GRETCHEN TRAILING THE BEAUTIFUL MULL OVERSKIRT ON THE GROUND.
“Oh, dear, if that will please you so much,” said Lucindy, entirely willing to gratify them, “I’ll go and get one of Mrs. Randolph’s prettiest dresses and show you. It wont take me a minute.”
“Oh, do, Lucindy! we’re just crazy to see it! She’ll never know it,” said Carrie, with eagerness.
Lucindy had no scruples whatever in procuring so coveted a pleasure for her dear friends. She ran back to the house and up into Mrs. Randolph’s room. She fumbled over the dresses, and thinking it was as well to take out two or three, that they might feast their eyes upon a variety, she piled two silk dresses and an India mull upon her arm, and hurried out.
They dragged considerably upon the dusty path, but this was not noticed, and the wild delight of the girls, when they really had them in their hands, amply repaid Lucindy for any risk, she thought.
They fingered them over, the bead embroideries and lace trimmings, and examined the fashion of each with untiring interest.
“Let’s put them on!” said Carrie, “and see how we would look in them.”
“We’ll look sweetly stylish,” said Freda.
“Oh, do let us, Lucindy! Mrs. Randolph wont be back until evening. It’ll be such fun!” insisted Carrie.
“All right, let us; I don’t care how much fun we have with them, the more the better,” returned Lucindy. No sooner said than done; over their clothing they stretched the dresses, and jerked and settled them into the proper set. Shouts of laughter greeted every ridiculous pose and awkward stumble, and certainly nothing could be more provocative of merriment than their appearance. They trailed the dresses over the stubble in mock dignity; they improvised a dance, and went through all the grotesque changes they could invent. Their comments and jokes were most spicy and personal, and in all Lucindy led.
After a good time enjoyed in this way, the fun lost its point and novelty, and they threw the dresses in a heap on the grass, and sat and chatted over the gossip connected with the school at the cross roads. The afternoon was wearing on, and Lucindy thought it time to produce her good things, and taking up the dresses, ran along to the house.
In getting through the bars she dropped the mull overskirt and did not perceive her loss. Gretchen saw it, and running after, brought it back. Lucindy hung the dresses up in their places, certainly not improved by the airing they had had; but chancing to look out of an upper window, she was horrified to see down the road the identical team that Mrs. Randolph had hired, and as true as the world, they were coming home!
She rushed down, and abandoning the lunch, ran as fast as she could to the field, and as she approached, this was the sight that met her gaze:
Gretchen was strutting about with a dock leaf held over her head for a parasol, and trailing the beautiful mull overskirt on the ground, endeavoring to realize the feelings of a fine lady in a trailed dress.
“Gretchen! Gretchen!” screamed Lucindy, as loudly as she dared. “Hide it! hide it! Mrs. Randolph has come home!”
Carrie jumped, and lifting Gretchen from it, secured the skirt, and Lucindy grasped it and rolled it in a small ball and hid it in the hazel bushes. Then they held a hurried consultation, and decided it was best for Lucindy to go back immediately; but, as it was now impossible to restore the skirt to its place in the wardrobe, they urged her to put it in some unfrequented spot, until a favorable opportunity came to get it back. Lucindy now feared her aunt would arrive without warning, and, although loth to part without the long anticipated treat, they walked quickly down the path by the fence toward the road.
“What on the face of the earth will I ever do with this thing?” whispered Lucindy, for the first time betraying fear. “I can’t get it back to-night, that’s as plain as the nose on your face. Oh, grief! she may inquire after it as soon as I go in! It’ll be just like my luck for her to want to wear it to-night. Maybe she expects some one to spend the evening with them, and that’s what brought them back so early. Let me see—Auntie will find it if I put it anywhere about the house or barn; I must not be found out in this, because if I am, Auntie wont give me the present she promised. I’ll tell you, Carrie, you take it and put it down the hole in the tree, under the tin box. No one has ever found out that place; it will be safe there until I go for it to-morrow.”
This was immediately decided upon, and the girls went sulkily home. The skirt was forced down into the tree, and the tin box placed on top, and they trudged slowly homeward.
As Lucindy approached the house, she began to see more and more the serious dilemma in which she was placed, and her face hardened visibly as she thought.
