ALEX DUKE BAILIE.
“Oh, Bessie! I’ve such an idea, such a good one, and so sure, you can’t think how it came either, if you guessed and tried for a week!”
“Child, you are always having ideas, but they amount to nothing; you have enough to do at home, without continually fretting your head about what you cannot carry out.”
“But, Bessie, this is just splendid, and it came to me all of a sudden, and I’m sure as sure can be that it is a real good idea. Now wont you listen!”
“I suppose I must, if I want any peace; but I’m very tired, so if it is like your latest—to catch fish and sell them in the town, or to have your curls cut off and let some city hair-dresser pay you for them—there will be no use to tell it to me.”
“Tain’t neither, Bessie dear, it’s a real clever idea, and I know you wont say ‘no’ to it. I was looking over some of the old picture papers this morning, and I found a funny picture of a gentleman that had gone fishing with, oh! the greatest lot of lines, and a fine rod, and a basket swung at his back, and he looked ever so nice; but he hadn’t caught any thing and he was ashamed to go back to the city with an empty basket; and then there was another picture where he was buying a great string of fish from a bare-footed little country boy, that had caught them all, and had only a rough old pole and an old line on it.”
“So it is the fishing idea, again,” said Bessie, “but the present variation does not improve on the last.”
“No, it just ain’t the fishing idea any more; it’s this: you know all the excursion parties that come up here, are coming all the time now; well, the ladies all gather autumn leaves, lots and lots, handsful and handsful of them. But they get tired of carrying so many after a while, and by the time they get ready to go back to the cars, their leaves are thrown away, and they are empty-handed. Now just listen! If I go to work and pick out the very prettiest leaves and do them up in the very sweetest bunches, and tie them so they are easy to carry, and meet them when they are starting to go home, I’m sure they will buy them, just like the gentleman did the fish from that boy. Now, ain’t that a real good idea?”
“I believe there is something in it, Katie,” answered the eldest sister.
“I knew you would,” cried Katie, joyously, “and may I try it?”
“If you will be very careful and not talk too much to the people you know nothing of, I have no objections; it can do no harm, at all events,” and poor, tired Bessie sighed as she looked at her bright young sister and thought of the time when she too was young and full of hope and gay spirits.
There was quite a family of these Wilsons in the little house at the foot of the mountains, in Pennsylvania. The widowed mother, sickly and almost blind; Bessie, a young lady, the eldest daughter, aged twenty-three, who taught a very large school for very small pay; then Katie not quite twelve, and Robbie, the baby, the pet, the boy, who was only five.
Three years before, their father had been living, and they had enjoyed all that wealth could bring them. Suddenly he sickened and died, and then came the dreadful knowledge that he left nothing for his family; he was deeply in debt to his partner, with whom he had worked a large coal-mine, and this Mr. Moore was what all people called a “hard man,” he was old and crabbed, and always wanted and would have every cent coming to him. Bessie was to have been married to his son, Philip, but when poverty came to her, the old man refused to let Philip see her more, and the girl was too proud to go into a family where she was not wanted, and, beside, she had her poor mother, who had given up and failed fast after her misfortunes, she had her to look after. So Bessie taught school; Katie attended to the little home into which they had moved from the great house on the hill, a noble little housekeeper she was; Robbie did about as he pleased and was well content with life, except when neat Katie would seize him and wash his face with plenty of soap in his eyes, and comb his tangled curls with a comb that “allus pulled,” as he cried.
It was hard for them to pay the rent, to get food and the many delicacies Mrs. Wilson had always been used to, and now needed more than ever. Bessie’s small wages from her school were taken, every cent, for these, and Katie was continually bothering her young head with “ideas” as to how she could make money to help them all. The autumn leaves were the latest, and it really did seem as though there were something in it.
The next day was Saturday, Bessie was free from school duties, and so her little sister had more time at her disposal. Friday evening she and Robbie gathered a great quantity of bright-colored leaves; the next morning, bright and early, they were out again; the little back porch was filled with them.
