It has been said, you know, that all the millions of pins which are lost every year are picked up by fairies and hammered out on elfin anvils into notes of music. There are some who say that this statement must be received with caution, although they admit that the half and quarter notes do bear a very singular resemblance to pins.
I confess that I shared the doubts of this latter class of persons until a few evenings since; for although I knew well enough that pins were bright and sharp enough in their way, I never had been able to discover one of a musical turn of mind.
But having on a certain evening heard a choir of pins singing "Yankee Doodle" till you would have thought that their heads must ache forever after, I hereby withdraw all my objections, and express my decided opinion that the above-named theory of the future life of pins is fully as accurate as any other with which I am acquainted.
The chorus of pins who were singing "Yankee Doodle" were standing at the time on a piece of pine-board, and were evidently very much stuck up.
One of their number, however, when asked if they were not rather too self-important, bent his head quickly downward, and replied that he couldn't see the point, which was exceedingly brassy for a pin.
They looked for all the world as if they were a line of music which, impatient of being forever kept under key and behind bars, had revolted under the leadership of an intrepid staff-officer, and marched right out of Sister Mary's instruction-book.
Indeed, from a remark which the staff-officer let fall, to the effect that if they did not all see sharp they would soon be flat again, nothing else would be natural than to accept that supposition as the truth.
Pins they were of all papers and polish.
They were not ranged according to height, as good soldiers should be, nor did they all stand erect, but each seemed bent on having his own way.
Their heads varied greatly from an even line, and on the whole they looked far more like the notes of music which they had been, than like the orderly row of singing-pins which they aspired to be. They had a scaly appearance.
My small brother had assumed the management of this curious chorus, and I was much amused at the manner in which he drilled them. For he coolly picked up the splendid staff-officer by his head and poked the first bass with his point, as if to say, "Time—sing!" Whereupon that pin set up a deep, twanging growl, to express his disapprobation of that method of drill.
In like manner did my brother treat each of the pins in succession. Then it appeared that each had a different voice, and was capable of producing but one sound. Moreover, they had been so arranged that, as they uttered each one his peculiar note, the sounds followed each other in such a manner as to produce the lively and patriotic air of "Yankee Doodle." This was very wonderful and pleasing.
"Well, Johnny," said I, as soon as I could stop laughing, "that's pretty good. Where did you pick that up?"
TUNING THE PINS.
"Oh, a feller told me," said he. "'T aint nothing to do. All there is of it is to get a tune in your head, and then drive a pin down in a board, and keep a-driving, and trying it till it sounds like the first note in the tune. Then stick up another for the second note, and so on."
"How can you raise a pin to a higher note?" said I.
"Hammer her down farther," said he.
"And to make a lower note?" I asked.
"Pull her up a little," said he.
"How do you manage the time?"
"Oh, when you want to go slow, you put the pins a good ways apart; and when you want to go fast, you plant 'em thicker."
The next day I found that this ridiculous brother of mine had set up a pin-organ in a circular form. He had made one of those little whirligigs which spin around when they are held over the register or by a stove-pipe, and then had connected it by a string with a wheel. This wheel, as it turned, set an upright shaft in motion, and from this there projected a stick armed at the end with a pin. This was arranged, as is shown in the cut, so that when it revolved, the pin in the stick played upon the pins in the circle, and rattled off the "Mulligan Guards" at a tremendous pace.
THE PIN-ORGAN.
Johnny says that he invented the circular arrangement, and that all the boys he knows are making these pin-organs for themselves, which I am not at all surprised to hear.
The porpoise is a long, sleek fish without scales, black on the back, and white and gray beneath. He is from four to ten feet in length, and his sociability and good-nature are proverbial among seamen of all nations.
A porpoise is rarely seen alone, and if he by chance wanders from his friends, he acts in a very bewildered and foolish manner, and will gladly follow a steamer at full speed rather than be left alone. He is a very inquisitive fish, and is always thrusting his funny-looking snout into every nook that promises diversion or sport.
A SCHOOL OF PORPOISES.