“I’ll deny the whole thing if I’m cornered; perhaps Mrs. Randolph will live through the disappointment of not wearing her dress for once. I have to live all the time without such dresses.”
Just then she heard her aunt calling her, and she knew that some unlooked-for occasion had brought them home before evening.
“Lucindy, we must hurry up the tea; the folks are going to spend the evening at Judge Brander’s. The team is waiting to take them there. Mrs. Randolph saw me in the village, and told me.”
Lucindy did not answer, but went in and about her duties as usual. Presently Mrs. Randolph called for Mrs. Gimson to come up stairs, as she wished to speak to her. Lucindy felt that now the discovery had been made, and strengthening her purpose, to deny all, worked on, quietly waiting for developments.
In a few moments, her aunt came down in great excitement, and told her that someone had been in the house, while they were away, and had stolen Mrs. Randolph’s elegant India mull overskirt, and had almost ruined her other dresses, as the trimmings were broken and destroyed, and some of them were gone entirely.
“It must have been when I went for water; I noticed that there were two tramps going down the road, a man and woman.”
“Oh, Lucindy, you should have locked the door!”
“Why, aunt, I never lock the doors when I go after water. I suppose you’ll put the blame of it on me!” Here Lucindy began to cry. “I think you are a very strange woman to leave no one but a girl alone in a house, with such valuable things; it’s a wonder the robbers didn’t kill me; my coming in frightened them away. I’ve no doubt they thought it was the hired man,” Lucindy continued to cry.
Mrs. Gimson never suspected her niece of such systematic deception. The well was a short distance from the house, and that accounted for the fact that nothing else was missing, as they had not had time, and also that the other dresses had been rudely dragged to get them down.
She believed Lucindy’s story. Mrs. Randolph could not account for the plight in which she found her clothing, and bewailed her loss, as being particularly annoying at this juncture.
Nothing more was said, and, after taking tea, they started for the Judge’s, leaving Mrs. Gimson in a greatly perturbed state of mind. She knew that this unfortunate thing would get abroad and discourage patrons. Desirable boarders would avoid her house in future.
Lucindy, never uttering a comforting word to her aunt, went up to her room with an air of injured innocence that hurt her aunt quite as much as any thing she had undergone. During the early part of the evening a violent thunder storm came up, and Mrs. Randolph did not return. The next morning it still rained, and there was no excuse for Lucindy’s going out, and the dress could not be secured. Mrs. Randolph returned at noon, and informed Mrs. Gimson that she had been invited to visit, for the rest of the summer, at Judge Brander’s, and would leave Mrs. Gimson’s the next day.
Just as soon as Lucindy could be spared, she ran down to the tree post-office, put a note into the tin box, and returned. This, Carrie Hess got as soon as recess came, and the scheme worked out successfully, as the event proved.
Barry, Hattie’s brother, was standing by the shrubbery gate, when a little barefoot boy sidled up, and attracted his attention by his curious behavior—he finally spoke:
“I say, them Hitalyans stuffed yer mother’s clothes inter a tree down here; I found it this mornin’.”
“What do you mean?” asked Barry, not fully understanding the boy.
“That ere tree, don’t yer see?” and the boy pointed to the girls’ post-office, that stood out dimly down the road.
“Is it there now?” asked Barry.
“I do’no, I seed it there this mornin’.”
A LITTLE BAREFOOT BOY SIDLED UP AND ATTRACTED HIS ATTENTION.
“Wait till I go and tell my mother,” said Barry, and he ran into the house.
In a moment Mrs. Randolph and Mrs. Gimson were at the gate, but the boy had disappeared. “Go down, Barry, and see if what he says is true,” said his mother. He ran off, and returning after a little time, brought the overskirt, rolled up in a soiled bundle, as the rain had soaked it and the decayed wood had stained it.
“Yes, I think it must have been those tramps,” said Mrs. Randolph. “They hid it there, expecting to come for the rest of it the next day. They’ll be disappointed. I’ll be gone.”
The boy was Carrie Hess’s brother, and the ruse had worked; entirely turning off all suspicion from Lucindy.
Mrs. Gimson lost her summer boarders and Lucindy returned to school. This unprincipled girl, however, learned the hard lesson, in her after life, that ingratitude to benefactors, and unfaithfulness to trust, meet a sure retribution, even if they appear to succeed.
