Mrs. Jervis and her two children, Ethel and Harry, were on their way to spend Christmas with the grandmother, who lived in a small town in Minnesota, three or four hours’ journey from Minneapolis, where they were spending the winter. There had been a good deal of snow, but they did not think much about it, for they were not used to Minnesota snowstorms.
It was getting late in the afternoon, and they were tired and anxious to reach B——before night, when the train—after a good deal of puffing, and backing, and jerking forward and back—stopped short.
Several of the men went out to see what was the matter. Soon they began to come back, and one, whose seat was next to Mrs. Jervis, said, as he took his seat, “It doesn’t look much like getting to B—— to-night.”
“What is the trouble?” asked Mrs. Jervis.
“Tremendous drifts in the cut,” answered Mr. Camp. “Snow falling faster than ever, and wind piling it up faster than a thousand men could shovel it out. This cut is a regular snow-trap.”
“Can’t the engine plow through?” asked Mrs. Jervis anxiously.
“That’s what has been tried,” said the man; “but the snow is higher than the smokestack, and packed so tight it’s almost solid. We may be here a week, for all I see, unless the storm holds up and we get help.”
“Oh, mother!” wailed Ethel, “shan’t we get to grandmother’s for Christmas?”
“I hope so, Ethel!” said Mrs. Jervis soothingly. “It’s three days to Christmas, you know, and a good deal may happen in three days. Couldn’t we go back?” she asked her neighbor. “If we could get back to Minneapolis it would be better than staying here,” and she glanced anxiously at her daughter, whose wide, staring eyes were fixed on Mr. Camp, as if he held her fate in his hands.
“They tried a while ago, you remember,” he said; “but the cut we passed through a mile back is now as bad as this. The fact is, we are between two cuts, and for all I see are prisoners here till we get help from outside.”
Mrs. Jervis heard this with dismay, and Ethel with despair. She buried her face in her mother’s lap, and shook all over with the violence of her sobs.
Mrs. Jervis was distressed, for her daughter was just recovering from a serious illness, and she feared the consequences of such violent emotion. Her mind worked quickly; if she could only get Ethel interested in something,—but what could she do shut up in a car? She spoke again to her neighbor.
“Didn’t you say there were some travelers in the next car not so comfortable as we are?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered; “a mother and three children, one a baby, going to Dalton, where the father has just got work. They look poor, and are not very warmly clad. The conductor says he can’t keep two cars warm; fuel is getting scarce; and he’s going to bring them in here.”
“Do you hear that, Ethel?” said her mother anxiously; “there’s a baby coming into our car.”
Ethel was usually very fond of babies, but now she could think of nothing but her disappointment, and only an impatient jerk of her shoulders showed that she heard.
At this moment the door opened, and the conductor appeared, followed by the few passengers from the other car, among them the shivering family with the baby. The mother looked pale and tired, and sank into the first seat.
Mrs. Jervis rose, obliging Ethel to sit up, and went toward the weary woman.
“Let me take the baby a while,” she said pleasantly; “you look tired out.”
Tears came into the eyes of the poor mother.
“Oh, thank you,” she said; “the baby is fretting for her milk; she won’t eat anything I can get for her.”
“Of course she won’t,” said Mrs. Jervis, as she lifted the baby, who, though poorly dressed, was clean and sweet; “sensible baby! we must try to get milk for her!” She turned to the conductor.
“Isn’t there a farmhouse somewhere about here where some benevolent gentleman might get milk for a suffering baby?” and she looked with a smile at the passenger who had been giving the unwelcome news.
“No,” said the conductor, “I think not any near enough to be reached in this storm; but I have an idea that there’s a case of condensed milk in the baggage-car; I’ll see,” and he hurried out.
“That’s a providential baggage-car,” said Mrs. Jervis. “How much we might have suffered but for its fortunate stores!”
“Yes,” replied her neighbor gravely; “a fast of a week wouldn’t be very comfortable.”
“And jack rabbits are tiptop!” burst in Harry Jervis. His mother smiled.
“I’m glad you like them, Harry; I should like them better bounding away over the prairies on their own long legs than served up half cooked, on a newspaper for plates,—to be eaten with fingers, too,” she added.
“Fingers were made before forks!” said Harry triumphantly, repeating an old saying which had been quoted quite often in that car of late.
“Your fingers were not, Harry!” said Mrs. Jervis, laughing. “However, we have cause to be thankful, even for jack rabbits eaten with our fingers.”
At this moment entered a brakeman with a can of condensed milk. “The conductor sent this to you, ma’am,” he said.
“But it isn’t open!” said Mrs. Jervis in dismay; “and I didn’t think to bring a can-opener. If I had only known of this picnic-party, I might have provided myself.”
“I’ll open it,” said her neighbor, taking out a pocket knife; “I’ve opened many a can in my travels on the plains.”
“Don’t take off the top,” said Mrs. Jervis. “Make two holes in the cover.” He looked up in surprise. She went on: “One to let out the milk, and the other to let in the air so that it can get out.”
“Well, if that isn’t an idea!” said the man, a broad grin spreading over his face. “It takes a woman to think of that contrivance!”
