THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 KITTY'S VALENTINE. Page 42.
 
 A.
 
 THE PROVERB SERIES. 
 
 !IRDS OF A FEAT] 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. BRADLEY, 
 
 AUTHOB OP "GBACE'B VISIT," "DOUGLASS FABM," "BBEAD UFOH 
 
 THE WATBE8," " PICTOBE 8TOBY BOOK," "BESfirK," 
 
 "LITTLE FIB TB," ETO. 
 
 I BOSTON : 
 
 EE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 
 
 LEE AND 8HEPAKD, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of MaMichmetU. 
 
 HO. II tPHINO LANI.
 
 TO 
 
 THE DEAR LITTLE PEOPLE 
 
 OF 
 
 "SPMNGSIDE" AND "THE HOLLOW." 
 
 <x>t*Joo 
 
 You remember the old proverb, "Birds of a feather 
 flock together"? These stories of the faults and con- 
 fessions, the lessons and rewards, the mistakes and 
 amendments of children like yourselves, are " birds of 
 a feather" in many respects, and so "flock together" 
 naturally in this little book which I have the pleasure 
 of presenting to you. 
 
 In respect of age and relationship, and affection for 
 one another, in love of fun, and faculty for mischief, 
 and also, I think,- in many higher and holier faculties, 
 you are yourselves "birds of a feather." May you 
 always "flock together" for all good and beautiful pur- 
 poses ; encouraging each other's efforts, avoiding each 
 other's faults, sympathizing tenderly in each other's joy 
 and sorrow, until you plume your wings to those upper 
 spheres where "birds of a feather flock together" with 
 endless song and rejoicing. 
 
 (3)
 
 THE PROVERB SERIES. 
 
 1. BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 2. FINE FEATHERS DO NOT MAKE FINE 
 
 BIRDS. 
 
 3. HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES. 
 
 4. A WRONG CONFESSED IS HALF RE- 
 
 DRESSED. 
 
 5. ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS. 
 
 6. ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER. 
 
 622827
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. SUSIE'S SLEIGH-RIDE 9 
 
 II. KITTY'S VALENTINE 33 
 
 III. SAM'S PUNISHMENT 45 
 
 IV. RUSSELL'S PAINT-BOX 65 
 
 V. BESSIE'S FRIEND . , , . 83 
 
 VI. SPENCER'S CHERRIES. ....... 98 
 
 VII. ROSY LEE'S THANKSGIVING. ..... 113 
 
 VIII. BLANCHE'S LESSON 130 
 
 IX. JESSIE'S JOURNEY 149 
 
 X. LOUISE'S BIRTHDAY. 171 
 
 XI. LUCY'S BEST HAT. . 197 
 
 XII. TOM'S ALLOWANCE 207
 
 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 SUSIE'S SLEIGH-RIDE. 
 
 " A /TAMMA," said little Susie Thompson, 
 
 -LVA one Saturday morning, " can I go 
 out on the sidewalk, and play with Carrie 
 Pratt?" 
 
 " If you are well wrapped up," her mother 
 answered. " You know there is a great deal of 
 snow on the ground, and it is very cold." 
 
 " O, I know ! " said Susie. " Overshoes, and 
 leggins, and hood, and cloak, and mittens, and 
 all that ! . Dear me I what a lot of things it takes 
 to keep anybody warm! doesn't it, mamma? 
 and it's so tiresome getting them all on ! " 
 
 " Anybody ought to be very thankful to have 
 such a lot of nice warm clothes," her mother 
 answered. " It isn't half so tiresome for you to 
 
 (9)
 
 IO BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 put on your wraps as for some poor little girl to 
 go shivering through the streets without any." 
 
 " Well, I suppose not," said Susie, sitting 
 down upon the floor, and tugging vigorously at 
 her India-rubber boot. " But I do say that leg- 
 gins and overshoes are a great bother, neverthe- 
 less. O, dear ! " as an unusually hard jerk threw 
 her backwards, and bumped her head against 
 the door, ** I do wish I had somebody to put 
 them on for me ! Carrie Pratt never puts 
 hers on ! " 
 
 Mrs. Thompson looked down with a smile at 
 the fretful little face. Susie was rather apt to 
 get discouraged over small difficulties, but her 
 mother did not spoil her by helping her out of 
 them. She knew it was much better for her to 
 learn to conquer them herself by patience and 
 perseverance, and Susie knew very well what 
 that smile meant, and that there was no hope 
 of her mother's offering to put the shoes on for 
 her. 
 
 So she concluded to try again ; and as she 
 really made an effort not to be impatient, she 
 was soon rewarded with success. Both leggins 
 and both overshoes on, it was an easy matter to 
 arrange the rest ; and, in a few minutes, Susie,
 
 SUSIE'S SLEIGH-RIDE. II 
 
 looking the picture of comfort, in her gray beaver 
 cloak and pretty Solferino hood, with mittens to 
 match, was jumping down stairs, two steps at 
 a time, on her way to the street. 
 
 Carrie Pratt lived just opposite, in the brown 
 cottage with such a pretty garden in front, and 
 Susie ran across the street to call her out to play. 
 But no Carrie answered, although she stood at 
 the gate and called, " Carrie ! Carrie ! " as loud 
 as she could. Her mother came to the window 
 presently, and looked out. 
 
 " O, is it you, Susie Thompson?" she said. 
 " Carrie isn't at home, dear. She went over to 
 New York with her papa this morning, and she 
 won't be back before night, for they are going to 
 the Museum this afternoon." 
 
 " O, dear ! " exclaimed Susie. " Now I 
 haven't got anybody to play with ! I wish 
 I could go to the Museum, too!" 
 
 It was not much use to wish that, however ; 
 so Susie went across the street again, feeling 
 rather disconsolate, and leaned her back against 
 the iron railing of the front yard, while she con- 
 sidered what she was going to do with herself. 
 There was nobody out on the sidewalk, for the 
 snow had been cleared away in front of all the
 
 12 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 houses, and the boys had taken their sleds up on 
 the avenue, or down to Fort Green. Susie 
 could see a group of girls standing at the cor- 
 ner watching them, and hear their shouts of 
 laughter as somebody got a tumble in the snow ; 
 but they were all much older and larger girls 
 than she was, and she did not care about going 
 amongst them. 
 
 " I wish Carrie hadn't gone to New York ! " 
 she said at last, pettishly. " It spoils all my fun, 
 and I shall just have to go into the house again, 
 after I've had so much trouble, too, getting ready 
 to come out. O, but I guess I won't, though ! " 
 for a sudden recollection came to her of a bright, 
 new three-cent piece which her father had given 
 her at the breakfast table that morning. 
 
 " I've got my money in my pocket, and I think 
 I'll go down to Mrs. Burke's, and spend it." 
 
 Mrs. Burke was the mistress of a small shop 
 on the lower avenue, such a little distance from 
 home that Susie was allowed to go there by her- 
 self. There were many temptations in this shop 
 to little people, and a very little capital went a 
 great way in it, for " One Penny" was the fixed 
 price for most of the commodities. The window 
 was garnished with strings of beads all the colors
 
 SUSIE S SI.EIGH-RIDE. 13 
 
 of the rainbow one penny each ; the shelves 
 were crowded with dolls' furniture cradles, bed- 
 steads, chairs, round tables, wash-tubs, churns, 
 and dust-pans one cent apiece; the counter 
 was set out with red and yellow sugar toys, 
 peppermint baskets, candy canes, cocoa-nut 
 cakes, and twists of taffy all, price One 
 Penny ! 
 
 Susie could hardly tell how to invest her three- 
 pence among so many attractions. She wished 
 very much for Carrie's advice, but Carrie not 
 being there to give it, she had to decide for her- 
 self, and finally selected a peppermint-stick, a 
 string of blue beads, and a very diminutive 
 wash-tub, with a hole in each handle. What 
 she meant to do with this I cannot tell, for it 
 was not large enough to wash the smallest size 
 doll's pocket handkerchief. She was quite sat- 
 isfied with it, however, and walked off admiring 
 her tub extremely. 
 
 Just as she shut the shop door behind her, a 
 milkman's sleigh came jingling up the street; 
 and Susie stopped to look at it, quite interested, 
 for it was not at all like the rough-looking things 
 she had seen every day since the snow came. 
 This was much larger, and painted bright red
 
 14 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 all over: it had two handsome horses, each 
 with a string of silver bells, and on the back 
 seat, behind the milk-cans, was a buffalo robe. 
 Altogether it was a very stylish turn-out for a 
 milkman ; but Susie was more interested in the 
 fact that three children two girls and a boy 
 were sitting close together on this buffalo robe, 
 all of them smiling as if they were in the highest 
 possible state of enjoyment. 
 
 Of all things in the world Susie thought a 
 sleigh-ride was the most delightful. She had 
 had about three in her life, and they were occa- 
 sions never to be forgotten. It was no wonder, 
 then, that she watched this happy-looking party 
 with interest, and wished herself among them, 
 as the sleigh came swiftly towards her ; and she 
 was glad when the milkman stopped his horses 
 a few doors from Mrs. Burke's, and got out with 
 a dipper full of milk, because it gave her an 
 opportunity to look at them all more nearly. 
 The boy had climbed over into the front seat to 
 hold the reins, but, when he saw Susie standing 
 on the curb-stone, he leaned back, and began to 
 whisper with the two girls. Susie heard one of 
 them say, 
 
 "Yes let her; there's plenty of room;" 
 and then the boy called out, smiling,
 
 SUSIE'S SLEIGH-RIDE. 15 
 
 "I say, Sissy, would you like to have a ride? 
 You can jump in, if you would ; he won't care." 
 " He " meaning the milkman, who was just 
 coming up the basement steps with his empty 
 dipper, and heard what the boy had said. 
 
 " Yes, jump in," he answered, with a good- 
 natured nod to the little stranger. " I shall get 
 a load by and by if I keep on. Make room, you 
 youngsters there, for another passenger ! " 
 
 And he held out his hand to help Susie in. 
 But she stood still, and did not offer to take it. 
 The suddenness of the invitation surprised and 
 confused her, so that she did not know what to 
 do, and could only stare at the good-natured 
 milkman, with a half-eager, half-ashamed look. 
 
