers and the pretty children—sang with her, until the whole air was filled with music. Her little bird, too, seemed to be there, and was singing with the rest: he came and nestled in her bosom.

Then in this beautiful dream she found herself sitting alone, clothed in white garments, in the midst of a soft, silvery light. A river rolled at her feet, beyond which hung, like a veil, a thin, shining mist. It was from behind this mist that the light was shed about her. Still the music kept on, but far more loud and sweet. It came from beyond the river; and she heard a voice in the air, saying, “Come and sing with the angel-children.”

Then she arose, and stood gazing like a lost child, not knowing how to cross the stream. But instantly a smile spread over her face; for she saw standing near, upon a bridge of flowers, a lady, in whose face were exceeding beauty and sweetness. She stretched forth to Nora her hands, saying in gentlest tones, “Come this way, my darling.” And Nora trembled with joy, and smiled still more brightly; for the countenance of the lady was beaming with love, and the darling was in her eyes as she clasped to her bosom her own dear little child.

* * * * *

At early dawn a policeman found Paul lying in the straw asleep; and leaning upon his shoulder was the face of his little sister, stiff and cold in death. But the smile of joy was still there, and was witnessed by hundreds that day; for a great many people came to see the little frozen beggar-girl who had passed from her life of sorrow with so sweet a smile.

One of these persons, after hearing the policemen, beggar-woman, and others tell what they knew of Nora’s life, took one long look at her face as she lay there like a child smiling in its sleep; then went home and wrote the above story of the Little Beggar-Girl.

WIDE-AWAKE.

Da, da, da! Don’t sing “By-lo” anymore, nor rock harder, nor tuck in the blankets, nor cover my eyes up, nor pat, nor sh— me: it really makes me laugh; for I’m awake,—wide-awake! Shut up peepers? put my little heddy down?—not a bit. Go to s’eepy?—no, I’m going to waky: I am awaky; I see you; I see red curtains, see pictures, see great doggy.

Haven’t had my nap out? When would it be out? I should like to know that; yes, I should like to know when a baby’s nap would be out. Haven’t you swept, and watered your plants, and made the bed, and seen to dinner, and taken out your crimps, and more? Pudding?—yes, now you want to make the pudding, and then the salad, and then the Washington pie, and then run out a minute. I know: don’t tell me. A baby’s nap is never out, never, never, so long as any thing is to be done.

But I am awake, and I’m coming out of this right off. Drink not ready?—why not? I ask why not, when you knew ’twould be called for? But no: that must be left. And when you see my eyes wide open, and me pulling myself up with my two hands,—you not offering to help,—then you call out, “Get baby’s drink ready!” Who knows but the fire is out, or the bottle-stopper lost!

But ’tis plain enough you thought I’d sleep all day. Yes, you’d like that. You wouldn’t? Oh, I know; I know! Don’t you always say, “Too bad baby’s waked up”? Why don’t you get some other kind?—get a rag baby, or gutta-percha, or a wooden one, with its eyes screwed down, or that doesn’t have any! Swap me off; I’m willing; I’d rather than to be in the way: or else I’ll lay my little heddy down and go to s’eepy, and never, never, open eyes again. You’d be sorry?—then why don’t you take me?

There, that’s it,—da, da, da! “Now laugh, look glad!” I like that. Kiss me; hug hard; call me “lovey-dovey;” call me “precious;” call me “honey sweet;” trot me; cuddle me; tell “Little Boy Blue;” sing a pretty song.

Will I walk a little? Oh, yes! and glad to. I’ve crept long enough. Stand me up against the wall: now smooth down the carpet; now take things out of the way; now hold up something pretty, and I’ll walk to it. Your thimble?—no, you’ll cheat: you won’t let me have it. Not the rattle: I’m too big for that, I hope! String of spools?—no, I’ve done with spools. Fruit-knife?—well, yes, I’ll come for the fruit-knife. Now, one, two, three, four steps up to mother. Da, da! kiss, kiss, kiss! sweet as sugary candy!

Now will I sit on the floor and have the pretty things?—Yes: but bring them all,—blocks, soldiers, ninepins, Noah’s ark, Dinah, and Jumping-Jack, and hammer and clothes-brush and pans and porringers,—every thing; I want every thing.

Oh, I’m left alone! Why didn’t she shake a day-day, so I could cry? I don’t want these anymore: I’d rather get up: I’ll creep to something, and get up,—creep, creep, creep. I’ll get up by this. What is this funny thing, so soft and so warm? Now I’ll pull up; now I’m almost up. Oh! it moves; it growls; ’tis slipping out; ’tis going off! down I come again! Oh! wo, wo, wa, wa, wo, wa! Why doesn’t somebody hear me cry?