With her own natural good taste, aided by Bessie’s more cultivated judgment, they made up many neat, beautiful bunches of those bright-colored droppings from the forest trees. These she placed in a large but pretty basket that once had been sent, filled with rare fruit, to Bessie, from Philip, and the older girl sighed when she gave it to her sister.
Then Katie started, leaving Robbie behind crying; and with a trembling heart and a big lump in her throat, but bravely as a little soldier, she made her way to the path by which the excursion parties would have to return to the cars. Soon they began to come along, all tired, trying to be merry ladies and gentlemen.
Katie stood with her basket on her arm. She did not know how pretty she looked, with her brown curls floating out from beneath her big sun-bonnet, her pure white apron, her dark dress which Bessie had made from one of her own, with delicate bits of lace at the wrists, a bright bit of ribbon about her throat and a plain little breast-pin clasping it. Her big black eyes looked longingly at the passers-by, her red lips tried, many times, to utter some words that would help her sell her wares, but she could not speak, she could only up her hand and look her wants.
“What lovely leaves!” cried a young lady, “these of mine seem all faded by the carrying, and I’m tired of the great load anyhow,” and she threw away a great lot tied round with her handkerchief, and hastened toward the little merchant.
“What a pretty girl,” said the young man with her.
“How much are these?” inquired the lady.
Bessie had not thought of what she would ask for her bunches, and now, between pleasure and fright, she could not think of any price to put upon them.
“Whatever you please, Miss,” she faintly murmured.
“How lovely they are,” said the lady, and taking three bunches, she gave two to the young man with her, telling him: “Harry, you must carry these, and pay the child,” the third one she kept in her own hand.
The gentleman put his hand in his pocket, drew it out, and dropped into Katie’s basket a silver dollar.
The tears almost blinded the little girl—tears of joy over her first success—she could hardly see what the coin was, but when she picked it up she managed to stammer that she “had no change.”
“Don’t want any, little one,” said the young man pleasantly, “the sight of you is worth all the money and more.” Then the couple hurried away.
But their stopping had attracted many more, and a dozen bought of Katie, and, though few were as generous as her first customers, she soon disposed of most of her stock at ten cents a bunch, having gained courage to fix and state her price. Quite a number gave her more than that sum, and she began to feel a very rich little girl, indeed.
More than half her stock was sold, when an old gentleman and a young lady came along. The lady, as usual, was the first to admire the bright bunches, she took two, the old gentleman giving Katie fifty cents and telling her that “was right.” He seemed a cross old man, but still spoke pleasantly.
“What’s your name, child?” he asked.
“Katie Wilson, sir,” replied the little girl, faintly.
“Um! um! Come along Helen,” said he, hastily, and hurried away.
These were the last of the excursion parties, except an elderly lady having in charge a dozen children, all dressed alike; little ones from a soldiers’ orphan school, for whom some kind person had provided a day’s pleasure. They were tired and worn out with romping, and dragged along slowly; they looked at Katie’s bright face and longingly at the pretty leaves in her basket. The girl’s heart was touched; timidly she held out a bunch to a little boy who half stopped in front of her, he took it eagerly; in a moment the others were about her. By good fortune, she had enough to give on to each and an extra bunch to the lady.
With the thanks of these poor children in her heart, an empty basket and a happy jingle in her pocket she ran nearly all the way home, burst in on Bessie, put her arms about her neck and sobbed for happiness.
When the elder sister at last succeeded in calming her, she told the whole story of her afternoon’s work.
Together they counted the money—three dollars and eighty-five cents—just think of it!
If ever there was a happy, excited little girl, it was Katie that night. She could not sleep or eat. When she had to go to bed, she lay awake long, long hours, thinking how she would buy back the big house, how mother should have doctors and every thing she needed, how Bessie should stop teaching and have a horse and little carriage, and pretty dresses, and a piano, like she used to, and how Robbie should go to school and college and grow up to be a great man and finally be President. She never thought of herself, except that she was to do all this, and when she fell asleep she dreamed the whole thing over again, and that it had turned out just as she planned.
All through the excursion season Katie sold her leaves, and though she never made as much as on the first day, yet when people stopped coming she had over one hundred dollars in Bessie’s hands, all made by herself, all made by being up early and attending to her household duties and working hard so as to have her bunches ready by the time that visitors were returning to the train.