A very familiar spectacle at sea is a school of porpoises—or "porpusses," as the sailors call them. As soon as a school catches sight of a ship, they immediately make a frantic rush for it, as if their life depended upon giving it a speedy welcome. After diving under the vessel a few times to inspect it and try its speed, they take their station under the bows, just ahead, and proceed to cut up every antic that a fish is capable of. They jump, turn over, play "leap-frog" and "tag" in the most approved fashion. Their favorite antic is to dive a few feet and then come to the surface, showing their backs in a half circle, and then, making a sound like a long-drawn sigh, disappear again. Sailors call them "sea-clowns," and never allow them to be harmed.
They are met with in schools of from two or three to thousands. They often get embayed in the inlets and shallow rivers which their curiosity leads them to investigate. A porpoise once came into the Harlem River and wandered up and down for a week seeking a way out. One day he suddenly made his appearance amid some bathers and scattered them by his gambols.
When they change their feeding-places, the sea is covered for acres with a tumultuous multitude of these "sea-clowns," all swimming along in the same direction.
When one of these droves is going against the wind (or to windward), their plungings throw up little jets of water, which, being multiplied by thousands of fish, present a very curious appearance.
It was a spelling bee. The magician had never had one, but he thought it was better late than never, and so he sent word around that he would have his bee just outside of the town, on the green grass. Everybody came, because they had to. When the magician said they must do a thing, there was no help for it. So they all marched in a long procession, the magician at the head with his dictionary open at the "bee" page. Every now and then he turned around and waved his wand, so as to keep the musicians in good time. The cock-of-the-walk led the band and he played on his own bill, which had holes in it, like a flute. The rabbit beat the drum, and the pig blew the horn, while old Mother Clink, who was mustered in to make up the quartette, was obliged to play on the coffee-mill, because she understood no other instrument.
The king came, with his three body-guards marching in front. The first guard was a wild savage with bare legs, and a gnat stung him on the knee, which made the second guard laugh so much that the third one who carried the candles had a chance to eat a penny-dip, without any person seeing him. The king rode in his chariot, drawn by two wasps. He was a very warm gentleman, and not only carried a parasol to keep off the sun, but the head ninny-hammer squirted water on the small of his back to keep him cool.
The court tailor rode on a goat, and he carried his shears and the goose he ironed with. He balanced himself pretty well until a bird sat on his queue, and that bent him over backward so that he nearly fell off.
The queen also came; she was bigger than the king and had to have cats to draw her chariot. The cats fought a good deal, but the driver, who was a mouse, managed to get them along. The footman was also a mouse, and the queen had two pet mice that sat at her feet or played with her scepter. After the queen came the chief jumping jack, who did funny tricks with bottles as he danced along.
Then came the ladies of the court. They sat in nautilus shells, which were each borne by two bearers. The first shell went along nicely, but the men who carried the second were lazy and the lady beat them with a hair-brush. As for the bearers of the last shell, they had a fight and took their poles to beat each other, leaving their shell, with the lady in it, on the ground. She didn't mind, for she thought that if they went off and left her, she wouldn't have to do any spelling. So she stayed in her shell and smiled very contentedly.
The town bell-man walked along in grand state ringing his bell, and the cock-who-could-n't-walk rode on a wheelbarrow and crowed by note. The old ram wheeled the barrow, in which was also a basket containing the hen and chickens. The smallest chicken tried to crow in tune with his father, but nobody could hear whether he crowed right or wrong—and what is more, nobody cared.
The monkey didn't walk, but was carried in a bucket by a mountaineer, and he blew peas through a tube at the palace steward who was having his hair combed by the court barber. It was so late that the barber had to hurry, and so he used a rake instead of a comb. The steward did not like this, but there was so little time that nothing else could be done, for the procession was already moving.
