"TRUE" AND OTHER STORIES By JULIA M. BURNETT -#r^ REDONDO BEACH CALIFORNIA 1908 / t"! 3 ) F I 'Press of The lififlex 'Puhlishing Company liedondo iBeacfi, California Con tents PAGE. Introduction vii ''Tkue" 1 Bertie's Snowball 77 Charlie's Messenger 93 JocH 105 The New Hippodrome 135 Crooked Charlie 149 A Christmas Vision 157 Introduction Introduction I^^vN making selections from my Vk mother's prose writings for a ^j companion volume to her book ^\| of verse, I have been guided by the same considerations which governed me in the collection of the poems — the desire to place in permanent form those stories which she would have wished to preserve, and which will be prized by those who loved her, not only for their intrinsic value but also because they com- memorate incidents in her life. These stories were all written after my father's death, though one of them relates to my mother's happy girlhood life at Brookside, Introduction where the '' Lieutenant Sydney" of the story was Lieutenant Charles W. Chipp, her cousin and adopted brother — a gallant and brilliant officer, who was lost in the Arctic with the ill- fated steamer Jeannette. "True" was written in Newark, New Jersey, in 1875, and published the same year in the Christian Union. It. attracted considerable at- tention and was several times reprinted. It seems to me a masterpiece of simple pathos, and is all the more interesting from the fact that it is substantially a true record — with the excep- tion of a few characters and incidents — of our life at Bath, Long Island, shortly after my mother's widowhood. I can just remember the tall, kindly man described in the story, who used to carry my brother and myself upon his shoulder, and whose memory we were always taught to reverence as one whose unselfish Introduction devotion had meant much to our little family in some of its darkest hours. The other stories were written for St. Nich- olas, and similar periodicals. They are per- haps more interesting to me than to others, and yet I think they show a depth of sentiment, a lightness of touch and a tender love for child- hood which will appeal to all. In sending forth this little volume of stories to those same loving hands which welcomed so warmly my mother's book of poems, I wish to express my gratitude for the many kind and tender messages I have received regarding the former volume, and to which I have been unable, in many instances, to reply as fully and as feelingly as I would have liked. It is a great satisfaction to know that her pure and unselfish life, which meant so much to me, has also left its deep impress Introduction upon so many others, and that she still lives, not only in that other land where we shall some day be reunited, but also in the minds and hearts of all who knew her here. C. H. B. Redondo Beach, December, 1908. I rue I r u e Landlord and Tenant T was a clear, bright morning in early spring, and the sun was looking down upon as fair a spot as any he shines upon in all his journey — a lovely little village on the Hudson, where snow-white, vine-embroidered cottages hid beneath spreading trees, or peeped out tim- idly at the stately river moving on with calm and silent dignity to the sea. On the principal street, before one of the most attractive of these little rural homes, a woman stood, of tall and slender figure, and with a pale, sad countenance in striking con- trast yet full harmony with the sable garments of widowhood she wore. A smile parted her 1 "1 rue lips as she looked again at the object that had first stayed her passing steps, — a shingle nailed upon the honeysuckled porch, on which was inscribed in rude characters, ''To let, Inquire "Within." The smile shifted quickly from lips to eyes, as, glancing round, they took in with eager gaze the pretty, home-like scene — the neat, well-painted little house, with its large- paned windows, Venetian blinds and vine- covered porch; the box-bordered path stretch- ing down to the gate ; the smooth, green lawn, larger in extent than any of its neighbors, and dotted here and there with flowering shrubs just bursting into leaf ; the towering elm upon one side, and the graceful branches of a willow sweeping the ground upon the other; while from the circular plot for flowers upon either side, blossoms of tulip, hyacinth and lily raised their dainty heads from the brown mould, 2 Landlord and Tenant repeating their oft-told lesson to humanity, and whispering of that sweet springtide when we shall rise from the dust and dark of this mate- rial body into a ^ ' purer ether, a diviner air. ' ' A long look and a heavy sigh, and the gloved hand that had rested on the gate was with- drawn, and the owner was about to pass on, but paused once more. ''It's no use," she murmured, "but some- thing impels me to enter," and she walked hesitatingly up the garden path, preceded by a happy, dancing child, who chattered as gaily as the birds above her head — taking even less thought than they for the morrow, or the pro- viding of the home nest which this poor human mother was seeking for herself and birdling. Her gentle knock met with no response, but through the half open door the sound of a ham- mer and saw was heard within, with a whistled accompaniment evidently by an expert. 3 "True" ''Oh, Mamma," exclaimed the child, ''are we going to live in this pretty place, and may I have this lovely little porch for my doll-house? Dolly and I can play here all day long. There will be a truly door, and these are my windows, ^ see!" — and a little hand parted the leafy cur- tains. "Oh, Mamma, this must be the very place you have been looking for so long ! May- be God has sent us here. I do hope it is going to be our home!" The mother's eyes filled with tears. ' ' I fear not, ' ' she murmured, and, her second knock having been no more successful than the first, she turned to go, but the child had van- ished. In a trice she reappeared, leading or being led by a tall and not ill-looking man, — rude and angular as the letters on the sign, but on his face a look of thoughtful kindness that softened the rugged features and won the visitor from the first. He was evidently the 4 Landlord and Tenant noisy occupant they had heard, for he carried a hammer in his hand; and evidently the whistler too, for though his mouth was now spread in a broad, good-natured smile, it did not lose the creased expression that some forty- five years of lingual practice had left upon the strongly marked New England face. ''See, Mamma," the child exclaimed, ''this is the papa of this home, and he says that we may live here — ^you and I, and Mammy Edy — if we like. Oh, do come in and see, Mamma, how nice it is ! " "Walk in, marm, walk in," said the carpen- ter, "I guess you've come to see the house, and I've been makin' such a power o' noise I more'n likely ain't heerd you rap. Walk right in and look 'round. Your little gal here seems to hev took quite a shine to the place, and if you like it half as good as she does, we'll mebbe strike a bargain afore dinner time." 5 "True" "There is no doubt I should like it," was the quick reply, as the lady turned in this direction and in that, in compliance with the child's, enthusiastic entreaties, "but what rent do you ask!" "Wall," and with a rough, labor-hardened hand he pushed the old felt hat upon one side, and meditatively scratched his head, "Squire Aldrich's place, jest up the road, ain't no ways better 'n mine — a few more gimcracks, mebbe. but for solid comfort, mine's ahead. He lets his'n this week for three hundred, and I cal- k'late that wouldn't be no ways onreasonable for this," and he looked up to note the effect of his statement, and the chances of concluding a bargain with his gentle customer. But a shadow rested on the fair face that met his gaze, and the voice was very sad that answered: "Not at all unreasonable, I dare say, but far beyond my means ; indeed I knew 6 Landlord and Tenant it was useless to trouble you. You must excuse me. Come, Dorothy, we must be going. ' ' "Wall, don't be in a hurry, marm," and as the lady turned at his bidding, Ezekiel Trueman looked into her pale, calm face, and a strange expression of mingled sympathy and embar- rassment came into his own. "I had an idee," he went on, "that is, I was a-goin' to say that if it was agreeable to all parties — I had an idee — leastways, I had no ob- jection — wall, you see, me and tluldy — Huldy's my sister — she died last fall — we've lived here nigh onto twenty year, and its kinder hard on me to leave the old place. I did shet the house up all winter— jest gittin' it to rights agin — tried boardin', but it don't come natural — and as I was a-sayin', I had an idee that if I could git folks in here as would hev me — wall, I reckon you'd call it boardin' — why, I wouldn't put them out none, and I'd like it fust-rate — I ain't 7 i r u e around mucli, unless nights, an' I turn in mid- dlin' early." ''And what rent would you ask under those circumstances?" inquired the lady, smiling. ''Wall, that's the p'int. I calk 'late we'd set one agin t'other. I ain't such an almighiy feeder, but I reckon that would be about the square thing." ' ' And the furniture 1 ' ' "Wall, I'd throw that in. There ain't so much of it, and it ain't so wonderful nice, but I'd like to see it around. What wan't fit to stay here in the settin' room you could put in the garret along with Huldy's spinnin '-wheel she had yet from her mother. But this here lookin '-glass," and he turned to an old-fash- ioned, gilt-framed mirror between the windows, "I'd like to leave that hang, for Huldy sot great store by that glass. It seems 'most I can see her now, fixin' it up, with tisher paper and Landlord and Tenant sparrer-grass. Poor Huldy!" and he brushed away a tear. The eyes of the lady were as wet as his own, and the minor chord of her own experience, which this simple soul had touched with his rough hand, thrilled in her voice as she replied, ^ ' It shall certainly remain where it is. I would not move it for the world. ' ' And so it was, that amid the boisterous joy of little Dorothy, and the undisguised delight of the carpenter, the bargain was concluded, and Mrs. Eleanor Lane agreed to take possession the following week. A Glimpse of Heaven SI IX months went by, and tlie \\ young widow was almost as 11 liappy as her little daughter in their new-found home. Such furniture as she had been able to save from the wreck of her married life, through the four changing years of her widowhood, made the cottage a palace in the eyes of its simple pro- prietor. Especially did he admire the marble busts and bronze statuettes, and among the pictures that adorned the walls the beautiful face of Beatrice Cenci had a special charm for him since Dorothy told him her own Mamma had painted it, ''with her very own hands." The refined and tasteful surround- 10 A Climpse of Heaven ings were to him a novel wonder and delight, while this half-year's daily intercourse with a cultured woman and a loving child, had been a glimpse of heaven. The affection between him and the little girl was something wonderful to see. Every night, long before the village clock tolled out the hour of release for the day's host of busy laborers, the child was watching at the gate for ^' True" — for such was the beautiful abbreviation she had made of the good old Connecticut name. At the first glimpse of the well-known figure, with dinner-pail in hand and tool-box on shoulder, she would run, fleet as the wind, to meet him, her fair curls floating on the evening breeze. She would take possession of the pail, and slip her own wee hand into the brawny palm, and as she danced on gaily by his side, looking up with sparkling eyes to relate her experiences of the day, or question him as to his, the man's 11 "True'^ face seemed transfigured in the new light and love that beamed upon it. But the widowed mother, seeing them thus together, turned often from the sight, bitter rebellion rising in her heart as she recalled one for whom she used to watch and wait — the majestic figure, intellectual face, and brave, true spirit, that had passed from earth before his little daughter's eyes had opened to its light; and she found it hard that his child's idea of 'Hhe papa of the home" should be this uncouth, illiterate man, good and kind and gentle as he was. Yet Eleanor Lane owed a debt of gratitude to this man, and hers was not the heart to ignore or forget the claim. His influence upon the child was as great for good as that the little fairy exercised upon him. The strong self- will and waywardness that had been the cause of many a hard-fought battle between mother 12 A Glimpse of Heaven and child, and had brought many anxious hours to the parent's heart, was restrained and sub- dued as if by magic under the unobtrusive and almost imperceptible guidance of this rude man, into whose life no child-love had ever before entered. To him, too, the little household owed half its comfort. It was he who, in the early sum- mer mornings, and in the hours after work, cultivated the little garden, until its yield of fruit and vegetables was a marvel to the neigh- borhood. When Mrs. Lane spoke of recom- pense he was half-amused, half -wounded at the idea. *'Pay me for workin' on my own place? That would be curious enough," he said. ''But we get all the benefit of your labor," was the reply. "I guess I eat my share," was the homely 13 **True" response; and spade and hoe were plied more vigorously than before. And when the snow came, his strong arms cleared the numerous paths and walks about the place, and on idle days, of which at this season he had not a few, many a huge log found its way down from the woods upon the hillside, and, with Dorothy looking on admiringly at swinging axe or flying saw, resolved itself into fire-wood that was piled up, fortress-like, as ammunition for the little castle against the winter's siege. When sensitive Mrs. Lane ven- tured to speak of this as an expense which she must be allowed to meet, his hearty response was, ''Why, bless you, marm, I must be a-doin' something. I can't whistle and whittle all the time, as folks say us Yankees do, and I would n't feel to home if I couldn't do the chores as I allers done." And his tenant realized that not in dollars and cents could she remunerate 14 A Glimpse of Heaven this eccentric individual for the time and labor thus bestowed. In winter and summer alike his inventive brain and skillful fingers were ever occupied with something for little Dorothy's pleasure. Such sets of furniture for the doll house, such cradles and carriages and countless little won- ders of use or beauty, as came from his busy hands! Often at night, looking out over the snowy garden, Mrs. Lane would see a gleaming light in the window of ' ' the building, ' ' — a small structure used as tool house and work shop in the rear of the house — and know well that faith- ful, loving hands were there spending hours of labor over some little toy for her rosy, slumber- ing darling. This means of employment was, indeed, a great boon to the honest fellow, for his evenings he had found hard to dispose of. Until Dorothy's bed-time he was perforce in the sitting room with the little family, for there 15 "True" was always sometliing to look after, in the way of dolls' fractured limbs, disabled chairs, or "unsatisfactory tables; but when the young mother returned from bestowing the child in her bed for the night. True had always van- ished. Sometimes the soft notes of his flute would steal up from the kitchen, but more often there was neither sound nor sight of him till the beaming light across the snow revealed to her his whereabouts and occupation. Common Ground O. . _ F Dorothy's tastes and fancies, \\ True had made a study, and jl knew well how to gratify