She was brave, and true, and unselfish, and her reward was great.
It was one chill November evening, toward Thanksgiving day, that she and Robbie had wandered out among the mountain paths; the little fellow was wild as a colt and ran here and there until it was all Katie could do to keep track of him. Finally she caught him; both were tired out, and when she looked around, to her great terror, she could not make out just where they were. They wandered along and at last came to a road, but she did not know which way to go. Robbie was cross and sleepy; she could not carry the heavy boy, and he would lay down; at last she let him rest. He dropped by a fallen log and in a moment was asleep. She covered him with a little cloth cape she wore, and sat down beside him; her eyes were heavy, she nodded, and very soon was as sound as he.
Along the road came a thin, old, but active man; he stepped out firmly and aided his steps with a stout cane. It was after dusk of the evening. He spied something in the gloom, on the other side of the road, something unusual; he crossed over; it was a little girl leaning against a big, fallen tree and a small boy stretched on the ground beside it; both were fast asleep. He touched the girl’s shoulder; she sprang up. “Oh!” she gasped, “don’t hurt Robbie! We weren’t doing any harm, indeed we weren’t.”
“What are you doing here any how?” he inquired.
“It was Robbie, no, it was me, he was so sleepy and so was I, and we were just resting until we could start and try to find home again.”
“Um! so you’re lost, are you?”
“No, sir, I guess not only—only we don’t know the way.”
“Well, I should say that’s pretty near being lost. Where do you live? What’s your name?”
“We live in the old Mill cottage, and my name’s Katie Wilson, and Robbie’s is Robert T. Wilson.”
“Um! um! Yes; well, I know where you live; come along, I’ll put you right. Come! wake up here, young man!” and he gently poked Robbie with his cane. But Robbie was sleepy and cross, and cried and kicked, and it was all Katie could do to get him on his feet and moving. Then as they went slowly on, she holding her brother’s hand, her own in that of the stranger, he asked her: “Weren’t you frightened to be out all alone?”
“Why, no, sir,” she answered. “I was frightened for mother and Bessie being worried, but not for us; I just said my prayers and covered Robbie, and then I fell asleep and didn’t know any thing until you woke me up.”
“Um! said your prayers, did you!” and the old man stopped and looked at her.
“See here, Katie!” he said, in a very gentle voice, “say your prayers for me, I’d like to hear them.”
The child looked at him in astonishment and trouble. Could it be that the gentleman could not say his prayers for himself, that he did not pray himself! “Oh, sir!” she said, with choking voice and tears in her eyes, “I can’t say them to you, only to Bessie or mother: It’s just God bless mother, and Bessie and Robbie and me, and take care of us in the night and day, and—and that’s all, sir.”
“Well, never mind now, little Katie, come along, we must get Robbie home to the mother and Bessie soon, or they’ll think the bears have eaten you both,” and the old man’s voice was still more gentle, and he hurried as fast as the little ones could go. He knew the roads well, and in half an hour they were on a path that the children were well acquainted with, and near home.
There was a cry of joy, and Bessie sprang upon the little ones at a bend in the road and gathered them in her arms, and kissed and scolded and petted them, all at the same time.
The old gentleman hurried away as soon as he saw they were safe; but he did not go far; he stepped back in the dark and heard Katie tell the tale of adventure and take all the blame herself, and excuse Robbie, and talk about the kind gentleman who had found them and brought them home, and wonder where he had gone so quickly before she had time to thank him. He followed them at a distance; he saw them enter their home, and he watched outside until the lamp was lighted in the little sitting-room; then he came near the window and looked in; he watched while the sick, half-blind mother cried over her children; he saw pale, sweet-faced Bessie comforting all; he stood there an hour without noticing the cold and wind that grew about him. He saw brave, hard-working Bessie, and true Katie, and the little boy, and the mother of all, kneel at their chairs, and he thought he could hear the prayers of thanks that came from the hearts of all and the lips of the older sister, and he felt drops upon his cheek, not rain, but tears—tears. It had been many years since his eyes had been wet with tears, but they were there and they softened the heart of “hard old man” Moore, and he turned away at last with a strange resolution in his mind.