 " Come on ! I can't wait ! " he exclaimed, a 
 little impatiently. " If you don't want to get in, 
 say so ! " 
 
 Susie could not say that, for she did wan% to 
 get in dreadfully ; only she knew that she ought 
 not to without her mother's permission. But 
 there was no time to get that, no time even to 
 think whether she would be displeased or not. 
 There was only the chance of a sleigh-ride, and, 
 if she missed it now, she might not have another 
 all winter ! '
 
 1 6 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 She hardly knew how it happened, it was all 
 so sudden and bewildering; but in another 
 minute she found herself in the sleigh, tucked 
 in between the two girls, who very kindly made 
 room for her in the middle, while the horses 
 shook their heads until all the silver bells jingled 
 together, and away they dashed merrily up Clin- 
 ton Avenue. It seemed hardly a minute before 
 they were flying past her own home. She 
 caught a glimpse of her mother sitting at the 
 nursery window, but Mrs. Thompson did not 
 see her. It was the last place where she would 
 have thought of looking for Susie, so she did not 
 even glance up at the sound of the bells ; and 
 the sleigh dashed on unnoticed, though Susie 
 had crouched down between her companions, in 
 great fear of being discovered. 
 
 She began to feel already that she had done 
 wrong, and to wish that she were out of the 
 sleigh. But she was ashamed to ask the milk- 
 man to stop just for that, when he had been so 
 kind ; and then the swift, gliding motion over 
 the snow, and the merry tinkle of the bells, were 
 so very pleasant, and the other children seemed 
 to be so happy ! Why shouldn't she enjoy it as 
 well as they? So she reasoned with herself,
 
 SUSIE'S SLEIGH-RIDE. 1 7 
 
 until she made up her mind that it was no great 
 matter after all, and she might as well have a 
 nice time as the others. She would get out the 
 first time he stopped to leave milk again, and 
 go straight home. Mamma wouldn't care, she 
 knew! 
 
 But by the time the milkman stopped again, 
 Susie had got to talking with the little girls, and 
 could not bear to think of getting out. 
 
 " I'll wait a little longer, and get out next 
 time," she thought. 
 
 But it was the same thing at the next stoppage, 
 and the next ; the longer she put it off, the more 
 unwilling she grew, till at last she made up her 
 mind that she was quite too far from home to 
 walk back, and she would wait in the sleigh until 
 the milkman had gone his round, and could 
 carry her back himself. She never thought to 
 ask him whether he meant to go back the same 
 way that he came : she took that for granted, 
 and settled herself comfortably to enjoy her long 
 ride. 
 
 So they went on, farther and farther from 
 
 home, up and down streets that Susie had never 
 
 been into in her life before, and from which, left 
 
 to herself, she would never have known what 
 
 2
 
 1 8 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 way to turn to get home again. But she gave 
 herself no concern. She felt extremely comfort- 
 able now that she had determined what to do, 
 and she liked her companions so much that she 
 did not once remember Carrie Pratt and the 
 Museum. What nice little girls they were ! she 
 thought. She must really ask them what their 
 names were, and coax her mamma to let her go 
 to see them some day. The boy, too, was very 
 good-natured ; he had given her a cake of maple 
 sugar, " and kept smiling at her," as Susie after- 
 wards told her mamma, " as if he liked her 
 pretty well." Which was very likely, for Susie's 
 rosy cheeks and bright eyes were pretty enough 
 to make any boy smile at them. 
 
 They stopped by and by in front of a large 
 grocery on Atlantic Street. " Here you are, 
 Rollo," said the milkman, reining up his 
 horses. 
 
 " Rollo I that's just like a story-book," thought 
 Susie. " But I wonder what he's stopping here 
 for." 
 
 " Good by ! " Rollo cried, jumping up quickly. 
 " Much obliged for my ride, Mr. Mickey. Good 
 by, little girl ! " to Susie. And in a minute he had 
 jumped out of the sleigh into the snow. And
 
 SUSIES SLEIGH-RIDE. 19 
 
 Susie, looking back as the horses started again, 
 saw him run into the store, stamping the snow 
 from his boots as he went. 
 
 " Is that where he lives ? " she asked of the 
 girls. 
 
 " Yes," was the answer. " His father keeps 
 the grocery ; and we live down at the next 
 corner, over the baker's. We are going to get 
 out presently, too." 
 
 " Are you ? " said Susie, feeling a little dis- 
 gusted at having been so intimate with people 
 that lived in groceries and over bakers' shops. 
 
 "Yes; haven't we had an elegant ride? Mr. 
 Mickey took us in when he brought our milk 
 this morning, and we've been all round Brook- 
 lyn with him. Whereabouts do you live, and 
 when are you going to get out?" 
 
 " O," said Susie, with a little toss of her head, 
 " I live a great way from here, in a great" deal 
 nicer street Clinton Avenue!" 
 
 "Do you?" exclaimed both the children to- 
 gether. "That is a long way off. How shall 
 you ever get home?" 
 
 " Why," said Susie, beginning to feel uncom- 
 fortable, " I shall get home just as you do. The 
 milkman will take me back, of course."
 
 20 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 The two girls looked at each other, and 
 laughed, when Susie said this ; and the milk- 
 man, who had been listening to the conversation, 
 turned round, and looked at her, too, in a way 
 she did not like at all. She felt her face grow- 
 ing red with shame and vexation ; but she said, 
 half proudly, in answer to his look, 
 
 " I'm going to wait in the sleigh till you go 
 back again the same way you came. It's too far 
 for me to walk home." 
 
 The man smiled. u I'm afraid you'll get tired 
 of waiting, Sissy," he answered. " I shan't go 
 back that way till to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Then how am I to get home ? " Susie ex- 
 claimed, ready to cry. " It's so far, and I don't 
 even know the way ! " 
 
 "Don't you? I'm sorry for that; but why 
 didn't you get out sooner ? I thought you were 
 taking it pretty easy ; but then I supposed you 
 knew what you were about." 
 
 " I thought you would come back, of course," 
 said Susie, angrily, and trying hard to choke 
 down a great sob that was rising in her throat. 
 
 " But you ought to have asked me about that 
 before you came so far. I'm sorry, but I can't 
 possibly take you back. I've got to be in New
 
 SUSIE S SI.EIGH-RIDE. 2 1 
 
 York by one o'clock, and it is half-past twelve 
 now. It's as much as I can do to get over the 
 ferry in time." 
 
 He did not speak crossly, and evidently felt 
 very sorry for her ; but still his words were so 
 decided that Susie saw there was no sort of hope. 
 She sat still without answering, and looked the 
 picture of despair. Her lips quivered, her color 
 came and went, in her distress and mortification, 
 while the great tears would crowd up to her eyes, 
 though she dashed them away so proudly. 
 
 The children looked at her pityingly, but they 
 did not know what to say to her. The milkman 
 asked, presently, 
 
 "Whereabouts did you say you lived? Clin- 
 ton Street, or Clinton Avenue?" 
 
 " Clinton Avenue, near Myrtle," said Susie, 
 trying to speak distinctly. 
 
 " Whew ! it's miles away ! " he muttered, un- 
 der his breath. "If it was Clinton Street, a 
 body might do something for her, but it's no use 
 thinking of it. You'd better get out here," he 
 added aloud, drawing up his horses in front of 
 the bakery, " and I'll tell you how to get home. 
 There's Court Street, you see, just above. Now, 
 when you get there, turn to your left, and walk
 
 22 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 straight along till you come to the City Hall 
 you know that when you see it, don't you? 
 Then keep on for a block farther, and you'll be 
 in Fulton Street. When you get there, look out 
 for a blue car, the blue cars go up Myrtle Ave- 
 nue, and if you follow their track, you'll get 
 home safe. Do you understand ? " 
 
 Susie nodded her head. She could not have 
 spoken without sobbing, and she was too proud 
 to let him see her cry. He helped them all out 
 of the sleigh, saying again, 
 
 "You're sure you understand? down Court to 
 Fulton, and then follow the blue car. By the 
 way, you'd better get into it, and ride home ; I'll 
 give you some change ; " and he began to fumble 
 in his pocket for pennies. 
 
 But this was more than Susie could submit to. 
 Take money from him 'f No, indeed ! She 
 found voice enough to utter a rather scornful 
 refusal, and Mr. Mickey withdrew his hand, 
 saying, carelessly, 
 
 " All right, if you don't want it. Better take 
 my advice, though, and ride home in the car. 
 It's a long stretch for little feet. Don't lose 
 yourself, whatever you do ; I can't stop any 
 longer."
 
 SUSIE'S SLEIGH-RIDE. 23 
 
 With this he drove off, and the poor little waif 
 was left standing on the sidewalk of this noisy, 
 bustling, unfamiliar street, without a single 
 friend to turn to for help or guidance. The 
 two little girls lingered by her, full of compas- 
 sion, but as perplexed and confused as herself. 
 One of them took a bright thought presently, 
 and said, kindly, 
 
 " Come into our house, and stay with mother a 
 little while. Maybe she'll know somebody 
 that's going your way and she'll give you 
 some dinner anyhow. You must be hungry." 
 
 But Susie was much too miserable to be 
 hungry. She only wanted to get home as fast 
 as possible, and she had no faith in their moth- 
 er's power to help her. She said No to all their 
 kind offers, and hurried away in the direction 
 the milkman had told her to take, though she 
 had no very clear idea of his instructions after 
 all. 
 
 She did remember to turn to the left when 
 she reached Court Street, and walked on prop- 
 erly enough towards the City Hall. It is not a 
 long walk to one familiar with the way, but it 
 seemed an age to Susie before the tall white 
 building, standing in its snow-covered enclosure,
 
 24 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 loomed up before her eyes. She thought she 
 must have gone wrong half a dozen times, but 
 the welcome landmark appeared at last, and she 
 felt for a moment as if she had come to the end 
 of her troubles, only to find the next moment 
 that she had but reached the beginning of them ; 
 for when she had crossed the square, she saw so 
 many streets all running together there, so many 
 cars of all colors going backwards and forwards, 
 such a crowd of people and vehicles hurrying 
 past her in every possible direction, that she felt 
 utterly bewildered, and could not have told, to 
 save her life, which way she ought to turn. 
 