them. With her he was on terms of greatest ease and familiarity, but of her mother he seemed to stand more and more in awe as he knew her better. Her comfort and conven- ience it was always his delight to serve, but surreptitiously if possible. He shrank from her presence as dazzled eyes from the light — ever conscious of the great disparity between them. His child-like nature met the child on its own plane, while between him and the refined woman there was a gulf he could not cross. But circumstances bridged it finally, for good or for ill. 17 A terrible affliction overtook poor True. Mrs. Lane had long noticed the uncertain step and slow movement, so different from the usual quick, brisk manner, and little Dorothy had told her mother, with sobs, how True took her in his arms one day and * ' cried real tears, ' ' but coaxed her not to tell. At last it could be disguised no longer — he was blind ! An oculist from the neighboring city was summoned, and pronounced it cataract, but some time must pass before an operation could be performed. And now the gentle, tender- hearted woman had ample opportunity, which she was not slow to improve, to minister to the rough, kind hands and honest heart — to give service for service. An easy chair in the most comfortable corner was appropriated to his use, and mother and child devised ways and means to while away the long, tedious days for the idle, restless man. 18 Common Ground When he went out to the village, which he at first refused to do in very shame at his help- lessness, little Dorothy was his loving guard and guide. Her baby hands were ever on the alert to lead his uncertain fingers to objects for which they groped; her childish prattle won him from his melancholy thoughts ; and often, as he sat with the sweet burden on his knee, his merry whistle or hearty laughter rang out cheerily as ever ; and Mrs. Lane found her little daughter's childish play more efficacious than her books or papers, or most painstaking con- versation, to interest the helpless invalid. Just in one way could she best minister to his comfort. The words of Scripture seemed to him to take new meaning on her lips, and the fervent, humble. Christian soul found in this fact alone an ample compensation for his afflic- tion. He listened spellbound as she read his favorite Psalm — that sweetest one of confidence 19 "True" and tru^t, the Twenty-third — and once he im- pulsively exclaimed: *'When I come to die, I jest hope them words will be the last I hear on this here side of Jor- dan." "Where is Jordan, True?" asked Dorothy on his knee, but he had drawn back into his old reserve as he felt upon his face the upward glance of the reader's eyes. He was always sad and subdued when in her presence, and oftentimes, as she looked upon his sightless face as he sat patiently in his easy chair, her eyes would fill with tears and her heart overflow with sisterly affection. Yet, when her voice softened to address him, or her ministrations for his comfort brought her near his side, he was embarrassed and ill at ease, though to the child he turned as the heliotrope to the sun. 20 Common Uround But the child-nurse fell sick, and anxiously delivered into her mother's hands her little daily duties to her beloved True. The poor fellow shrank from every touch of the gentle jBngers, and sought to escape as far as possible the little services he had accepted so gratefully and humbly at the smaller hands. But both his embarrassment and self-imposed deprivations escaped notice, for although during the first few days there seemed little cause to doubt the doctor's assurance that the child's illness was trivial, the mother's prescient soul had felt the approaching danger from the first; and when it burst upon them like a tiger in ambush waiting to give the deadly spring, she only grew a shade paler than before, — more vigilant and faithful she could not be. Those were terrible days in that devoted household, where the child lay unconscious or raved in wild delirium, while the angels of life 21 "True" and death battled above the little couch ; terri- ble for the widowed mother, whose only hold on life lay in that small form; terrible for the good old nurse, who suifered with the mother, rather than for the child, for to her the stricken woman was still her ''little Missy," whom she had nursed from babyhood in their sunny Southern honie ; terrible for the helpless, faith- ful True, about whose soul seemed to be gath- ering the same thick darkness that had already shut out from his eyes the light of day. Kind neighbors came and went with pitying sighs and hopeless whispered words, and the December winds swept round the house with the despairing wail of human voices. Day and night the mother watched — untired, unrelieved. Day and night the faithful True sat with sight- less eyes turned towards the door of that sacred room, his eager ears drinking in every sound, but listening in vain for any hopeful one. 22 Common Ground One night, in that darkest honr before the dawn, when nature herself seems lying in the shadow of death, the cold dew drops on her brow — that black, oppressive time when God and heaven, life, hope and happiness, seem farthest off, and wicked men and wicked spirits, dark deeds and thoughts and every evil thing, nearest at hand — in that dark hour, on the third day of the hard-fought fight, the blind man groped his way, entered noiselessly the sick-room and approached timidly the bed where the watcher whispered the words he had heard so sadly often — ''No change. '* A smothered sob from an adjoining room fell upon his ear. By a sudden impulse he fol- lowed the sound, and his outstretched hand rested upon a woman's bowed, despairing head. ''Oh, True! True!" she cried, "how can we give her up?" 23 "True" The name by which she addressed him ! The tone, the words ! The man swayed like a willow. Had an angel from the highest heaven stooped and lifted him from the darkness of this earthly life to that blest abode, to gaze with eye imblanched upon the dazzling glories there, he could not have been more filled with rapture and amaze. In that moment he stood upon a level with this woman whom his adoring soul had set like a star in the heavens above him. A common grief had made them equals. He fell upon his knees beside her, and her cold hand was wet with his tears. It was but a moment, and she was summoned to the sick room, where faint, quivering little sighs announced the dreaded change which Mammy Edy had prophesied would come at this dark hour. And with the change came life and hope; through the darkness the dawn was streaming; and on the first gray beams of 24 Common Ground morning light the dark angel fled before his victorious brother. With his departure the shadows lifted from house and hearts, and all was hope and gratitude and joy. Too Bright THEEE remained now but the \\ blessed task of nursing back the ^j child to health and strength, and, ere the happy Christmas tide was come, she sat, a guardian angel, at the bed where the blind man went down into the depths of unconsciousness — that strange simili- tude of death — while skillful fingers made the attempt to bring back to him the priceless boon of sight. And when at the end of that long fortnight of alternate hope and despair, the decisive moment of experiment had come, her trembling little hands untied the bandages, and it was her joy- ous face, almost as bright and rosy as when he 26 Too Bright saw it last, that first greeted his grateful, happy eyes. Then they were raised eagerly to that other face he had so longed to look upon since that dark night when in his blindness and his grief she had opened to him the portals of heaven, which ever since had stood ajar. How he had drunk in the blessed music of her voice as she read or sang away the remaining hours of his imprisonment ; how trembled with a strange delight, when her gown brushed by him as she passed his chair, or her hand met his while ministering to his daily needs. But now, although her eyes were wet with tears of happy sympathy for him, and though her hand clasped his with words of congratulation and of joy, yet as he looked upon her she receded to the far-off heights on which she stood before, and, covering his face with his hands, he moaned aloud. ' ' Is it too bright 1 ' * was the startled, anxious question. 27 "True'' "Oh, yes," he murmured, *'too bright! too bright for me." And when the time of probation was fully past, the bandages thrown away, and the clear gray eyes looked upon the world once more, it all seemed strangely altered to his altered vis- ion. The skies were not so blue; the fields had lost their freshness and the trees their green — a shadow was on them all. Only Dor- othy's face shone in unchanged upon his troubled, bewildered heart, and with her uncon- scious help he took up the old life again. Again he set out to his work in the early morning, and again he returned with the child dancing at his side. Again he labored in the little garden, and again he stole from the family circle, and with his flute sought to exorcise the uneasy spirit that possessed him. Thus the poor heart battled bravely on, while the innocent cause of all its woe unwittingly 28 Too Bright made the conflict harder every day. For while to him each day increased the immeasurable distance between them, each one drew this woman nearer to his side. His devotion to her child, and his generous, lovable nature, had awakened in her heart a tender admiration and regard. The beautiful soul shone through the rough exterior and homely words, and, recog- nizing thus the real man, she greeted him as a brother. Besides all this, their mutual sym- pathy in joy and sorrow was a strong tie, and, never dreaming of the possibility of any affec- tion on his part other than that she felt for him, it was ever her loving effort to break down, as far as possible, the barriers that birth, edu- cation and circumstance had raised between them. And he gave her no cause to suspect the wild conflict raging in his heart. His manners and his words were in no way changed to all out- 29 "True" ward seeming, except that both had lost in large degree their iincouthness, in obedience to that law of assimilation to which we are all subject, and the constant effort of the man himself to learn the language of this new world in which he lived. Confidentially and humbly he begged Dorothy to be his critic and teacher, and with wonderful tact and delicacy did the little maiden fill the role. So the summer passed, and with the falling leaves of autumn another shadow fell upon the little home. The loving, watchful heart that longed to come between this woman and every form of ill that could befall her, had pondered much concerning the buff business-like enve- lopes of '^Eobb & Steele" that he had brought so often lately from the postoffice — for he was postman of the little family; had noted, too, the eagerness with which she always seized them, and the sad, weary look upon her face 30 Too Bright when next lie saw her ; the nntasted supper, the involuntary sigh. Then came a cessation of the unwelcome messengers, and True rejoiced greatly, for the happy holiday time again was near — the time for care-free, joyous gladness. Yet sadly he still observed the anxious look upon her face. A Solemn Oath T was Christmas eve. A tall cedar, felled by True's hand, and planted in its moss-covered bed, stood in the little parlor adorned and laden for the morrow. Mrs. Lane had been speaking to him chidingly and gratefully on his lavish expenditure of gifts, both beautiful and useful, for the eager, expectant little Dor- othy ; and as they labored together hanging the wondrous fruit upon the tree, the barriers that ever stood between them seemed to fall, and in sharing joy over the child as before they had divided grief, they stood again on common ground. ** Don't be in a hurry,*' he stammered, as 32 A Solemn Oath Mrs. Lane, fatigued by the long day's labor, prepared to leave the room. She could but smile at the familiar formula, but she saw that he had something unusual to say, for he was pale, and his hands were thrust nerv- ously into his pockets, a habit which, under Dorothy's tuition, he had quite discarded. '^'I want to say," he began, "that I have got something here I was a-going to put on the tree, but" — and fumbling nervously in his breast pocket, he drew forth a paper and pushed it along the table towards her. *'I have had it on my mind quite a spell back," he said, ''for we can't never tell what's a-going to happen, and I ain't made for old bones anyway." Mrs. Lane paused, and, with a pardonable look of curiosity, took up the paper. "This Indenture," she read aloud, taking in only the principal words as they caught her 33 "True" eye, "by and between Ezekiel Trueman, of the first part, and Mrs. Eleanor Lane, of the second part, witnesseth, that the said party of the first part, for and in consideration of one dollar, doth hereby sell, convey and confirm unto said party of the second part" — she read a little further in silence, then raised her swimming eyes to the anxious, watchful face. * ' My friend, ' ' she cried, ' ' do you imagine for a moment that I could take advantage of this generous impulse to rob you of your home?" "That ain't the way I look at it," he an- swered, taking courage as he spoke, and rally- ing all his forces to gain entrance through the breach he had made. "It wan't no home to me till you came in it, and I will take more comfort from it yet to know that you'll be here when I am gone. I couldn't be happy in heaven," he cried, "knowing that anyone had the right to turn you and Dorothy from this door if so 34 A Solemn Oath be you wished to stay. Take that and it can't be done; take it and you have a home — not such a one as you ought to have, but still a home. ' ' "No, no, I cannot," she answered. "What! see you living here under your own roof, raised as you have told me by the hard labor of years, on my sufferance, by my permission ? Never ! ' ' And folding up the paper, she put it into his hand. But it fell from his open fingers to the floor. "I living here," he echoed; "and if I were not living here? If I should go awayl" She looked up quickly, with startled, inquir- ing glance. "Don't you know that I would do it?" he cried, with eyes aglow, and a sob in his tremb- ling voice. "Don't you know that I would do anything in the wide world to serve you?" Utter astonishment, sharp pain and bitter 35 "True" self-reproacli flushed and i3aled her face alter- nately, but before she could collect her scattered senses for reply, the man had come to himself, and was earnestly pleading for forgiveness. ^'I have nothing to forgive," she murmured, pushing back the hair from her throbbing tem- ples. ''And I am sorry, sorry, sorry. All I can do is to go away as soon as possible —but, oh, my God!" she cried involuntarily, ''where shall I go?" and dropping her face upon her hands she found relief from the vary- ing emotions that crowded upon her, in a flood of tears. The sight was new agony to the tortured man. "Don't, don't!" he pleaded. "Forget what I said! I didn't mean nothing — I never thought — I never meant — " Poor heart! It dared not say, "I looked for no reward beyond the bliss of laying my all at your feet, of loving Z6 A Solemn Oath and living humbly in your sight, or going from your presence if in that way I could serve you best." A moment was enough to restore the woman's calm. ^'My friend," she said, ''we will not blame each other for this unhappy ending of our life together; and when I go" — ' ' Go ? " he cried, distractedly. ''I must," was the quiet answer, ''for your sake and mine. I shall go next week if I can. ' ' "Go! next week!" he murmured, sinking back upon his chair; "out in the cold and the snow! I have suffered everything thinking how others might put you to that when I wan't here, and now I've done it myself, with my accursed tongue ! Oh, God ! my punishment is greater than I can bear ! ' ' His face was hidden for a moment, and then, rising suddenly to his feet, ' ' Listen ! " he cried. 