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
Josephine Pollard.
Nellie M. Garabrant.
Yesterday, Alice met the stuffed Jumbo, her former mate. She walked slowly up to him, and then stood for a few moments, evidently surveying him with wonder. Then she swung her trunk so as to reach Jumbo’s mouth. She also touched his trunk in a cautious manner, and then turning her back upon him, gave vent to a groan that made the roof of the garden tremble. William Newman, the elephant trainer, Frank Hyatt, the superintendent, and “Toddy” Hamilton, talked to her in their usual winning way, and she again faced Jumbo. She fondled his trunk, looked straight into his eyes, and again she groaned, and then walked away as though disgusted with the old partner of her joys and sorrows. She went back to her quarters and continued to mourn. Her keeper, Scott, was appealed to by the spectators. He was asked whether he believed that she recognized Jumbo, and he replied in all seriousness, “Of course she did. She told me so.” At another time he said, “I can understand elephant talk, and Alice told me she recognized Jumbo.” Scott seemed very much affected by the meeting. He was Jumbo’s old keeper.—Humane Journal.
JUMBO MAKING HIMSELF USEFUL.
SCENE AT AN ELEPHANT MARKET.
Rev. Edward A. Rand.
LINCOLN’S EARLY HOME.
Did you ever think of how lowly was the start in life of many of our great men? Read the pages of history and you will find that fully seven out of ten of the great men were really poor. Bonaparte used to be a book agent, Gould was a surveyor, Franklin was a printer, Garfield worked on the tow path, Lincoln was a rail splitter, Grant was a tanner, Poe was always in financial distress; Crome, the great artist, used to pull hair from his cat’s tail to make his brushes; Astor came to New York with nothing as the foundation of his fortunes. The list is almost endless.
To us, there is much encouragement in these facts. By looking into the lives of such men we find the secret of success. Lincoln was a poor Illinois farmer, with no visionary dreams of his great future. He was poor and unlearned. Of the poverty he was not ashamed; of his lack of learning he was by no means satisfied. He resolved to gain knowledge. He studied, studied hard, and at a time in his life when other men felt they had passed the age of schooling. Of his work, we find he always tried to give an honest day’s labor; his motto was to do well everything he put his hands to. It was this trait of character that attracted the attention of his neighbors, and this it was that first started him on the road to great success.
GRANT’S HOUSE, NEAR ST. LOUIS.
Look at the early days of Grant. There was no indication of unusual brightness in him. At West Point, where he was sent to military school, he did not stand at the head of his classes. He only seemed an earnest worker, with plenty of determination. Later, when he lived on his little Illinois farm, there was nothing about him that pointed him out as the future great general. It was only when the great civil war broke out that he had an opportunity to show the kind of a man he was. His only thought was to accomplish the task assigned him, be it ever so difficult. This naturally found him in the line of promotion, and step by step he climbed higher, earning by hard work every step he gained, until he reached the highest office in the land.
Take Edison, the inventor. He was only a tramp telegrapher, but he was not satisfied with being anything but the best, and many are the stories of speed he attained in sending or receiving messages. He was inquisitive—wanted to know more of the mysteries of the electricity that carried his messages. He began experimenting, and by close application to his studies, has astonished the world with his telephone, phonograph and other inventions.
Now, these great men are not merely the products of chance. Not at all. Study each of them and you will find they were workers, gaining by just such struggles as you and I can make. We may not reach such distinction as these have reached, but rest assured there is just as great a demand now as ever for good, earnest men, and earnest, successful men grow from painstaking boys. The boy who, as clerk in the counting-house, watches after the interests of his employers, will be the coming merchant; the young man on the farm who slights not the work assigned him, will own a farm of his own.
Let this lesson make an impression. The road to success may be rugged, but it is not so steep but that enough steps, if in the right direction, be they ever so short, will in time carry you a long way toward the top.
This, one of the grandest of American natural sceneries, is located along the Colorado River. The river, in its years and years of flowing, has washed out the soil, and owing to the peculiar composition of the ground has washed it away unevenly, and these standing peaks are so numerous and so fantastic in form, that this location has been called the Garden of the Gods. It is most impressive and inspiring grandeur. A trip will well repay a journey from the most remote parts of our country to see this view, only a little of which is in the engraving.