Three days after he was in the sitting-room of that cottage; with him was his son Philip, by Philip’s side was Bessie, looking ever so much younger and prettier, and so, so happy, and standing by the side of “hard old man” Moore was little Katie, wondering to see such an old man wipe the tears from his eyes, wondering at the way in which he held one arm close around her, and wondering still more why he should keep saying, all the time, “You did it, little Katie, you did it all.”
The Wilsons are comfortable and happy now. Bessie is Mrs. Philip Moore; the mother has doctors and luxuries; Robbie is at school and learning fast; Katie, our Katie, is learning fast also, but she is still the same Katie as of old; she did not have to sell bunches of leaves another season; but there are always great bouquets of the beauties in the house, and old Mr. Moore, “hard” no longer, calls her nothing but his little “Autumn leaf.”
MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.
TREED.
FOSTER PARENTS.
Strolling down back of the barn, and seeing a fluttering of wings near the ground, Fred and John discovered, upon coming closer, that a poor little bird had fallen from its nest in the bough of a tree that stood near them. The bird was young, too young to fly, and seemed more dead than alive from the fall. The boys took the bird, fondly caressed it, stroked its feathers, and were glad to see that it showed signs of life and that it was only stunned by the fall it had received. The boys were kind-hearted, they were boys full of life, the first-most in a race, in climbing a hill they among the first who stood on its top. Yet in all their sports they were never cruel. So with the bird, they only thought of how to care for it. The tree was too tall to climb with safety, and then they were forbidden to climb this tree because John had once ventured to the first of its branches and by some accident, such as will happen to boys, he lost his hold and tumbled to the ground and he still remembered the days of pain it caused.
Said Fred, “Why can we not take the bird home and care for it?”
So, with this suggestion, they brought it to the house and placed it in a small basket. The basket was one they used to carry their dinners to school in, and, of course, this could not be used to keep it in all the time. John said, “It will be best to make a cage for it. We can, with our knives, soon whittle out sticks for bars and with the saw and some boards make a cage.” They labored on this for two days, and then, with Uncle Ben’s help, for he could drive nails better than they, the cage was completed. Some cotton was shaped into a nest and the bird was placed in it and the cage was its home.
They fed it on berries and crumbs and it grew rapidly. It soon learned to perch on one of the boy’s fingers and pick its food from his hand. When it had eaten enough it would fly to his shoulder and seem quite contented. In due time it became full grown, and though it seemed to know and appreciate the attention given it by the boys, yet it seemed to long for more freedom than the little cage afforded. The boys noticed this, and with sad hearts concluded it would be cruel to keep it confined and so gave it its freedom. For some time it lingered around the house, in branches of the trees, but finally it flew away to the woods.
Dora Greenwell.
Many a home, now dark and cheerless, might be made bright and cheery by a few plants in the window, or bunches of ferns and bright autumn leaves, fastened on the wall, or on the pictures.
Homes cannot be made too bright and home-like for the husband and the children; and these little things cost little or nothing, and add much to the general appearance.
A novel and pretty window ornament can be made in this way: Take a white sponge of large size, and sow it full of rice, oats and wheat. Then place it, for a week or ten days, in a shallow dish, in which a little water is constantly kept, and as the sponge will absorb the moisture, the seeds will begin to sprout before many days. When this has fairly taken place, the sponge may be suspended by means of cords from a hook in the top of the window where a little sun will enter. It will thus become a mass of green, and can be kept wet by merely immersing it in a bowl of water.
BY ANNA ELIZABETH C. KELLY.
“Oh, it is too bad; too bad! that mother should be so troubled for the want of a little money,” said Mabel.
“Cheer up! Cheer up!” rang out a voice close at hand, “pretty Poll; cheer up!” and a bright green parrot with a yellow breast began to beat against the bars of his cage as if he would like to get out.