Away I go—creep, creep, creep—to the rocking-chair. Now pull up by this,—up, up, up; most up; way up,—da, da, da! But it shakes!—oh, oh! down I come again!—oh, wo, wa, wo, wa, wo, wa! Why doesn’t somebody come?

Creep, creep, creep. What is this so tall, and so black, and so shining? Oh! this will do: let me catch hold. Now pull: but it bends; it won’t hold up. Oh! ’tis nothing but a rubber-boot. Away I roll over! Oh! wa, wa, wa, wo, wa! Why doesn’t somebody come? Oh! where have I rolled? where is this? how dark it is! I’ve rolled under the table. Let me get out,—creep, creep, creep. Ha! there’s something!—the table-cloth: I’ll pull up by this.

But I don’t go up. It’s coming down. Oh, my head! What’s dropping down?—-work-basket, dominos, glass tumbler, scissors, pin-cushion, knitting-work, hooks and eyes, buttons. Oh, here’s the fun! Now I’ll get pins; now I’ll pull the needles out; now I’ll put things in my mouth!—da, da, da!

REASONS WHY THE COW TURNED HER HEAD AWAY.

REPORTED BY A BARN-SWALLOW.

“Moolly cow, your barn is warm: the wintry winds cannot reach you, nor frost nor snow. Why are your eyes so sad? Take this wisp of hay. See, I am holding it up! It is very good. Now you turn your head away. Why do you look so sorrowful, Moolly Cow, and turn your head away?”

“Little girl, it makes me sad to think of the time when that dry wisp of hay was living grass; when those brown, withered flowers were blooming clover-tops, buttercups, and daisies, and the bees and butterflies came about them. The air was warm then, and gentle winds blew. Every morning I went forth to spend the day in sunny pastures. I am thinking now of those early summer-mornings,—how the birds sang, and the sun shone, and the grass glittered with dew; and the boy that opened the gates,—how merrily he whistled! I stepped quickly along, sniffing the fresh morning-air, snatching at times a hasty mouthful by the way: it was really very pleasant. And, when the bars fell, how joyfully I leaped over! I knew where the grass grew green and tender, and hastened to eat it while the dew was on.

“As the sun rose higher, I sought the shade; and at noonday I lay under the trees, chewing, chewing, chewing, with half-shut eyes, and the drowsy insects humming around me; or perhaps I would stand motionless upon the river’s bank, where one might catch a breath of air, or wade deep in to cool myself in the stream. And when noontime was passed, and the heat grew less, I went back to the grass and flowers.

“And thus the long summer-day sped on,—sped pleasantly on; for I was never lonely. No lack of company in those sunny pasture-lands! The grasshoppers and crickets made a great stir, bees buzzed, butterflies were coming and going, and birds singing always. I knew where the ground-sparrows built, and all about the little field-mice. They were very friendly to me; for often, while nibbling the grass, I would whisper, ‘Keep dark, little mice! don’t fly, sparrows! boys are coming!’

“No lack of company; oh, no! When that withered hay was living grass, yellow with buttercups, white with daisies, pink with clover, it was the home of myriads of little insects,—very, very little insects. Oh! but they made things lively, crawling, hopping, skipping among the roots, and up and down the stalks, happy, full of life, never still; and now not one left alive. They are gone!—that pleasant summer-time is gone! Oh these long, dismal winter-nights! All day I stand in my lonely stall, listening, not to the song of birds, or hum of bees, or chirp of grasshoppers, or the pleasant rustling of leaves, but often to the noise of howling winds, hail, sleet, and driving snow.

“Little girl, I pray you don’t hold up to me that wisp of hay. In just that same way they held before my eyes one pleasant morning a bunch of sweet-clover, to entice me from my pretty calf.

“Poor thing! She was the only one I had; so gay and sprightly, so playful, so frisky, so happy! It was a joy to see her caper, and toss her heels about, without a thought of care or sorrow: it was good to feel her nestling close at my side; to look into her bright, innocent eyes; to rest my head lovingly upon her neck.

“And already I was looking forward to the time when she would become steady and thoughtful like myself; was counting greatly upon her company of nights in the dark barn, or in roaming the fields through the long summer-days: for the butterflies and bees, and all the bits of insects, though well enough in their way, and most excellent company, were, after all, not akin to me; and there is nothing like living with one’s own blood relations.

“But I lost my pretty little one. That bunch of sweet-clover enticed me away. When I came back, she was gone. I saw through the bars the rope wound about her; I saw the cart; I saw the cruel men lift her in. She made a mournful noise: I cried out, and thrust my head over the rail, calling in language she well understood, ‘Come back!—oh, come back!’

“She looked up with her round, sorrowful eyes, and wished to come; but the rope held her fast. The man cracked his whip; the cart rolled away: I never saw her more.