A STRANGE STUDIO.
Albert, the blacksmith’s son, will be an artist some day. While other boys are playing ball or skating, or other amusements, Albert is using his time making pictures. He seems to delight in it, and even when quite a small boy, many were the scoldings he received from his parents for a too free use of his chalk and pencil, leaving his rude drawings on wall and fences; and in school his troubles were only increased, for his books always contained pictures, sometimes of horses, or dogs, or of his friends. This habit did not correspond with his teachers’ ideas of tidiness, and punishment followed punishment. It did not help matters, though, and his drawing continued. In time he became quite apt and could make pictures that very closely resembled the objects he drew. His companions called him the “artist,” and they would have him make pictures of them. Some of his methods were odd enough. To make an outline of a boy’s face he would tack a piece of paper on the side of a door in his father’s shop, and by placing the boy between the paper and a lighted lamp, would trace with pencil the outline of the shadow as it fell on the paper. Soon he tried painting with paint and brush. At first his efforts were crude, and to anyone less determined and enthusiastic, discouraging. Not so to Albert. He worked along day after day, and in time could paint well enough to attract some notice in his little village.
About this time a great artist from the city, spending the summer in this part of the country, heard of Albert, and by accident met him. Quick to perceive the natural talent of the boy, and being generously inclined, he offered to take him to his city home and give him training in his studio. The parents, though loth to be separated from their son, saw here an opportunity to educate him in his favorite study, and so accepted the offer.
You can well imagine Albert’s surprise and delight when he first entered the studio and saw the work of the master. How the great paintings filled him with wonder. He proved an apt student, a true artist, and year after year worked with patience and determination, and became a noted painter.
He often thinks of his early days—of the pictures he made in the old blacksmith shop. He thinks, too, of the years spent since then in attaining prominence in his calling, but no regrets come to him.
The true story of how one boy succeeded can be of use to others. It only takes this same perseverance and pluck to succeed in any other calling. Had he complained because he could not paint like the master, and not been contented to study on during these years, he could not now lay claim to his present success and eminence as an artist. Let others, in reading this, see in it an object, and may it bring to them new resolve to succeed in the life work they have started on.
Life is what we make it, and not a matter of chance. By marking out a future success we expect to accomplish,—by sticking closely to this one idea, and bending every energy to attain it, we can come approximately near accomplishing our undertaking.
Ralph and Lily had one game of which they never tired, and that was “horses.” It was really a convenient game, for it could be played on wet or fine days, in the nursery or on the road. Perhaps it was best fun on the road, “like real horses;” but I am not sure, for it was very delightful to sit on the nursery table, with the box of bricks for a coachman’s seat, and from that elevated position to drive the spirited four horses represented by the four chairs, to which the reins would be fastened.
One day—a fine day—the two children were playing at their usual game on the turnpike road, and waiting for nurse, who had gone into a cottage near by to speak to the washerwoman. Nurse was a long time, and Ralph, who was horse, was quite out of breath with his long trot on the hard road. Lily touched him up with the whip, but all to no avail—he could run no more.
“I’ve no breath left,” said the poor horse, sinking down exhausted on a heap of stones.
Lily put down the whip and patted his head to encourage him. “Soh! soh!” she said, in as good an imitation as she could manage of the way the groom spoke to their father’s horse; “you are quite done, I see. You must rest, and have a handful of oats,” and she dived into her pocket and produced a bit of biscuit, which the horse ate with great satisfaction, and soon professed himself ready to go on again. “Ah!” said Lily, sagely, “I knew you’d be all right soon; there’s nothing like food and kindness for horses when they’re tired.”
A tinker, with a cart and a poor, ill-fed beast harnessed to it, happened to be passing, and heard the little girl’s words. He stared after her, for she seemed very small to speak so wisely, and the tinker did not, of course, know that she was only repeating what she had heard her father say.
“Well, I’m dazed!” exclaimed the tinker, looking after the children; “wherever did little Missy learn that?”
He said no more then; but Lily’s words stuck to him, and his poor horse had reason to bless Lily for them, for from that day forward he got, not only more food, but more kindness and fewer blows and so he became a better horse, and the tinker the better man in consequence.
|
OLIVE A. WADSWORTH.