 Two or three times she tried to stop some 
 passer-by to ask for direction ; but her timid 
 voice was unheard, or unheeded, in the noonday 
 throng ; and at last, in perfect desperation, she 
 darted across the railroad track, dodging the 
 horses as best she could, and turned into the first 
 street she saw. There was no name to be seen, 
 but she hoped it might be the right one, and 
 hurried on as fast as her weary feet could carry 
 her, looking eagerly as she went for the blue car 
 which was to be her guide. No blue car met her 
 eyes, however. Cheap, second-hand stores were 
 on either side of the way. Dirty, disagreeable
 
 SUSIE'S SLEIGH-RIDE. 2$ 
 
 children played on the narrow, steep sidewalk, 
 and carts and drays rattled noisily through the 
 middle of the street. 
 
 Block after block was passed, and Susie quick- 
 ened her pace almost to a run, hoping to get 
 into a nicer neighborhood. But it grew worse 
 instead of better, and at last, just as she had 
 made up her mind to ask somebody where she 
 was, she saw, directly in front of her, at the foot 
 of the street, a long, low building, with arched 
 gateways, and above them, in large letters, 
 " Catharine Ferry." 
 
 Poor Susie ! She was more utterly at a loss 
 than ever now ; and tired, cold, and perfectly 
 discouraged, she stopped outright, and burst into 
 tears. People were coming up from the ferry, 
 and a common-looking woman, with a baby in 
 her arms, stopped to ask what was the matter. 
 As plainly as she could speak for crying, Susie 
 explained that she wanted to find the way to 
 Fulton Street. And the woman said, rather 
 roughly, 
 
 " Come on, then, and I'll show you, but stop 
 crying about it ! I don't know what people are 
 thinking of to trust such children out in the 
 streets."
 
 26 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " If she only knew ! " Susie thought, half re- 
 senting the imputation upon her mother. But 
 the woman asked no questions, her baby was 
 fretting, and all her attention was given to that, 
 so Susie followed her in silence, retracing her 
 steps until she had almost reached the point 
 from which she had started. 
 
 "There, now," said the woman, pointing ahead, 
 " I must get my baby home, so I can't go any 
 farther with you. But if you'll keep on another 
 block, and then turn to your right, you'll be in 
 Fulton Street." 
 
 Susie thanked her, and hurried on, beginning 
 to feel hopeful once more, in spite of her flag- 
 ging strength, and her feet and hands aching 
 with cold. She was very careful to obey the 
 direction of turning to the right, and, in a few 
 minutes more, her eyes were gladdened by the 
 sight for which she had so eagerly longed a 
 blue car. She was all right now, she thought, 
 with a bound of hope and relief; and a new 
 energy seemed to come into her poor little feet 
 as she walked firmly after the car, keeping her 
 eyes fixed upon it as long as it was in sight. 
 
 But alas for Susie ! he/ mistakes were not over 
 yet, and she had made one now still worse than
 
 SUSIE'S SLEIGH-RIDE. 2f 
 
 the last. She was following the blue car, to be 
 sure, but it was running the wrong way for her. 
 Instead of going up Myrtle Avenue, it was roll- 
 ing serenely down Fulton Street to the ferry, and 
 every eager step the child took was carrying her 
 farther and farther away from home. She was 
 so confused by all her mishaps that she never 
 thought of up or down : there was only one idea 
 left in her mind, which was that she must follow 
 that particular car. Beyond that she considered 
 nothing. 
 
 So she plodded on, feeling very, very tired, 
 but keeping up her courage with the hope of 
 soon being at home. Her fingers, in spite of the 
 Solferino mittens, were stiff with cold, and al- 
 ready beginning to ache with that stinging pain 
 every child can remember ; her feet were a little 
 better, thanks to the thick leggins and overshoes, 
 but her nose was frosty, and her cheeks fairly 
 tingled in the keen, cold air to which they 
 had been so long exposed. It was growing 
 colder, too, for she had lost a good deal of time 
 in her expedition down to Catharine Ferry, and 
 the short winter afternoon was fast wearing 
 away. 
 
 Susie began to feel, with dismay, how late it
 
 25 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 was growing, and she did her best to make haste, 
 not even stopping to look in at any of the large 
 plate-glass windows that displayed gay toys and 
 tempting confectionery to her view. She was 
 very hungry, but she hardly thought of it in her 
 anxiety to get to the end of her journey ; and so 
 she kept on without pausing, until her tired feet 
 actually could go no farther, and she was obliged 
 to stop for a few minutes to rest. 
 
 People stared at her as she sat on a carriage- 
 block close to the curb-stone, looking so weary 
 and forlorn, but nobody spoke to her. It was 
 cold and late, and every one had his own busi- 
 ness to attend to. So the living tide flowed past, 
 and the poor little wanderer dragged herself up 
 after a few minutes' rest, and marched on once 
 more. But she had to stop again soon, for her 
 strength was so spent that she could hardly drag 
 one foot after the other. And worse still, a 
 dreadful fear had begun to creep into her mind. 
 Everything about her was so strange and un- 
 familiar still ; yet surely, before this time, she 
 ought to have got into a neighborhood that she 
 would know. O ! could she have gone wrong 
 again, after all? 
 
 It was such a terrible thought that it made the
 
 SUSIE S SLEIGH-RIDE. 29 
 
 child sick with despair, and she leaned against a 
 lamp-post for a moment, so faint and dizzy that 
 she was afraid of falling. Only for a moment, 
 though. A desperate feeling that she must keep 
 on and know the worst, took possession of her, 
 and she started in a run down the steep side- 
 walk. A glimpse of water in the distance, and 
 the white sails of ships, made her stop suddenly 
 before she had gone one block, and at the same 
 moment the ding-dong of the boat bell struck 
 upon her ear, leaving no longer a shadow of 
 doubt. She had walked all the way down to 
 Fulton Ferry ! 
 
 . Susie could not remember very distinctly what 
 happened after this. She felt so stunned and 
 hopeless that she walked on as if she had been 
 blind for a few minutes, and was jostled, and 
 pushed, and almost knocked down by the rough 
 men and boys who were hurrying up from the 
 ferry, without making an effort to get out of their 
 way. She found herself, presently, down by the 
 gates, in the midst of the throng pouring off 
 from the boat which had just come in. People 
 were pushing and crowding as if their lives 
 depended upon getting ahead of one another ; 
 horses were stamping, and drivers shouting and
 
 30 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 swearing, and the newsboys deafening one's ears 
 with their shrill cries ; but Susie staggered on, as 
 if she neither saw nor heard anything. She was 
 just stepping forward in front of the great gates, 
 where the long string of carts and carriages were 
 passing through ; they followed one another as 
 fast as possible without regard to foot passengers, 
 and the bewildered child would almost certainly 
 have been knocked down by the horses if some- 
 body in the crowd had not snatched her back. 
 
 " You foolish little thing ! Do you want to 
 get yourself run over and killed ? " 
 
 The voice was not very kind, for the gentle- 
 man was provoked by what he thought was such 
 reckless daring on the child's part. But no 
 sweeter music ever rang in poor little Susie 
 Thompson's ears than those rough words ! She 
 turned round with a scream of joy, 
 
 " O, papa ! papa ! Don't you know me? I'm 
 Susie ! " 
 
 And in another moment she was clasped 
 tightly in her father's arms, sobbing as if her 
 heart would break in her wild excitement at 
 such unlooked-for relief. You can imagine her 
 father's astonishment, and how everj-body staved 
 and wondered at such a scene. Mr. Thompson
 
 SUSIES SLEIGH-RIDE. 31 
 
 did not stop to ask questions, but dashed in front 
 of the horses himself, with Susie in his arms, 
 and sprang into the blue car that stood close by, 
 before she had time to take a breath. The horses 
 started at once, and at last she was really on her 
 way home ! 
 
 It was a long time before she could lift up her 
 face from her father's shoulder, where she had 
 first hidden it, or quiet her sobbing enough to 
 tell him her pitiful story. When she looked up 
 at last, there was a little warm hand clasping 
 hers, and who should be there but Carrie Pratt, 
 sitting on her father's knee, just beside them, and 
 gazing at Susie with the most wondering, and 
 anxious, and compassionate eyes ! She was 
 just coming home after her long, happy day, 
 seeing sights in New York, and she little knew 
 how wretchedly the same time had been spent 
 by her playmate, though she saw something ter- 
 rible had happened. 
 
 Susie managed to tell her story at last, and 
 every one pitied her so much that she did not 
 get a great deal of scolding, not half so much 
 as she felt she deserved ; especially when they got 
 home, and found her mother almost crazy about 
 her, while all the servants of the house were
 
 32 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 roaming the streets, far and near, in search of 
 her. 
 
 Susie has had more than one sleigh-ride since, 
 but never another like that. She says she will 
 never forget it as long as she lives ; and I rather 
 think the lesson it taught her will do her good. At 
 any rate, she has never since done anything, of 
 the propriety of which she was not quite sure, 
 without first asking mamma.
 
 KITTY'S VALENTINE. 
 
 KITTY GRAYSON'S father was the most 
 charming father in the world. At least 
 that was Kitty's firm belief, and I don't deny that 
 she had excellent reasons for it. The lovely 
 picture-books and story-books that crowded the 
 nursery shelves, the innumerable dolls that filled 
 the baby-house, the oranges and sugar-plums that 
 were forever coming home in his pockets, were 
 all arguments in favor of Kitty's theory, that no 
 little girl would have disputed. And in addition 
 to all this, whenever she asked him for a penny, 
 which she frequently did, in spite of having 
 everything that she could want already, he 
 gave her two, or five, and sometimes ten. Now, 
 if this was not being charming, I wonder what 
 under the sun could be ! 
 