There was a lion who lived at the Town-hall. He was very wise, and his business was to bite criminals. When he heard about the bee he thought he would have to go, but the moment he showed himself in the street all the relatives of the criminals got after him. The wasps stung him, a game-cock pecked at him, a beetle nipped him, a dog barked at him, an old woman ran after him with a broom, a wooden-legged soldier pursued him with a sword, a rat gave chase to him, while a rabbit took down his shot-gun and cried out, fiercely, that he would blow the top of that old lion's head off, if he could only get a fair crack at him.
Two of the liveliest animals in the town were the donkey and the old cow. They went to the bee, but they danced along as if they didn't care at all whether they spelled cat with a c or a k. They each had two partners. The donkey had two regular danseuses, but the cow had to content herself with the court librarian and the apothecary.
Out in the green grass where the company assembled there were a lot of grasshoppers and little gnats. The grasshoppers said to each other, "We can't put letters together to make words, so let us dance for a spell," which they did,—all but one poor young creature who had no partner, and who sat sorrowfully on one side, while the others skipped gayly about.
As soon as the people and the chickens and donkeys and wasps and cows and all the others were seated, side by side, in two long rows, the magician gave out the first word. It was "Roe-dough-mon-taide"—at least that was the way he pronounced it. The king and the queen were at the heads of the two lines, and it was their duty to begin,—first the king, and then the queen, if he missed.
But neither of them had ever heard of the word, and so they didn't try. Then one of the wasps tried, and afterward a ram, a rabbit, and the head ninny-hammer; but they made sad work of it. Then each one of the company made an effort and did his, her or its very best, but it was of no use; they could not spell the word.
Uprose then the little chicken that had stood on his mother's back and tried to crow in tune with his father, and he cried out: "Give it up!"
"Wrong!" said the magician. "That's not it. You are all now under the influence of a powerful spell. Here you will remain until some one can correctly answer my question."
They are all there yet. How long would you, my reader, have to sit on the grass before you could spell that word?
"Papa!"
"Well, dear!"
"Wont to-morrow be Kissmuss?"
"Why, no, darling! We had Christmas-day long ago. Don't you remember?"
"Yes; but you said we'd have another Kissmuss in a year, and then I'd have such a pitty tree. I'm sure it's a year. It is a year, papa; and it takes so awful long to wait for some time—it's jess a noosance. I fink ole Kriss was drefful mean not to let me have a tree only cos we'd got poor. Wasn't we ever poor before, papa? Don't he give trees to any poor little girls? I do want a tree—sech a pitty one, like I used to have!"
It was little Scrubby said all that. She was only four years old, but she could say what she had to say in her own fashion. When she saw her father's sorrowful face, she thought she had said rather too much this time; so she gave him a hug and put up her mouth for a kiss.
"I dess I can wait, papa," she said. "But he will bring me a tree next Kissmuss, wont he? Jess like I used to have? And then wont that be nice! There's my baby waked up. She'll be cryin' in a minute, I s'pose."
Old Lucy, the dearest baby of all in this little girl's large family, was taken up and quieted; and then something happened that was really wonderful. Scrubby, with her poor torn and tangled doll in her arms, sat very still for at least five minutes. The little maid was thinking all that time. She did not think very straight, perhaps, but she thought over a great deal of ground, and settled a good many things in that busy little head of hers; then she sang them all over to good old Lucy.
"Hush, my dear!" she sang. "Don't stay long, for it beats my heart when the winds blow; and come back soon to your own chickabiddy, and then Kissmuss'll be here. S'umber on, baby dear. Kriss is coming with such a booful tree; then wont you be s'prised? She went to the hatter's to get him a coffin, and when she come back he was fixin' my Kissmuss-tree!"
The little singer grew so enthusiastic when she came to the tree that she could not wait to sing any more; so she just danced Lucy up and down and chattered to her as fast as her tongue could go.
"It'll be for me and for you, Lucy, and for all the babies, and then wont you be glad! And for mamma too, and for papa, cos we's all good little chillen, if we is poor. Yes, indeed, Ole Kriss is coming with his reindeer. And he'll bring me a horse with pink shoes on; and you'll have a piano—a really piano, ye know; and mamma, she'll have two little glass s'ippers, and—and—"
"OLE KRISS IS COMING WITH HIS REINDEER."