Joey was a country boy,
Father’s help and mother’s joy; In the morning he rose early,— That’s what made his hair so curly; Early went to bed at night,— That’s what made his eyes so bright; Ruddy as a red-cheeked apple; Playful as his pony, Dapple; Even the nature of the rose Wasn’t quite as sweet as Joe’s.
Charley was a city boy,
Father’s pet and mother’s joy; Always lay in bed till late; That’s what made his hair so straight, Late he sat up every night,— That’s what made his cheeks so white; Always had whate’er he wanted, He but asked, and mother granted; Cakes and comfits made him snarly, Sweets but soured this poor Charley.
Charley, dressed quite like a beau,
Went, one day, to visit Joe. “Come,” said Joey, “let’s go walking; As we wander, we’ll be talking; And, besides, there’s something growing In the garden, worth your knowing.” “Ha!” said Charley, “I’m your guest; Therefore I must have the best. All the inner part I choose, And the outer you can use.” |
Woodcroft to be sold!—like a knell of doom the words fell on our ears—it could not be! Our dear old home, the only one we children had ever known, to be taken from us. We sat in the bright little sitting-room, blankly looking at one another, in dumb astonishment. Louise, who was always the thoughtful one, soon roused herself from the stupor which seemed to have come upon us all, and going over to the lounge, began comforting—as best she could, poor child—our gentle little mother, upon whom this blow had fallen most heavily. Presently she sat up, and in trembling tones told us, as we clustered at her knee, the particulars of our misfortune.
There were three of us—Louise, Cal and I, who rejoiced in the quaint cognomen of Pen, named for a rich, eccentric, old aunt, who had never left me any money because she never died.
“Now, Marmo, out with all the trouble and let us share it,” said matter-of-fact Cal. And then she told how, after papa’s sudden death a year before, she had discovered a mortgage to be on the place, small, but now due and no money to meet it; the creditor was pressing, and the home to be sold. We felt sad, but cheered her up, and talked over ways and means as never before.
“Even though he consents to renew it, where would the yearly interest money come from,” she wailed.
We urged her to lie down and rest, and, following Cal’s beckoning finger, tip-toed out of the room.
“Now, girls,” said she, “something’s got to be done, and we’ve got to do it.”
“A TRIBUTE TO YOUR GENIUS, LOU,” SAID I. “LIKE THE FAMOUS ARTIST
OF OLD, WHO PAINTED CHERRIES SO NATURALLY, THE BIRDS
FLEW DOWN AND PECKED AT THE CANVAS.”
One thing after another was proposed and rejected; we knew, if the home were sold, after the demands were met, there would be but a mere pittance left for four females to live on. Finally I broke in:
“Girls, my brain is not usually fertile, but a thought has been growing—we are all well educated, but teaching is out of the question, the supply is greater than the demand, but Lou, here, is skilled with pencil and brush, and Cal has a genius for contrivance; now why could you not paint and decorate some of the dainty trifles you often make as gifts, and sell them. I always did have a notion for cookery, which I shall proceed to put in practice, dismissing the servants.” Having delivered this little speech, I paused, breathless.
Cal clapped her hands, and Lou’s brown eyes glowed. “Pen, you little duck,” and Cal pounced on me in an excess of joy.
“But,” faltered Lou, “the mortgage.”
“I thought of that too—our lady-like Louise shall go to that crusty old creditor, and beg him to renew it, and with what you girls earn and what we save from the rent of the farm land (for we must live economically) we will pay him the interest promptly.” I will add, that she did that very thing, and completely won over the hard-hearted fellow with her sweet, earnest manner.
So to work we went, and the sitting-room was converted into a studio, littered with papers, books, gay ribbons and glue-pots. But some exquisite creations came out of that chaos. I had visited the aforesaid Aunt Pen the previous winter, in New York city, and at the American Specialty House had been enchanted with the many novel and beautiful pieces of decorated work. All would be entirely new in this part of the world, and our idea was, to take orders from the near towns for their Holiday trade. It was now only May and we would have plenty of time. Cal, who, with her brusque, honest ways, determined face, and curly, short hair, was our man of business, took samples of our work in to the various towns, receiving large orders in almost every instance.