37 "True" There was a new, strange tone in tlie familiar voice, and Eleanor Lane looked up involuntarily in answer to the peremptory call. Could this be the meek and timid man ever embarrassed in her presence and shrinking within himself at her approach, now towering above her with calm, proud face, under the gaze of whose steady eye's hers shrank abashed? "Listen!" he said again; "I never took an oath before, but here I swear" — and one hand was laid upon the Bible at his side, the other raised heavenward — '^that at the first sure sign of your departure, I go from this house and town for good and all. Weeds may grow to the tops of the windows, and every beam and rafter rot away with time, but never will my foot cross that door sill — never will I set eyes on this spot again — but I'll wander, like Cain, a vagabond on the earth. Don't go, and I will bless you till I die ; and don't be feel- 38 A Solemn Oath ing hard with me for giving yon such a choice — it's the only way I can half set right the wrong I've done. See, here's the paper that brought j^on all this trouble, — though God knows, ' ' and his voice broke with a moment's returning weakness, "I meant only good. See, it won't do no more hurt," and he thrust it in the fire. ''There now, let all be as it was before; I'll never remind you of this night by word or look — you can trust me." Was it fancy or reality, that touch upon her hair, soft and gentle as a woman's kiss? A fancy surely, for looking up the next instant she found herself alone. With a sense of be- wilderment and loss she crept to her room and to her pillow, and, clasping little Dorothy in her arms, wept away the aching at her heart. A headache kept her in her room the following day, and it was not till night that she saw the man whose position towards her was so 39 **true changed — whose love, so suddenly revealed, filled her with such pain and compassion, and who now held her a prisoner in his house by the very strength of his affection. They met at the Christmas tree, where Doro- thy was beside herself with wonder and delight, and again it was love for the child that bridged the gulf between them. Clouds and Sunshine L»i r IFE went on again in the little \\ house apparently as before, bnt IB daily the helpless woman was trying to find some way of escape from the net that held her. More and more anxiously she watched the coming of the mail, and when at last with foreboding heart poor True brought another of the ill-omened letters, she tore it open on the spot, and, with one hur- ried glance at its contents, fell senseless at his feet. Mammy Edy carried her off, with loud la- mentations but business-like celerity, to her own apartment, and poor True paced his little room all night, or listened at his half-open door for any sound that might relieve or enlighten his aching heart. 41 << *lr ^ — ^ >> T r u He was told in the morning that she was better, and before night she resnmed her place in the little family, but pale and nervous, start- ing at every sound; and he knew well that the sword which had hung suspended for weeks above her head had pierced her through at last, and the faithful heart bled as if the wound had been its own. He saw the clouds of care settling down upon the face so fair to him, and flew from her presence to wring his hands in sheer despair that he was powerless to scatter or avert them. Bitterest thought of all, that by his own mad- ness and presumption he had closed forever the door of opportunity he might have found to minister to her comfort in a thousand ways ; that through his own act he was doomed to sit idly by and see her suffer. Shut out from her confidence, he imagined the direst evils, and indeed his fancy could hardly paint them more Clouds and Sunshine disastrous than they really were. The letter from which she had hoped and feared so much, that was to lift her to affluence through an in- vestment in which she had been led, by some of the ''Scribes and Pharisees who devour widow's houses," to risk her all — the letter whose com- ing she had so longed for, yet dreaded — had come, only to tell her she was penniless. Armed with wealth, that open sesame to most barred gates that block our way, she might have found some means of escape from her painful position, but now she was helpless — and home- less but for the roof of this man who loved her and whom she could not love. Time went on, and daily the horrid skeleton of Poverty secured a firmer foothold in the little home. Pitilessly he faced the distracted woman till her eyes had the frightened look of a deer at bay, and the color that had crept up to her cheek vanished, leaving it whiter than it had 43 "True" ever been. He even sought to check the merry laughter of the child, and about poor True threw a shadow darker than the night of blindness he had known before. The bony fingers robbed the little house of all its precious trifles. One by one the pictures vanished from the walls, and the marbles and bronzes from their places. Then from the gar- ret was brought down the old easel keeping company there with Huldy's spinning wheel, and all day long the busy fingers toiled, making a business of what in former days had been a pastime, in the effort to satisfy this grasping demon. But the pale, sad woman too often re- turned from her weekly journey to the city, paler and sadder than when she went, and with the burden upon her arm and heart unlightened. Each time she thus returned a pair of watchful eyes glanced anxiously at the gleaming jewel, which, ever since the day they first admiringly 44 Clouds and Sunshine beheld it, had stood guard above the plain gold band that circled the marriage finger of the slender hand. Later than ever shone now the light from the window of ''the bnilding," but no sound of hammer or saw was heard within. A suffering man, impatient of the narrow limits of his sleepless room, paced here the weary nights away, or sat lost in thought, his face buried in his hands. Nightly gleamed the light, and daily the shadow deepened. On poor Mammy Edy, too, it fell, and the dusky face seemed even darker in its shade. But her eyes grew bright, and her voice trembled half with awe and half with joy, as at the bedside of her mistress — prostrated at last in the weary battle — she told with bated breath of how the store-room, unreplenished, still remained supplied. "I clar ter goodness, hit's so, honey! De 45 "True*' days er maraculums ain' ober yit! De Lawd is good! Dat's so fer true! Didn' de cliillern er Isrel stan' in de fiery fur- nis an' de fiah nebber swinge dey liar? An' wen dey come out didn' dem low-down white trash what put 'em in mek tracks 'way from dar? Dey sho' did! An' didn' de widder omman git down ter one bar'l er meal, an' yit had plenty er hoe cake kase de meal nebber gib out? Dar 'twas! An' neider will yon bar'l er flour and taters gib out, honey, twell dis storm be ober pas'. For fo' weeks now, I'se tuck out ebery day, an' dey stays jes so; dar ain' no mo' an' dar ain' no les', but lak de widder 's karosene oil dey fail not! Dar 'tis. An' jes so wid de coffee an' de tea an' de sugar — w'eneber I goes ter de boxes dey's allers jes so. Dis yere's true ez gospel, Missy, min' wat I tells yer. Dis chile's no fool. I tole Mr. Zek'I 'bout hit wen I fus' foun' hit out. 46 Clouds and Sunshine He wuz mightily sot back — an' tole me ter tell nuffin' 'bout hit; an' I ain' gwineter, but lak Mary in de Bible I keeps all dese t'ings an' ponderate in mah heart." The next day Mrs. Lane was about the house, and the next she went to the city upon "busi- ness," and when on her return Dorothy pulled off her gloves to chafe the cold, tired fingers. True grew deathly pale and turned away — the ring was gone. Barrels and boxes in the store-room, and the coal bin in the cellar, were now piled up to the brim, much to Mammy Edy's most righteous indignation, who declared it was ''flyin' in de face er de Almighty, an' makin' light er his wonders in de land er Ham." Poor little Dorothy was once more childishly happy in a bright, new dress and a pair of soft kid shoes, while Mammy Edy scolded as she 47 "True" dropped big tears on the stouter, larger ones that ''Missy" bestowed upon her. And now the poor robbed hand rested awhile from its labors, and the terrible sacrifice, once made, brought peace and quiet to the tired, tortured heart. It almost seemed as if the cruel fate that held this struggling soul had but waited for such a costly offering to loose her from his bonds, for with the very next evening's mail there came an order from the dealer who gave her little pictures a place in his window. He had a customer for another copy of the ''Beatrice Cenci," and two of the "Flower Girl," and this was but the beginning of better times to come, for similar orders oft repeated came faster than the fragile fingers could fulfill them, although, nerved by hope and strengthened by success, they accomplished wonders. Spring came, the busy hands worked on, and 48 Clouds and Sunshine the pale face grew brighter every day. Through the open window snatches of happy song floated out upon the balmy air where the busy gar- dener toiled, and little Dorothy's questions went unanswered for a time. Everything was brightly, joyously happy. Leaves were flutter- ing, birds were singing, and the circle on the lawn was a fragrant, glowing mass of hyacinth, violet and crocus. True whistled cheerily at his work in the borders, and the gleeful laugh of the child rang through house and garden. Sometimes at the little girl's approach her mother would impulsively catch her to her heart, as if rejoicing over her escape from some threatened danger; and True, catching a glimpse of this — perhaps through the open window — would brush his hand across his eyes and whistle louder than before. Mammy Edy, sharing in the general glad- ness, broke into a hearty, ^'yah, yah, yah!" on 49 "True" the slightest provocation, or with dignified solemnity sang her favorite camp-meeting song ; "O, Moses smote de water An' de sea gib way. De chillern dey pass ober, Fer de sea gib way. O, Lawd, I feel so glad, It am allers dark fo' day. So honey, don' be sad, Fer de sea'll gib way." Sometimes at sight of the lonely ring upon her finger, the old shadow crept across the busy artist's face. The wonderful success of her little pictures had enabled her to leave almost untouched the roll of bank notes with which she might yet have recalled the missing jewel had she not put it forever beyond her reach. She had felt that she could never wear again the precious souvenir, profaned by the touch of vulgar, mercenary hands, and so had sold it outright to a responsible jeweler, and 50 Clouds and Sunshine when, after a few weeks, encouraged by her success, she had gone back hoping to repurchase it, it was gone — sold the day after it had been left sparkling in his window. But she turned resolutely from the painful thought, grateful that for one grief her success had brought her there was the blessed compensation of inde- pendence for the present and sweet promise for the future. "I Will Fear No Evil" peace, plenty and prosperity reigned in the little cottage, and under their genial sway dark- visaged care had fled, while health and hope and happiness peeped out tim- idly from every nook and corner of the home. To Eleanor Lane the incidents of the past win- ter seemed like the vague remembrance of a dream. Certain it was that not for the man's sake, apparently, had there been any need of her "going out into the cold and the snow," from which fate she was not ungrateful to think that he and her own hard circumstances had jointly combined to save her. His cheery whistle ever gave notice of his approach, and his happy face shone like a sunbeam in kitchen and parlor 52 "I Will F>ar No Evil" alike. His gentle, loving heart seemed over- flowing with good will to all, and his busy hands were busier than ever ministering to the com- fort of servant, child and mother. To Dorothy he devoted himself with redoubled assiduity. She was his idol and queen. Every wish she uttered, that did not militate against her own best good, it was his happiness, if possible, to gratify. At her suggestion a wide and long piazza replaced the little porch over the front door of the cottage, and, the march of improvement once begun, it was almost a summer's work. One idea suggested another, and soon a bay window upon one side, and a commodious wing upon the other, almost transformed the little house into a wide- spreading mansion. ''It won't do the place no hurt," the owner said, and Mrs. Lane wondered what idea he had in view. Then her taste was called upon 53 "True" to furnish the empty rooms, but, absolutely refusing to occupy them, since there was no need, the key was turned upon the new carpets and upholstery, and the little family lived on as before. Mammy E dy was ' ' af eard Mr. Zeke gwineter git married, and we-all gits notice ter quit," but Mrs. Lane's surmises did not tend in that direction. Little Dorothy was pupil now as well as teacher, and the hour between supper and bed- time was given to her lessons. It was the night of the twenty-third of Decem- ber. Perched upon True's ever-ready knee, circled by his loving arm, she spelt and read her self-appointed task, and then the book was laid aside, and the curly head nestled on his breast, lost in sweet visions of the Christmas tree already planted and waiting for its beau- teous burden. Then followed a sparkle of childish prattle, mysterious whispers and rap- 54 "I Will Fear No Evil" turous clasping of tiny hands, till the mother announced that the extra half hour in honor of the occasion had' expired and the little bed was waiting. Twice the child returned from the open door to say good night to her fond and faithful friend. Twice he lifted her in his arms, and, pushing back the golden hair, left warm and tender kisses on the baby face, and when she had departed he followed her to the hall, and begged "one more" between the railings of the stairway. From where she stood she could only reach his forehead, and there she left her last good night, true and tender as an angel's blessing. On these two hearts, so knit together, had fallen the far-otf echo of approaching ill. When Mrs. Lane returned to the sitting room she was questioned anxiously with regard to Dorothy's health, and every incident of the day was discussed, seeking the slightest excuse for 55 « 'T' _ .. - »> rue alarm concerning her. The mother's heart, ever scenting danger in the air, also took alarm, and she bent anxiously above the sleeping child ere she went to her pillow. Bnt morning found the little fairy bright as the sun that streamed through the curtains as she awoke. True had long since gone to his day's work, the raising of a barn that must be finished ' ^ so Squire Aid- rich 's poor cows can have a new home for the one that was burned down," as he had told Dorothy. Quietly, as on many a day of doom, the morn- ing hours were passing, when suddenly, in the child's voice, rang out a startled cry. Up the snowy garden path four men were bearing with slow and careful step a litter, from which hung a black covering like a funeral pall. Suddenly as came the summons, it found the two women of the little household at their posts. One bore away the struggling, frantic child, and 56 "I Will Fear No Evil" the other, after one questioning word, led the way to her own chamber, largest and most com- fortable in the little