“You see,” said Mrs. Jervis, “that keeps the milk in the can clean, and it pours out as well as if the whole top was off.”
“Sure!” said the man; “I’ll never forget that little trick; thank you, ma’am!”
Mrs. Jervis smiled. “You’re quite welcome,” she said, as she proceeded to dilute the milk with water from the cooler, and to warm the mixture on the stove, using her own silver traveling-cup for the purpose.
While she was doing this, she had put the baby on Ethel’s lap, saying quietly, “You hold her a minute till I get the milk ready.”
Ethel half grudgingly took the feebly wailing baby; but when the milk was warmed and the hungry little creature quietly fell asleep in her arms, she showed no desire to give her up. Mrs. Jervis, having procured a pillow from the porter,—for this was a sleeping-car,—laid the sleeping infant on the seat opposite her own.
Meanwhile, the idea she had been all this time seeking—the plan for giving Ethel something to think of besides herself—had come to her, and she now suggested it to her daughter, who had stopped crying, though she still looked very unhappy.
“Ethel,” she said, “did you notice those poor children back there?”
“No,” said Ethel indifferently.
“Well,” said her mother, “I wish you’d go and tell the mother that the baby is sleeping comfortably, and I’ll look after her.”
Ethel was accustomed to mind, and though she looked as if she didn’t fancy the errand, she rose and slowly walked through the car to the back seats where the strangers were seated, delivered her message, and returned.
“They don’t look very comfortable, do they?” said Mrs. Jervis.
“No, indeed!” said Ethel with some interest; “that girl had a little, old shawl pinned on, and looked half frozen at that.”
“I don’t suppose they have ever been really comfortable,” went on Mrs. Jervis. “I should like to fix them all up warm and nice for once in their lives.”
Ethel did not reply, but she was thinking.
“I wonder if they were going anywhere for Christmas,” she said slowly.
“They look as if they did not know what Christmas is,” answered her mother. “I don’t believe they ever had one.”
“It would be fun to fix up a tree for them,” said Ethel, who had enjoyed helping to arrange a Christmas celebration the preceding year in an orphan asylum; “but of course no one can do anything shut up in this old car!”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Mrs. Jervis; “a good deal can be done by willing hands.”
“I don’t see what!” said Ethel.
“Well,” said her mother, “you could at least make the girl a rag-doll like those you made for the orphans last winter.”
“What could I make it of?” asked Ethel somewhat scornfully.
“I have an idea,” said Mrs. Jervis. “I think I can get something from the porter.”
Like most persons who set out with determination, Mrs. Jervis overcame all obstacles. With the consent of the conductor, who assumed the responsibility for the Company, she bought of the porter a clean sheet, and a towel with a gay border, and returned to her seat. Out of her traveling-bag she took sewing implements, and in a short time Ethel was busily engaged in fashioning a rag-doll. She rolled up a long strip of the clean cotton for the doll’s body, sewing it tightly in place, and made a similar but much smaller roll for the arms, which she sewed on to the body in proper position. She marked the features of the face with a black lead pencil, and then dressed it in a strip of the towel, leaving the red border as a trimming around the hem of the dress, and a narrow strip of the same gay border for a sash, which was tied in a fine bow at the back. On the head, to conceal the raw edges of the cotton, she made a tiny hood of another piece of the red border, and though you might not think it, it was really a very presentable doll.
Meanwhile the idea had spread among the passengers, and other hands were busy with the same purpose. One elderly lady, who had been occupying her time knitting with red wool a long, narrow strip intended to make a stripe in a large afghan, deliberately raveled out the whole, and, bringing out of her bag a pair of fine needles, set up some mittens for the cold-looking red hands of the boy.
Another lady passenger produced a small shoulder shawl, which she proceeded to make—with the help of Mrs. Jervis’s needles and thread—into a warm hood for the little girl. Another lady made of an extra wrap she carried an ample cloak for the baby, and Mrs. Jervis resolved to give the thinly dressed mother a large cape she had brought in case they should ride the last two miles of their journey in an open sleigh in a snowstorm.
The whole carload, with nothing to occupy them, soon caught the enthusiasm; and before the day was over, nearly every one was doing what could be done with such limited means to make a pleasant Christmas for the little family occupying so quietly the back section in the car, and feeling so out of place among the well-to-do passengers.
Not only were articles for their comfort made, but toys for the children. Many a man, in the intervals of shoveling snow, at which each man took his turn, called up the resources of boyhood, and whittled precious things out of wood; a whistle and a toy sled for the boy; a cradle made of a cigar box, with rockers nailed on with pins, for the girl, and fitted with bedding from her mother’s sheet by Ethel, with a piece of the shoulder shawl for coverlid.
Even Harry wanted to help, and begged his mother for an empty spool, out of which he could make a real top which would spin. Mrs. Jervis had no empty spool, but she took the largest one she had, wound off the thread on a card, and gave it to him, and he whittled out a beautiful top.
All these things could be done in the same car with the family, for they were very shy, and kept strictly to the last compartment, where the conductor had placed them.