Happy and busy as bees we worked, and began to feel quite important, as the pile grew high, of white boxes, filled with delicate satin souvenirs for wedding and birthdays, Christmas tokens of lovely design, little poems with dainty painted covers, blotters and thought books, beautifully decorated, all of which found ready sale. The little mother’s sad eyes began to brighten, and Cal would say:
“Marmo, we can take care of you almost as good as sons, can’t we?”
“God bless my daughters,” would be the reply.
Louise had established her studio under the old apple-tree one warm June day, and, running out to call her to lunch, I found she had gone down in the garden, but I saw the cutest, prettiest sight! I beckoned her to come softly. There, on her sketch-book, opened against the tree, and on which was a half-finished painting of birds, hopped around two brown sparrows, peeping and twittering as contentedly as possible. It was too cunning! as though they had recognized their portraits and felt at home.
“A tribute to your genius, Lou,” said I. “Like the famous artist of old, who painted cherries so naturally, the birds flew down and pecked at the canvas.”
“I fear I shall have to dispel the illusion, dear. I guess they were more eager to pick up some cake crumbs I left than to admire my work.”
Readers, you will be glad to know that the girls’ work continued successful, and that the “crusty old creditor” turned out a good friend, from sheer admiration of their pluck and courage.
Merryvale was not a very lively place for any one except a couple of young colts, and as many calves, jumping around after their mothers.
The bees seemed to be making a good deal of fun for themselves, if stinging us children amused them, and buzzing into every pretty, bright flower, so that no one could pick it with safety.
The crows, too, collected in great gossiping parties, in the pines, over on the shore of the pond, and they always seemed to be congratulating themselves over something immensely satisfactory.
But we children, especially the girls, found it very dull after we had seen the few sights of the farm. The boys were trying to hunt and fish; but Lib and I talked that over, and we came to the conclusion, after much laughing and many caustic remarks, that the only amusement we had was, laughing at their failures.
We communicated that fact to them, but it didn’t seem to make any difference; off they went on the same fruitless hunt, and left us to do what we might, to make ourselves happy.
The next day, Lib and Dora and I told them we would go into the woods with them and see what the charm was. Lib was the eldest of us three, and had read a great deal, and she said:
“May be we shall find the robbers’ cave, and if we say, ‘Open Sesame,’ the great stone doors will slowly swing open, and we can go in where the chains of flashing gems and the heaps of golden coin are.”
“I think you’ll get into places where you can’t get out; ‘open sesame’ will never lift you out of a marsh hole,” said William Pitt Gaylord, our eldest brother.
“Mollie, you can find somebody to have a talking match with, for there are lots of chipmunks over in the grove,” remarked Hugh.
“I’ve seen snakes in that very woods, too, and if you’d holler, Lib, at that end of the pond, as you do at this end of the tea-table, you wouldn’t catch any fish,” said William. This caused an uproarious laugh on the part of the boys.
We listened quietly to their sarcastic remarks, knowing they were prompted by an unreasonable desire to monopolize the delights of the woods to themselves.
William Pitt remarked that “Girls had no business to meddle with boys’ sports, and they’d come to grief if they did; you’d see!”
Next morning the August haze lay soft on the landscape, but in a short time it went off, and Father, learning that we girls were going to spend a part of the day in the woods, quietly told the boys that they must escort us to the pleasantest place, and not wander very far off. They pouted considerably, and had a talk at the corner of the barn; they then came back, smiling, and apparently good-natured.
Our brothers did not intend to be unkind, but they had the common failing of humanity—selfishness. But Lib matched them in a dozen ways with her good-humored retaliations; and many a tilt she had with William Pitt since we had arrived at the farm. In the city she was abreast of him in all his studies; and I noticed that Lib could get out her Latin, and write a composition much faster than he, and often he had been obliged to come to her for aid. It nettled Lib not to be able to hunt and fish. We two younger ones modeled after her; she was the leader, and when she said we would go with the boys, we went.
“Hello Fred,” said Hugh, as a neighboring boy, a city boarder, came through the gate, attired in base-ball cap and knickerbockers, “we can’t go to Duck Inlet to-day. Father says the girls must have a good time, too, and that we must devote one day to them, at least.”