cottage. A few swift movements of the dexterous fingers, and the bed was ready for its burden — the mangled form of the stalwart True. Then all stepped back to make room for the hastily entering physician. A glance of the practiced eye, a hand laid for a moment upon pulse and heart, and he turned away. ''Doctor, is there no hope?" inquired a woman's anxious voice. The answer was prompt and decided. "None. There may be returning conscious- ness before the last, which is not many hours away, but the chances are that he will remain in this comatose condition to the end. ' ' Sadly and slowly the four friends stole from the room, the doctor left his orders, and Eleanor Lane was alone with the dying man. 57 "True" "Oh, my poor, poor True," she murmured, with streaming eyes, as she wiped from the pale and parted lips the oozing blood, ''Speak! speak, once more ! Come back and leave your gentle blessing with us ere you go I " Under the warm baptism of her tears, or in response to the pleading voice, the gray eyes slowly opened, and a heavenly smile lighted the pallid face. A powerful restora- tive left by the physician was administered by the trembling hands, and the almost stilled machinery of life moved slowly on again. ''When I lay there — on the ground," he mur- mured, "where that beam sent me — I only prayed — for strength — to bear the pain till they could bring me home — to die — with you. ' ' She made no response except to take in both her own the outstretched, trembling hand. "But the end is coming — fast," he added, "I must be quick. In my vest pocket — on a bunch 58 **I Will Fear No Evil" of keys — please take them now — you will find one larger than the rest, and one — that's very small. They open the blue chest in the garret — and a little box you'll find inside. You must not blame me" — The words died on his lips, and when next he spoke it was but the babble of delirium. He was walking home with Dorothy in the sum- mer sunset. He was whistling at his work for Dorothy in the little ''building." He was fell- ing vigorously, with the poor, shattered arm, a Christmas tree for Dorothy's holiday. He was whispering tender words of counsel, re- proof and love to Dorothy on his knee. He was thanking God in fervent, homely phrase, for the blessing that had come into his life, and plead- ing earnestly for all heavenly blessings on child and mother. But sometimes sadder pictures tormented the fevered mind, and he piled reproaches upon 59 "True" himself for the pain he had brought the gentle heart which beat for him now so tenderly, as the woman at his side bent over him with com- forting, caressing words. Thus passed long, weary hours before pitying sleep at last hushed the tired lips and tortured brain. His strength was ebbing fast when he awoke, but his mind was as clear as the shafts of light thrown by the setting sun across his bed. ''Bring Dorothy," he whispered, as Mrs. Lane bent tenderly above him. But the child's frantic grief he could not bear, and when his hand had been laid in tender blessing on the disheveled curls, her mother with gentle force led her away. Kind, pitying neighbors took her vacant place beside the bed, and one whispered her to hasten back, for the end was near. More painful every moment grew his breathing. Strong hands changed his position, seeking for relief, 60 "I Will Fear No EviT* but every respiration was a groan, till the pale nurse returned, and, seating herself upon the bed beside him, lay the poor tossing head upon her bosom, and soothed with soft, caressing touch his restless agony. *'Is that better r' inquired a sympathizing friend. *'I don't mind it now," was the reply. One by one friends and neighbors stole away, two of his companions who bore him home re- maining within call ; and, alone with the one he most could wish in all the wide, wide world, the dying man went down into the dark valley. With tender touch the gentle hands wiped the drops of heavy moisture from his brow, while others were falling on his cold face from hers. ''Tears, and for me?" he asked with incred- ulous tones of mingled joy and sorrow. "Oh, my dear, good friend," she sobbed, "I want to tell you how gratefully I shall always 61 "True" remember the good that you have done in so many ways to me and mine. But you will meet one yonder who will thank you better than I can. ' ' "I will tell him," was the simple answer, ''that I did what I could." A spasm of pain contracted the rugged fea- tures. '*It is so hard," she cried, ''to see you suffer. ' ' "I do not suffer," was the answer, as he fixed his eyes on hers, "leastways I hardly know it if I do." But the dark shadow was creeping across his face, and his thoughts must be lifted from human love to Love divine. ' ' True, dear True, ' ' said the trembling voice, "do you hear mef Do you understand?" Clear and low came the answer, ' ' Yes — I hear — I understand." 62 "I Will Fear No Evil" Then through the silent chamber rang the beantiful words, ''The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures ; He leadeth me beside the still waters ; He restoreth my soul ; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil" — He listened with a peaceful, placid smile, and, echoing the words ''I will fear no evil," he stepped across the narrow boundary that lies between us and that blessed land where evil cannot enter. Little Dorothy was sobbing in her sleep, and the unadorned Christmas tree rose ghost-like in the little moon-lighted parlor, as Eleanor Lane looked out across the snowy garden to the dreary ''building," from whose windows no familiar light was streaming. But she did not recall that other night of a year before, nor 63 True" cast one thought into the future. She was lifted up to a sphere above the earth, to which that parting soul had carried her, and down from the starry dome through the ''wonderful night" she thought she heard the angels' Christmas song, which, as she listened, seemed verily the keynote of that vanished gentle life — ' ' Peace on earth, good will toward men, ' ' Gage d 'Amour I^^fyT was the day after the funeral, \\ and with sad heart Mrs. Lane ^S prepared to carry out the wishes ^V| of the departed True. The blue chest opened easily to her hand — but what was this that met her sight? Dozens of her little pictures, framed and unframed, carefully packed and hidden there. Humiliation, dis- appointment and a flood of tender feeling swept over her in turn. On the top of all lay a letter directed to herself, and with tear-dimmed eyes she slowly deciphered the unpracticed hand. ''Don't blame me," she read, ''It is the only way I could help you. If you can forgive me, send notice of my death — for you will only read this when I am gone — to the address below." 65 "True'' She hastened to fulfill this last request, and then, with the broken-hearted little Dorothy on her knee, tried vainly to peer into the future. The expense of removal, the half-year's rent for their new home, wherever it might be, the daily needs of her little household — how were they all to be met? What madness and folly seemed now the innocent, tender longing to which she had yielded, to exchange that precious roll of bank notes — the price, she almost felt, of the Judas-like betrayal of her happy past — for some other gem to fill the vacant place upon her finger and be an ever-present reminder of that more cherished one forever gone. Of course it could be sold in turn, but her heart sickened over this trafficking in her purest, most sacred emotions, and she knew moreover that by the time they were again transmuted into gold it would be far less than they had brought before. And the little income which she supposed the 66 Gage d * A m o ur labor of her hands would ever bring her^ and all the hopes and plans that clustered round that thought, had now vanished like a dream. In the midst of her painful reveries the door opened and Mammy Edy ushered in a visitor. He announced himself as Israel I. Trueman, "cousin and nearest of kin to the deceased," and Mrs. Lane recognized in the stern, hard- featured man a strong family likeness ; but the mild, benevolent expression that softened all the rugged features of the one had no exist- ence here. He was, unless his looks belied him, a close and calculating, shrewd and avaricious man. He had no time to waste, but proceeded at once to business. He had already made ap- plication for the necessary papers, and would like to have possession of the little estate by the first of the month if possible — certainly not later than the tenth under any consideration. She was ignorant of the fact that he had no 67 "True" legal right to enforce his cruel haste, and sleep- less nights and distracting days were again her portion. It was New Year's eve, and no light had yet dawned upon her darkness. Again came Israel I. Trueman to the little cottage, and pompously exhibited certain documents, on the strength of which he declared that three days was the ut- most limit of time he could allow for her de- parture. Little Dorothy clung to her mother's dress and looked timidly at the strange man, so like and so unlike her own dear True ; and Mrs. Lane made no answer. Ringing in her ears were the words uttered so long ago — and faithful memory retained every accent and tone of the voice that was still — ''I couldn't be happy in heaven, knowing that any one had the right to turn you and Dorothy from this door. ' ' "You understand what I'm sayin', I sup- Gage d * A mo ur pose?" was the rude inquiry, as with a far- away look in her eyes, and pale as death, she stood in the center of the room. ' ' If the house ain't vacant in three days, I shall hev to take legal measures to hev it so." "One moment, my friend." The speaker was a dapper, active little man, whom Mammy Edy had just shown in, and who seemed greatly interested in what he had overheard. ''Are you not rushing matters a little?" he continued. "Written notice of ejectment must be given previous to dispossession, a point of law you surely must be acquainted with. But wait a moment and I think I can save you all further trouble. Your pardon, madam," and the little man turned respectfully to the bewildered woman, "Mrs. Lane, I believe?" She bowed mechanically. "Mr. Johnson, at your service. I only re- ceived yesterday, on my return to town, your 69 "True" note informing me of the death of my client, Mr. Ezekiel Trueman, and hastened at once to fulfill the mission entrusted to me. This, my dear madam," and he quietly unfolded a legal document, ''is the last will and testament of our departed friend, duly executed, signed and sealed in my presence one year ago this very day," — and he gave with unction the formal legal j)hrases — ''bequeathing to Eleanor and Dorothy Lane and to their heirs and assigns forever, all real estate and personal property of which he died possessed — "My dear madam," exclaimed the lawyer, putting a glass of water into Mrs. Lane's trem- bling hand, as he helped her to a chair, "com- pose yourself, I beg. It is only evil tidings to which we should yield like this." While the eccentric little stranger was ex- plaining further the contents of the will and the details of the modest estate, the former claimant 70 Gage d 'A m o ur quietly withdrew, and Eleanor Lane at last be- gan to realize that the hand of the faithful True had again been lifted to smooth her path, and that even in death he still watched over her that no harm might befall. The "personal property" — mostly the ac- cumulated savings of many years' hard labor of this man of simple tastes and habits — was more than ample to provide for all the wants of the little household, while -the beautiful cottage, remodeled and refurnished according to her own ideas and tastes, belonged to her "and her assigns forever." Shall I attempt to portray the fullness of gratitude and reverent tenderness that filled this woman's heart to overflowing till the joy of it was almost pain? What could he have done for her or for her child that he had left undone 1 So she mused, as tenderly she removed the pictures his hands had laid in the old blue 71 "True" chest, to hang those he most admired on the walls of his own little room, which was to re- main "True's room" forever. ' ' For who can tell, Mamma, ' ' said little Doro- thy, ''but that God will let him come sometimes to see how happy we are here; and won't it please him, don't you think, to find his own room waiting for him still, and see that we never, never, never can forget him?" Almost the last picture was taken from its hiding place when the little box he had spoken of, and which she had forgotten, suddenly met her eye. She turned the key in the tiny lock, and the light from the half-closed shutter was caught and reflected in a thousand changing hues by the brilliant diamond that gleamed within. Could it be — it surely was — her own be- trothal ring, to whose loss she had sought in vain to reconcile herself this whole past year! 72 Gage d * A mour Trembling she carried it to the window, seek- ing the inscription that ought to be within the golden band. "Gage d' amour," she read aloud with streaming eyes. A gage d'amour indeed! And it was replaced upon her finger, doubly sacred and precious now; nor did she shrink from sharing the holy associations that clustered round this precious relic of her past, with the new and tender memories that must remain for- ever in her heart. Bertie s Snowball Bertie s Snowball HIS Bertie is the greatest boy T\\ for pets you ever saw. Some- ^jj times it is a half -drowned fly he has fished out of his mug of milk, and with it he divides his ''cakes and sugar candy" till Margaret, in dusting the sideboard, lifts the goblet that shuts it in, and the un- grateful pet takes wings and flies away. Then comes a storm between the luckless Margaret and ' ' the little masther, ' ' as she calls him, but she promises to write home to her ''first cousin," who is coming over in the spring, to bring with him "the swatest throosh that sings in ould Ireland's hedges," and this far-away bird in the bush consoles the unhappy little boy. 77 Bertie's Snowball Perhaps a fat, hairy caterpillar is the next pet this odd little fellow takes to his heart. I know of one he had for a week, and then, as it wouldn't eat the leaves he brought it, he be- came afraid it would starve to death, and so let it go. In he came, one sunny morning, from the garden, smiling bravely but his eyes full of tears. **Well," he said, *' Furry 's gone. The minute I put him on the walk he just galloped off. I loved him very much, but he was glad to get away from me." The next pet, likely enough, is a grasshopper. Indeed, grasshoppers, butterflies, and millers,— yes, and once a mosquito, and once a spider, — have all in turn been tenants of the little glass house on the sideboard. Some of the occupants ran away without paying their rent, and others got turned out while their tender-hearted little landlord was out of the way. Once or twice he had a fish that he found 78 Bertie's Snowball alive on the string the fish man brought for breakfast, and once he had an angle-worm in a little box of earth that had to be overturned a dozen times a day to see if ' ' Bait ' ' was all right. I used to think if little Mr. Bait had known his name, and what it meant, he wouldn 't have been quite comfortable in his mind. But the biggest and prettiest and dearest pet of all was the little white rabbit of which I sat down to tell you. /^NE day Bertie went on a visit to his little cousins, and when he came home he found that a friend of his Mamma had sent him this little white rabbit. Oh, you never saw such a proud and happy boy ! He could not find words to tell how pleased he was, or how much he thought of his new pet. And certainly she was a beautiful little