“No, little girl, I cannot take your wisp of hay: it reminds me of the silliest hour of my life,—of a day when I surely made myself a fool. And on that day, too, I was offered by a little girl a bunch of grass and flowers.

“It was a still summer’s noon. Not a breath of air was stirring. I had waded deep into the stream, which was then calm and smooth. Looking down, I saw my own image in the water; and I perceived that my neck was thick and clumsy; that my hair was brick-color, and my head of an ugly shape, with two horns sticking out much like the prongs of a pitchfork. ‘Truly, Mrs. Cow,’ I said, ‘you are by no means handsome.’

“Just then a horse went trotting along the bank. His hair was glossy black. He had a flowing mane, and a tail which grew thick and long. His proud neck was arched, his head lifted high. He trotted lightly over the ground, bending in his hoofs daintily at every footfall. Said I to myself, ‘Although not well-looking, it is quite possible that I can step beautifully, like the horse: who knows?’ And I resolved to plod on no longer in sober cow-fashion, but to trot off nimbly and briskly and lightly.

“I waded ashore, climbed the bank, held my head high, stretched out my neck, and did my best to trot like the horse, bending in my hoofs as well as was possible at every step, hoping that all would admire me.

“Some children gathering flowers near by burst into shouts of laughter, crying out, ‘Look, look, Mary, Tom! What ails the cow? She acts like a horse. She is putting on airs. Clumsy thing! her tail is like a pump-handle. Oh! I guess she’s a mad cow.’ Then they ran, and I sank down under a tree with tears in my eyes.

“But one little girl staid behind the rest; and, seeing that I was quiet, she came softly up, step by step, holding out a bunch of grass and clover. I kept still as a mouse. She stroked me with her soft hand, and said,—

“‘O good Moolly Cow! I love you dearly; for my mother has told me very nice things about you. You are good-natured, and we all love you. Every day you give us sweet milk, and never keep any for yourself. The boys strike you sometimes, and throw stones, and set the dogs on you; but you give them your milk just the same. And you are never contrary, like the horse; stopping when you ought to go, and going when you ought to stop. Nobody has to whisper in your ears to make you gentle, as they do to horses: you are gentle of your own accord, dear Moolly Cow. If you do walk up to children sometimes, you won’t hook; it’s only playing: and I will stroke you, and love you dearly.’

“Her words gave me great comfort; and may she never lack for milk to crumb her bread in! But, oh! take away your wisp of hay, little girl; for you bring to mind the summer-days which are gone, and my pretty bossy that was stolen away, and also—my own folly.”

TWO LITTLE ROGUES.

Says Sammy to Dick, “Come, hurry; come, quick! And we’ll _do_, and we’ll _do_, and we’ll _do_! Our mammy’s away; She’s gone for to stay: And we’ll make a great hullabaloo! Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo! We’ll make a great hullabaloo!”

Says Dicky to Sam, “All weddy I am To do, and to do, and to do. But how doeth it go? I so ittle to know: Thay, what be a hullabawoo? Ri too, ri loo, woo, woo, woo! Thay, what be a hullabawoo?”

“Oh! slammings and bangings, And whingings and whangings, And very bad mischief we’ll do: We’ll clatter and shout, And pull things about; And that’s what’s a hullabaloo! Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo! And that’s what’s a hullabaloo!

“Slide down the front-stairs, Tip over the chairs, Now into the pantry break through; We’ll take down some tinware, And other things in there: _All aboard_ for a hullabaloo! Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo! _All aboard_ for a hullabaloo!

“Now roll up the table Far up as you’re able, Chairs, sofa, big easy-chair too; Put the poker and vases In funny old places: How’s this for a hullabaloo? Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo! How’s this for a hullabaloo?

“Let the dishes and pans Be the womans and mans: _Everybody keep still in their pew!_ Mammy’s gown I’ll get next, And preach you a text. Dicky, hush with your hullabaloo! Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo! Dicky, hush with your hullabaloo!”

As the preacher in gown Climbed up, and looked down His queer congregation to view, Said Dicky to Sammy, “Oh, _dere_ comes our mammy! Se’ll _thcold_ for dis hullabawoo. Ri too, ri loo, woo, woo, woo! Se’ll _thcold_ for dis hullabawoo!”

“O mammy! O mammy!” Cried Dicky and Sammy, “We’ll never again, certain true.” But with firm step she trod, And looked hard at the rod: Oh, then came a hullabaloo! “Boohoo, boohoo, woo, woo, woo!” Oh, then came a hullabaloo!

THE BELATED BUTTERFLY.

[MORNING.]