“All right,” said Fred, “can I go with you? I’ll go and get my butterfly net, and we can go over to Fern Hollow mill, the winter-greens and berries are as thick there! Gracious! you can get a quart pail full in no time. The mill-wheel is a beautiful sight,” said Fred, turning to Lib, “and you can sketch it, Miss Gaylord.”
Lib looked upon Fred with a little more toleration, after he had said “Miss Gaylord,” and went and ordered an additional ration to be put into the lunch basket. We were glad to have Fred along with us, for he was very funny, and made jokes on every thing.
Lib would allow no one to carry the lunch basket but herself, as she remarked, “It is safer with me.”
We started, and were tempted to loiter at all the little nooks on the leaf-shadowed road, and investigate the haunts of the curious dwellers in the rocks and bushes, and especially were we interested in the ducks on Fern Hollow creek. Dora insisted upon feeding them a piece of bread. “Calamity,” the dog, was along, of course, and as he belonged to William Pitt, who called him “Clam,” he was always in that boy’s company. It was, “Love me, love my dog,” with William; and as he was a professional of some kind, he was greatly prized by the boys.
We reached the woods and the old mill early; I think I never was in a more delightful place. Every thing seemed to grow here. Winter-greens, with their crimson berries, shining in the moss, and blueberries, where the sun came; tall, white flowers that grew in clusters in the shade, sent their perfume all about. Back of the mill, on some sandy ledges, grew pennyroyal and spearmint; raspberries and blackberries grew everywhere.
The boys went off to gather a quantity for lunch, and Lib and Dora and I hunted for a pleasant place to set out our dainties. We found it. A natural bower, between four trees; one being a giant of a pine, right at the doorway. The wild grape-vine and the woodbine had inclosed the space so completely, that Lib, who had thoughtfully brought along a scissors to cut off stubborn plants, could make two windows in the green wall; one looking into the woods, the other off at the distant pond. The grass was fine in here, and the sunbeams dropped down in little round spots, on the pine needles that covered the floor.
“This is certainly the fairies’ dining hall,” said Lib.
“I’ll tell you what,” said I, “this is not far from home, and we can bring things, and have a little parlor here. I can make a couple of curtains out of that figured scrim, for windows, and that old square rug in the carriage-house will do for the floor. You can bring your rocking-chair, Lib, and Dora can bring her tea-set.”
“I’ll bring our Christmas and Easter cards, and we can fasten them all about, on the walls,” said Lib, who had fallen in immediately with the plan.
“I’ll bring Mrs. Snobley, and all her children, and the dining table,” said Dora.
She had reference to her large doll, and a whole dozen of little ones, that were always brought forward in any play that Dora had taken a fancy to.
We were in such haste to put our scheme into operation, that we dispatched the lunch in short order, and told the boys of our plan. They thought it was capital. Any thing that would release them, after they had eaten all that was to be had, would, of course, be received with acclamation. They acknowledged the same, in a very neat speech, which Lib said, “did very good for Hugh.”
She fell in immediately with our fun, and helped us to a number of nice things, to furnish our greenwood bower. We worked tremendously that afternoon, and after Betty had washed the dinner dishes, she helped us. Before sun-down every thing was complete. The boys, who had taken themselves a mile away, to hunt, came round to visit us on their way home. They agreed that it was just perfect, and inquired if we hadn’t put in an elevator, to reach the second story, with numerous other inquiries, intended to be funny; and then asked where we kept our cranberry tarts.
“We’re not going to allow any boys in this play-house after to-day,” said I; “your feet are muddy, and you’re so big, you fill it all up.”
Our visitor, Fred, looked at his feet, and blushed. “Not after to-day? How are you going to keep any one out?” inquired William Pitt.
“We will draw this portiere across the doorway, and no gentleman would think of entering,” said Lib.
“No, they wouldn’t, sure enough,” said Hugh. “How are you going to prevent our looking in the windows?”
“Only rude boys would look in windows,” said Fred, “and I don’t know of any hereabouts.”
They laughed at this, and Lib laughed too, and made the sly remark, that “Hunting on the duck-pond transformed some people mighty soon.”
Fred said he’d try to be on his good behavior if we’d let him make a formal call on us the next afternoon. We consented to this; then they all said they’d call.