Little Scrubby stopped chattering just there, and laid her head down on poor old Lucy's kind bosom.
"Oh dear!" she sighed, "I do wish ole Kriss'd come with that pitty tree!"
The kitten curled up on the hearth, and the little broken dog that lay tipped over in the corner, and good old Lucy, and the three dolls tucked up in mamma's basket, all heard the wish of the poor little disappointed child.
Everybody has noticed that the kittens and the dogs take a great many naps in the day-time, and that the dolls and toy-animals let the children do the most of the playing. That is because the pets and the toys are tired out and sleepy after their doings the night before, when the children were asleep and the grown people out of the way. They have rare sprees all by themselves, but just as soon as any person comes about, the fun stops,—the cat and the dog are sound asleep, the dolls drop down anywhere still as a wood-pile, and the rocking-horse don't even switch the ten hairs left in his tail.
As for talking, though, they might chatter all the time and nobody be the wiser. People hear them, but not a soul knows what it is. Mamma sticks paper into the key-hole to keep out the wind that whistles so, papa takes medicine for the cold that makes such a ringing in his head, and Bridget sets a trap to catch the mouse that "squales and scrabbles about so, a body can't slape at all, 'most;" and all the while it is the dolls and pets laughing and talking among themselves.
The bird in the cage and the bird out-of-doors know what it is. Very tame squirrels and rabbits understand it; and the poor little late chicken, which was brought into the kitchen for fear of freezing, soon spoke the language like a native.
Scrubby understood all that any of them said, and they all understood her and liked her immensely. Even the plants in the window would nod and wink and shake out their leaves whenever she came about.
After little Scrubby and everybody else in the house had gone to bed that night, Minx, the kitten, came out from behind the broom, and prancing up to the little pasteboard and wool dog that lay tipped over in the corner, pawed him about until he was as full of fun as herself. Then she jumped upon the table and clawed the three dolls out of mamma's work-basket, sending them all sprawling on the floor.
They were a sad-looking lot of babies, anyway. There was Peg, knit out of blue, red and yellow worsted, and with black beads for eyes. She was a good deal raveled out, but there was plenty of fun in her yet, after all.
Then there was Française. She was a French girl, who had been brought from Paris for Scrubby before that bad time when papa "got poor." She had been very elegant, but now her laces were torn, her hair would never curl again, one arm swung loose, and her head wobbled badly; but, for all that, she was still full of lively French airs. Lyd was the last of the lot. Poor thing! She had been such a lovely wax blonde: but now the wax had all melted off her cheeks, she was as bald as a squash, one eye had been knocked out, and, worst of all, she had not a stitch of clothes on. Scrubby had brought her to this plight; but, for all that, Lyd loved the very ground Scrubby tumbled over; and so did all the rest of them, for that matter, never caring how much she abused them in her happy, loving way.
Very soon high fun was going on in that room, and it is a wonder the neighbors did not come in to see what the uproar meant; but nobody heard it.
Yes, Ned, the bird, heard it, took his head out from under his wing, and laughed at the fun until he almost tumbled out of his cage. The lively dog, Spot, heard it out in his shed, too, and whined at the door until Jumping Jack contrived to undo the latch and let him in. The little late chicken heard it also, hopped out of his snug basket, and was soon enjoying himself as much as if they were all chickens and it was a warm spring day.
Lucy heard it, too; but Scrubby had taken Lucy to bed with her, and had her hugged up so tightly that the kind old baby couldn't get away, and had to lie there and listen and wait.
They were having a good time in that room. The rocking-horse had been hitched to the little wagon, and Jumping Jack was driver; Miss Française had climbed into the wagon, and was sitting there as gracefully as she could, trying to hold her head steady; she had the pasteboard dog for a lap-dog, while Peg and Lyd sprawled on the wagon-bottom, and Minx stood upon the horse's back like a circus-rider.
And so they went tearing around the room in fine style, Spot racing with them and wagging his tail till it looked like a fan. Ned fairly shouted in his cage, and the chicken jumped on a chair and tried his best to crow.