Am I awake? am I alive? Then it was true, after all. Aunt Caterpillar told me, that if I would cover myself over, and lie stock-still, and go to sleep, I should wake up a beauty. She said I should no longer creep, but should fly like the birds; and I do. She said I would never need to chew leaves any more, but might feed upon sugar of roses, and sip honey from the flowers. She said I should have beautiful wings of purple and gold. And it is every word true.

Now I’m flying. Oh, glorious! This floating in the air—oh, what a joy it is! Good-by, you little worms! Here I go up, up, up,—a trifle dizzy, that is to be expected at first,—higher, higher. Good-morning, Mr. Bluebird! We have wings, haven’t we? Down,—no, I will not touch the earth: I will rock in this lily, brush the dew from the mignonette, breathe the perfume of the heliotrope, and rest in the heart of this damask-rose.

What sweet rest! How soft these rose-leaves are! Let me nestle close,—close. But I grow faint with the perfume, and must be off,—off to the hills, where sweetbrier and wild roses grow. Cousin Moth says she goes there every day. Oh the joy of flying! Up, down; up, down; up, down; now rest, now float, now sip, now rock, now away, away!

Here are the tall blue meadow-flowers. I’ll stay a while with them. How long it used to take me, with my eighteen legs, to creep thus far! Whom have we here? What mean, dull fly is this? and why should he have wings? What!—keep company with me? You? Impossible! Have you noticed who I am, pray? or are you asleep? Look at _my_ brilliant wings! I am a Butterfly, born in the purple. Of some use?—dear me! of what use could such as you be to such as I? Upon my word, I pity you; but all can’t be Butterflies, or go in company with Butterflies. Please don’t follow, I should feel so mortified! Good-by! Now for a long, long flight over the meadows!

The hills, at last,—the breezy hills! Ah! good bees, have you come too? and you poor little wee grasshoppers! Dear humming-bird, isn’t it jolly? Why don’t you sing? You don’t know how?—what a pity! But you can hum. Oh this charming sweetbrier! and here are wild-roses: now we’ll have a merry time among the wild-roses, and play in the fragrant sweet-fern.

[EVENING.]

Lost, lost, lost! I wandered too far among the hills. Who will show me the way home? My home is in the flower-garden: will no one show me the way? Oh this frightful darkness! Where is the beautiful daylight gone? The evening dews are cold and damp. My wings droop from weariness. The night-winds chill me through. Ugly creatures are abroad, and strange sounds fill the air. I see no flowers; hear no singing of birds, no chirping of insects, no humming of bees. Where are you, little bees?

Oh, this dreary, dreary night! Shivering with cold, I fly hither and thither, but never find my home. I am a poor lost Butterfly. Who will pity a poor lost Butterfly?

What dreadful sounds!—“Juggulp, juggulp, juggulp!” Away, quick! “Juggulp, juggulp.” Oh, dear! oh, dear! Now something just hit me! Again! Some horrid monster!—a bat, perhaps. Cousin Moth said, “Beware of bats; for they will eat you up.” I shall die with fright. I know, I know, I shall die with fright. My wings can scarcely move,—my fine purple wings! Will the dear warm sun never shine again? Cousin Moth told me of so many dangers, and never even mentioned getting lost. Alas! must I die here all alone, breathe my last breath in this terrible place? Better that some boy had caught me in his hat; that I had been choked with a match, stuck on a pin, or put under a glass, than to drop down here in the cold, gasping, quivering, and die all alone.

Who comes? Can I believe my own eyes? Is that a light? Ho! a fly with a lantern! How quick he darts! Stop there, you with a lantern!

It is the very same mean fly I met this morning. Good fly, best creature, charming insect! I pray you light me home. Do you know where the flower-garden is? You do? that is my home. My lodgings are among the damask-rose-leaves. I am a poor belated Butterfly. I lost my way; staid very long with the sweetbrier, and never thought the daylight would go.

You will light me home? That’s a dear fly! Your name is Firefly? What a sweet name! But how fast you go! Please don’t dart so quick, because I cannot follow; for my wings are very, oh! very tired. Slower, slower, that’s a kind firefly! Now we go nicely on.

What will you take for your lamp? Won’t sell? But you will forget, I hope, our morning conversation. Perhaps, though, so little a fly can’t remember so long. You can remember? Then what a kind, forgiving creature you are! I shall certainly speak well of you to my friends. Call on me almost any time,—that is, almost any evening,—and we’ll go out together. We have come a very long way, and should now be near home. Yes, the air is so fragrant here, that I am sure we have nearly reached the flower-garden. I smell the perfume quite plainly. We are passing over mignonette; that is the breath of sweet-pea; now the bed of pinks is beneath us; here must be the honeysuckle-bower; here is balm; here is lavender; and here’s the smell of the damask-rose.

Now thanks and good-by, my friend. I shall need you no longer: the fragrance will guide me to bed. Good-night, little fly!