The next day we busied ourselves in preparing a spread of good things for our reception, and Betty took it over, and on returning, said every thing was just as we had left it. We dressed ourselves up in our best, to receive the gentlemen, a little time after dinner. The woods were never so lovely, we thought, and to add to our personal charms, we made wreaths and garlands of ferns and wild-flowers to adorn our persons and hats.
I had sauntered along considerably in advance, and as I approached the bower I was not a little surprised to see from a distance that the door-curtain was drawn half open. I stopped to listen, but there was no sound, only a wild bird piping its three little notes, down by the mill. I cautiously went up, and peeped into the little window, and there stood a man on the rug! He seemed to be looking about. I think I never was so frightened. I ran back, and whispered to the rest the dreadful state of things. They looked horror-stricken. Lib changed color, but just stood still. Then she said,—“There’s plenty of help over at the mill.”
“Oh, let us go no nearer, but get home as fast as we can,” I said.
Lib raised her hand in warning for us to keep still, and we crept along, softly, behind the bower; and when we had gotten so far, we all turned around and ran for dear life into the woods again.
“This is nonsense,” said Lib. “You were mistaken, Mollie, I’m sure.”
I said I’d go back with her, and she could see for herself. We crept to the back of the bower, and Lib leaned over and looked in. Lib turned pale, caught hold of my hand and Dora’s, and ran quite a distance toward the mill. Then she stopped, and said, as true as she was alive, there was a man in there; he stood with a large stick resting on his shoulder, upon which was slung a bundle, tied up in a red handkerchief, his clothing was ragged, and his hat was very dilapidated.
“Oh, Lib, I’m going to run for it,” said I.
“Wait a minute,” said she. “I don’t hear any noise. Let’s think; if we didn’t have to go right in front of the door, we could get to the mill.”
All this time we were edging ourselves as far away from the dangerous precincts as we conveniently could. She stood again, perfectly still. “I won’t go another step,” she said. That moment’s reflect had re-instated her courage. “He don’t come out; I should say that was making an informal call when the ladies were out. He’s a beautiful-looking specimen anyway,” said Lib, with fine irony; and as she said this, she frowned, and put her head back.
No sound was heard, and no demonstrations from the interloper were made. The sight of the mill-wagon, going slowly down the road, gave us heart, and Lib said:
“I’ll go and order him out, be the consequences what they may. Mollie, you’re good at screaming, you can bring the miller here if we have to get help.”
“Don’t! Don’t! I would rather he stole all our things; let him have the tarts and the cocoanut cake, and the jam, and the pickles, and the cheese, and the sandwiches! Let him have them in welcome! I’m going to fly home!”
“I want Mrs. Snobley!” sobbed Dora.
Lib never said another word. She walked up to the entrance, and pulled aside the curtain, and there stood the semblance of a man. In his extended hand was a card, on which was very badly printed:
“I’m a poor b’y,—I want a home.”
“References exchanged.”
“I’ll scrape the mud off me boots, if ye’ll let me in.”
Lib called, “Come here, Mollie, it’s a trick of those boys.”
We went in, and there we found the interloper to be a scarecrow from a neighboring field, ingeniously arranged so as to appear very human.
At that moment, a loud laugh above our heads betrayed the presence of the boys in the trees, who clambered down with hilarious expedition, and fairly rolled themselves upon the ground with delight. They had seen all our perturbation; had heard my cowardly cries and expressions; Lib’s looking in the window, and her fearful hesitation and scamper behind the fairy bower! The best thing to do was to laugh, and that we did right heartily; we girls, were internally thankful that the intruder was only a scarecrow after all.
We ordered the boys take their silly joke out, and to come in like gentlemen, and make a formal call, and probably they would be invited to take some refreshments.
This news caused them to work with great alacrity. They were dressed up too; Fred having chosen to wear his school uniform, with a gorgeous crimson sash and his sword.
We were never so delighted with any thing as with that afternoon’s adventure. For hours we chatted and laughed, and ate our refreshments, until the western light began to take on a ruddy hue, and we closed our little bower and proceeded homeward.
What was our surprise, when we reached there, to find that three young friends from the city with their servant had come to visit us. Merryvale was not dull after that, I can assure you.
THE NEW SERVANT AT MERRYVALE.