creature. Plump, and soft, 79 Bertie*s Snowball and white, she looked almost like a snowball — and "Snowball" she was named immediately. She had such pretty, long ears, each one with a rose-leaf inside — I mean they looked as if they had — bright, pink eyes, tiny mouth, and clean little nose, and, as Bertie said, "her funny little whiskers were the cunningest of all." Uncle John built Snowball a pretty little house, with a wire door, and windows of real glass, and with two nice rooms inside — a front and back parlor. The back parlor was Snow- ball's bedroom, where she had a bed of nice, soft hay, and the front parlor she used for a dining-room, as I suppose she did not expect many calls. One of her neighbors, a little black-and-tan, that lived next door, would have liked to call, I dare say, but he never got an invitation! Indeed, if Snowball saw him ever so far off she ran away from the window as 80 Bertie's Snowball quickly as possible, for fear he might think she wanted to see him. Every day Bertie would take Snowball out to get the fresh air, and with a long blue ribbon tether her on the grass-plot under the cherry tree ; and he was so afraid the saucy little black-and-tan would spy out his pet, that he never left her alone on the grass, but would sit and watch her for an hour at a time. T% UT now I come to the sad part of my story. The fall was coming on, and Jack Frost went about at night, pinching all the poor plants black and blue, and blowing his cold breath in the morning-glories' pretty blue eyes so that they could never open them again, and — what was worse than all — spoiling all the lettuce and cabbage leaves that Snowball needed for her breakfasts and dinners. One night Bertie said 81 Bertie's Snowball to his mother, as she was putting him to bed: ' ' Oh, my dear little Mamma, what shall I get tomorrow to feed Snowball? She had nothing today but parsley, and not a drop of milk, for Margaret needed it all for the custard. ' ' Mamma promised to get something in the house to feed Snowball through the winter, and to ask Uncle John if her little bed-room would be warm enough for her when the real cold weather came. Early in the morning Bertie ran out to give Snowball a saucer of warm bread-and-milk. Grace was being said when he came in to break- fast, so he sat down quietly in his place and nothing was said about Snowball, but about ten o'clock he came laughing to his Mamma. ''Well," he said, 'Hhat Snowball is the great- est little sleepyhead this morning I ever saw. I have called her, and called her, and knocked on her house, and I can't wake her up. Free 82 Bertie's Snowball times I have warmed her milk and carried it out to her, and had to carry it back again. ' ' His mother only said, ''Indeed!" and then asked Bertie to go on a little errand for her. As soon as he was out of sight, she went right out into the kitchen and said, ' ' Margaret, please come with me. I think your arm is long enough to reach into the rabbit house, and I am afraid the poor little thing is dead." ''Ah, don't be afther saying that!" said Mar- garet; but, alas, it was so! For, with many loud words of surprise and grief, Margaret took out her hand, and in it poor little Snowball, stiff, and cold, and dead ! Bertie 's mother, you may be sure, felt very sorry, but she hadn't time to say a word, for, turning round, she saw her poor Bertie, his dear little face almost as white as the rabbit itself, and his hands clasped tight together. He could scarcely believe poor Snowball was dead; and when she kindly and 83 Bertie's Snowball pityingly told him that it was really so, he went on like a crazy little boy. '^It is all your fault, Margaret," he screamed. ' ' You used up all the milk for your bad, hateful custard, and poor Snowball hadn't anything yesterday but parsley." ^ ' I wonder if the parsley could have done it, ' ' said Mamma to herself. ''It did! It did!" shrieked poor Bertie; "and Uncle John ought to have told me it would kill her. It is all his fault — he didn't care for poor Snowball — nobody loved her but me — not even you, Mamma — or you — you would have done somefin' so she wouldn't die — so it's your fault, too, Mamma. Oh, my poor little Snowball!" His mother felt so sorry for him that she didn't speak one word of blame for the naughty way he was talking, for she felt sure he scarcely knew what he said, and would be sorry for it 84 Bertie's Snowball by-and-by. She just put her arm around him and led him into the house. At the door they met little brother Charlie — a dear little fellow, just three years old. His blue eyes were very wide open and his little face looked troubled. At sight of him Bertie's sobs broke out afresh. ' ' Oh, Buddy, Buddy, ' ' he cried, ' ' Snowball is dead ! ' ' But then another thought came to him. ''And it's your fault," he said, ''for you helped to pick the parsley that killed her — oh, you wicked little boy!" Then Mamma had to kiss the big tears off poor ' ' Buddy 's ' ' cheeks, for his baby heart was quite broken by such dreadful words from his big brother, for though Bertie was only two years older, Charlie thought he was almost a man, and loved and worshipped him with all his little heart. When the little boy was comforted, Mamma took her big boy on her lap and kissed him, 85 Bertie's Snowball and wiped away his tears as well as she could, and pretty soon he threw his arms about her neck and said, ' ^ Oh, Mamma, I know it is all my fault and nobody else's, and that makes me feel badder and worser all the time. ' ' His mother said all she could to comfort him, and told him that it was no one's fault at all — that little white rabbits were very delicate, and would sometimes die with the best of care — that parsley was a kind of food they often eat, and that it certainly was not his fault the least little bit. JL T night when Mamma was putting both her *^ little boys to bed and telling them funny stories, but without a word about rabbits or pets of any kind, Bertie suddenly said : * ' Mamma, there 's one good thing about Snow- ball. When I go to heaven I'll have some one, 86 Bertie's Snowball to play with and love me till I get acquainted with the angels." Then, taking a big swallow, *'You are sure, Mamma, there's plenty of fresh lettuce there, and that Grod won't let little black-and-tan hurt or frighten her?" His mother told him she was quite sure there was everything in heaven to satisfy all the wants of those who lived there, and that God would let nothing hurt or frighten the very smallest of his creatures in his happy home. ' ' No, not even Snowball, ' ' said the little boy, ''of course He won't, for if I love her so much when I am so little, and — so naughty some- times," he added softly — "how much more God must love her, when He is so much bigger and gooder than I am. "But, Mamma," he went on, "you say that when people die they don't die really — only go out of their bodies, and that is all that dies. Well, Mamma, if that was the way Snowball did 87 Bertie*s Snowball it, wliy didn't her little body, — her poor little body, I saw in Margaret's hand," and he gave another big swallow and rubbed his little fists in his eyes, — ''why didn't it look flat, Mamma? If Snowball went out of her skin it ought to be ilat, you know," and he brought his two little hands together so close there wasn't room for a pancake between them. ''And so it was," he added thoughtfully, as he remembered the poor little creature lying on her side with little feet outstretched, so different from the white puff- ball she had always been before. "But, oh, Mamma, why couldn't she have stayed in her pretty little body a while longer, when I loved her so ? " His mother told him that a great many people older than he had asked the same question, and that no one but God could answer it. "I'll ask Him about it, then, the very minute I get to heaven," said Bertie with a sob. Bertie's Snowball ''Well, darling," she said, "I wouldn't talk any more about it now, but say your prayers, and then kiss Mamma good-night." ' ' I want to say one thing more, ' ' said the lit- tle boy, and he drew her face close down to his. "I am sorry I talked so naughty today when I was crying about Snowball; and you were so good and never said a word. ' ' And not a word did she say now, but kissed him a great many times, and then began saying, "Our Father," as she did every night. Both little voices joined with hers, and when Charlie had said "Amen," — for he was always a little way behind, because he was such a little fellow, Bertie said, and had such a little tongue — Mamma kissed both her boys again, and then, sitting on the side of the bed, she sang to them softly until they fell asleep. Charlie's Messenger Charlie's Messenger T was kite-time. Charlie and his big brother had been busy all the morning making a ''three- stick- er," and a great deal of trouble they had, as well as pleasure, in putting it to- gether. Charlie's share in the work was some- thing like that of the boy who blew the bellows of the organ. When this boy spoke of ''our music" the organist laughed at him, but when he stopped blowing in the middle of a beautiful voluntary, the frantic performer was quite willing to share with him the credit of the work if he would only go on blowing. So poor Charlie, when the kite was done, didn't get any credit for its beauty or general 93 Charlie's Messenger excellence, yet he had as much to do with the final result as the organ-blower had with the music. It was Charlie who went down cellar and hunted through the kindlings for the sticks that the big brother whittled down for the frame. It was Charlie who ran to mother for the newspaper, and, after a good deal of coax- ing, got away with an Illustrated Christian Weekly, with a picture of an eagle on it to fly up in the clouds. He got it from a pile laid away to be sent to the hospital, but it was such a splendid idea for a kite — that eagle — that mother let it go. It was Charlie who mixed the paste, getting the flour all over his little blue suit and Nora's clean floor, thereby draw- ing down on himself reproof from mother and Nora, too. It was Charlie who ran for the scissors, and tore up the old pillow-case into strips for ' ' tail, ' ' and went to the grocery for a ball of twine, and in fact did all the drudgery 94 Charlie's Messenger that was to be done; and then stood gazing at that wonderful big brother making the kite, with such a look of admiration on his little face that mother had to stop and kiss it while she was trying to brush the flour out of his coat. This big brother was only two years older — and Charlie was only six — but he was a wonder- ful boy in Charlie's eyes. Hadn't he written a letter to St. Nicholas once, and wasn't it pub- lished with the name to it and all I Couldn't he do real sums on a slate, and when he wanted to see a boy who lived up-town, didn't he just sit down and write that boy a postal-card to that effect, and send him — Charlie — with it to the letter box at the corner? Couldn't he draw '^efelants" — as Charlie called them — and bears, and camels, and giraffes, and then cut them out — a whole menag- erie full? Some people might not know which was the camel and which the giraffe, but 95 Charlie's Messenger Charlie did, and only pitied their ignorance. There was no doubt in Charlie's mind concern- ing the wonderful ability of that big brother of his, and he ran his errands and bowed down before him, and followed his guidings, like a little loving slave. And the big brother didn't abuse his power more than poor, weak human nature is apt to do. YHJLjTHEN the kite was at last finished it was carried off in triumph to the common, a whole army of boys admiring and congratulat- ing the proud builder, and Charlie bringing up the rear with an armful of tail which he had been called upon to go back and disentangle from a rosebush. Mother at the window heard all the boyish talk as the little group went by, and smiled over her baby's ruling passion as 96 Charlie's Messenger she heard him say, ''Don't he make nobby kites, though ! ' ' Ten minutes later he came dashing into the house. The kite was up! The eagle was out of sight! The kite itself was almost beyond the clouds! Oh, how it pulled! He had held it just for a minute, and it almost pulled him off the ground ! He had been sent in for paper. They were going to send up messengers. You just put a piece of paper on the string, and away up, up, up it goes until it reaches the kite. That big brother had told him so. And he danced up and down with impatience till he got the paper, and then was off like a flash to see this new mystery that wonderful boy had brought to light. P EETTY soon there was again the patter of little feet on the walk, and into mother's room again came Charlie- — cheeks redder, eyes 97 Charlie's Messenger brighter, and excitement greater than ever. All the messengers had gone up out of sight ! The kite was but a speck! It was '* ^most into heaven!" That big brother was the authority for this statement, and mother hadn't a word to say. But when she kissed the little boy he threw his arms about her neck and kissed her in return so earnestly that she knew there must be some- thing going on in that little brain, some deep feeling stirring in the little heart, for he seldom had time or inclination, in the fever heat of the day's occupations, for much caressing or social pleasures. That was generally left till bed- time, when mother washed the little hands and faces, and gathered from her two little boys an account of the day's troubles and pleasures; rejoiced with them over its joys, pointed out its evils and prayed with them that Infinite Love might rule all its events for good. 98 Charlie's Messenger That was generally the only time that very much was done in the way of kissing, so mother knew there was a special reason for this unusual caress, when that wonderful kite was away up " 'most in heaven," and that wonderful boy, the big brother, was holding on with his giant strength and still 'letting out," while a host of interested spectators were issuing orders as to the proper management of the ' ' Eagle, ' ' and the news of its wonderful flight was spreading like wildfire through the neighborhood. ''I wish I could write!" said little Charlie, with his arm like a fishhook round his mother's neck. ''I wish I could write." Mother, with no idea of what was in his mind, offered to write for him, and, with pencil in hand and paper before her, waited for the little boy to speak. He leaned one elbow on the desk, and, with his cheek in his hand, looked up in her face. 99 Charlie's Messenger ''Write down 'Dear papa,' " he said softly. Mother's hand trembled and her eyes grew dim, but she wrote it. "I am your little boy, too" — that was the next sentence — "and when I come to heaven I will know you by your picture." But mother couldn't write any more, and when she laid her head down on the paper and cried, poor little Charlie was in great distress. Again the little arm went round her neck. "I only wanted to write somesin' to dear papa," he said, "while I had such a good chance. Maybe the kite will never go up into heaven again." IjEAE little Charlie! His papa died — went to heaven, the boys said, and that is the right way to put it — before Charlie was born. The little fellow always thought it very hard 100 Charlie's Messenger that he had never seen his papa, and was troubled to think that his claim hereafter on that papa's love, or even acquaintance, might be very uncertain. He had had many a talk with his mother about it, who had comforted him as best she could, and told him all the sweet, precious things she herself believed on the subject. But here, Charlie thought, was an opportunity for him to speak for himself, and to hold direct intercourse with that dear father, whom, having not seen, he loved. Each boy had the privilege of sending up one messenger by that far-soaring kite, and his should go up into heaven itself. Oh, sweet faith of innocent childhood ! Mother wiped her tears away finally — or Charlie did for her — and then she told the little boy that loving thoughts and prayers could soar higher than the farthest soaring kite, and reach heaven by a nearer, quicker way; that angel 101 Charlie's Messenger '* messengers" would carry straight to dear papa every loving thought of his little heart, and that they would know each other well when they met, although they had never seen each other on this earth. Then she sent him out for further news of the wonderful kite, and, when his little feet had pattered past her window and their soimd had died away in the distance, she took down her Testament, and with the pencil that had written the letter for Charlie's messenger, she marked this passage: Except ye be converted and become as little children ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Joch Joch ITTLE Warren Sydney was about nine years old — a tall, stout boy for his age, with big blue eyes that gave him some- times a very innocent and sometimes a very surprised look. He lived in a picturesque village on the Hud- son, and his home was a large, white house shaded by tall trees and surounded by a fra- grant garden of roses, poppies and mignonette. At the foot of the garden a little purling brook glided along beneath the willows ''to join the brimming river," and the pretty home was called Brookside, and little Warren was very happy there. 