“That is a good omen, Polly,” said Mabel, as she rose and opened the door of the cage, “but it is not Poll who ought to ‘cheer up’ but I, you pretty bird.” Poll hopped out and perched upon her finger and looked so knowingly at her, that it almost broke down the resolution she had formed. Mabel was accustomed to take Poll out and talk to her, and brother Ben, who was an amateur photographer, had taken a picture of the pretty pair, so Polly was already immortalized.
“Poor Ben! Poor Ben!” said Polly. “‘On Linden when the sun was low’—ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! Poor Ben! Poor Ben!” laughed and shouted Polly.
“Poor Ben, indeed!” said Mabel, “though the Ben you first heard about was another Ben, and used to break down with his recitation and be laughed at. I wonder where he is now, and whether he is dead, my brave soldier uncle! If he were alive, and should come back, what would he think to find another Polly just like the one he left behind, who had learned some of the things his Polly used to say. Mamma says your predecessor died of old age, Polly; I wonder if that will be your destiny. I shall never know; for I am going to sell you to the lady up at the hotel, who saw you hanging outside, and wanted you for her little girl. She said she would give me five dollars, and when I refused she offered me ten. I could not let you go, Polly, but now I must. I must say ‘good-bye’ to you now, Polly, for I shall never take you out of the cage again.”
“Cheer up! cheer up!” sang Polly, as Mabel put her back, and closing the cage, left the room.
The boys were leaving the sitting-room when she went down stairs, and as Ben passed her, she said, “Do not go to bed till I come up again. I want to speak to you. Wait in my room.”
Mrs. Ross was getting ready to go up to her room when Mabel entered.
“Are you going up, mamma?” said she, “I will not keep you long; but I want to tell you, that I think I know a way for you to get some money. I wish to keep it a secret for the present; but I think I can safely promise you some. The last thing before I came down, Polly called, ‘cheer up, cheer up,’ and it is a good omen; so I say the same to you, mamma.”
“You are a good girl, Mabel, but I am afraid you are too sanguine. How can you hope to succeed where I have failed?”
“You will believe me when you see the money, shall you not, mamma?”
“There would not be much merit in that, dear, but I will trust you, and whatever happens I will believe you did what you thought was right, and that God does every thing for the best.”
“Thank you, mamma. Good night, and pleasant dreams.”
“Good night, dear.”
Mabel went softly up stairs. “Ben,” said she, when she reached her room, but Ben had fallen asleep, and she had to shake him up.
“What kept you?” said Ben, in a sleepy tone.
“Why, I was not long, Ben. Do you now the name of that little girl who took such a fancy to Polly?”
“Yes,” said Ben. “It is Eva Granby. What do you want to know for?”
“I shall tell you sometime, you are too sleepy to talk to-night, so I shall let you go. Good night, Ben.”
“Good night,” said Ben, not sorry to be dismissed.
Mabel lay awake some time. She was sorry to part with her parrot, but after all it was only a bird. Mamma and Ben and Walt and dear little Joe should not suffer that she might keep it.
She could hear the music, from the great hotel on the hill, borne on the breeze, and that, with the happy frame of mind produced by the approval of her conscience, soon had the effect of sending her into a sound sleep, from which she awoke in the morning, refreshed and quite happy. She went about her accustomed duties with a light heart and singing like a lark. Mrs. Ross wondered, to hear her; what could be the source of her high spirits.
She was on the alert for a chance to put her plan into execution, and when she found her mother occupied over the details of the breakfast table, she went up to her room, and covering the parrot’s cage and herself with a light water-proof cloak, which the chill of of the May morning seemed to warrant; she went out of the house and through the back gate, and took the road to the hotel.
Mrs. Granby had just risen, and was delighted that Mabel had come to terms after all, as her little daughter had been longing for the parrot continually. Mabel told her story and Mrs. Granby was deeply affected. She promptly agreed to Mabel’s condition, to sell her the bird back again, if she could get together ten dollars of her own to redeem it, and gave Mabel her address in New York.
Mabel was at home again just as the boys were getting their breakfast, and wondering what had become of her. She said she had been taking a walk for her health and refused to gratify them further.
Soon they were through and went out, and when she saw little Joe in the swing, and Ben and Walt sitting on the bench of Walt’s making, under the apple-tree, and knew by their gestures they were discussing Perry’s colt—she drew from her pocket the crisp, bright, ten-dollar bill, and laid it beside her mother’s plate. Her mother’s fervent “Thank God,” amply rewarded her for the loss of the parrot.