As Christmas day drew near, the question of a tree began to be considered, for Ethel could not entertain the idea of Christmas without one. She consulted the porter, who entered into the spirit of the thing warmly, and as he had noticed some trees not far back, near the track, he managed to cut off a large branch from one. Shaking it free from the snow, he set it up in a box, under Ethel’s directions, making it stand steadily upright with chunks of coal packed in the box around it, and it really looked something like a tree, though it was entirely bare of leaves, for it was not an evergreen.
The baggage-car was decided upon for the celebration, and all day before Christmas Ethel and Harry, as well as most of the passengers by turns, were very busy there. Ethel covered the box of coal with the remains of the sheet; candles for the tree, with all their ingenuity, they were unable to manage, but a fine effect was produced by a brilliant red lantern, which a brakeman lent for the occasion, placed in among the branches.
All the gifts—and they were surprisingly numerous—were hung about the tree, and the bare spaces filled up with paper ladders and rings of dancing dolls and long curling tassels and fringes, all of which Ethel cut with the scissors out of newspapers. These last decorations were added with locked doors, only the porter being allowed to see them.
It was really a very effective show, though so odd, and after the passengers had enjoyed their evening meal of jack rabbits roasted before the fire, with dry crackers for bread, and water to drink, they were all invited by the smiling colored porter to proceed to the baggage-car.
The Grey family, for whom all this had been done, were gallantly escorted by the porter himself, who even carried the baby, now bright and smiling on its diet of condensed milk.
The baggage-car presented a gay appearance, brilliantly lighted by many brakeman’s lanterns. Trunks were stowed away in one end, except those needed for seats, and in a few moments the women and children were seated, while all the men of the train stood around behind them, even to the weary-looking engineer who had been working so hard these two days and nights for their release.
The surprise and delight of the Grey children knew no bounds; and when they found that all these treasures were for them, their ecstasies were beyond control; they laughed and shouted almost like other children, as they had never in their lives done before.
As for the mother, she was simply overcome; tears of happiness ran down her face, and as each gift was placed in her lap, she could only grasp the hand of the giver,—she could not speak.
And what of Ethel! No one would have known her for the unhappy-faced maiden who had so lamented their plight. All this time she had been the moving spirit in the whole matter. She had worked hard herself, and inspired others to work, too. She was rosy and happy on this evening, her eyes bright and shining; and when her mother placed in her hand her own Christmas gift, which she had been secretly carrying to grace the tree at Grandma’s, her happiness overflowed, and she exclaimed:—
“Why! I almost forgot the party to-night at Grandma’s!”
At the close of the evening, as the party were about to return to their car, the conductor rapped for silence, and announced—as the best gift of the evening—that help had come from outside and cut through the drifts, so that before morning they would be able to take up their journey.
It was a very happy-faced Ethel who, the next morning, jumped out of the sleigh which had brought them up from the station, and ran to kiss her grandmother and aunts and cousins, brought together from great distances for the happy Christmas time. And after all, she didn’t miss the tree, either, for, although Christmas had passed, all the party begged to defer the tree till the Jervis family arrived; and there it stood at that moment, all ready for lighting.
Nothing of this was told to the Jervis children, however, till after supper was over, when Grandmother invited the whole company to go into the room where it stood, lighted from the top twig to the pedestal it stood on, and hung full of beautiful gifts.
“That’s a nice story,” said Kristy; “it was lovely of them to save the tree for Ethel. It isn’t bedtime yet,” she went on suggestively, as her mother busied herself with her work.
“No; it isn’t bedtime; but you must have had enough stories for one day, Kristy.”
“No, indeed! I never have enough!” said Kristy warmly.
“Well, here’s another, then, and it’s true, too.” And Mrs. Crawford began.
One warm spring morning, near the town of A——, away off in the edge of the deep woods, a bear awoke from his long winter sleep, came out of his den under the roots of a great fallen tree, stretched his half-asleep limbs, opened wide his great mouth in a long, long yawn, and then all at once found that he was ravenously hungry; and no wonder! for he hadn’t had a mouthful to eat since he went to sleep for the winter, months before.
As soon as he was wide awake, and his legs began to feel natural, he started out to find something to eat. There were no berries in the woods yet, no green things that he liked to eat, and, in fact, there was a very poor prospect for breakfast.
Long he wandered about in the woods, finding nothing, and getting more hungry every minute; and at last he started for the few scattering houses of the village, where he had sometimes found food when it was scarce in the woods.
He didn’t like to go near the houses of men, for he generally got hurt when he did so; but he was by this time so very hungry that he almost forgot that all men were his enemies.
Shuffling quietly along on his soft-padded feet, he came to a little house standing all by itself in the edge of the woods. All was quiet about it, except a curious sort of humming noise, which may have reminded him of bees and honey that he liked so well.
Nearer and nearer he came, snuffing the breeze as he came, till he reached the open door of the little house. Into this he thrust his great head, and surely now he smelled something to eat.
It was a schoolhouse, though he didn’t know it.
At this moment a little girl looked up from her book, and a wild scream rent the air.
“There’s a bear coming in!” she cried.