After a while, Spot grabbed up a piece of paper from one corner, and began to worry it. The fine Française saw that and tumbled out of the wagon in a minute, as if she were only a very quick-tempered little girl. She snatched the paper away from Spot and snapped out: "You sha'n't spoil that! It's Scrubby's letter!"
The horse had stopped now, Jumping Jack jerked himself up to the astonished dog, and said, very severely: "Spot, aint you ashamed to worry anything that belongs to our Scrubby? I'll put you out if there's any more of it."
"It's too bad, so it is," said Peg.
Lyd began to cry with her one eye, while Ned stopped laughing and went to scolding; the chicken put his claw before his face, as if ashamed of such a dog, and even the horse shook his head.
Poor Spot was under a cloud.
"I didn't know it was anything Scrubby cared for, and I don't believe it is, either," he snapped.
"I saw Scrubby write it," said Minx, "and she stuck the pencil in my ear when she'd finished."
"She was sitting on us when she wrote it," said Peg and Lyd together.
"Yes, and she held me on her lap and read it to me when it was done," put in Française.
"Of course it's her letter," spoke up the rocking-horse. "Don't you remember, Fran, she hitched it to my bridle and told you to ride right off and give it to old Kriss when he came around?"
"You're a nice crowd!" growled Spot. "Every one of you knew all about this, and left it kicking around on the floor! You are a nice crowd! I'll take charge of it myself now, and see that old Kriss gets it. He can't read it, of course. Nobody could read that; but it shows how much you all think of Scrubby."
Spot had the best of it now; but the French lady spoke up in a way that put the others in good spirits right off, and made honest Spot feel as if he had been sat down upon.
"Perhaps some people can read, if you cant," she said, "I can read that letter for you, and for old Kriss too, if he wants me to."
She could not read a word, but she opened out the scribbled sheet in fine style, and just repeated what she had heard Scrubby say. And this is what Scrubby tried to put in the letter:
OLE KRISS: I want a tree, please, ole Kriss, right away. And lots of pitty things. And glass s'ippers for mamma. And moss under it, and animals, jess like I used to have. And a pink coat for papa, and not wait for some time, cos that's a noosance.
It was very queer how they all acted when they heard the letter. There was not another cross word said—or a word of any kind for that matter. Not one of them even looked at the others, and it was not until poor Spot gave a big snuff that each of them found out that the rest were crying.
"Well, I know what I'm going to do," said Minx, at last. "I'm just going to get that child a tree; that's what I'm going to do."
"And I'm going to help you," Française said, as heartily as if she were not a fine lady at all. "She ruined my dress, and tore my lace, and put my hair in such a state as never was; but I don't care. She wants a tree, and she's going to have it."
"You ought to have heard how she talked to her papa and old Luce to-night," sobbed the one-eyed baby. "It was enough to break a body's heart."
"We did hear her," they all snuffled.
Then they wiped their eyes, and a minute afterward, with much chatter, they began to make preparations for getting the tree.
All but Spot. Scrubby had used him the worst of all, she loved him so. She had pulled every hair on him loose, and had twisted his tail until it hung crooked; and yet Spot could not speak or do anything for crying over little Scrubby's grief.
Pretty soon, Lucy, who had listened to as much of this talk as she could, heard the whole party go out of the back door and start off somewhere. She was in a great state of mind about it. Not for anything in the world would she waken Scrubby; but oh! how she longed to tumble down-stairs and rush off after the rest!
What a party it was that did go out of that back door! And in what style they went! Ned, the canary, was the only one left behind; and those who couldn't walk, rode. For they had hitched the horse to Scrubby's little battered sled, and made a grand sleighing party of it.
Jumping Jack drove, of course. The French lady had the seat of honor on the sled, and much trouble she had to keep it, for there was nothing to hold on by, and her head was so loose that it nearly threw her over.
Lyd had wrapped a dish-towel about her, and felt very comfortable and well-dressed; while Peg had come just as she was, and they both rolled about on the sled in a very dangerous fashion.