 It was singular, however, that Kitty's mother 
 was not altogether pleased with Kitty's father, as 
 her father. She liked him very much indeed on 
 
 her own account, but she often said to herself, 
 2 (33)
 
 34 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " He will spoil this little girl of ours, I am 
 sadly afraid. It is not good for any one to be so 
 indulged, and it will surely make her selfish and 
 disagreeable in the end." 
 
 So in order, if possible, to prevent this unfor- 
 tunate result, she tried to teach Kitty some lessons 
 of self-denial. 
 
 One day the little girl ran into tlje nursery 
 holding up a tiny square of purplish-looking 
 paper, with a head of Washington on the face, 
 and " 25 " in large figures on the back. Her 
 mother recognized it as the " fractional curren- 
 cy," supposed to be an improvement on old- 
 fashioned silver quarters, and was not slow to 
 guess how Kitty came by it, even before her 
 triumphant outcry, 
 
 "Just look, mamma ! I asked papa for a pen- 
 ny, and he gave me all this a whole quar- 
 ter ! " 
 
 " I dare say he did," said her mother. " You 
 and papa together waste a good deal of money, 
 Miss Kitty." 
 
 " But I shan't waste this," said Kitty, " I shall 
 spend it." 
 
 "I dare say," her mother repeated. "And 
 what do you propose to buy ? "
 
 KITTY'S VALENTINE. 35 
 
 "A valentine, of course," Kitty replied, 
 promptly. " To-morrow is St. Valentine's 
 Day." 
 
 "And what will you do with a valentine?" 
 
 " O, I don't know ! Have some fun with it 
 send it to somebody, maybe. Everybody buys 
 valentines." 
 
 " I don't think everybody does," her mother 
 answered, quietly. " Very few sensible people 
 do ; and if I were in your place, Kitty, I would 
 not throw away twenty-five cents for a thing that 
 can give neither pleasure nor profit to anybody." 
 
 " You always say that sort of thing ! " ex- 
 claimed Kitty, pettishly. " Papa doesn't. He 
 tells me to buy what I please." 
 
 " Perhaps he doesn't know that you often 
 please to buy foolish things." 
 
 " It is my own money, at any rate," said 
 Kitty, rather sullenly. 
 
 " Certainly it is ; and I shall not forbid you to 
 spend it for a valentine. I only ad-vise you not 
 to, because it will be wasting money that might 
 be spent for a good purpose." 
 
 "But there isn't anything else I want," said 
 Kitty. 
 
 " Is there no one in the world who docs want 
 something else?"
 
 36 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 Kitty shrugged her shoulders. " I'm sure I 
 don't know," she began, pertly ; and just then 
 the baby in the cradle waked up with a cry, 
 and Mrs. Grayson had to take him. So the 
 talk ended. 
 
 Kitty slipped out of the room, feeling dissatis. 
 fied, and rather uncomfortable, but not at all dis- 
 posed to give up her own way. She wandered 
 about the house for a while, not knowing what to 
 do with herself, and finally put on her hat and 
 cloak, and went out on the sidewalk. It was 
 pleasant weather for the season, so that several 
 of her playmates were already out, and she was 
 warmly welcomed by the little group. They 
 were tired of playing " tag," and were walking 
 up and down now, with their arms around one 
 another, in little girl fashion ; and as fate would 
 have it, the subject of conversation was the very 
 one in which Kitty was so much interested. 
 
 Lizzie Tracy's papa had bought her " the most 
 lovely valentine," and Josie Ridgeway was going 
 to buy one for herself, and Mamie Burton had 
 been round to Rose's, and, O, you never saw 
 such beauties in all your life ! Silver darts 
 sticking through golden hearts, and doves 
 perched upon wreaths of flowers, and the bor-
 
 KITTY'S VALENTINE. 37 
 
 ders of the paper just like real lace ! and besides 
 that, some of them were so comical you would 
 die laughing ; and wouldn't it be awful funny to 
 get one of those ridiculous things, and slip it 
 under Fanny Woodward's door? She would 
 think Harry Ogden sent it, and, O, wouldn't she 
 be mad? 
 
 With all this silly talk Kitty was greatly 
 amused and interested ; and you may be sure 
 she soon announced the fact that she had twenty- 
 five cents of her own, and could buy a valentine 
 if she chose. 
 
 It isn't necessary to say that nobody advised 
 her not to : in. fact, it was the general opinion 
 that she could not possibly do better with her 
 money. Josie Ridgeway had ten cents to invest 
 in the same way ; so it was proposed that the 
 whole party should proceed to Rose's immedi- 
 ately, and the proposition was unanimously car- 
 ried. Kitty had sometimes been allowed to go 
 alone to Rose's fancy store, in Atlantic Street, 
 which was only two or three blocks distant. 
 She did not feel obliged, therefore, to ask he* 
 mother's permission, and the last opportunity to 
 profit by her advice was thus avoided.
 
 38 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 The four little girls went merrily together to 
 the tempting spot, and were soon in a state of 
 delightful bewilderment, not knowing^ how to 
 choose from the endless variety that was spread 
 before them. The silver arrows and lace bor- 
 ders were voted " sweet" and " splendid ; " but 
 the " comic " style seemed, after all, to be more 
 attractive. The children hovered round the 
 ridiculous caricatures, and laughed over them 
 as much as if they had been really funny, in- 
 stead of being, as they were, merely coarse. 
 Josie Ridgeway was fascinated by a fat Cupid, 
 dancing on a barrel, with the motto below, 
 
 "Bourbon whiskey and brandy-wine, 
 You're my sweetest valentine.' 
 
 Her ten cents was finally exchanged for that 
 witty work of art ; and then Kitty's attention 
 was directed to the picture of a long-nosed and 
 ancient looking maiden lady, in a very low- 
 necked dress, with two extremely sharp elbows 
 sticking out from her short sleeves. Above this 
 interesting portrait was the name, " Miss Fanny 
 Faintaway ; " below it were the following irre- 
 sistible lines:
 
 KITTYS VALENTINE. 39 
 
 " Two beaux Miss Faintaway can show, 
 A.nd from her side they never go ; 
 Yet still in vain she'll sigh and pine, 
 She'll never get a Valentine ! 
 For why ? The truth is this, my dear, 
 So sharp her elbows do appear, 
 No other beau dares venture near! " 
 
 This pointed joke was considered so very 
 amusing, that Kitty willingly parted with her 
 quarter to become the possessor of Miss Fainta- 
 way ; and they all went home again in great 
 glee. 
 
 The luncheon bell was ringing just as she 
 reached her own door, and she went in to meet 
 her mother with a half ashamed and half defiant 
 feeling. Mrs. Gray son looked at the coarse daub 
 which Kitty held up to her, but made no com- 
 ment upon it. 
 
 " I suppose you are quite satisfied with it, my 
 dear," was all she said ; but there was something 
 in her quiet tone that made the little girl feel 
 uncomfortable. Was she quite satisfied with it, 
 after all? She began to doubt it, and the more 
 she looked at the coarse, staring thing, the less 
 satisfaction she felt in it. 
 
 However, she did not choose to acknowledge
 
 40 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 this, even to herself, and the " funny " plan that 
 Mamie Burton had proposed was yet to be carried 
 out. So after lunch, which she did not enjoy as 
 much as usual to-day, in spite of the cold chicken 
 and mince pie, Kitty went up stairs and found 
 an envelope, in which she enclosed Miss Fanny 
 Faintaway. She sealed it up with a fancy mot- 
 to, and wrote on the outside, 
 
 " To Missfany ivudard. 
 
 St. -valentine's day" 
 
 The bad spelling was intended to be a dis- 
 guise, and Kitty's playmates were much amused 
 when she took out the precious document for 
 their benefit. Mamie Burton undertook to see it 
 safely delivered ; and Kitty laughed in secret all 
 the afternoon, as she thought of Fanny Wood- 
 ward's vexation when she should open the val- 
 entine. 
 
 She went out on the sidewalk the next morn- 
 ing, eager to meet the girls and enjoy the fun. 
 But it did not turn out so funnily as she had 
 anticipated. Either Mamie Burton, or some 
 other one of the party, had betrayed her, or 
 else Fanny had guessed at Kitty's handwriting.
 
 KITTYS VALENTINE. 41 
 
 However it was, Fanny met her with a very 
 dignified air, and handed back to her the 
 " comic " valentine. 
 
 " My mamma doesn't wish to have such vul- 
 gar things about the house," she said, with a 
 most stately and " superior " manner. " So I 
 beg leave to return your valentine, Miss Kitty 
 Grayson, and it will save you the trouble of 
 buying another for somebody else." 
 
 With which withering speech she went back 
 to her own house, and she never spoke to Kitty 
 again for a fortnight. On the whole, the fun 
 was rather a failure, and Kitty began to wish 
 she had taken her mother's advice when she 
 realized the unpleasant consequences of the joke. 
 She wished it still more by and by, for Fanny's 
 anger was not the worst thing that happened. 
 
 .One day she had been to Rose's to buy a slate- 
 pencil, and on her way home her attention was 
 attracted by a little girl who sat on a door-step, 
 crying bitterly. The child did not look like a 
 beggar : her clothes were neat, though well worn 
 and patched ; and her face had neither the bold 
 nor sly look which are seen so often on these 
 little prematurely old and cunning street beggars. 
 Kitty a child herself felt the difference, and
 
 42 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 knew the grief, whatever caused it, was gen- 
 uine. 
 
 She stopped, full of pity and -concern, for 
 she was tender-hearte'd in spite of her self-indul- 
 gent habits, and asked very kindly and sympa- 
 thizingly what the matter was. In answer came 
 a pitiful story. They had a sick baby at home, 
 the little stranger said, and her mother had sent 
 her to the drug-store with twenty-five cents, to 
 buy some medicine. But the pavement was 
 slippery, and she fell down ; the money flew out 
 of her hand, and some bad boys that saw her 
 fall snatched it up before she could reach it, and 
 ran off with it. She ran after them, and cried, 
 and begged them to give it back to her, but they 
 would not listen to her, and she could not over- 
 take them. 
 