Instantly all was confusion; books were dropped, school was forgotten, screams and shouts filled the air, while the teacher—a stranger in that wild country—turned white.
Some of the bigger boys ran towards the door, shouting and waving their arms to frighten the great beast away, but he had smelled the dinner baskets, ranged in the passageway, and he was far too hungry to mind the shouting of boys. The next moment he was fairly in the passage, and there was nothing to prevent his coming into the schoolroom.
Now there is a very wrong impression abroad about bears. Most people—especially children—think that a bear is always roaming around seeking some one to devour; while the truth is that, unless madly hungry or badly treated, a bear will always avoid a human being. In fact, hunters call them cowardly, though a more truthful word would be peaceable. In that schoolroom, however, a bear was the greatest terror in the world.
There was nothing in the way of a door to keep him out of the room, but there was a great attraction for him in the doughnuts and pieces of pie and cake and apples and other good things he smelled in the dinner baskets, and he set at once to turning over the contents, and eating whatever pleased his fancy.
After her momentary faintness, Miss Brown—the young teacher—roused herself to see what could be done to protect her charges. There was no door between the room and the passage, though there was a suitable opening for one. Glancing around the room, she saw but one thing to do,—to barricade that opening.
Trying to quiet the screams and tears of the children huddled around her, she spoke hurriedly to the biggest boys.
“Boys, we must barricade the doorway while he is busy with the baskets. Bring up the benches as quick as you can!”
All fell to work, and soon benches were piled from the floor to the top of the doorway; but they were so unsteady that one could see that one good push of the big fellow would throw them all down.
“More!” said Miss Brown; “we must brace these up.”
So other benches were placed against them in a way to brace them, and when all in the room were used, a tolerably steady wall was made, though of course there were plenty of openings between the benches through which they could see and be seen.
“If he tries to push them down,” said Miss Brown with white lips, “we must all throw ourselves against these braces to keep them firm. I think we can keep him till help comes.”
The question of help was a serious one. The schoolhouse was placed on the edge of a bluff where the ground dropped suddenly many feet, and strangely enough, all the windows were on that side, so that no one could climb out of a window, and, what was worse, those inside could not attract attention if any one should pass. The windows looked only into the deep woods.
All this became plain to Miss Brown, as she looked around to see what were their chances of escape. The only hope was that the bear would get enough to eat and go out of his own accord. In this hope she calmed down, and tried to reduce her pupils to order.
Order, however, was not to be thought of. To the terror of the children was soon added their dismay at the havoc the bear was making. One after another basket was turned over and its contents rolled out on the floor, while he contentedly feasted himself on the food. The children could not take their eyes from him, and every time he turned his eyes towards them, they screamed and tried to hide behind Miss Brown.
When at last Bruin had emptied the baskets, and evidently filled himself with the good country lunches, he prepared to take a nap, and rolling his great body over in the small space he hit the open door, and, to the horror of Miss Brown, pushed it shut with a bang that latched it, and made him a prisoner as well as themselves!
Now indeed the stoutest heart turned weak.
“Good Heavens, boys!” said Miss Brown to the two or three older pupils, “what can we do?”
“I don’t see as we can do anything except keep him out of here till men come to look for us,” said the oldest boy, who was about fourteen, and used to the ways of the country.
“And that won’t be,” said Miss Brown, “till they are alarmed because we don’t get home.”
“Yes,” said the boy; “not before five or six o’clock. We’re often that late getting home.”
This was a dreary prospect, indeed, and wails and cries began again to fill the room. Miss Brown saw that she must rouse herself and quell the panic before it got beyond bounds.
She thought quickly, then said, quietly as she could, though her voice trembled at first:—
“Children, shall I tell you a story?”
Story is a magic word to a child, and in a moment the smaller ones were camped down on the floor around her—having no benches to sit on—while Miss Brown racked her brain to think of stirring incidents to keep them interested.
Story after story fell from her lips; lunch time came—but there were no lunches. Miss Brown struggled on; words came slowly,—her lips and throat were dry,—she sipped a little water and struggled on.
All sorts of possible and impossible adventures she related; she told strange facts of history with the wildest fancies of romance-makers; fairies and pirates, and queens and beggar girls, in one mad medley. She never in after years could recall anything that passed her lips in those terrible hours.
Some of the smaller children, worn out with crying, fell asleep, and as the hours passed and twilight stole over the world, hope began to revive; surely the fathers of the village must come to seek their children.
The bear still slept, but they dared not make much noise for fear of arousing him. Twilight deepened and night came on,—still no rescue.
Men were out seeking them; all the village, in fact, but when they tried the schoolhouse door and could not open it, they concluded that school had been dismissed, and turned away to search the woods,—the constant terror of the village parents.
Happily the little party of prisoners in the schoolroom did not know this, or they would have despaired.
A search was started in the woods; lanterns flashed through all the paths and byways between the trees; men called, and women silently cried, but of course no trace of the lost was found.
All night this was kept up, while, on the floor of the schoolroom, all but the two or three older ones, with the completely exhausted teacher, slept in what comfortless attitude they might.