“But, Mabel,” began Mrs. Ross—
“Now, mamma,” interrupted Mabel, “you know you promised to trust me. You will soon know all about it.”
Mabel went to school that day with a happy heart.
That evening a portly, middle-aged gentleman stood at the gate, and as she looked up, he said:
“Can you tell me if this is Mrs. Ross’s?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mabel, wondering who he could be. As she turned and faced him, he caught his breath quickly, and exclaimed:
“Alice!”
Mabel’s heart gave a great bound.
“That is mamma’s name, mine is Mabel.”
“Lead me to her,” he said, hoarsely.
Mabel quickly ran before him into the house exclaiming:
“Oh, mamma! I think it is Uncle Ben.”
Mrs. Ross would have fallen had she not been caught by the strong arms of the stalwart brother whom she had not seen for twenty years. And then it all came out. Mabel’s secret was a secret no longer.
Captain Ben Grayson, old soldier, and retired ranch owner, had come back after twenty years of life in the west to hunt for his sister, his only known relative, whom he had last seen when she was a girl like Mabel. He had been told a Miss Grayson had died from the ravages of an epidemic that swept through the school she had been placed at; and so, when the war ended, he went out west instead of returning to New York as he should have done but for that false report. But he had lately heard, from an old school-friend, he had come across, that she was living, had married, and become a widow, and that was all the information he could get.
By the simplest chance he had stopped at Fairmount. Shortly after rising that morning, he was startled by a parrot hung outside the window of the room next to his, calling out,—“Cheer up! cheer up!” and shortly after,—“‘On Linden when the sun was low,’ ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! Poor Ben!”
“Well,” said Uncle Ben, “you can imagine the effect. I knew my parrot could not be living yet; but I thought to myself, that parrot must have learned from my old one or from you, Alice, and I hastened to make the acquaintance of my next-door neighbor, and so I have found you.”
And Mabel bought her parrot back again, which was now doubly dear, as it had been the means of finding Uncle Ben. And quiet brother Ben was made happy by an artist’s outfit, and had the satisfaction of doing Mabel and the parrot in colors, as he had long ago done them with the camera.
When the last gift had been given, the boys, with one accord, threw up their hats and cried,—“Hurrah, for Uncle Ben!”
As for Mrs. Ross, her measure of happiness was full; she had her long lost brother Ben.
Several years ago the beautiful Shenandoah valley in West Virginia was the scene of a great freshet. The river overflowed its banks, and the usually placid stream became a mighty torrent, rushing along with frightful velocity, carrying away houses, barns and cattle. Buildings were washed from their foundations by the resistless current, and sent whirling down the stream with the terrified occupants clinging to the roofs. They had not had timely warning, and many perished, while whole flocks of sheep, and hundreds of cows, horses and oxen were drowned. The writer visited the valley several years afterward, and could see articles of clothing and even furniture still lodged in the branches of trees, they had been caught and lodged by the receding waters, twenty feet from the ground.
During this visit a most interesting story was told of a poor little kitten who lost home and friends, and was carried by the surging flood far away to find a new home and a genuine lover. It is a true romance of the flood, and it has never been told in print so far. For all gentle lovers of animals, this beautiful romance of Woggy and Waif is given to the world.
In this beautiful valley there lived a lovely family, consisting of father, mother and two children. Edwin was a tall and manly lad of sixteen, and Florence was one year younger. They were children of refined and cultivated parents, and the members of this little home circle displayed such charming affection and thoughtfulness in their intercourse with each other, that it was beautiful to behold. Edwin was passionately fond of out-of-door sports, and Florence had deep love for all that was beautiful and interesting in nature. She loved animals, birds and flowers, and it was her delight to ramble with her brother through the woods, gathering the modest wild flowers, or the delicate maiden hair ferns. She took great delight in pets of all kinds, and had numerous rabbits, birds and squirrels that her brother had trapped; she made them all love her; even the tiniest bird or animal can appreciate tenderness and kindness; and Florence’s pure little heart was overflowing with love and kindness toward all God’s dumb creatures.