 " And now I don't know what to do ! I don't 
 know what to do ! " the poor little creature 
 sobbed, in her bitter distress. 
 
 Kitty looked at her in sorrowful perplexity. 
 " Why don't you go home and get some more 
 money?" she asked, presently. 
 
 " I can't ! " moaned the child. " There isn't 
 any more, not till mother gets paid, Saturday 
 night. Mother's poor, and the man at the drug-
 
 KITTY S VALENTINE. 43 
 
 store won't trust her. O, my poor little brother, 
 I know he'll die ! " 
 
 And the child wrung her hands, and sobbed 
 so pitifully, that Kitty was heart-broken to see 
 her, and to feel that she could not help her. 
 That was the worst of it the remembrance 
 that she might have helped her. If only she 
 had kept that quarter, instead of spending it for 
 the horrid valentine ! If only she had listened 
 to her mother's kind advice ! 
 
 But such wishes were worse than useless now ? 
 and Kitty was obliged to pass on, and leave the 
 poor child as wretched as she found her. It 
 never occurred to her to bring her home, and 
 ask her mother to give her the money. At 
 any other time that would have been her first 
 thought ; but she was so full of regret and self- 
 reproach in remembering what she might have 
 done herself, if she had not been so wilful, that 
 she could not think of anything else. 
 
 So the only opportunity that remained to her 
 was neglected ; and she never knew whether the 
 poor little baby lived or died. She thought 
 about it many a time : the picture of the weep- 
 ing child no older than herself, but so differ- 
 ent ! came up in the midst of her merriest
 
 44 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 play, and made her heart ache with a pain that 
 she had never felt before. 
 
 It was a pain, however, that had a wholesome 
 effect. She began to see, at last, that living only 
 to please one's self is not at all the best or the 
 happiest life ; to comprehend, also, something 
 of her own responsibility in improving the op- 
 portunities for doing good that came in her way. 
 
 Her mother found her a more willing listener 
 after this, when she suggested some little act of 
 self-denial ; and, under her careful guidance, 
 Kitty found so many good uses for the little sums 
 she saved, and so much real pleasure in using 
 them thus, that Mrs. Grayson had soon no fear 
 that her little girl would grow up selfish and 
 disagreeable. 
 
 Miss Fanny Faintaway was kept in a drawer, 
 by way of remembrance ; and Kitty's Valentine 
 is still preserved as Kitty's first lesson in Moral 
 Responsibility.
 
 SAM'S PUNISHMENT. 
 
 SAM and Mattie Gordon were finishing their 
 breakfast one bright summer morning. The 
 .extension-table was reduced to its smallest dimen- 
 sions, and only two cups and saucers appeared 
 on the coffee-tray. These, moreover, were there 
 for ornament rather than use ; for Mattie and 
 Sam were the only guests at the table, and the 
 silver cups that stood beside their plates had 
 been replenished from the milk-pitcher, and not 
 the coffee-urn. 
 
 " It's rather funny having breakfast all to our- 
 selves," said Mattie presently. "I suppose 
 papa and mamma are a hundred miles away 
 by this time." 
 
 " More than that," said Sam, " if they trav- 
 elled all night, as they meant to. I wonder if 
 Job's troubles are really coming to an end, at 
 last ! " 
 
 " O, Sam ! aren't % you ashamed of yourself? " 
 cried Mattie, half laughing, half shocked. 
 
 (45)
 
 46 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 "What for? Isn't his name Job, and hasn't 
 he always been in trouble, with rheumatism or 
 something, ever since we heard of him? I'm 
 sure it's always been ' poor uncle Job ' since 
 I could remember.'* 
 
 " Never mind ; he's papa's uncle, for all that, 
 and we ought to be respectful," said Mattie, se- 
 dately. " The telegram said ' no hope of recov- 
 ery,' so I suppose he will die before they come 
 back." 
 
 " I hope he'll leave me his gold watch," said 
 Sam. 
 
 " I'd rather have the old Indian cabinet that 
 I've heard papa talk about, with those wonderful 
 bugs and beetles, you know, and the shells and 
 precious stones. But hurry up, Sam ; it's almost 
 school-time. You're not going to eat another 
 egg, surely?" 
 
 " Yes, I am ; " and Sam broke the shell very 
 deliberately, and took up a pinch of salt between 
 his thumb and forefinger, indifferent, in the 
 absence of his elders, to breakfast-table pro- 
 prieties. 
 
 " I'm going to eat another egg, and I'm not 
 going to school : there are ^two facts for you, 
 Miss Martha Jane."
 
 SAM'S PUNISHMENT. 47 
 
 " Not going to school ! Why, Sam, did mam* 
 ma say we were not to go ? She didn't tell me* 
 
 " She didn't exactly tell me" said Sam, shak- 
 ing the pepper-box over his egg-glass, " but I 
 don't have to be told everything under the sun 
 before I can understand, as you do, Mattie." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," said Mattie, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 " Of course you don't. r That's just what I 
 said. You never know how to think for your* 
 self about anything." 
 
 " But, Sam, I know what mamma told me. 
 It was to ' go on just the same way as if she 
 were at home,' and I certainly can't see how that 
 means staying from school." 
 
 " I know what she told me, too. It was to 
 ' take care of my sister, and look after things.' 
 Which meant, of course, that I should stop at 
 home to protect the house, and see any people 
 that came on business, and and all that sort 
 of thing. Anybody except some one as stupid 
 as you, Mattie could see at once that it 
 wouldn't be proper for us to go to school, and 
 leave no one but servants in the house all the 
 while papa and mamma are away." 
 
 " I can't see why it should be improper," 
 Mattie persisted.
 
 48 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " Let me see for you, then," observed Sam, 
 with a grand air. " You can't help it, I sup- 
 pose, if you are a little bit stupid, Patsy Anne." 
 
 " Your calling me stupid so many times 
 doesn't prove that I am," retorted Mattie, rather 
 indignantly. " It's not very kind of you, at any 
 rate, Sam ; and my name isn't Patsy Anne, or 
 Martha Jane, either." 
 
 " So it isn't, Mattykin, and I won't call you so 
 any more, if you'll be a good girl. Come up 
 stairs and help me finish my kite, that's a good 
 old Mat ; and then I'll lend you my color-box to 
 paint your paper dolls. Come along : it'll be a 
 great deal nicer than going to school." 
 
 " I dare say ; but I'm going to school all the 
 same," answered Mattie, getting up from the 
 table. " I don't think papa and mamma intend- 
 ed for us to stay away ; and I don't think we 
 have any right to, of ourselves. Indeed, I'm 
 very sure we haven't," she repeated, decidedly, 
 " and so you must do as you please, Sam, but / 
 am going to school." 
 
 " Go on, then, and be hateful and disobliging. 
 It's just like you ! " exclaimed Sam, angrily. 
 "You're so conceited that nobody can tell you 
 anything. You think you know better than all 
 the world."
 
 SAM S PUNISHMENT. 49 
 
 " An the world," in this case, meaning only 
 Sam Gordon, who, being her twin-brother, was 
 exactly the same age with herself, and failed in 
 his lessons quite as often, to say the least, as she 
 did. Mattie could not see why she had not 
 as good a right to an opinion as Sam. He had 
 just told her, besides, that she never knew how 
 to think for herself; and yet, now that she did 
 think, he was angry. 
 
 She did not tell him this, however. She only 
 began to say, 
 
 " I am very sorry, Sam ; indeed I don't wish 
 to be disobliging " 
 
 But he interrupted her with another angry ex- 
 clamation, pushed his chair back to the wall with 
 a great bang, and marched out of the room. 
 Mattie stood still for a minute or two after he 
 had left her, feeling very much distressed and 
 perplexed. It was so unpleasant to vex Sam, 
 and yet she felt so sure she was right, that she 
 could not bring herself to give up the point, even 
 for the sake of humoring him. 
 
 " I do wish that papa and mamma had not 
 
 been obliged to hurry off so last night," she said 
 
 to herself. " There was no time to give us any 
 
 directions ; and if Sam and I are going to think 
 
 4
 
 5O BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 differently about everything, it will certainly be 
 very hard. Well, I can't help it. It's time to 
 go to school now, at any rate, and / knoiv I 
 ought to go." 
 
 So she collected her books without any further 
 pondering, and started off for school. Once 
 there, there was no time to fret herself with 
 thinking of Sam's unkind speeches, and his lone- 
 liness at home without her. Lessons had to be 
 attended to, and the day passed by busily and 
 happily, as it generally does when one has a 
 clear conscience, and knows one is doing what 
 is right. 
 
 The case was different with Sam. In spite of 
 his confident assertions, he did not feel altogether 
 at ease in his own mind, and consequently ev- 
 erything he attempted to do proved unsatisfac- 
 tory. He went up to the attic, which had been 
 given to the children for their play-room, and 
 began to make a tail for his kite. But he was 
 not accustomed to do anything by himself: Mat- 
 tie was always at hand, to help or to hinder, as 
 the case might be ; and though he hectored her 
 not a little, and called her " stupid " on the least 
 provocation, still he found, when she was gone, 
 that she was very good company indeed.
 
 SAM'S PUNISHMENT. 51 
 
 Making kite-tails all alone was an uninterest- 
 ing amusement, so he soon gave it up, anjj went 
 down stairs again, to look for a book. There 
 was nothing new, however. All his own books, 
 and Mattie's, had been read through more than 
 once, and he looked in vain upon his father's 
 book-shelves for something that would amuse 
 him. Hejrndon's Amazon and Livingston's Af- 
 rica were tried in turn, and each thrown aside. 
 Finally he fell back upon The Young Maroon- 
 ers, which he had read twice already, and con- 
 trived to get rid of half an hour in following the 
 adventures of Harold and Robert in their desert 
 island. 
 