Towards morning a bright thought came to Miss Brown. “They must think we have left the schoolhouse,” she thought; “and we must contrive to let them know where we are. When the bear wakes up he will be hungry again,”—with a shudder. Then the bright thought came, “Let us make a fire in the stove; the smoke will be a sign.”
There was no wood, of course, it being too warm for a fire; but there were some papers and, if need be, books—and it was the first breath of hope.
“But is there a match in the house?” was the appalling thought that paralyzed her. She asked the boys. One thought he had some, and after emptying his pockets of the miscellaneous collection that usually fills a boy’s pocket, succeeded in fishing out two worn and draggled-looking matches which looked doubtful about lighting.
Miss Brown took them carefully, prepared some torn paper, and drew a match across the stove; it sputtered—and flashed—and went out. A cry of horror escaped her lips as, sheltering it in her hand, she tried the second. It burned and the paper was lighted, and in a moment the stove was in a glow.
“Miss Brown,” whispered one of the older scholars, “I’ve heard of bears being driven off by fire; we might light a stick and try it, if he wakes up,” nodding towards the still sleeping Bruin.
“Thank you—that is worth thinking of,” said Miss Brown.
Now the smoke began to pour out of the chimney, and one of the tired men who had been wandering the woods all night saw it.
He uttered a shout, “They’re in the schoolhouse!”
Soon fifty men, on their way home in despair at finding no trace, were about him.
“But the door is locked,” said one man. “I tried that the first thing.”
“Well, somebody is there!” said one; “and we better break the door in, and see who it is.”
They went to the door and knocked, and then pounded, while those inside shouted and cried. At last they were heard, and, coming as near the back windows as they could get, they asked the reason of this strange performance.
“I say!” began the man standing on the edge of the bluff, “who’s in there?”
“We’re all in here,” was the answer; “and we can’t get out because a big bear is in the passageway.”
“Why did you lock the door?” was the next question.
“We didn’t. The bear rolled against it. He’s there now. You can’t open it.”
The good news was quickly carried to the waiting men, and an effort was made to burst in the door, several of the men being provided with guns for their night in the woods.
But Bruin was too heavy for the united efforts, and at last they decided to shoot through the door.
Calling directions to those inside to go close to the wall on the north side so as not to be in danger from any stray bullet, the men began shooting through the door.
It was not long before the bear found it too hot for comfort, and slowly rose to his feet and started for the barricade of benches, now left without a guard.
At that instant the door yielded and burst open, and men and shots and bear and baskets and all came in a mad medley together.
Poor Bruin’s troubles were soon over; he paid for his breakfast with his life.
When all was ended, and the men had a chance to look around and see the barricade, and turned to thank Miss Brown for her heroism in protecting the children, she was found in a dead faint on the floor.
It was weeks before she recovered her strength and her voice, after that terrible night, and the schoolroom—put in fresh order, with a door between it and the passage, a window cut through the side of the building, and a big dinner bell provided to ring when help was needed—was opened again for study.
As her mother paused, Kristy drew a deep sigh. “I’m so glad it ended well; I love to have stories end well.”
“Well,” said her mother, looking at the clock, “I’ll tell you one more that I think ends very well indeed, for it taught—but”—she interrupted herself,—“I won’t tell you the end before the beginning; you shall decide whether it ends well.”
“I just wish I could do as I’ve a mind to for once in my life!” said Lettie Glover crossly, when her mother refused to allow her to carry out a plan she had made. “I never can do anything I want to,” she went on. “I’ve heard that stepmothers were horrid, but I believe real mothers are just as bad!” and she flounced out of the room.
“Letitia!” called her mother sternly, as she was about to slam the door after her, “come back!”
She turned. “What do you want?” she snapped.
Mrs. Glover was very pale. Lettie had never seen her look so, and in spite of her anger she was frightened.
“I think you need a lesson, my daughter,” she said quietly, speaking evidently with difficulty, almost in gasps. “I will let you try your plan; you may do exactly as you choose for twenty-four hours; I shall not see you again till it is over,” and, rising, she went to her own room, and locked the door.
Lettie stood as if stunned; she remembered, suddenly, what the doctor had said, that her mother’s health was precarious, that she must not be agitated; and a feeling of dismay rushed over her; but a thought of what her mother had refused her returned, and she hardened herself again.
“I don’t believe what the old doctor said, anyway,” she muttered; “and I’ll have a good time for once! Oh! won’t I!” as the thought of what she would do came over her.
“In the first place,” she thought, “of course I’ll go on Stella’s moonlight excursion to-night; mother’s objections are nonsense. I know Stella’s friends are a little wild; but they’re awfully jolly all the same, and I know we’ll have lots of fun—and I do love a sail on the river. I’ll wear my new white dress, too,” she went on, as the thought of her perfect freedom grew upon her; “I don’t believe I’ll hurt it, and if it is soiled a little it can be done up before Aunt Joe’s party that mother’s so wonderfully particular about.”
It was now time to start for school, but she at once decided not to go. “I’ll have a good time for once,” she said, “and get rid of that horrid grammar lesson. Now I’ll go over to Stella’s and tell her I’m going;” and she went to her room to get ready.