The late chicken held on with his claws to the curl of the runner, and flapped his wings and squawked every time the sled plunged a little in the snow. Minx rode horseback as before, while Spot went afoot, jumping and barking, and snapping up a mouthful of snow every few minutes.
But not one of them knew where they were going, or what they were going to do. They meant to get Scrubby a tree somehow, and that was all they knew about it.
At last, Peg said (Peg was a very sensible baby, if she was raveled out):
"What are we going to do, anyhow?"
"Why, we're going to get a tree for Scrubby," they all answered.
"Well, what kind of a tree?—and where?"
That was a poser. None of them had thought so far as that. At last, Minx said:
"Why, any kind—somewhere."
"There are plenty of trees in France," said Française.
"Then that's the place for us to go," said Jumping Jack; and at once they raced off to the end of the garden, on their way to France.
"This aint the way, after all," Minx said, when they got to the fence. "The world comes to an end just over there. I got up on the fence one day, and there was nothing beyond but a great, deep hole."
"There's no use going off this other way," Spot put in, "for there's nothing over there but a big lot of water with a mill standing by it. I was over there one day."
"Then that is our way," said the French lady, decisively. "That is the ocean. I know they brought me across the ocean, and I was awfully sick all the way."
That last rather discouraged them, for nobody wanted to get awfully sick if there was any other way to find Scrubby's tree; so they concluded not to go to France.
"Well, let's go somewhere, for I'm getting cold," peeped the chicken; and then there was a great discussion. At last, Spot said:
"We are a stupid lot! There's that sparrow comes about the door every day—he could tell us all about trees in a minute if we could find him."
Minx knew where the sparrow kept himself, for she always watched him with an eye to business.
"But," she said, "some of the rest of you will have to talk to him, for he'll never let me come near him."
So then the chicken called to the sparrow, and the sparrow answered. The matter was explained to him, and the bird fluttered down among them as much excited as anybody.
"It's for little Scrubby, eh?" he said. "What in the world does she want a tree for? I know. It's because she is half bird herself—bless her heart!—and she likes trees just like any other bird. And don't she come to the door every morning and give me crumbs and talk to me so friendly? Of course, I'll help find a tree for her."
But he had not found one yet, and so the chicken told him.
"I don't know," he said. "Suppose I call Mrs. Squirrel. She can tell." And off he flew, and had the gray squirrel there in a minute, cold as it was.
Then they had to tell the story over again to Mrs. Squirrel and to Mr. Rabbit, who had also hopped along to see what the fuss was all about.
"Scrubby's got to have a tree, and that's all about it," chattered Mrs. Squirrel, as she whisked about in a state of great excitement. "I didn't know old Kriss could be so mean as that. Call him a saint! And all because Scrubby's poor! Humph! Don't seem to me she is so very poor. Didn't I give her those eyes she has? And didn't the robin give her his own throat? And hasn't she a sunbeam inside, that shines all through? And didn't Miss June roll up all the flowers she had, and a dozen birds beside, and wrap the whole bundle up in Scrubby's brown skin? I don't call that being so very poor, do you? Anyhow, she is not so poor but that she could make me feel jolly every time she came out-doors last summer to run after me and chatter to me."
The rabbit had been standing all this time with one cold foot wrapped up in his ear. He unfolded his ear now, and wiped his eyes with it.
"She almost cried," he said. "Just think of one of my little bunnies wanting anything she couldn't get, and crying about it! It just breaks my heart."
"Tree!" chirped the chicken.
"Yes," said Mrs. Squirrel, "why don't you go and get a tree for Scrubby? What do you all stand here for, chattering and doing nothing? I'd give her mine, only that great beech couldn't be got into the house."
"We wanted your advice," the sparrow suggested.
"Advice! You don't need any advice. Why don't you give her your own tree? That little Norway spruce is just the thing. Come along, and don't be so selfish!"
"I'm not selfish; but really Norway is not fit, and, besides, I don't believe he'll go."