 At the end of this time he concluded that he 
 felt hungry, and he would have some luncheon, 
 not a common, every-day, bread-and-butter 
 luncheon, he had no appetite for that, which 
 was not surprising, considering the three eggs, 
 the muffins, and the radishes which he had dis- 
 posed of at breakfast only two hours ago. Some 
 almonds, and a bunch of raisins, or a piece of 
 candied citron perhaps a slice of fruit-cake, 
 if there should happen to be a loaf that was 
 cut ; these were the dainties that suggested 
 themselves to Master Sam's mind, and he went
 
 52 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 down to the dining-room to find the key of a 
 certain closet which he knew contained a store 
 of such things. 
 
 This key was put away carefully, in an inner 
 drawer of the sideboard ; for, besides the store of 
 sweets which the closet contained, there was 
 also a quantity of old-fashioned silver put there 
 for safe keeping. It was family silver, handed 
 down for three generations ; and besides being 
 valuable in itself, was especially prized by Mrs. 
 Gordon for the sake of the associations connected 
 with it. The key would probably have been 
 laid in some still more secure place if Mrs. 
 Gordon had remembered it, but in the hurry 
 of her unexpected departure it was not thought 
 of; so it still lay in the sideboard drawer, where 
 Sam had often seen his mother put it, and he got 
 possession of it without any difficulty. 
 
 It occurred to him, as he stood in the closet 
 helping himself liberally to the various delicacies 
 around him, that he was not generally allowed 
 the freedom of those shelves. The nuts and fruit 
 that he and Mattie occasionally had for their 
 school luncheon were dispensed by their moth- 
 er's hand, not taken at their own discretion. 
 They were never sent to that closet on any
 
 SAM'S PUNISHMENT. 53 
 
 errand whatever, and Mattie certainly would 
 never have gone to it in her mother's absence. 
 Sam could not help thinking so as he stood there, 
 and for a moment a good impulse came to him 
 to put back the cluster of 1'aisins untested, lock 
 the door, and restore the key to its hiding-place. 
 
 " But that's all nonsense," he said to himself, 
 resisting the voice of conscience. " Mattie's a 
 little goose, and never dares to do anything with- 
 out permission. But I'm the master of the 
 house while papa's away, and I've a right to 
 help myself to a few nuts, if I please. There's 
 no harm in it." 
 
 So the good impulse was checked by the same 
 false reasoning with which he had satisfied him- 
 self in the morning. He crammed his pockets 
 with whatever he fancied prunes, figs, raisins 
 dipped his fingers into various jars of preserved 
 ginger and foreign sweetmeats, and finally re- 
 turned to the parlor to finish his refreshment at 
 his leisure, beside the open window. The closet 
 was left unlocked, with the key in the door, and 
 Sam thought no more of it from that time for- 
 ward. 
 
 Later in the day a man came by with a bill- 
 hook in his hand.
 
 54 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 "Have your grass" cut, sir?" he inquired of 
 Sam, who still lounged at the parlor window. 
 " Do it nice, and do it cheap, if you'll give me 
 the job, sir." 
 
 "How cheap?" asked Sam. "I guess it 
 does need cutting, out in the back yard, and I 
 don't know but I'll employ you," he added, im- 
 portantly. Here was a fine opportunity to 
 prove to Mattie that his presence at home was 
 necessary. 
 
 "Are you the boss?" asked the man, looking 
 up curiously at the boy's consequential tone. 
 
 " I am the master of the house while my 
 father is away," Sam replied, still more grand- 
 ly. " How much will you charge for cutting the 
 grass ? " 
 
 " That depends upon how much you've got to 
 cut. I'll have to see it, sir, before I can tell 
 you." 
 
 " Come in the house, then, this way ; and 
 you can go through into the back yard." 
 
 Sam went to the front door as he spoke, and 
 let the man in. He had no business to do it, 
 the basement door, of course, being the proper 
 entrance for such a person. " But it's too much 
 trouble to go down stairs," he thought. " He
 
 SAM'S PUNISHMENT. 55 
 
 can just as well go through the hall." So the 
 dusty boots were marched across the handsome 
 hall carpet, past the closet door with the key in 
 it, which the man took notice of, though Sam 
 did not, and on through the piazza, out into the 
 back yard. 
 
 There the bargain was soon concluded the 
 man charging double what the work was worth, 
 for he was quick enough to see the inexperience 
 of his employer. Sam, quite unconscious of 
 that, felt very self-satisfied and important. He 
 was a person of authority ; he was discharging 
 the duties of his position ; he should be able to 
 tell Mattie, triumphantly, that he " had had to 
 see a person on business, and it was quite lucky 
 that he had not gone to school." 
 
 In the midst of these self-complacent thoughts, 
 the grass-cutter, whose work was done very 
 rapidly at least, if not very thoroughly, carne 
 up the steps of the piazza, and demanded his 
 fee. Sam put his hand in his pocket, then re- 
 membered that all the money in the house was 
 up stairs in the market-purse. 
 
 " You'll have to wait a minute, till I go up 
 stairs," he said. " I've no money about me." 
 
 " All right, sir ; I'm not in a hurry," was the
 
 56 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 answer ; and the man stepped forward into the 
 hall, leaning his back against the closet door, 
 while Sam went up to get the money. He 
 thought he knew exactly where to find it, but 
 when he opened the drawer where the market- 
 purse was kept, it was not to be seen. He rum- 
 maged about, upsetting all the papers and ac- 
 count-books, and loosening packages of receipted 
 bills, in a vain expectation of finding it hidden 
 under them. But still it did not appear, and 
 some five minutes were wasted in the fruitless 
 search before he remembered that the cook had 
 probably gone out to do the marketing, and 
 taken the purse with her. 
 
 " How provoking ! " he exclaimed, impatient- 
 ly. " Now what am I going to do, I wonder? 
 I suppose I shall have to tell him to wait, or to 
 come again. What a bother ! " 
 
 But there was no help for it ; so he went down 
 again to arrange the matter as well as he could. 
 He had left the man in the hall, but no man was 
 there now, to his surprise ; neither was he in the 
 piazza. There were the tracks of his dirty feet ; 
 there were a few withered blades of grass, 
 tokens of his presence, indeed, but the man 
 himself had disappeared utterly !
 
 SAM'S PUNISHMENT. 57 
 
 " He must be in the kitchen, of course," 
 thought Sam, and down he went. But he was 
 not there, nor yet in the back yard. No sign of 
 him anywhere about, and no one had seen him 
 go out of the house ; yet gone he was, most 
 certainly, out of sight and out of sound ! It was 
 very mysterious, and Sam was exceedingly per- 
 plexed. 
 
 " I only hope he hasn't carried off anything, 
 Master Sam," said Anne, the housemaid. " If 
 wasn't safe at all, going up stairs and leaving 
 him there all alone ; he a strange man, too ! " 
 
 " That's nonsense," said Sam, hastily. " What 
 could he carry off, I'd like to know, in such a 
 minute of time?" 
 
 " If he could carry himself off, he could carry 
 something else," retorted Anne. " Them fellers is 
 sharp as a meat-axe, and I'll bet he never went 
 empty-handed. I'm going to see, anyhow." 
 
 She started up stairs, and Bridget,' the cook, 
 who had just come in, followed after her. Sam 
 came behind, feeling nervous and anxious in 
 spite of himself; and he was not reassured by 
 Anne's outcry, as soon as .she reached the top of 
 the stairs, 
 
 " The hall closet's open ! O, my blessed 
 goodness ! He's been at the silver ! "
 
 58 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 Poor Sam ! it flashed over him instantly that 
 he had never locked that door, never taken out 
 the key, never thought of it, in fact, since he 
 helped himself to the sweetmeats in the morn- 
 ing. And the silver, the precious old family 
 silver, that his mother prized so dearly ! 
 
 He gave one bound, rushed past Bridget, and 
 tore open the closet door before Anne had at- 
 tempted to do it. Alas, the terrible fear was too 
 true ! The quaint, pretty old silver porringers, 
 the pair of heavy salt-cellars, the cream-jug, the 
 sugar-tongs, and the spoons, were all gone ! In 
 forlorn stateliness stood the two tea-pots, and the 
 cake-basket ; they were safe on account of their 
 size ; but all the small articles, everything that 
 could possibly be stuffed into pockets, or hidden 
 in a hat-crown, or tucked under a coat, had dis- 
 appeared ! 
 
 Sam felt stunned and bewildered, as if some 
 one had knocked him down suddenly. Any- 
 body might have knocked him down, indeed, 
 with a feather, as he realized, at last, the conse- 
 quences of his misconduct. He looked so pale 
 and horror-stricken, as he stood dumb before the 
 door, that Anne had no need to ask how the 
 closet came to be open. She turned upon him 
 with a torrent of reproach.
 
 SAM'S PUNISHMENT. 59 
 
 " It's you that did it, Master Sam, as it's easy 
 to see by the face of yur. And what business 
 had yur in the closet, I'd like to know, when it's 
 never allowed to go into it yur are? " 
 
 " I thought I intended I forgot to lock 
 it ! " stammered Sam, wretchedly. 
 
 *' And what was yur after at all ?" screamed 
 Bridget, angrily. " Why isn't it at school yur 
 are, like yur sister? And who gave yur leave 
 to be meddling with the raisins and swate stuffs 
 that yur mother never lets yur go to ? " 
 
 " That's true for yur," chimed in Anne. " He 
 had a right to be at school this blessed day, and 
 I heard Miss Mattie tryin' to coax him to go. 
 But he's so full of his conceit he thinks he 
 knows so much better than she does when 
 she's got more sense in her little finger than he 
 has all over, as any fool may see ! " 
 
 " It's a pretty kettle o' fish he's cooked for his- 
 self now," said Bridget, grimly. " I wouldn't 
 be in his shoes when his father comes home. 
 An' serve him right, too." 
 
 Sam had not a word to answer to the scolding 
 of the servants. They were honest, faithful wo- 
 men, who had lived for years in the family, and 
 Mrs. Gordon trusted them with everything in the
 
 60 BLRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 house. They were proud of her trust, and felt 
 all the more bitterly an affair like this, which 
 would seem to be a reflection upon their careful- 
 ness ; though they were, of course, not in the 
 least to blame, as Sam knew well, for he. had 
 taken very good pains that neither Anne nor 
 Bri'dget should see him get the key. 
 