“I won’t wear this old dress,” she said scornfully; “for once I’ll dress as I please; mother’s so notional about street dress!”
In her own room she threw off the scorned dark school dress and brought from her clothes-press a new light blue silk, just made for her to wear on very special occasions. “I’ll wear this,” she said; “I shan’t hurt it; and I want Stella to see that other folks can have nice dresses as well as she.”
Hurriedly she put on the pretty dress and the ribbons that went with it. Then, taking off her sensible street shoes, she put on the delicate ones that belonged to the dress.
Looking at herself in the glass, another thought occurred to her: “I’ll wear my gold beads, too; mother never lets me wear them in the street, but other folks wear them, and I don’t see any use of having things if you can’t wear them.”
From a jewel case in her drawer she took a beautiful string of large gold beads. They had belonged to her grandmother, and had been given to her because she was named after her, Letitia, though she had softened it into Lettie, “and little enough, too,” she had said, “to pay for having such an old-fashioned name, when Mildred, or Ethel, or Eva, or Maude would have been so much prettier.”
The beads she clasped around her throat, then she pinned on the little gold chatelaine watch her mother had given her at Christmas, and—resolving for once to wear as much jewelry as she liked—she slipped on to her finger a ring bequeathed to her by her Aunt Letitia. It was of diamonds; five beautiful stones in a row, worth a great deal of money, and far too fine for a schoolgirl to wear, her mother said. Much as she longed to wear it and show it to the girls, she had never been allowed to do so. “Now,” she exultingly thought, “now I’ll have the good of it for once!”
To all this finery she added her best hat, which had just come home from the milliner’s, and taking a pair of fresh white kid gloves in her hand, which she couldn’t put on to cover up that ring, she started out, feeling more elegant than she had ever felt in her life before.
The way to Stella’s was through a corner of the park, and everything that morning was so fresh and sweet that Lettie lingered as she passed through. There were not many people there so early in the morning, and Lettie paid no attention to a rough-looking man she passed, sitting on a bench and looking as if he had passed the night there. Her way lay on the border of the wilder and more secluded part of the park, and her mother had always warned her to avoid this part when she was alone. She had therefore never penetrated the fascinating little paths which led among the close-growing trees and bushes, though she had always longed to do so. Now, on the day of her perfect freedom, the temptation came up again. She hesitated; her mother’s warning recurred to her.
“I don’t believe there’s a bit of danger,” she said to herself; “mother’s so old-fashioned. Girls don’t do as they did when she was young; they can take care of themselves nowadays. I mean to see where this little path goes; it looks so lovely and cool in there.”
She turned into the path. It was charming; birds were singing, flowers blooming, and she walked on and on, enchanted.
After a little, however, she was struck with the loneliness of the place, and a thought of her mother’s warning made her turn back towards the more frequented walks. As she turned she found herself facing the man she had noticed on the bench, and a panic seized her. She tried to rush past him, but he barred the way. She tried to scream, but she could not make a sound; and the man spoke.
“No you don’t, my fine miss! If you make a noise I’ll brain you!” and he flourished a heavy stick he carried. “If you behave yourself like a lady,” he went on, less roughly, “I’ll not hurt you in the least.”
“Let me pass!” cried Lettie, white with terror.
“Certainly, miss,” said he gruffly, “in one minute; just as soon as you give me those beads on your neck, and that watch; and if you hand ’em over quietly yourself you’ll save me the trouble of gagging you with this,”—dragging a filthy handkerchief from his pocket,—“and taking them off myself; ’n I ain’t no lady’s maid, either,” he added grimly, “’n I might possibly hurt you!”
Frightened half out of her wits, Lettie raised her hand to unclasp her necklace, when the flash of the diamonds on her finger caught the sharp eye of the thief.
“Golly,” he said, “better ’n I thought! I’ll trouble you to slip off that ring, too.”
“Oh, no!” cried Lettie, “I can’t!”
“Oh, well! I can take it off myself,” he said. “If it’s tight I’ll just take finger and all,” and he took out and opened a great clasp knife.
Then Lettie saw the uselessness of protest, and with despair in her heart she drew off the ring and dropped it into the dirty hand extended to receive it. Instantly it followed the beads and watch into his pocket, and he stood aside, leaving the path open for her to pass, saying, with a horrid grin, “Now you may go, miss, and thank you kindly for your generosity.”
Along that path Lettie flew till she reached one of the main avenues where people were constantly passing, when she fell into a seat, wild-eyed, and almost fainting.
“What’s the matter?” asked a gruff policeman who came near. “What you been doing, miss?”
“Oh, go after the thief!” she cried; “I’ve been robbed.”
“Which way did he go?” asked the man, evidently not believing her, the idea of being robbed in broad daylight, here in the park, appearing to seem absurd to him.
“Down that path,” cried Lettie excitedly, “a great rough man with a big stick! Oh! do go! he has my gold beads and my diamond ring and”—
Whether the policeman did not care to encounter a rough thief with a big stick, or whether he really did not believe her, he here interrupted with:—
“I guess he has your sense, too! I think I better run you in—you’ll do fine for the crazy ward!”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, no!” cried Lettie, this new danger filling her with terror. “Never mind; let him go, but don’t arrest me. It would kill my mother, and me too!”