"Nonsense! He's a beautiful tree, only there isn't much green on him; and of course he'll go, for we'll make him go," answered the very decided Mrs. Squirrel.
So they all whisked away to the sparrow's roosting-place. Norway was not in good health, that was evident. He was very thin, and his temper was in bad condition too; for when the sparrow asked him if he would please step out and come with them, he answered:
"Not much I wont! It's bad enough standing here in the ground, poorly as I am, without coming out there in the snow; and I'll not do it for anybody."
"Oh dear! Scrubby will be so disappointed! What will she do?" they all cried out at once.
"What's that about Scrubby? What has Scrubby got to do with my catching my death-cold, anyhow?" asked Norway.
And then they told him the whole story. He hardly waited for them to get through before he broke out talking very fast.
"Why didn't you say so? How should I know it was for Scrubby? Of course, I'll go! I'd do anything for her. She did enough for me, I should think,"—and, as quickly as he could, he pulled his one foot out of the ground and hopped into the snow beside the horse. Then he went on talking. "You see if it hadn't been for Scrubby I wouldn't be alive at all. She heard somebody say that I needed to have the dirt loosened about my roots, and to have plenty of water. So she dug around me at a great rate, and watered me until I was almost drowned. She cut off a good many of my roots, and once she threw hot water all down this side of me; but she didn't know. I'm not much of a tree, I confess; but Scrubby did what she could, and if she wants me she shall have me."
"Come on, then," said the chicken, "for I'm so cold my bill chatters." And they went.
It was a very funny procession they made going back to the house,—the horse prancing along with the sled, the three dolls taking a sleigh-ride in their queer way, Spot racing about everywhere with Minx on his back, and the tree hopping along after the sled as fast as his one foot could go. The chicken rode back on one of Norway's branches, and fluttered and squawked more than ever.
When they started, they looked about and called for the sparrow, Mrs. Squirrel, and Mr. Rabbit, but they had all disappeared; so the rest went back without them, shouting, laughing and singing.
It was a brave sight they saw when Jumping Jack opened the door to let the party in.
Luce had got away from her little bedfellow at last without waking her. She knew that the others had gone to get a tree for little Scrub, and she knew that a tree was just no tree at all without plenty of things to hang upon it. So she went to work, and by the time Jack opened the door she had a great deal done. It was astonishing how many things she had found to put on that tree; but then she had been rummaging among Scrubby's old playthings up in the garret.
There were old dolls, little and big; there were old toys of all sorts; there were pretty little pictures, and quantities of flowers made of bright paper. A great many of the things Scrubby had thrown aside so long ago they would be new to her now; and some of them mamma had put away very carefully, so that the little girl should not altogether spoil them.
Lucy had found them all and had brought them down-stairs; and now she had them in a heap on the floor, trying to keep them in order, for they were all very lively at being brought out again.
"Well, Luce, you have done it!" Jack said.
"Of course, I have," answered Lucy. "Do keep that horse away, Jack, and not let him run over these babies."
"Oh dear!" squawked the chicken, and fluttered under the table, for these new-comers were all strangers to him.
Spot tried not to bark his astonishment and delight; Minx began to claw all the old dolls and toys about; the French lady walked away into a corner and waited to be introduced, while Lyd and Peg shook hands with their old cronies until it seemed as though they never would stop.
The tree had hopped into the room and stood there, not knowing what to do with himself. Lucy did not see him at first, being so busy with the rest; but as soon as she did see him, she gave him such a hug as nearly pulled him over.
"Oh, you dear old Norway! Did you come? You're so good, and I'm so glad! Come up to the fire and get warm. Here, Jack, and Lyd, and Française, help me get this big foot-stool into the corner. It's getting awful late."
Lucy flew about in a ragged kind of way until she had all the rest flying about too, doing an amount of work nobody would have believed possible. They were all glad enough to do the work, but they needed just such a driving, thoughtful old body as Lucy to show them what to do and keep them at it.
SCRUBBY'S FRIENDS ARRANGING HER CHRISTMAS-TREE.