I do think it is very strange, and say so, now he is out of hearing, that such mean-looking little flies should have lamps to carry, while we Butterflies, who would light up so beautifully, and are so much superior to them, should be obliged to do without.

THE MAPLE-TREE’S CHILDREN.

A maple-tree awoke at spring-time, shivering in the east winds. “O mother Nature!” she said, “I tremble with cold. Behold my limbs ugly and bare! The birds are all coming back from the south, and I would look my best. They will soon be building their nests. Oh, a bird’s nest does make a tree so pleasant! But, alas! they will not come to me, because I have no leaves to hide them.”

And kind mother Nature smiled, and presented her daughter Maple with such multitudes of leaves!—more than you could count. These gave beauty to the tree, besides keeping the rain out of the birds’ nests; for birds had quickly come to build there, and there was reason to expect a lively summer. A right happy Maple-Tree now was she, and well pleased with her pretty green leaves. They were beautiful in the sunlight; and the winds whispered to them things so sweet as to make them dance for joy. A pair of golden-robins had a home there, and thrushes came often. Sunshine and song all day long! Or, if the little leaves became hot and thirsty in the summer’s heat, good mother Nature gave them cooling rain-drops to drink. A happier Maple-Tree could nowhere be found.

“Thanks, thanks, mother Nature,” she said, “for all your care and your loving-kindness to me.”

But, when autumn came with its gloomy skies and its chilling winds, the Maple-Tree grew sad: for she heard her little leaves saying to each other, “We are going to die; we are going to die!”

People living near said, “Hark! Do you hear the wind? It sounds like fall.” Nobody told them it was the leaves all over the forest, moaning to each other, “We are going to die; we are going to die!”

“My dear little leaves!” sighed the Maple-Tree. “Poor things, they must go! Ah, how sad to see them droop and fade away!”

“I will make their death beautiful,” said kind mother Nature; and she changed their color to a scarlet, which glowed in the sunlight like fire.

And everyone said, “How beautiful!” But the poor Maple-Tree sighed, knowing it was the beauty of death.

And one cold October morning she stood with her limbs all bare, looking desolate. The bright leaves lay heaped about her.

“Dear, pretty things,” she said, “how I shall miss them! they were such a comfort! And, how ugly I am! Nobody will enjoy looking at the Maple-Tree now.”

But presently a flock of school-girls came along, chatting away, all so cheerily, of ferns, red berries, and autumn-leaves.

“And I think,” said one, “that there’s a great deal of beauty in a tree without any leaves at all.”

“So do I,” said another. “Just look up through yonder elm! Its branches and boughs and twigs make a lovely picture against the sky.”

“When my uncle came home,” said a third, “he told us that some of the people in the torrid zone perfectly longed to see a forest without leaves.”

And, thus chattering, the lively school-girls passed on.

“Ah!” sighed the Maple-Tree, “this will at least be pleasant to dream about.”

For she already felt her winter’s nap coming on. If she could but have staid awake, and heard what her little leaves said to each other afterwards down there on the ground!

“Dear old tree! She has taken care of us all our lives, and fed us, and held us up to the sun, and been to us a kind mother; and now we will do something for her. We will get under ground, and turn ourselves into food to feed her with; for she’ll be sure to wake up hungry after her long nap.”

Good little things! The rains helped them, and the winds,—in this way: The rains beat them into the ground, and the winds blew sand over them; and there they turned themselves into something very nice for the old Maple-Tree,—something good to take.

THE WHISPERER.

Uncle Joe, being “stumped” by the children to tell a story about a birch-tree, began as follows:—

“There was once a lovely princess who had a fairy for a godmother. This young princess was slender, graceful, and very fair to behold. She usually dressed in green, green being her favorite color.

“This pretty creature would have been a great favorite but for her troublesome habit of whispering. She had always some wonderful news, or seemed to have, which everybody must hear privately: so no wonder that she came to be known, at last, by the name of ‘The Whisperer.’

“Now, this conduct was very displeasing to the old fairy, who, being of a hasty temper, would often become angry, and scold and threaten her; though, when good-natured, she would smile most pleasantly upon her, and drop gold in her path.

“The princess, as may be imagined, liked to see herself well dressed; and every year she saved up the gold which her godmother had dropped, and spun and wove herself a fine golden mantle. The fairy was quite willing to find her in gold to spin; and all would have gone well, only for the habit above mentioned; which habit, I will say in passing, was very strong upon her in breezy weather.

“But one day the old lady, who, as has been remarked, was of rather a hasty turn, became so provoked, that she lost all patience with the whisperer, and, touching her with her wand, changed her, quick as thought, to a slender green tree.

“‘Now stand there and whisper to the winds!’ cried the angry fairy.