“Well, then, don’t talk so crazy,” said he gruffly. “I don’t believe your story—nor nobody won’t, an’ if it’s true, ’n I should get him, I’d have to lock you up for a witness. Tell me where you live, ’n I’ll see you safe home.”
“Oh, no!” she cried, tears running down her face, “I’ll go right home. My mother is sick, and it would kill her!”
The man was evidently touched by her distress.
“Well, miss, you just walk along, and I’ll keep you in sight to see that no more robbers get after you.”
With that she was forced to be contented, and with all the strength left to her she hurried along the paths towards home, the policeman following at a little distance and keeping her in sight till she ran up the steps of her home and disappeared inside.
Lettie ran up to her room, and, locking the door, flung herself on the bed, where she had a long cry, partly from nervous strain from the fright she had suffered, and partly for the loss of her treasures.
“I was a fool!” she said bitterly. “Mother always told me it was unsafe to wear jewelry in the streets and to go into those solitary paths in the park; but I didn’t believe her. I was a fool, and I’m well paid for it! I’ll never tell her—never!
“And I shall never dare to let father know, either,” she went on later; “he’d scour the world to find that man, and I should have to be locked up as a witness,”—she shuddered,—“I’d rather lose everything.”
A good deal subdued by this experience, she almost decided to give up the particular thing which had given her her liberty for the day,—the moonlight sail on the river. But after hours, when she had calmed down and decided that she would keep her experiences and her losses a secret from everybody, the thought of the great temptation again stirred her, and she finally resolved to carry out her plan and go.
“It’s likely,” she said to herself, “that I’ll never have another chance to do as I like,—not for years, anyway,—and I’ll have the good of this one.” Having come to this decision, Lettie found herself hungry, for she had been too excited to take any luncheon at the usual hour. She accordingly went down to the pantry where the cook had spread out the morning’s baking; there was a goodly array of pies and cakes and other good things cooling on the shelves, and Lettie thought herself in great luck.
“Now I’ll have a good lunch,” she said to herself, “and no bread and butter, either! I hate bread and butter!”
She helped herself to several little cakes which cook made particularly nice, and with them she ate part of a jar of marmalade which she opened for the purpose; next she took a tart or two, and then turned her attention to the row of pies on another shelf. Looking them over carefully, she chose her favorite, a custard pie. “Now I won’t eat any old crust, as mother makes me,” she said. So she took a spoon and began on the contents of the pie, thus demolishing, I regret to say, a whole pie. Then, calmly dipping into a pan of milk, taking cream and all, she drank a glass of that, and, feeling fully satisfied, she left the pantry, and returned to her room to prepare for the evening.
“I guess I’ll wear this silk dress after all,” she said to herself, for she was invited to stay all night with Stella after the sail. “I’ll have to come home through the streets in the morning, and if the white one gets soiled it won’t look very nice; and besides, I want mother to see that I can take care of my clothes myself.”
So, wearing her pretty silk dress and delicate shoes, and carrying another pair of gloves,—for she had lost the white ones in the excitement of the morning,—she started out, leaving word with the servants that she should stay with Stella all night.
She reached the house safely, and was warmly welcomed by Stella, and in the excitement of planning and talking over the sail of the evening she almost forgot, for a time, the unpleasant affair of the morning.
“It’s a pity you wore that pretty new dress,” said Stella, who was clad in a sailor suit of dark wool, for the boating; “I’m afraid you’ll spoil it,—a boat’s a dirty place.”
“I guess I shan’t hurt it,” said Lettie.
“I wish you’d wear one of my woolen suits,” said Stella; “I hate to see a pretty dress spoiled, and that couldn’t be hurt.”
“No, indeed!” said Lettie; “I couldn’t wear any one’s dress, and if that gets spoiled—why, I’ll have to get another,” she added proudly, though she knew in her heart that her mother could not afford another, that season.
“Well,” said Stella, “you must of course do as you choose.”
The boating party consisted, besides Stella and Lettie, and Stella’s cousin Maud, of Stella’s brother and two of his friends. These two young men it was to whom Lettie’s mother had objected. They were rather wild fellows, sons of rich men, and not obliged to do anything, given up to sports and rather noisy pranks in the city. They were intimate with Stella’s brother, who was one of their kind also.
The moon rose about nine o’clock that evening, and at that hour the gay party took their way to the little boathouse, where they embarked in a small sailboat which was waiting for them.
The young men understood the management of a boat, and for a time all went well. They talked and laughed and sang, and enjoyed the moonlight and the rapid motion, and Lettie thought she never had such a lovely time in her life.
After awhile the spirit of teasing began to show itself among the boys. They liked to frighten the girls, as thoughtless boys often do, and after such harmless pranks as spattering water over them, to hear their little screams of protest, they fell to the more dangerous, but very common, play of rocking the boat, threatening to upset it.