105 J o c h Little Warren had a big brother, who wore a bhie coat and brass buttons, with stripes on the sleeves and an anchor on the collar, and who wrote "U. S. N." after his name. One day there came a telegram from this brother, whose vessel had come steaming into New York Bay a few days before, and thus it read : "Send hy express one monkey." When near home he would often write or telegraph to send him something by express — some article from his camphor-wood trunk or some book from his library — ^but such an incon- venient and impossible article as a monkey had never been ordered by him before. ''It cannot be monkey," said sister Alice, "Can it be magnet?" ''Or turkey f" said sister Annie. "Or meteor," added Kitty, who had snatched up the dictionary to find a substitute for the 106 J o c h puzzling word, ''or mermaid? or mainmast f Perhaps it is mainmast." The latter seemed a more likely thing for him to want, but one mainmast would be quite as difficult for them to send as one monkey. No, it was written plainly enough, "Send by express one monkey." "I know," at last said little Warren slowly — little Warren never hurried about anything — ''he means he sends by express one monkey, and it's for me; 'cause he said once he would send me one." Sister Annie, who was sister-mother of the little family, laughingly said, "Why, of course! I remember that, too. How stupid we all are ! ' ' But Miss Alice, aged sixteen, who always ex- pected people to mind their p's and q's, said it was very absurd, and as puzzling as the mes- sage on the wall at Belshazzar's feast, and why 107 o c didn't he say "7 send by express one monkey?'* And, sure enough, why didn't he? TPHAT very night the expressman left at the door a wooden box, through the slatted side of which might be seen the ^'one monkey," a poor, shivering, frightened, unhappy-looking little wretch as ever lived! On the top of the box, after the address, was written, "One mon- key— Free— J C H." The word ''Free" seemed a cruel satire on the miserable little prisoner within, and "JOG H" — what did that mean? Altogether it was as puzzling as the telegram. But Alice said it was all plain enough — ''Free" of course meant that the box came through without charge, and the other was the monkey's name — "Joch" — and she gave it with such a French gutteral on the last letter that mischievous 108 J o c h Kitty laughed aloud, and even sister Annie looked amused. And so it was that ''Joch" became the mon- key's name. Alice always gave it the ' * Franco- Saxon pronunciation" as Kitty said, and the rest pronounced it more or less improperly, down to little Warren, who called it, in good English, "Jock." How the big brother laughed when he came home, and how they all laughed when they heard how Joch had come by his name. One day, in New York Harbor, a distinguished look- ing old gentleman, with a party of ladies, came to visit the ship, which had just returned from a long cruise. Lieutenant Sydney showed the party over the vessel and gave them much inter- esting information, and, on leaving, the visitor gave the young lieutenant his card, saying he was the president of a certain express company, and if, at any time, he could oblige him by send- 109 J o c h ing anything over their lines he would be most happy. Whereupon Lieutenant Sydney at once declared his intention of sending up the Hudson the very next day his little friend the Darwinian South Sea Islander, whose pranks had so amused the young ladies. The box stood there already addressed, and, a marking pot being near at hand, the pass- word "Free" was soon added, with the gentle- man's initials, "J. 0. C. H." And wasn't that the oddest way that ever man or monkey got a name? lOCH soon became quite at home with his new friends, and was, you may be sure, a great pet with them all. He was a pretty little fellow, not much larger than a good sized kitten, with the most earnest, expressive little face you ever saw. Kitty said he could talk, 110 J o c h and that his plaintive little prattle meant something. And no doubt it did. It certainly seemed different from a monkey's usual sense- less chatter. While little Warren claimed him for his espe- cial property, Joch seemed to belong, by the bonds of love at least, to every one. Sister Annie allowed him more liberties with her work basket than she accorded to any other member of the family, and the mysterious dis- appearances of her thimble, spools and buttons would have made "a fine hullabaloo in the house," as Kitty said, could the sin have been laid at any door but Joch's. True, she sometimes slapped his hands and called him ''naughty Joch," but when the absurd little creature covered his face with his ridiculous paws — which he always did when in disgrace, peeping out between his fingers, and winking his eyes faster than you could wink 111 J o c h yours if you practiced all day — what could any one do but laugh at the little rogue and pro- nounce him the most bewitching torment that ever lived? So did sister Annie, at all events, and Joch had many a cosy nap in her basket, curled up among the gaily colored yarns that beguiled her leisure moments. With the stately Alice, of whom even untame- able Kitty at times stood in awe, Joch was par- ticularly free. Without so much as ''by your leave" or "may it please you," he invaded her apartment, whose threshold none but favored mortals ever crossed; toyed with the pretty trifles on her bureau, emptied her scent bottles into her glove box, put her soap in her writing desk, her pens and pencils in her tooth dish, or sat perched in his favorite seat — the top of her pretty French bed — dropping peanut shells on the embroidered covers of her dainty couch. Kitty declared that if she had done one-tenth 112 J Q c h of this miscliief Alice would have beheaded her, without mercj^, on the spot. As it was, she only said, ''Why, Joch!" with a little stronger gutteral than usual, and laughed at the little scamp's real or make-believe signs of penitence and grief. But Kitty, the irrepressible Kitty — whose nickname was "Winnie Wildfire" — she and Joch were kindred spirits, and they enjoyed each other's society as keenly as congenial souls always do. He would chase her all over the house for the privilege of being carried about on her shoulder, where she would fondly place him after first leading him a fine race. Here, with the ribbon from her hair tied round his neck, Joch sat as happy as a king, except when Kitty pulled his tail, which insult he promptly resented by boxing her ears. J o c h IVJESSY, the youngest little girl of tHe family, thought she never could forgive Joch for one wicked thing he did. In the maple at the gar- den gate a robin red-breast and his mate had built a nest. Nessy had watched the work from the beginning, and thought she knew just how many little straws and threads and hopes were woven into the walls of that tiny home. Indeed, she had helped to build it, for many a little wisp of cotton or silk had she put on the gate post and then hid behind the lilacs to watch the robins carry them away. At last it was done, and by getting in just the right place she could see the wee head of the little mother bird as she sat patiently all day long, waiting for her nestlings. Now Joch was a great climber, of course — what monkey isn't? He skipped up to the roof of balcony or piazza, ran along on the wistaria vine and roses, or swung himself by the tail 114 J o c h from the branches. But the big elni, the circuit of whose trunk alone gave him quite a little run, was, for some reason, the only tree he cared to climb. When Joch was out of doors, if he left the piazza, he was always in the elm tree, and this fact gave Nessy relief from all fears for her beloved birds in the maple. But one day, led by some perversity, Joch climbed the maple. Nessy saw him scamper up to the first branch, swing himself to the next, and then up to the third, where, alas, in a secluded little notch, brooded the robin red- breast on the nest that she and Nessy had so carefully built. The distracted little girl, her heart in her ijiouth, cried wildly, ''Joch! Oh, Joch!" and then, doubtful of her own powers of persuasion, flew for her sister; but Kitty was too late. By the time she stood beneath the maple, confident of her ability to bring Joch to her shoulder, the little reprobate had 115 J o c h found the nest, and the only answer he made to her invitation was a little empty egg shell that fell on poor Nessy's upturned face. All Kitty's remonstrances, entreaties and threatenings were in vain. With the coolest impertinence of look and manner, Joch sat there, deliberately sucking the eggs one after the other, and scattering the tiny blue frag- ments at their feet. It was all over. Joch chattered; the poor little birds twittered, flying wildly about his head; Nessy cried; Kitty scolded; and little "Warren laughed. He said he couldn't help it — he felt sorry for the birds, and ''mad as pie" at Joch, ''but the little thief did look so funny." lOCH was in disgrace for awhile after this. Kitty absolutely refused to romp with him that night, and left him chained alone in his 116 J o c h cage all the evening, something which Joch especially disliked, and against which he re- belled with pitiful wails and pleadings. Nessy heard him after she had gone to bed, but her kind little heart was as steel tonight. ''Good for you," she said, "I'm glad of it! What did you care when the poor birdies plead- ed with you I" And she covered her head with the blanket so she couldn't hear him (soft- hearted little Nessy), and went to sleep. In the morning, as she was hurrying down to breakfast, she heard Joch's plaintive voice, and, looking in the sitting room, saw him swing- ing back and forth on a picture frame in a great state of excitement and alarm. His weight had tipped the picture, which, for some reason, frightened him terribly — perhaps it was his guilty conscience — and he was wildly and pite- ously appealing to be taken down. ''I won't do it!" said Nessy. ''I am glad of 117 J o c h it. You can just stay there and cry. And I won't tell a single soul either, and you'll have a good long time of it. Oh, you wicked, deceitful, treacherous little thing ! ' ' I don't know why she called poor Joch treach- erous and deceitful. He had never promised not to eat the robin's eggs. But these large and severe adjectives seemed to relieve Nessy's feelings immensely, and she went on down to breakfast, setting her little heels firmly on the stair in a way that said, as plainly as her words, that Joch must expect no mercy from her. But half way down she stopped. "If thine enemy hunger feed him; if he thirst give him drink. ' ' That was her Bible verse that very morning. It seized Nessy by her conscience and held her fast. ' ' When I read it upstairs, ' ' said the little girl, "I thought it was easy enough to do, for I was quite willing to carry things to eat to old Mrs. Croy when sister 118 J o c h Annie found out she was so poor, even if she did tell wicked stories about me last summer, saying I knocked at her door and then ran away — a thing 1 never would do in all my life ! But Joch is my enemy too, and it all means the same thing — and it's dreadful hard." And she went down one step. ''Feed him — give him drink." Some one seemed to be saying the words in her ear; and she slowly turned and went up two steps. ' ' He is only getting what he deserves, and he ought to be punished," said Nessy, and she went down three steps. Then she turned and ran as fast as she could to the sitting room, where Joch, hanging by his tail to the picture cord, was in a worse plight than ever. She rolled the sewing machine to the place, climbed on it by a chair and lifted Joch down, who clung trembling to her arm, and said, as plainly as a monkey could, that he looked upon her as a 119 J o c h friend even though she might regard him as an enemy. But Nessy was conscientious only. "I for- give you, Joch," she said, untwining his arms from hers, "because it is my duty, but I don't love you ! ' ' And she went down to breakfast. 1 OCH'S misdemeanor was, after all, very soon forgotten. He was like those winning, be- guiling people whom we quickly forgive deeds that would long be treasured up against an ordi- nary mortal. The little rascal was very amusing — there was no doubt about that. It was too funny to see him with Mouser, the cat. It was for a time an open question whether Mouser would allow Joch in the family, and I think it was the sublime impudence of the intruder that won first her consent, and finally her complete trust 120 o c and affection. When at tlieir first meeting she drew up her back and spit and glared at him as if in doubt whether this new specimen of creature belonged to the rat, dog or human species, Joch walked deliberately up to her and took her paw, as if desiring to examine it, as well as to inaugurate a friendly acquaint- ance. He soon found out what it was good for by getting a violent tap that rolled him on the floor, and while he sat winking and blinking, and offering no retaliation for this insult, puss seemed to come to the conclusion that he was harmless, and that she could afford to patronize him. Mouser's ears were a never-failing source of curiosity and amusement to Joch. He would sit on her back by the hour, examining them most carefully, inside and out, smoothing them admiringly with his ridiculous little hands, or sticking his mite of a finger as far inside as it 121 J o c h would go. At this, puss generally gave her head a shake, or got up and walked away, Joch clinging to her back or tumbling ignominiously to the floor. ¥ ¥E was a greedy little beast, was Joch, and "you could easily laugh yourself into fits," little Warren said, to see him — with his mouth so full he couldn't chew — holding his cheeks with his hands, and gently rubbing them down from temple to chin, as he painfully strove to get the unmanageable contents of his greedy little maw within the grinding process of his tiny jaws. Joch was very fond of meat, and he and Margaret, the cook, were always at sword's points, for Joch would watch his chance to slip into the kitchen, and, when her back was turned, make off with a chop or piece of steak, or a 122 J o c h bit of fat if he could find it, for he liked fat better than anything else. Indeed he seemed to like anything that he conld take "unbe- knownst," as Margaret said. When he became too mischievous he was chained in his house, but it didn't amount to much as a punishment, for he would go about, his chain dragging from his waist, and pulling his house after him, like a galley-slave. This suggested an idea, and a heavy weight was pro- cured, and then, when Joch was fastened to his ball and chain, he was more like a galley-slave than ever, except that he couldn't move at all. The little fellow was of course used to a warm climate, and in winter he felt the cold very much. Sister Annie made him a scarlet coat trimmed with black velvet, which Alice said was not becoming and quite destroyed his aris- tocratic, foreign appearance, while Kitty de- clared that it made him look like a hand organ. 