 He broke away from them at last, and rushed 
 up to his own room, where he shut himself in, 
 and gave way to a passion of grief and despair. 
 O, if he only had locked the closet and put away 
 the key ! If he had never thought about getting 
 the raisins ! If he had but gone to school with 
 Mattie in the morning ! Too late he saw that 
 here was where his wrong-doing had begun. If 
 he had not chosen, in a -fit of laziness and self- 
 indulgence, to stay at home, persuading himself 
 that it was right, when Mattie and his own con- 
 science both told him it was wrong, none of all 
 this trouble would have happened. But one fault 
 led to another. First idleness, then disobedi- 
 ence, then dishonesty, then carelessness, and he 
 saw, too late, alas ! how great the faults were, 
 that he had not recognized as faults at all, until 
 their bitter punishment overtook him. 
 
 Mattie came home from school with the usual
 
 SAM'S PUNISHMENT. 6 1 
 
 cheerful and contented look on her face. She 
 had only one little uneasiness, and that was the 
 wonder if Sam had got over his vexation with 
 her. To settle this as speedily as possible, she 
 went to look for him as soon as she had put away 
 her bonnet and books. He heard her voice in 
 the upper hall, calling his name, and wretched 
 as he was, it gave him a sense of relief. Much 
 as he had snubbed his little sister, he depended 
 upon her more than he knew. She might think 
 of something to help him out of his trouble, he 
 thought ; at any rate it would be some comfort to 
 tell her about it, and he knew from her he would 
 get nothing but tender pity. 
 
 Which was true indeed. She was heart- 
 broken when she heard the sad story, and with 
 all her might she pitied him, and grieved with 
 him, and never once said, " I told you so ! " as 
 she might have done very naturally. 
 
 Moreover her good sense suggested the quick- 
 est plan for relief from his unhappy state of 
 mind, which was, to write at once to his mother, 
 and tell her the whole story, instead of waiting 
 until her return to make the dreadful disclosure. 
 Sam would never have thought of that himself, 
 but he saw at once the wisdom of immediate
 
 62 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 confession, or "having the worst over with," 
 as he phrased it, after his sister had shown it 
 to him ! 
 
 So they wrote the letter together with much 
 painstaking and deliberation. But the truth was 
 told plainly, without any attempt to excuse Sam, 
 only that Mattie added a private postscript 
 afterwards, to the effect that, 
 
 " Poor Sam didn't mean to do anything wrong, 
 and he was so very, -very sorry and ashamed ! 
 Wouldn't dear papa and mamma please not to 
 be very angry with him, but just pity him a 
 little? He was so miserable, and so was their 
 poor little Mattie, who was sure tha| Sam would 
 never be naughty again." 
 
 It was not a very comfortable letter for Mrs. 
 Gordon to read, as you can imagine. She had 
 kept watch for three days and nights beside a 
 death-bed, and had just closed poor uncle Job's 
 eyes for their last dreamless sleep, when the 
 letter was brought to her. The tears that she 
 shed were not for the poor old man who had 
 gone to his rest, leaning trustfully upon his 
 Savior's love ; they were all for the boy who
 
 SAM'S PUNISHMENT. 63 
 
 had his life yet before him, to mend or to mar, 
 who was so easily tempted from the path of 
 duty, and might still fall into so many grievous 
 errors and dangers. The loss of the silver was 
 no small pain, but the feeling that Sam, her only 
 son, was so little to be trusted, gave her a far 
 keener pang. And that sorrowful night was 
 spent in earnest prayer, that this hard lesson 
 might be so stamped upon the boy's heart that 
 he should remember it for a warning all the days 
 of his life. The silver would be well lost, she 
 thought in her heart, if its loss were the means 
 of making Sam a conscientious and trustworthy 
 boy. 
 
 She told him this in her answer to his letter, 
 and it was the first gleam of real comfort that he 
 had found since his trouble began. It showed 
 him how his grief, and punishment could be 
 turned into a blessing; and he vowed in his 
 heart then, and asked God on his knees to 
 help him keep the vow, that he would never 
 rest till he became what his mother wished. It 
 was the first earnest purpose he had ever set 
 before him, the first real prayer he had ever 
 offered ; and our Father in heaven is quick to 
 hear and help us in all such.
 
 64 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 "God sees from his high blue heaven 
 He sees the grape in the flower; " 
 
 and sunshine and shower are never lacking to 
 bring it to perfection. 
 
 The fine old silver was never recovered ; but 
 as time went by, and Sam's good resolutions 
 were put into practice, proved and tried by 
 temptation, and found steadfast, his mother 
 felt that something had been given her in its 
 stead more precious than silver or gold ; for as 
 " a foolish son is the heaviness of his mother," 
 so is a wise and good son the joy of her heart, 
 and her life's great comfort.
 
 RUSSELL'S PAINT-BOX. 
 
 DING-DONG! the old bell at the police 
 station was ringing out twelve, and, as its 
 last stroke swung upon the air, a crowd of boys 
 poured out into the playground of the big public 
 school on the avenue below. It was the dinner 
 recess, and a great number of little baskets, and 
 tin pails, and sandwich-boxes came to light sud- 
 denly, as their owners scattered round in various 
 directions, some in groups to enjoy their luncheon 
 together, others off in a corner to dispose of it in 
 solitude. 
 
 " Come, Cleve," said one of a group of boys, 
 who had seated themselves in a shady place 
 under the fence, " trot out that basket of yours, 
 and let's see what kind of a spread you've got 
 to-day. Your mother's a trump, I say ; she 
 always gets you up such jolly good lunches." 
 
 " Well, so she does," answered Cleve, laugh- 
 ing. " I'm her only chick, you know, and she 
 naturally doesn't want me to starve." 
 
 5 <*>
 
 66 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " That's what makes her so liberal on the 
 chicken, I s'pose," said another boy, helping 
 himself without ceremony to a large slice of 
 breast which lay uppermost in the basket. 
 " There's plenty more, I know, old fellow, and 
 it will help my bread and butter along amaz- 
 ingly." 
 
 " Take another," responded Cleve, good- 
 naturedly. " There's some crullers down be- 
 low there, and some little tarts and things, too, 
 I guess. Help yourself;" and his basket was 
 handed in turn to each of his companions, until 
 the dainties prepared by Mrs. Morris for her 
 only darling were in a fair way of being more 
 generally distributed than she had anticipated. 
 
 " You're a lucky fellow," said Russell Holmes, 
 taking possession of a cranberry tart, and biting 
 into it with great satisfaction. " I think I'm 
 well off if I get a doughnut, or a piece of apple- 
 pie, for goodies ; but your basket is equal to a 
 baker's shop." 
 
 " O, I don't care much about it," answered 
 Cleve, carelessly. " I'd just as soon not have 
 all this stuff; and as to being lucky, that's a 
 great mistake. I'm just the unluckiest fellow 
 in the world always losing something or other.
 
 RUSSELL'S PAINT-BOX. 67 
 
 Last week it was my four-bladed knife, and now 
 I've lost two shillings out of my pocket, because 
 that old peg-top had to poke a hole in it. It 
 was all the money I had, besides, and I can't have 
 any more till next month." 
 
 " Why not?" asked Russell. 
 
 " O, because I have an allowance, you know, 
 and my father never will let me go over it. It's 
 no use asking, so I'm dead broke till May. By 
 the way, Russell, I was at your house yesterday. 
 You didn't see anything of a stray quarter lying 
 around after I went away did you? I missed 
 it last night, so I must have lost it in the after- 
 noon somewhere." 
 
 " I guess you didn't lose it at our house," said 
 Russell, confidently. " I should have seen it 
 somewhere if you had. You were only in the 
 yard, and up in my garret, you know and I 
 didn't see a sign of it." 
 
 " Well, it's just my luck ! " cried Cleve, gayly. 
 " It's no use crying, though ; so come on, boys, 
 and let's play hookey ! Dick Foster, I owe you 
 one ! Look out for your shins now, old fel- 
 low ! " 
 
 He made a flourish with his hookey-stick that 
 sent the ball spiniTing half across the playground,
 
 68 BIRDS OF A FKATilER.. 
 
 and Dick Foster and the rest, scrambling to their 
 feet, were soon after it in hot pursuit. 
 
 There was no more said about the lost money. 
 The other boys forgot it, and Cleve Morris, a 
 careless, easy, generous fellow, was too much 
 accustomed to such losses to think long about 
 this. He laughed over his poverty when his 
 slate-pencils and top-strings gave out, and he 
 became bankrupt in marbles ; but he managed 
 to get on till the end of the month without bor- 
 rowing a penny, though he had many offers of 
 small loans, being generally popular among his 
 companions. To reward him for such virtue, 
 his mother added a generous gift on her own 
 account to his father's allowance when May 
 came ; and Cleve, in his unexpected riches, 
 declared that his losing the quarter was a 
 "stroke of good luck," after all. 
 
 Russell Holmes listened enviously as his 
 schoolfellow boasted of his good fortune, and 
 showed his handful of jingling silver pieces to 
 the boysjn the playground. 
 
 "Just like him" he muttered to himself as he 
 went home after school, still dwelling upon the 
 thought that had been in his mind all the after- 
 noon : " I wonder when my mother would have
 
 RUSSELL'S PAINT-BOX. 69 
 
 given me a dollar for such a thing? But he gets 
 everything he wants, and is even paid for losing 
 his money ! I don't think it's fair." 
 
 Russell could not have given a very good rea- 
 son for not thinking it " fair," considering that 
 Mrs. Morris had certainly the right to use her 
 own money as she pleased. But, in his grum- 
 bling, mood, he did not stop to be logical. 
 
 " There's that paint-box," he began again, 
 " that I've been wanting so long, and my father 
 won't give me. It's only two shillings, and 
 Fricke would let me have it for twenty cents. 
 But, no ! my father can't afford it, he says. He 
 never can afford anything I want, and I think 
 it's real mean." 
 