The girls, resolved not to be frightened, for a long time did not cry out, and this drew the boys on to greater exertions, determined to make them scream and beg. At last the thing happened that so often does happen to reckless boys,—a sudden puff of wind caught the sail, the boat lurched, and in a moment the whole party were struggling in the water.
Thoroughly frightened now, the boys, who could all swim, at first struck out for the shore, which was at some distance. Then, recalled to their senses by the cries of the girls, two of them turned back to their aid. Whether they would have reached the shore with their frightened and unmanageable burdens is uncertain, but, a tugboat happening to come along, they were all picked up and carried to a dock a mile or more below.
There, after waiting a half hour, drenched and chilled all through, while the boys tried in vain to get a carriage,—for by this time it was very late,—the party took a street car, which carried them up town, but not near Stella’s, and they had to wait another half hour at a crossing for another car.
It was two o’clock in the morning before Lettie, with Stella and her brother, reached the house, a wretched, draggled-looking, and very cross party, all without hats,—for these had been lost in the river,—and Lettie, her fine silk dress a ruin, her delicate shoes a shapeless mass from which the water squirted as she walked.
By breakfast time Lettie, who was a delicate girl, was in a high fever, and the doctor, who was hastily called in, decided that she was threatened with pneumonia. Lettie’s mother was notified, and hurried down, and, bundled up in many wraps, Lettie was conveyed in an ambulance to her home and her own bed, where she remained for weeks, battling for her life, delirious much of the time, and living over in fancy the horrors of the day she had had her own way.
Some weeks later, after her recovery, her mother, one morning, said quietly, “Lettie, let us count up the cost of your doing as you liked.”
Lettie trembled, but her mother went on.
“There’s your dress and hat and shoes ruined and lost in the river—consequently the loss of your visit to your Aunt Joe; there’s your illness, which deprived you of the school-closing festivities; and the doctor’s bill, which took all the money I had saved for our trip to the seashore this summer.”
She was going on, but Lettie, now thoroughly penitent, suddenly resolved to make a clean breast of all her losses, and have the thing over.
“Oh, mother!” she cried, burying her face in her mother’s lap, “that isn’t all my losses; I must tell you, I can’t bear it any longer alone,” and then with sobs and tears she told the dismal story of the robbery.
“Lettie,” said her mother, “I knew all that the very day it happened. After you had gone to Stella’s the policeman came to the house to see if you had told him the truth. When he told me what you had said I went to your room and discovered the loss.”
“Oh, mother!” cried Lettie, “I’ll never—never”—
“If I had not learned it then,” went on her mother, “I should have known it later, for in your delirium you talked of nothing else; you went over that fearful scene constantly. I feared it would really affect your reason.”
“Oh, mother!” cried Lettie, “you never told me!”
“We will not speak of it again,” said her mother; “I think you have learned your lesson.”
“Do you think it ended well, Kristy?” asked her mother as she finished the story.
“Well,” said Kristy hesitating, “I suppose it was a good thing for her to find out that her mother was right,—but wasn’t it horrid for her to lose all those beautiful things!”
“It was a costly lesson,” said Mrs. Crawford; “but I think it was much needed—she was a willful girl.”
Just at that moment the door opened and Uncle Tom entered.
“Well,” he said, “how did Kristy get through the rainy day that spoiled her picnic?”
“In the usual way,” answered Mrs. Crawford.
“Levying on everybody for stories?” asked Uncle Tom.
“Yes,” said Kristy; “and I’ve had the loveliest ones”—
“Kristy,” said Uncle Tom, “I want to give you a birthday present, but knowing your preference for stories, I did not venture to offer you anything else. So, happening to hear a specially interesting one to-day, I have persuaded the relater to come and tell it to you.”
Mrs. Crawford looked up in surprise. “Tom,” she said doubtingly, “what new pranks are you up to now? You’re almost as young as Kristy herself.”
Uncle Tom tried to look very meek, but there was a twinkle in his eye which did not look meek at all.
“Please, sister mine,” he began, “our niece Katherine—otherwise Kate—has just got back from San Francisco, or what is left of it. She went through the earthquake and the fire, lost all her goods and chattels, and found a baby, which she has brought home. She is in the hall waiting to be received.”
Before the last words were spoken Mrs. Crawford had risen and hurried into the hall, where, sure enough, the refugee from San Francisco, a girl about fourteen years old, sat smiling, with a pretty little girl of perhaps two years in her lap.
“Uncle Tom wanted me to make my visit to you to-night,” she said, after she had been warmly welcomed and taken into the sitting-room, “as a present to Kristy, who is as fond of stories as ever, I hear.”
“Indeed she is!” said Mrs. Crawford, “and in this case we shall all be very much interested to hear your adventures. It must have been a fearful experience.”
“It was,” said Kate; “but now that it is over I think that I, at least, have gained more than I lost, because I found this baby—though what I shall do with her I don’t know yet. Of course I have tried my best to find her parents, for, if living, they must be nearly crazy about her.”
“Surely they must,” said Mrs. Crawford; “she is a darling.”
“Well!” interrupted Uncle Tom, looking at his watch, “time is passing; is Kristy to have her story?”
With a smile at his pretended anxiety, Kate began.