123 J o c h ''Like a hand-organ monkey, you mean," said little Warren slowly. "I mean what I say," said Kitty, "like a hand organ." But he hadn't even the life and spirit of a hand-organ monkey, and was never up to any of his pranks except when he got thawed out in the middle of the day. Morning and even- ing he could generally be found, shivering and miserable, sitting close to the stove, or even on it, till we used to say he would surely roast his brains if he had any — and we all agreed that he had. \17HETHEE it was the heat that did it, or the cold, or the huge piece of fat we found stored away in the little commissary depart- ment he had established for himself, we never knew, but Joeh fell ill, and though he was 124 J o c h nursed and petted to his heart's content by the entire family, it was to little purpose. The bright, black eyes grew dull and lustreless, and winked and blinked very pitifully now. The quick, agile limbs moved slowly and quiet- ly, and his chain alone held him prisoner — he had grown so weak that he could not move with even its light weight about him. Nothing could beguile him into play. Mouser's ears had lost all their interest as natural curiosities, and even Kitty's shoulder was no longer a vantage ground for frolic. The daintiest tid-bit he used to fight for with such spirit, he now would scarcely touch. Margaret brought little pieces of chop and steak for the "disthrisful little crayture," Nessy spent all her spare pennies for oranges and bananas to tempt his appetite, and little Warren said that if it was only the proper season he would get birds' eggs for Joch to eat. 125 J o c h He liked to lie behind tlie stove among the wools in sister Annie's work-basket — no other bed we could make for him pleased him half so well — or sit on Kitty's shoulder with his arms around her head, while his own was laid against her hair, and his wee face, as it nestled against hers, looked like a miniature of a feeble, sick old man. We coaxed our family physician to come and see Joch. He suggested it might be homesick- ness, and declared he "could not minister to a mind diseased. ' ' But he prescribed aconite for Joch's fever, and bromide for his nerves, and with these simple remedies, and constant care, we nursed our little invalid till spring. Then our Lieutenant came home for a flying visit, and we dimly hoped he might be able to do or suggest something for Joch. Perhaps it is true that familiarity breeds contempt, and that he had seen too many of 126 J o c h Joch's species in their native land, or perhaps he was one of those who could ''pine and die because of the great lake of universal anguish, ' ' but could not narrow down his sympathies to individual cases. At all events, he frankly con- fessed that he "couldn't get up much interest in a sick monkey, ' ' and when his skill or knowl- edge was appealed to on behalf of poor Joch he only recommended a ''generous amount of chloroform judiciously applied." /^NE afternoon, holding Joch, weaker and more wretched than usual, upon her shoulder, Kitty went to her brother's room to coax him for something she imagined she want- ed, and for which she knew it was useless to ask her father. "Wait till my brother comes home," she used to say to the girls at school, when one of 127 J o c h them became possessed of some scliool-girl valuable, and all the rest, like a flock of sheep, determined they must have one too. ''Wait till my brother comes home, and I'll have one a lot better than that." It was on one of these occasions, and the coveted good was especially coveted. Kitty had marshalled all her arguments in formidable array, clinched them with positive and unde- niable declarations of fact, and was winding up with an affectionate and persuasive peroration, when Lieutenant Sydney, putting the finishing touches to his toilet at the mirror, exclaimed: ' ' Take care ! that poor little devil is going to keel over," and the next instant poor Joch did ''keel over" and fell to the floor, for Kitty, in reaching the effective climax of her appeal, had withdrawn her protecting hand, to clasp it with the other around her brother's arm. With many self-reproaches and anxious fears 128 J o c h she tenderly lifted poor Jocli, and laid him, apparently senseless, in her lap. ''Oh, what shall we do?" cried Kitty, help- lessly, with appealing hand stretched to the burean. ' ' Quick ! quick ! ' ' ''I haven't anything here that would do him any good, if indeed there is anything, ' ' said the Lieutenant, brushing his coat. ''After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Requiescat in pace!" But Kitty, choking with tears and indigna- tion, seized the bay-rum bottle, and, with tremb- ling hands, poured half the contents into her lap. "I don't see the use of sousing a dead mon- key," said her brother, ruefully regarding this lavish waste of his bay rum; "he doesn't appreciate it in the least, and neither do I, for that matter." But at this juncture Joch opened his eyes and looked up at the Lieuten- ant reproachfully. 129 J o c h ''Hello, old fellow!" said that gentleman. ''Never say die! But you don't belong to the temperance society, do you? Shall we follow up your treatment with a Bourbon straight, or a gin cocktail I" Joch didn't answer, or Kitty either except to murmur something about "an unfeeling wretch," as she gathered her patient tenderly in her arms and descended to the sitting room, where warmest sympathy and assistance would not be lacking. lOCH was subject to these fainting fits for a week or more, and the Lieutenant's bay rum suffered considerably in consequence. Then one day, without warning, and apparently without pain, poor little Joch quietly died, sit- ting on Kitty's shoulder with his arms about her head. His death caused real grief in the 130. J o c h family. He was a pet with all, yet no one knew just how much he was loved till he was gone. Joch had a funeral that Margaret said was ' ' illegant enough for a Christian. ' ' Lieutenant Sydney got everything for the occasion that the warmest friends of any pet could desire; and, considering that he did not look on the family aJBfliction in the light of a personal bereavement, he certainly behaved very handsomely. As a crowning and lasting tribute of his regard — or whatever the sentiment was that inspired him — he marked the spot in the garden where Joch had been laid to rest, with what Nessy called "the cutest little tombstone ever was." He offered, moreover, some beautiful and appropriate lines as an epitaph, but, like many another good article in manuscript, it was declined with thanks, and the Lieutenant re- turned to the service of his country convinced that literary merit is unappreciated. 131 o c But though deemed unworthy a place on Joch's tombstone, his touching and telling tribute to the hero of my story shall not be lost to posterity. I append it here, as that story's fitting close. " rXEFUNCT ancestor of the race of man, JL^ Let him trace out thy Hneage who can. Suffice it me to stand in reverence here, And sadly drop the tributary tear. Not mine, with captious mood, to pause and think Just how, by thee, oh, dear connecting link, I'm bound to kindred of the mighty past — The monad, eozoon, and protoplast; The troglodite, lemur, and all the clan Of pigmy brothers of the giant man ! Thou next of kin, twin brother of my soul. In thee I recognize and mourn the whole; Lie all the branches of my ancestral tree — Poor hapless orphan — in thy grave with thee !" The New Hippodrome The New Hippodrome H, Mamma, Mamma! Georgie Steele is going to the Hiccup- home, where you see all kinds of animals, and men swinging on ropes, and ladies riding on horses and standing on men's heads; and there's lemonade, and music, and peanuts, and — and everything! And can't we go too, Mamma?" And little Charlie went up and down on his toes, his yel- low curls tossing around the flushed and eager face. "It goes in at two o'clock," he continued, "and there's no time to lose. That's what Georgie's Uncle Tom said. So can't Mary get us ready before lunch? And will she take us, 135 The New Hippodrome Mamma, or will you? It is in a big tent, and you take tlie Orchard street cars, and ' ' — ' ' But, my dear Charlie, ' ' and his mother put her arm around the excited little boy, who was still going up and down like the toy men on boxes which you wind up and who dance until they run down, ''I cannot, for many reasons, let you go to the Hippodrome today." She spoke so decidedly that Charlie knew it was useless to say another word; and the spring must have run down all at once, for he didn't go up on his toes again, but the little curly head went down, and down, and down, till it rested in his mother's lap, and two little fists rubbed two wet little eyes, leaving many black marks and rings on the baby cheeks. His mother put her arm around him and let him cry awhile, for he was but a little fellow, not five years old, and she knew by the wild way he had been going on how much of a dis- 136 The New Hippodrome appointment her words had given him. And as she looked tenderly down on the little yellow head lying in her lap, and smoothed the tumbled ringlets gently with her fingers, she seemed to be thinking of what she could do that would give some pleasure to the unhappy little boy. A ND so it was that when lunch was over Mas- ter Charlie was dressed in his new suit, and then Mary led him out to the piazza where Mamma and brother Bertie were waiting for him. ''Now I'll take you to a Hippodrome that I like better than Barnum's," she said, as they walked down to the gate. "Is it under a big white tentl" inquired Charlie, a little doubtfully. " It is under a green tent, ' ' she answered, and Bertie smiled in a very knowing manner. 137 The New Hippodrome "And shall we see men tossing balls and swinging on ropes, and ladies riding on men's heads 1 ' ' asked Charlie breathlessly. "I don't know," answered Mamma, "just what we shall see, but I know it will all be won- derful and beautiful, if we only think so. ' ' By this time they came to Freeman's Cave, and the little boy said in a rather disappointed tone: "Oh, I know; you are going to the woods." But he was soon dancing along gayly upon the grass, or walking demurely at his mother's side, his hand in hers, while Bertie, head and shoulders taller, walked upon the other side, his hand slipped through his mother's arm; for these walks to the woods with her were a great delight to both boys. "See, the performance has begun," cried Bertie, as they reached the grove. "Here are the tumblers," pointing out to his brother 138 The New Hippodrome two 'Humble bugs" that were hard at work rolling their ball up a little hill. The little boy sat down upon the grass to watch them. The performer on the lower side held up the ball with his slender legs, and the one above pulled and scrambled with all his little might. Perhaps they were nervous at having spectators, or perhaps they had not had enough rehearsals. At any rate the little chap on top let go when he ought to have held on, and over went the ball on the poor performer below, tumbling him head over heels to the bot- tom of the hill. It was only about three or four inches, but he probably thought it was far enough, and the little rascal who let go came scampering down on his six little legs and made a great fuss as if he were begging the other's pardon and saying, ''Indeed, I didn't mean to do it, and I assure you it won't happen again." 139 The New Hippodrome But the other fellow told him that if he thought it such fun to get knocked over he had better take the under side himself, and so they changed places and soon were in a position for a fresh pull — a long pull, a strong pull and a pull all together. "Yo! heave, ho! my hearties!" called out Bertie, as number one pulled away with his little leg-arms, backing himself up the hill in such a funny way that Charlie laughed aloud, and number two pushed below, and held up the heavy ball — heavy for him — like Atlas, Bertie said, with the world upon his shoulders. The work went bravely on for awhile, but then there was a slip somewhere, and away went ball and bugs, all three, down again to the bottom of the hill. But again it was ''up and at it," the brave little rogues! And this time they both went underneath and pushed "until they got red in 140 The New Hippodrome the face," Charlie said. But number one pushed a little too hard, and knocked the ball away from the grasp of number two, and off it went down the hill once more. Did they give it up, then? Not a bit of it. Away they both went racing after it, and Charlie was watching to see them try it for the third time, when his mother called out to him, ' ' Come and see the trapeze performer ! ' ' 'T'HE little boy ran to the elm tree where she was standing, and on the lowest branch of which a large brown spider was swinging himself gracefully to and fro. ''He hasn't even a rope," said Charlie. ''Oh, yes," said Mamma. "Come here and you can see it shining between you and the sun. See, he is going to swing himself across to this side," and as she spoke the skillful little fellow 141 The New Hippodrome reached the place, and, turning, scampered back over the airy ladder he had made, which swung from side to side beneath his weight. Back and forth he went as if walking upon air, and, while they watched him, stretched thread after thread across, around and about, until the web, beautiful to look at and wonder- ful in construction, was shining like woven silver in the sun. "Ah, here's a performance not on the bills," said Bertie, and Charlie ran, laughing, to see two big black ants fighting over a crumb of bread. First one got it and ran off as fast as he could go, but the other soon overtook him, and, throwing his big black legs over his back, held him down while he snatched the crumb from him and made off in his turn. The first little thief picked himself up and raced after the other, and, while they were having another tussle, a third ant, bigger and blacker than the 142 The New Hippodrome others, came walking up and said, ''Now, my children, I'll save you all further trouble," and quietly walked off with the crumb ! Charlie ran back to tell his Mamma of what he had seen. But in the midst of his story he paused, and, pointing up the bridle-path that ran through the wood, exclaimed: ''Oh, see! there's the lady on horseback, too!" His mother looked up, and bowed to the fair young girl, who tossed her a kiss as she passed, and then cantered on with the cavalier at her side. "She isn't standing on the man's head," said Charlie, so slowly and quietly that Bertie laughed aloud. "No," said his mother, slowly and quietly too, and as if she were speaking to herself, "but I fear she is walking over his heart." '^W-h-a-t, Mamma?" said both boys. But 