The big foot-stool was put where Lucy wanted it, and Norway warmed his foot and hopped upon the stool, pushing himself as far back in the corner as he could get, to make sure that he would not fall.
Then Lucy climbed upon a chair in front of him, ready for business. She took Française up on the chair beside her to help arrange the things, for the French girl had excellent taste, and nobody could deny it. Lyd and Peg, and Minx and Spot, and even the chicken, brought the things to go on the tree, and faster, too, than they could possibly be used, while Ned shouted all manner of directions.
Poor Norway fairly bowed his head under the weight of all the things that were hung upon him. And it was astonishing how pretty those battered old dolls, broken toys, and torn flowers looked when upon the tree. There were so many, and they had been arranged so nicely, that they really did make a splendid show.
"But, oh dear!" Lucy sighed, when it was all done. "It's not your fault I know, Norway, and you are just as good as you can be; but if you only were not quite so thin, and were just a little bit greener! And then we've no moss to put under you. But we haven't any nice little animals to put on the moss, if we had it."
Just then, Jumping Jack heard a queer kind of noise outside, and opened the door to see what it was. In whisked Mrs. Squirrel; the sparrow hopped in close beside her, and Mr. Rabbit jumped along right after them.
"How are you getting on?" asked the gray lady. "I brought this along because I thought it might come handy. We laid in a great deal more than we needed for our nest last fall, and we could just as well spare it as not."
It was a big bundle of beautiful green moss she had brought, enough to spread all around under the tree and make a fine carpet.
"Oh, you dear, good old thing!" said Luce. "That is just exactly what we wanted. Here, Lyd! Peg! Help me spread this down."
"Chick," said the sparrow, "will you please take charge of this?"
And there was a great long vine of shining green ivy which the sparrow had dragged in with him from some place in the woods. Lucy was so delighted that she fairly clapped her brown leather hands.
"Quick, Française!" she cried. "Take this and twist it around the tree. Just the thing to hide poor old Norway's bare places. Oh, it's just lovely!"
All this time Mr. Rabbit had been holding his ears very straight up, and now he shook a couple of button-balls and some acorn-cups out of one, and a lot of mountain-ash berries out of the other.
"Do to hang around on the tree. Look kind of odd and nice," he said.
"Well, I should think so!" Luce answered. "I never did see such good creatures as you are; and we all thought you had gone home to bed."
Speaking of bed made the chicken gape a little, and they all remembered how late it was. They never stopped chattering and laughing for a minute; but they went to work harder than ever, and soon had all the moss spread down, the ivy twined over the tree, and the button-balls, acorn-cups, and berries hung up where they would show best.
Then Mr. Rabbit got up on the stool and nearly covered himself with moss; Mrs. Squirrel got under the tree and stood up on her hind-feet, with an acorn in her paws; Minx curled herself up in the funniest way on the moss; the sparrow flew up into the tree and began pecking at the mountain-ash berries; Française and Lyd and Peg all sat down as well as they could near the squirrel and the rabbit; Jumping Jack mounted the horse and rode around beside the tree, to stand guard; Spot stood up on his hind-legs just in front of the stool, with Scrubby's letter in his mouth, and the chicken hopped up on Spot's head.
Then good old Lucy started to go upstairs after Scrubby, but she got no further than the door. Scrubby had waked up and missed her dear old doll, so she had come down to look for her, and there she stood now, just inside the door, with her bright brown eyes wide open.
A minute before there had been only the scraggy little tree she had taken care of, the battered old toys, the torn dolls and the little pets she had played with and loved so well, the bird and the wild creatures she had fed and chattered to, and a little bit of ivy and green moss. But just as soon as she looked at them all, there was the most beautiful Christmas-tree that ever was seen.
It was very curious; but it was the light that did it—the light of her own happy eyes. It dies out of eyes that are older.
MR. and MRS. BURTON.
TOMMY, aged seven.
MAY, aged five.
LUCY, aged eighteen.
MR. and MRS. REMSEN.
HARRY, } Twins, aged
SADIE, } six.
PATRICK, a hired man.