“And sure enough she did. The pretty, graceful tree did stand and whisper to the winds ever after, but always saved up sunshine enough through the long summer-days to weave for itself a golden mantle, and, when decked in that, was as pleased as a tree could be to see itself so fine.

“And that’s the way, so I’ve been told,” said uncle Joe, laughing, “that birch-trees began. Go into the woods any time when there’s a light breeze stirring, and you may hear them whispering, whispering, whispering. They never fail, however, to save up sunshine enough through the long summer-days to weave for themselves fine golden mantles. But these fine golden mantles are sure to be spoiled by a rough old king who comes this way every year, storming and raging, and making a great bluster. He gives them white ones instead; but they are not as pretty.

“Say, my little children, do you know who this old king is?”

A STRANGER IN PILGRIM-LAND, AND WHAT HE SAW.

The town of the Pilgrims—how often, in my far-off Western home, have I read its story, and the story of the stout-hearted who sailed across the sea to this very spot, then a wilderness, two hundred and fifty years ago!

And I have come at last to visit the town of my dreams; have actually set my foot upon its “holy ground.” This hill, planted thick with graves, is the ancient “Burial Hill.” Sitting among its mossy headstones, I look far across the bay to the cliffs of Cape Cod, where, before landing here, some of “The Mayflower’s” crew went ashore to get firewood. Just below me lies the town, sloping to the sea. Vessels sail in and out, and little boats skim over the water like white-winged birds. How can they skim so lightly over the hallowed waters of Plymouth Bay! Far less swiftly sped that “first boat,” laden with passengers from “The Mayflower.”

Two hundred and fifty years ago!—let me use for a while, not my real eyes, but my _other pair_, the eyes of my mind, my “dream eyes,” and see, or make believe that I see, this place just as it looked then.

And now I will suppose the town has vanished. No streets, no houses, no sail upon the sea. Stillness reigns over the land and over the dark waters of the bay.

A ship enters the harbor. Why should a ship come sailing to these desolate shores? A hundred and one passengers are on board. They have come three thousand miles, have been tossed upon the ocean one hundred days and nights; and now they find no friends to welcome them. Not a house, nor a single white person, in all this vast wilderness. What will they do—these men, women, and children—in so dreary a place? Can they keep from freezing in this bitter cold?

A boat puts off from the ship. Row, row, row. Nearer and nearer it comes. But how will they land? Will the sailors jump out, and pull her up high and dry? Ah! to be sure, there is a _Rock_, and the only one to be seen along the shore. They steer for that. And now I see Elder Brewster, their first minister, and Gov. Carver, their first governor, and Capt. Miles Standish, their first soldier, and Mary Chilton, the first woman who stepped upon the Rock. Now the boat goes back,—back for another load.

Where can all these people live? Out of doors this wintry weather? Let me see what they will do.

They cut down trees to build houses. First a “common house” is built; then the one hundred and one people are divided into nineteen families, and begin to construct nineteen log-huts, each family working upon its own. These are set in two rows, and are placed near together, on account of the Indians. The two rows form a street, which runs from a cliff by the water’s edge part way up this hill.

Now the goods are being brought ashore,—bales, boxes, farming-tools. And there is a cradle. They will need that to rock little Peregrine White in. A baby has been born on the passage, whom they named “Peregrine,” because he was born during their _peregrinations_, or travels.

More goods are landed, such as beds, bedding, dinner-pots, dishes, pewter platters, spinning-wheels; and the nineteen families go to house-keeping, and _begin New England_.

What will they eat, I wonder. Why, some catch fish; some dig clams; others hunt. There comes a hunting-party, which brings, among other game, an eagle. Will they really eat it?—eat the “American eagle”! Yes, they do, and declare that it tastes “very much like a sheep.” But it was not the “American eagle” then.

Soon to these nineteen families come sickness and death. In December, six people die; in January, eight; in February, seventeen; in March, thirteen. Scarcely half remain. They bury their dead with bitter tears, but raise no stones above them. A crop of corn is sown over the graves, that the Indians may not know how few are left alive.

And, now that spring has come, “The Mayflower” must go back to England. Will none return by this only chance? Is there not even one feeble woman who would rather go home and live an easy life? No. For freedom’s sake they came, and for freedom’s sake they will remain. Not one goes back in “The Mayflower.”

They climb the hill, this very hill, and watch her as she sails away,—this very hill! I see them standing around me; see their pale faces; see eyes, dim with tears, following each turn of the ship. Now she is but a speck: now she is gone, and they are left alone. Behind them stretches the wilderness, away, and away, and away, across the continent; before them, three thousand miles of ocean. Slowly and sadly they descend the hill to that cluster of huts, and the life of toil goes on.