The constant companion of the brother and sister in their rambles was a very frolicsome and handsome dog, which was so remarkable for sagacity and intelligence, that he was known through all the countryside; he was devoted to his young mistress, and, though he was not a very large animal; he had enough of the Shepherd’s breed in him to make him very fierce and courageous in her defense whenever she seemed to need it.
At the time of the great freshet, a homeless family, whose house had been swept away by the flood, had been harbored at Florence’s home. Her time and mind was fully occupied by her additional home duties, which to her gentle nature, were labors of love, even if the overflowed valley had prevented her accustomed excursions; but not so with Woggy, he had no duties to keep him, and no wet ground or body of water could keep him from taking his usual runs about the country. For several days after the great flood, he was noticed to leave the house regularly in the morning and not return until evening. This was something unusual; generally his runs were finished in one or two hours; but when he was observed one day to take in his mouth the best part of his breakfast and trot off with it, Edwin’s curiosity was excited, and he resolved to unravel the mystery of Woggy’s regular absences; he followed his tracks over the wet ground for nearly two miles, until he came to a good sized pond left by the receding waters in a hollow near the river. The first thing that attracted his attention was a partially submerged fir tree near the center of the ford, and lodged against it was a chicken coop. Were there chickens in it, do you ask? No; if there had been when the angry waves picked it up there were none now, but instead, the sweetest little kitten you ever saw; and crouched down on the trunk of the tree, with his aristocratic paws resting on the end of the coop, was the mysterious Woggy, gravely contemplating the kitten, as it minced at the food the generous dog had brought it. How proud Edwin felt of Woggy as he looked and understood the scene. How Woggy, in his solitary rambles, must have discovered the forlorn kitten, who had been suddenly torn from her home, far up the valley perhaps, and borne, half drowned and thoroughly frightened, on the rushing torrent, until her box, in which the rising waters had found her taking her afternoon nap, had lodged against the tree. Edwin wanted to rescue her, and take her home. This was his first impulse, but how? The pond was wide and deep, and he had no boat, nor any other means of reaching her; so he decided to wait until the water got lower, until he could devise some plan. He returned home in great amazement, and told the story of Woggy’s wonderful doings. Florence was all excitement and sympathy in a moment, and wanted to go at once but could not. But what a delicious hugging and petting Woggy got when he returned home that night. When Edwin found them, the kitten was snuggled up as close to her brute protector as the slats would allow; she would put her tongue through and lick his paws, which process seemed to give him the liveliest satisfaction. Edwin whistled to him to come home with him, but he only wagged his bushy tail and looked at his frail charge as much as to say, “I can’t go just now.” Just think of the idea of protection entering the head of a dog! but it did. Some animals seem almost to reason. We all know a perfect horror of water all cats have, they will not go into water voluntarily. This poor little thing, surrounded by water, must have died of starvation had not kind-hearted Woggy found and cared for her.
The next day, Edwin, provided with a long board and other means of rescuing the distressed stranger, started for the pond. Just as he left the house, with Florence calling out from the porch some parting injunctions of carefulness, what was their astonishment to see Woggy coming along the road with the kitten in his mouth; the sagacious dog had evidently thought that his keepless little charge needed more care than he could give her, and brought her unharmed to his mistress. When he had deposited the kitten at her feet, he looked up in her eyes as though he wanted to tell her something, and he really looked as if he could almost talk. When Florence took up the pretty thing she exclaimed, “You poor little waif! Where did you come from?” The little waif could not tell, but looked as if she wanted to. She was pure white in color, with a water-stained ribbon and tiny silver bell around her neck. Edwin said she should be called Waif, and Waif she was ever after called in that house.
“May I go with you, Auntie?”
“No, Jo, I do not wish for any company this morning; here’s a kiss, and you may feed my poodle if you like.” So saying, Aunt Millie, who was spending her vacation at the farm, tied on her garden hat, and sallied forth for a walk, leaving behind her a very disappointed little swain, for Jo generally accompanied her in her rambles, and he and Aunt Millie were sworn allies. Lately she had run off several times without him, and he certainly felt quite disconsolate to-day. But he could not doubt her love and goodness, so he whistled away his blues.