143 The New Hippodrome Mamma was looking thoughtfiilly after the riders as she sat down on a mossy bank to rest. "f\IL, the lemonade!" cried Charlie, as if struck by a sudden thought; *' where 's our lemonade!" His mother took his little silver mug from her pocket, and held it where a tiny stream trickled through the moss. ' ' There, ' ' she said, ' ' that is better, I am sure, than 'ice-cold lemonade' carried in wooden pails and drunk from tin cups, isn't it?" And the little boy drank the clear spring water as if he thought so too. But soon he wandered oif to a big oak tree, and returned with a pocketful of acorns. *'See," he said, "these are the peanuts!" and the little fellow seemed so pleased with ''his part of the circus," as Bertie said, that they all 144 The New Hippodrome laughed over the ''peanuts" as if it had been the funniest joke in the world. **But the music, Mamma!" cried Charlie, de- termined to find a counterpart for all the at- tractions Georgie Steele was supposed to be en- joying. His mother raised her hand with a gesture of silence as a dear little robin on a neighboring limb poured out his tiny soul in a burst of song. ^'Is he the only music-man f" said Charlie, as if he thought poor robin very little in the way of an orchestra. *'No,' said Mamma, ''I hear sweet music all about me — ^in the wind among the pine trees, in the fluttering leaves of that aspen, in the trickling of this little stream, the buzzing of the bees around the columbines — the air is full of it if we will only listen. 'Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.' " Charlie, perhaps, did not appreciate all this, 145 The New Hippodrome but as he slid down the hill on the pine needles, or gathered soft mosses to make a ''qneen's seat" for Mamma upon the chair-like roots of a fallen tree, he found that he was a very happy little boy, and the afternoon slipped very fast away. ''/ have been to the Hiccup-home, too," he cried gleefully to Georgie Steele, whom they found at his gate, very tired and warm and cross, ''and we had just a splendid time!" Crooked Charlie I Crooked Charlie T'S crooked!" cried Charlie, ''it's all crooked!" and he rubbed his fat little fists in his eyes, and gazed ruefully at a windmill of pretty colored paper that good Irish Katty had made for him in her efforts to amuse him this sunny morning, while his mother was gone to church and faithful nurse Mary was off for a holiday. Aunt Esther said some one ought to be read- ing to Master Charlie out of the Bible, about Daniel in the lion's den, or the children of Israel in the wilderness, instead of letting him run up and down the garden like a little heathen, but Katty said: 149 Crooked Charlie ''Shure the birds are all singin', ma'am, and the fish in the brook dancin' in the water, and it's mesilf was sayin' — the Saints forgive me — that the Lord Himsilf couldn't shpake a word ag'in the childer sportin' wid the rest of the happy young things this fair summer morn." But Charlie was not happy, even if the birds and fishes were, for the windmill was crooked, and the tears in his eyes made everything seem dim and dull and distorted "this fair summer morn. ' ' Katty fixed it over and over again. She took out the pin and put it back a dozen times. She went in for the scissors and "shnipped it off a bit" here, and cut into the paper a trifle deeper there ; and she got a knife and made the stick " sthraighter ; " but it was all of no use. For although it began to turn when Charlie's little fretful breath blew on it, and whirled around with a dazzle and whir as he ran down 150 Crooked Charlie the gravel path in the sunshine, it was all wrong still. It was ''crooked," and nothing under the sun could set it straight in little Charlie's eyes. At last it became so very crooked, I am sorry to say, that the naughty little boy gave it a toss upon the lawn, where it lay on the green like a big hollyhock on a white stem; and the next minute he had thrown himself beside it and lay tapping the toes of his grey kid boots upon the gravel, as unhappy a little boy as you could find in the whole United States. "Shure, and it's yoursilf that's crooked!" said Katty, losing patience at last, and march- ing off to the kitchen where she belonged, to look at the clock and see how soon her new and unaccustomed duties would be over. "IT'S yoursilf that's crooked!" she said, and that was a very true and wise remark of Katty 's. Often and often it's ourselves that 151 Crooked Charlie are crooked when things will not go straight and we are blaming everything and everybody but ourselves. Even big men sometimes think that lamp-posts and houses are all crooked, but it is only when they are not straight themselves. And when little boys and girls find their windmills and kites and doll's clothes and other things all crooked, if they will walk right up to the looking-glass they will see there a little crooked face, and, looking behind the face, they will find, in the unhappy little heart, a deformed little spirit that has somehow crept in there, and makes everything seem crooked and wrong and miserable. Ah, dear little children who listen to this story, when things look crooked to you, will you do as I bid you, and drive out the dark, crooked spirit from the beautiful little heart that God has given you to make you happy, and into which he sends his own bright angels 152 Crooked Charlie when you keep it clean of naughty thoughts and ways, so they can enter! They love to be with you — they crowd around you — and when your hearts are full of such sweet visitors how glad and happy you are ! Often I see these fair spirits peeping from your eyes — gentleness, obedience, trust, unself- ishness and love — and I want to take you in my arms and hold you close up to me, so that perhaps some of them will jump out from your hearts into mine. A Christmas Vision A Christmas Vision T is the children's hour — ^between supper and bed-time. My big boy, Bertie, stands beside me, proud to see that his head is on a level with mine, and that his arm can reach "clear across" my shoulders as I sit in my easy chair. Little Charlie, two years younger than his big brother, climbs into my lap. The boys have brought their back numbers of St. Nicholas to me, and I am settling down for a long siege. Well, I read, and read, and read ; first a story of Charlie's selection, then one of Ber- tie's; first from one number and then from another; and finish with one that I have read 157 A Christmas Vision six or seven times before — the beautiful ''Christmas Legend" in the last holiday num- ber. Bertie takes the book from my hand to look at the lovely picture where "Hermann brings home a Christmas guest," and Charlie slips down from my lap to join his brother, while I, very tired, lean back in my chair for a moment's quiet. My thoughts go back to the pretty stor- ies I have read, and, listening to my children's prattle, I wonder into how many different homes this cheery visitor finds his way; how many sorts and conditions of children are made happy by his monthly coming. lUST then some one touches me gently on the shoulder, and I look up with wondering surprise to see the beautiful face of the little Christmas guest, just as it is in the picture, 158 A Christmas Vision only far more beautiful, because not a picture but apparently a real child. About the golden hair still shines the halo — whiter than the moon- light, brighter than the sun. He beckons me to follow, and, without any effort of my own, I seem to float up and out into the clear star- light — away, away, away! Then I find myself in a bright and beautiful room. Christmas wreaths and crosses adorn the pictured walls; a blazing fire glows in the polished grate; and a group of children's faces gleam and sparkle in the light of the brilliant chandelier as they cluster about a sweet and gentle-looking lady, who is reading aloud — yes, reading from St. Nicholas! '^Surely this must be one of the happiest homes," I whisper, "to which the far-roving St. Nicholas ever comes! Not one shadow is on the happy scene, and only one thing wanting to complete the picture — the husband and 159 A Christmas Vision father. Where is he, I wonder?" And I turn to my little guide inquiringly. The beautiful light that surrounds him is shining full upon a picture on the wall, which I had not seen before. A wreath of holly en- circles it, and below, on a marble bracket where an ivy twines, is a vase of fragrant vio- lets. But in this wondrous light it does not seem to be a picture, but the face of a real, living man — strong and gentle, tender and true — looking down upon the little family group. And then I notice that the reader's face is very pale and sad, and her dress as black as night, and my eyes grow dim, for I know so well — ah me, so well! — just how lonely and how sad she is, and I long to tell her how the picture looks when seen in the beautiful light in which it shines for me. But she is smiling now as she reads with cheerful voice a merry story from St. Nicholas, which is greeted with a burst 160 A Christinas Vision of happy laughter. Rising with it, we float out again into the starry night. ^nPlS but a moment, and we are in another room. No blazing grate is here, no group of happy children. A feeble light glimmers from a lamp upon the table, and a feebler fire shines faintly through the cracks of a broken stove, where a tired, ragged boy tries vainly to warm his half -naked feet. *'0h. Sis," he says, looking over to the mis- erable bed, where a white little face I had not noticed, turns restlessly on the pillow, "I brought you somethin' home tonight you'll like, I bet — a book full of picters! A little chap sittin' on a big stoop had one, and he said he'd read it so often he guessed he'd give it to us, so he cut the threads with his knife and divided it up between me and two other fellers; here 161 A Christmas Vision it is" — and he dives his cold hand into a basket where I catch a glimpse of matches, shoe- strings, and all the modest stock in trade where- by this brave little street peddler earns food and shelter, such as it is, for his suffering sister, who is all he has in the wide world. ' ' See, here 's a angel on the first page. I seen that the first thing, and I says to myself, ' Sis '11 like to see that, sure!' " — and he shows her the pretty picture. It was only a few leaves out of the last Christmas number of ^S'^. Nicholas, yet it was enough to bring peace and even gladness into this wretched home, for the little girl's face brightens as she says, ' ' Oh, yes, it is an angel ! Can you read about it, Tom!" ''Of course I can," says Tom, and, carrying back the lamp to the shaky table, he sets it down and spreads the book out on his ragged knee. The first verse he has some trouble in 162 A Christinas Vision spelling out, but the others come more easily, and the child listens with unaccustomed delight to the sweet refrain of ''Christmas Day in the Morning. ' ' ''Read it again, Tom," she whispers, and, seeing her lying there with closed eyes and peaceful smile, Tom reads on, glad to think that poor Sis is going to sleep so soon tonight. I AM thinking sadly of Tom and his sister, when suddenly I find myself again in a cheerful, brightly-lighted room, where the rich curtains, tasteful furniture, marble stat- uettes and bronzes, speak of wealth and luxury. "Ah, this is a relief!" I cry. "Now we shall see more happy children. Ah, me! why cannot all earth's little ones be born to wealth and happiness and joy?" But as I speak I see 163 A Christmas Vision a weary little face bending listlessly above a book, or glancing anxiously at another face wMch is also bent over a book in an attitude of absorbing interest. "Please, Miss Stanley," says the little fel- low, *' won't yon read to me now? I have been good so long, and I am so tired. ' ' ''Presently, presently," is the absent answer, and then impatiently, as a weary little sigh smites her conscience, ''Don't ask me again, or I shall not do it at all!" She goes back to her book, and the poor baby turns patiently to his. Oh, those black and funny little boys with their brooms and brushes, in the pictures he has been looking at all day ! And that smallest one of all, no bigger than he is, away up on that high chimney! Chimney-sweeps they are, nurse says — for while she washed his hands 164 A Christmas Vision after dinner he had coaxed her to wait a minute till he should run for his St. Nicholas, to find out. How nice it must be to run about and climb high places like that, and not be afraid. Ah, how he wished that he were a chimney- sweep. He wondered if those were little black velvet suits, like his, that they had on. Oh, no, that couldn't be, or they would never be allowed to play with brooms or brushes, or to climb chimneys. But what did they do, and how? All the wonderful reading around the pictures tells it all, and yet he cannot know ; and again his pleading eyes are raised to the unrespon- sive face of the governess, till the mother- heart within me aches in pity for the child. The door opens and a white-capped maid enters. ''Come, Master Harry," she says, "it is time to go to bed." 165 A Christmas Vision "But Miss Stanley is going to read one story for me first, ' ' and the poor little voice trembles with eagerness. ' ' Not if it is bed- time, Harry ; of course not, ' ' is the pitiless answer. "Come along," says Nanette; "it is my evening out, and I have no time to lose. ' ' "Marie will put me to bed," anxiously sug- gests the little fellow, "when I have heard my story. I know she will." "Marie is busy dressing your Mamma's hair for the ball — and has her hands full, too, to please her," she adds to herself as she leads poor Harry away, chiding him rudely for not bidding Miss Stanley a more cheerful good night. As the room vanishes, the fresh, bright- covered number of St. Nicholas lies in the little chair where Harry left it, and I sigh 166 A Christmas Vision to think that the children of the rich are not always the happiest or most tenderly cared for. A ND now we take our way southward. In a trice we meet its balmy airs, and, sweep- ing low in our flight, pass over groves of orange-trees, where the golden fruit gleams among the wax-like leaves, and the night is fra- grant with the breath of the beautiful white blossoms. In a little cabin an old negress holds a fair-haired child upon her knee, hushing it to sleep with her favorite camp-meeting songs. "Dar now, honey, shet yo' eyes. Yo' ma's too sick fer yo' ter see her ternight, an' ole Mammy '11 tek good keer er her baby, sho'. Whar's yer new St. Nicholas book, honey, an' we'll look at de pritty pictersi Ain' hit come yit? Hyar de ole book, den, wid de pritty li'l 'Peepsy-Weepsy' picters. Dese ain' no low- 167 A Christmas Vision down Yankee chickens now, I tell yer, chile. Dey come er fine ole stock, dat's sartin; dey's got hit in dey look. Dey's sho' nuff South 'n 'ristocratic chickens, dey is; an' you'se Mam- my's own Peep sy- Weep sy li'l gal." The fair little arms draw closer the dark and kindly face, and, nestling in the faithful bosom, little "Peepsy-Weepsy" closes her blue eyes and is soon fast asleep. KTOETHWARD we speed again on the balmy southern breeze. ''Happy St. Nicholas," I say, as we float along, "carrying comfort and happiness and mirth into so many homes — north and south, and east and west; and high and low, and rich and poor!" Then suddenly I find myself in my easy chair at my own fireside again! My little boys are still looking at the pictures in their St. Nicholas, 168 A Christmas Vision but my beautiful guide has vanished. And, thinking of what I have seen and heard in the short time I have been away — for it was scarce ten minutes by the clock — it all seems like a strange and beautiful dream.