And now I will use my real eyes, and go down to view the town,—a quaint old town, with narrow, crooked streets, yet quite a populous old town, numbering its seven or eight thousand. The Indians used to hold their feasts upon that hill at the right; and clam-shells are still to be found buried in the soil upon its western side. At the foot of this hill runs Town Brook, where Gov. Carver made a treaty with the Indian chief Massasoit. Massasoit came down the hill with a train of sixty Indians, but crossed the brook with only twenty. They were nearly naked, painted, oiled, and adorned with beads, feathers, and fox-tails. Capt. Miles Standish with a few of his men marched them into a hut, where were placed “a green rug, and some cushions which served as thrones.” The governor then marched in to the music of drums and trumpets. He kissed Massasoit, and Massasoit kissed him. The Indians “marvelled much at the trumpet.”

Now I walk down into that street which was first laid out, and divided into lots for the nineteen families. It is a short street, leading to the sea; and on the right, at the lower end, may be seen the site of the first house. On the left is the hill upon which the Pilgrims made that early graveyard, planting it over with corn. It was then a cliff overhanging the sea: now a street runs along at its foot, on the outer side of which are wharves and storehouses. I am glad that these last are by no means in good repair; glad that, standing near the Rock, they have the grace to look old and gray and weather-beaten.

Farther and farther on I go. Soon shall my longing eyes behold that sacred Rock “where first they trod.” Ah, how many times have I fancied myself sitting upon its top, gazing off with my other pair—my dream eyes—at “The Mayflower,” watching the coming of the crowded boat, almost reaching out my hand to the fair Mary Chilton!

But where is it? I must be near the spot; but where is the _Rock_? Here comes a boy. “My young friend, can you show me the way to the Rock?” Boy points to a lofty stone canopy. “Is it possible?” I exclaim: “all that hewn out of Forefathers’ Rock?” Boy smiles, takes me under the canopy, and points to a square hole cut in the platform. “There ’tis: Forefathers’ Rock’s ’most all underground.” I look down at the enclosed rocky surface, less than two feet square; then with a sigh stagger against the nearest granite column. “Sick?” boy asks. “Oh, no! only a fall—down from a _rock_. The one in my mind was so high!”—“’Nother piece of it out at Pilgrim Hall,” boy remarks.

I inquire my way to that Pilgrim Hall. Here it is; and here, right in front, lies the precious fragment, surrounded by an iron fence, and marked in great black letters “1620.”

Now I am going into the hall to see the Pilgrim relics, some of which were brought over in “The Mayflower.”

On the wall of the ante-room hangs Lora Standish’s sampler, wrought in silks of divers colors, bright enough two hundred and fifty years ago, no doubt, though, alas! all faded now. Using again my _dream eyes_, I behold the fair young girl, intent on learning “marking-stitch,” bending over the canvas, counting the threads, winding bright silks; her cheeks as bright as they. Little thinks she how many shall come centuries after to view her work. Underneath the alphabet are stitched these lines, which with my real eyes I read:—

“Lora Standish is my name. Lord, guide my hart, that I may doe thy will; Also fill my hands with such convenient skill As may conduce to virtue void of shame; And I will give the glory to thy name.”

In this same ante-room I find the two famous old arm-chairs that came over in “The Mayflower,” one of which belonged to Elder Brewster, and the other to Gov. Carver.

This ante-room on the right contains an ancient spinning-wheel, also some bones and a kettle dug from an Indian grave. The kettle was found placed over the Indian’s head. Here, too, are many very old books.

Now I enter the large hall, sit for half an hour before an immense painting,—of the Landing,—and am shown two large cases with glass doors. In one of these is a great round-bottomed iron dinner-pot, once belonging to Miles Standish. The handle, which has a hinge in its centre, lies inside. Using my other pair, my dream eyes, I see this big pot hanging over a big blazing fire, pretty Lora tending it; while the gallant captain stands near, polishing his sword. To guess what is cooking in the pot I get this hint from an old ballad of those times:—

“For pottage and puddings and custards and pies Our pumpkins and parsnips are common supplies. We have pumpkin at morning, and pumpkin at noon: If it was not for pumpkin, we should be undoon.”

And as for what they drank with their dinner,—

“If barley be wanting to make into malt, We must be contented, and think it no fault; For we can make liquor to sweeten our lips Of pumpkins and parsnips and walnut-tree chips.”

The captain was polishing his sword, I said; and here it lies inside. Need enough it has of polish now! And here is one of his great pewter plates. Poor Lora Standish, with a pile of those to wash and to wipe and to scour!

Whose spoon? “Elder Brewster’s,” the label says,—a dark iron spoon with a rounded bowl (a bit nipped off the edge) and a short handle. A spoon suggests “chowder;” and no doubt this one often carried that delicious food to the lips of the elder: for what says the ballad?—

“If we’ve a mind for a delicate dish, We go to the clam-bank, and there we catch fish.”