Jo was only five years old, and it is no wonder he soon forgot his grievances. About lunch-time he thought he would go down in the meadow, to see if the first strawberries were ripening, as he intended them for mamma’s birthday.
Threading his way carefully through the tall grass and nodding daisies, he suddenly came upon the queerest looking “machine”—as he called it—in front of which sat Auntie.
“Why, Jo!”
“Aunt Millie, what are you doing?” as he caught sight of a photograph of himself, and a large copy on the easel.
“I am crayoning—and” (this last a trifle averse) “I had intended it as a surprise for mamma, to-morrow.”
The big blue eyes raised to hers had a suspicion of tears in them—she bent down quickly and gathered the little fellow in her arms.
“Never mind, pet! I was a bit vexed, that you had discovered my secret.”
“Is it a secret?” in an awed tone; “well, I’ll keep it.”
“Do you think you really can, Jo?”
“Yes,” he said; “and you can keep my strawberries,” forgetting he had told her a dozen times before.
“Well, I’ll trust you.”
Would you believe it, the child did keep his word, although burning many times to tell; and he succeeded in surprising Aunt Millie, as much as he did mamma.
The trunks were strapped on the back of the carriage; we children, with Nurse, were bundled inside; the door shut—the driver snapped his whip—and without any time for last good-byes, we were whirled away to the station. How excited and glad we were, for Papa and Mamma were to follow us next day, and we left the city far behind to spend the whole beautiful summer at Willow-spring. The very first day after our arrival, we were out—Willie, my brother, Elsie, our little four-year-old sister, and myself—scouring the premises, and I guess there were not a nook or corner we had not visited by night. It was a lovely place, with broad shady walks through which we raced, or Willie drove us as two spirited young colts, for like most boys he was rather masterful.
I wish I could tell you of the grand time we had that summer. We formed the acquaintance of several little neighbor children, who proved pleasant playmates, and together we would wander through the cool leafy woods, or roam the sunny meadows gathering sweet wild strawberries and armsful of golden-eyed daisies, and taking our treasures home, would have a little treat on the shady veranda, and garland ourselves with long daisy chains, making believe we were woodland fairies. Once in a while the rabbits from the near wood ran across the garden path, timid and shy little creatures at first—they grew quite tame from our feeding—and Elsie dearly loved her bunnies, as she called them.
Rapidly the days flew by, and the time for our departure was at hand. We felt sorry to leave, but Mamma, to console us in part, planned a little out-door feast for the day before our going, to which our little friends were all invited, and a happy, merry band of children played out under the trees, and ate the goodies so generously provided. Just before breaking up, we all joined in playing our favorite game of “snap the whip,” and with screams and laughter, one after another of the weakest ones rolled over in the soft grass. The last night at Willow-spring wound up with a grand frolic, in which all took part.
I knew a boy who was preparing to enter the junior class of the New York University. He was studying trigonometry, and I gave him three examples for his next lesson. The following day he came into my room to demonstrate his problems. Two of them he understood; but the third—a very difficult one—he had not performed. I said to him,—“Shall I help you?”
“No, sir! I can and will do it, if you give me time.”
I said: “I will give you all the time you wish.”
The next day he came into my room to recite another lesson in the same study.
“Well, Simon, have you worked that example?”
“No, sir,” he answered; “but I can and will do it, if you will give me a little more time.”
“Certainly, you shall have all the time you desire.”
I always like those boys who are determined to do their own work, for they make our best scholars, and men too. The third morning you should have seen Simon enter my room. I knew he had it, for his whole face told the story of his success. Yes, he had it, notwithstanding it had cost him many hours of severest mental labor. Not only had he solved the problem, but, what was of infinitely greater importance to him, he had begun to develop mathematical powers which, under the inspiration of “I can and I will,” he has continued to cultivate, until to-day he is professor of mathematics in one of our largest colleges, and one of the ablest mathematicians of his years in our country.
My young friends, let your motto ever be,—“If I can, I will.”