And, speaking of spoons, they used stout forks in those days. Here is one a foot long, with a short handle, and two prongs very wide apart,—certainly not made to eat peas with!

That inlaid cabinet on the upper shelf must have been a pretty thing in its day. It belonged to Peregrine White, and came to him, so the label says, from his mother,—just as likely as not a present to her from Mr. White in their courting-days, and used to keep his love-letters in: who knows? With my _other pair_ I can see the rosy English girl sitting alone by her cabinet. Its little drawers of letters are open, and with a smile and a blush she reads over the old ones while awaiting the new. I wonder if any fortune-teller ever told her that she would sail over the seas to dwell in a wilderness, and that she would be the first New-England mother,—the first bride too; for, after Mr. White’s death, she married Mr. Edward Winslow, the third governor; and their wedding was the first one in the colony. Yonder, among other portraits, hangs that of Mr. Winslow. On the top of this relic-case is a flaxen wig worn by one of the Winslow family, and underneath it is Mr. White’s ivory-headed cane.

What is this sealed up in a bottle? _Apple-preserve_, made from the apples of a tree which Peregrine White planted. Think of _apple-preserve_ keeping so long!

On one of these shelves inside I see dingy old Bibles; also the spectacles with which they were read, looking as if they could almost see without any eyes behind them. There is an ancient Dutch Bible, with brass studs and clasps, and an English one, open at the titlepage, “_Imprinted at London by Robert Barker, printer to the King’s most excellent Majestie._”

And—is it possible? can this really be? yes, there it is in black and white—_John Alden’s Bible_! O John! you young rogue, I’ve read in a poem what _you_ did!—made love to Priscilla Mullins, when Capt. Miles Standish was going to ask her to be his second wife, and sent you to do the errand for him. Naughty, naughty youth! But Priscilla knew pretty well the feelings of your heart, John, and knew very well the feelings of her own, or she would never have dared to ask that question, so famous in story, “_Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?_” Mr. Longfellow has told us all about your wedding; and how, when taking home the bride,

“Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, Brought out his snow-white steer, obeying the hand of his master, Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in his nostrils, Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle. She should not walk, he said, through the dust and the heat of the noonday.”

Little Mehitable Winslow’s shoes may also be seen here,—stiff, clumsy, black, cunning, peaked things they are, with their turned-up toes; likewise old pocket-books, dishes, a spur, a gourd-shell, a lock taken from the house of Miles Standish, and various articles besides.

Cross over now to the other case. What little ship is that on top? Ah! a model of “The Mayflower.” I am glad to see a model of “The Mayflower.” By no means a clipper ship was she.

This case contains mostly Indian relics, such as tomahawks, kettles, mortars, pestles, axes, all made of stone; also a string of “wampum,” or Indian money, which is simply shells, polished and rounded. And here, of all things in the world! is an Indian doll, made of—I don’t know what; perhaps hardened clay. It is a clumsy-looking thing for a toy. I see plenty of Indian arrows, and up there on the highest shelf a sort of helmet labelled _King Philip’s cap_. The genuineness of this relic is doubted. King Philip was a famous Indian warrior, who gave the whites a deal of trouble, until at last Col. Church caught him in a swamp. Col. Church was a mighty man to catch Indians. He used to complain, though, that they sometimes slipped out of his hands, because, on account of their going nearly naked, “_there was nothing to hold on by but their hair_.” King Philip was caught at last, though, by this valiant Col. Church; and, if anybody doesn’t believe it, why here is his own pocket-book, marked “_Col. Benjamin Church_;” and here is the very gun-barrel of his gun.

Now one last look, and then for a walk to find those “sweet springs of water” and “little running brooks” on account of which the Pilgrims settled in this spot. Good-by, precious relics! and good-by, you old arm-chairs wherein sat those men of blessed memory!

“Their greeting very soft, Good-morrow very kind: How sweet it sounded oft, Before we were refined! Humility their care, Their failings very few. My heart, how kind their manners were When this old chair was new!”

DRAMAS AND DIALOGUES.

THE GYPSIES.-A MAY-DAY DRAMA.

CHARACTERS.

LADY CAROLINE. FLORA, _little daughter of_ LADY CAROLINE. MARGERY, _her maid, an elderly person_. ELSIE, _a young girl in attendance upon_ FLORA. TRAMP, _dressed as an old gypsy-man_. TRAMP’S WIFE, _dressed as an old gypsy-woman_. TRAMP’S DAUGHTER PEG, _dressed as a gypsy-girl_. TOMKINS, _a showman_. A BLIND FIDDLER, _old and gray_. GIRLS _and_ BOYS, _who dance the May-dance, and sing May-songs_.