 Again Russell did not consider how unreason- 
 able he was. There were a great many little 
 children at Mr. Holmes's ; Russell was the old- 
 est of eight brothers and sisters, and he knew 
 very well that his parents had hard work, with 
 their moderate means, to provide comfortably 
 for them all. He knew, too, that his father 
 indulged him in everything he could possibly 
 afford, and that none of the other children had 
 as much pocket-money, or as many playthings, 
 as himself. It was especially selfish and un-
 
 7O BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 grateful in him to think such things, but he was 
 just in the humor not to care how wicked he 
 was ; and he fairly grumbled himself, as he stood 
 by the toy-shop window, where the coveted 
 paint-box lay, into the belief that he was a 
 most unhappy and ill-used boy. 
 
 By the time he reached home, he was, of 
 course, not a very pleasant companion for any- 
 body. His mother looked up from her sewing 
 with a smile and a kind word as he came into 
 the nursery, and little Essie ran eagerly to give 
 her " big budder " a kiss. But he took no 
 notice of either one, only slammed his books 
 down upon the closet-shelf, and stalked sulkily 
 out of the room without speaking. 
 
 He went first up into the garret, which was a 
 general play-room for all the children, though 
 Russell, as the oldest, claimed chief possession, 
 and always spoke of it as " my garret." He 
 found the twins Frank and Wilson there, 
 busy making a kite out of some tissue-paper 
 which he recognized as his own property. At 
 any other time he would have allowed them to 
 use it without any reproof. But an evil spirit had 
 control of him to-day, and made him do mean 
 and unkind things, which he blushed to remem- 
 ber afterwards.
 
 RUSSELIS PAINT-BOX. Jl 
 
 " What are you doing with my paper, I'd like 
 to know? Who gave you leave to touch it, 
 sir?" were the angry questions with which the 
 poor little fellows were greeted. " I'll teach you 
 how to meddle with my things another time ! 
 Now see ! " 
 
 And before they knew what he meant, the 
 poor little pink kite, which Frank and Wilson 
 had been laboring over for an hour, was torn 
 into twenty pieces by their brother's hands. 
 
 He went down into the yard after this, leaving 
 the children sobbing over their disappointment 
 and his unkindness. He felt more miserable than 
 ever, and did not know at all what to do with 
 himself; so, for want of occupation, he began 
 to poke holes into the ground with an old walk- 
 ing-stick of his father's that the little ones used 
 for a hobby-horse. 
 
 "You shouldn't do that, Russell," said the 
 nurse, who was sitting on the terrace above him 
 with the baby in her arms. " There's seeds 
 coming up in them beds, and you'll kill 'em all 
 if you do so." 
 
 " It's none of your business if I do ! " Russell 
 answered, rudely, and went on poking holes, to 
 finish the figure of a half moon. But the cane
 
 72 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 struck suddenly against something hard, and 
 stooping down to see what it was, he found a 
 small, round piece of metal, which, all crusted 
 with mud as it was, the boy knew instantly to 
 be a silver quarter. His first impulse was to 
 hide it from the nurse who was watching him ; 
 so, closing his hand over it carefully, he got up 
 again, struck the cane into the ground once or 
 twice, and then throwing it down in the path, 
 sauntered out through the garden gate into the 
 street. 
 
 Some secret instinct made him avoid observa- 
 tion ; so- he walked on down the street until he 
 was quite out of sight of his own house, and 
 then crossed over to a vacant lot, and sat down 
 on a stone behind the fence, before he ventured 
 to examine his treasure openly. It was covered 
 with crusted mud, but he easily scraped that off 
 with his penknife, and then it showed fairly what 
 it was a good, genuine silver coin. 
 
 " Yes, it is certainly good money," said Rus- 
 sell to himself. " What a lucky find ! Now I 
 shall buy that paint-box." 
 
 But he did not seem in a hurry to go and 
 do it. 
 
 He sat upon the stone, and fingered the quar-
 
 RUSSELL'S PAINT-BOX. 73 
 
 ter in a nervous sort of way, looking round him 
 suspiciously now and then to see if anybody was 
 coming near him, and muttering excuses to him- 
 self, that proved his conscience was not altogether 
 easy. The truth was, he knew perfectly well he 
 had no right to spend the money ; that it was 
 the very piece Cleve Morris had lost two weeks 
 ago, and that it was his bounden duty, therefore, 
 to restore it immediately. 
 
 He knew what he ought to do, but he was 
 extremely unwilling ; and, on the other hand, he 
 could not easily make up his mind to do what 
 he knew would be a dishonest thing. If there 
 had only been any doubt in his mind about the 
 ownership of the quarter, he could have con- 
 tented himself readily. But Cleve had a trick 
 of drawing flags on everything that belonged to 
 him " his mark," he called it ; and here it was 
 plain enough a tiny Union flag, traced with 
 something sharp on a smooth spot of the coin. 
 There was no getting over slich evidence as that,, 
 and Russell could only think of the old school- 
 boy sophistry, that if a thing was lost, it belonged 
 to the finder. 
 
 Poor as the argument was, the longer he dwelt 
 upon it, the more plausible it seemed to him.
 
 ^4 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 Other thoughts came to help it out, too. Cleve 
 had forgotten all about the quarter, he had 
 plenty of money now, more than he needed, 
 he had given this up for lost, and what was 
 the use of saying anything about it after all this 
 time? What good did it do anybody lying in 
 the ground? It might be there still, if it wasn't 
 for him, and after he had taken the trouble to 
 find it, why, he had the best right to use it, of 
 course ! 
 
 Poor Russell ! he did not see, in his eagerness 
 to yield to temptation, how silly he was, as well 
 as dishonest. It was small " trouble " he had 
 taken to find the quarter ; but it helped to soothe 
 his conscience to imagine that the finding of it 
 was an act of merit for which he deserved re- 
 ward. 
 
 He got up at last, and walked down the street, 
 not towards home, but towards the toy-shop on 
 Myrtle Avenue. He had not made up his mind 
 ,to buy the paint-box yet, but he thought he would 
 like to see it again, and he wanted a new slate- 
 pencil, besides. Mr. Fricke thought he was a 
 very long time deciding upon that latter article. 
 He turned over every pencil in the box, meas- 
 uring one by another, and then examined the
 
 RUSSELL'S PAINT-BOX. 75 
 
 painted ones, and then wanted to see those that 
 were enclosed in wood, like lead-pencils, and 
 finally took a yellow soapstone after all. This 
 matter settled, and his penny paid, he still hung 
 around the shop as if something else was on his 
 mind. 
 
 " Want anything more ? " asked Mr. Fricke, 
 who was getting a little tired of his customer. 
 
 "No-o," said Russell, hesitatingly, "I guess 
 not. I don't know, though let me see that 
 paint-box again, won't you ? the one you said I 
 could have for twenty cents." 
 
 " For twenty-Jive cents, you mean," said Mr. 
 Fricke, with emphasis. " That's the very lowest 
 price, and ifs cheap at that. These are first- 
 class colors, Mr. Russell." 
 
 He brought out the paint-box, drew ofF the 
 sliding cover, and displayed all the little squares 
 of color, and the tiny hair-pencils, to Russell's 
 longing eyes. Can you wonder that his last 
 scruples vanished before the sight? Temptation 
 got the upper hand of conscience, and in another 
 minute the quarter Cleve's quarter jingled 
 down amongst other coin in Mr. Fricke's till, 
 while Russell, with his heart beating a good 
 dea] louder than usual, bore away his treasure,
 
 76 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 wrapped in paper, and tucked out of sight in his 
 deepest pocket. 
 
 He did not feel like stopping to play with the 
 boys on his way home. He hurried on as fast 
 as he could, and ran to the garret as soon as he 
 reached the house. The shreds of pink tissue- 
 paper still lay on the floor, but his little brothers 
 had gone, and no one was there to see him. So 
 he ventured to take ofF the wrapping-paper, and 
 look at his box the precious box, for which he 
 had paid such a heavy price. 
 
 He began to feel already that the price was 
 more than the possession ; that he had given 
 treasure for a trifle. As indeed he had, his 
 honesty and his peace of mind: two treasures 
 that, if he had only been wise enough to know 
 it, were worth more to him than all the color- 
 boxes the world ever saw. Some dim conscious- 
 ness of this truth came to him as he looked down 
 at the box, with a suspicion that the cakes of 
 paint looked dingier, and the brushes smaller, 
 than when they were in the shop. But it was 
 too late now to be sorry ; so he struggled against 
 the better feeling, and tried to make himself 
 believe that he had done quite right, and would 
 do it again if the same thing happened. But he
 
 RUSSELL'S PAINT-BOX. 77 
 
 did not do any painting that afternoon, although 
 he staid up in the garret till the bell rang for tea. 
 He did not bring the box down stairs either, 
 but hid it away carefully amongst his own pecu- 
 liar possessions that nobody ever meddled with. 
 He had no wish to show it and tell how he 
 came by it. 
 
 So there it lay, day after day ; and for all the 
 pleasure Russell had in it, it might as well have 
 been in the shop-window still. He hardly ever 
 dared to take it out, for there were so many 
 children always running up and down ; and if 
 they ever guessed that Russell was in the garret, 
 they were sure to be there, too. Once or twice 
 he got a chance to paint a picture or two in his 
 old geography without interruption ; but it was 
 dull fun, after all, with no one to look on and 
 make suggestions as to whether the sailor-boys 
 should have blue jackets and white trousers, or 
 vice versa, and whether the tigers should be 
 painted with chrome yellow or ochre. Before 
 the week was out, he wished, in his secret heart, 
 though he would not own it to himself, that the 
 paint-box was back in Fricke's shop, and the 
 quarter in Cleve Morris's pocket, or else in the 
 ground where he found it.
 
 ^8 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 He had more reason to wish it than he was 
 aware of, for the punishment of his dishonesty 
 was close at hand. It had never occurred to him 
 that anybody could discover it unless he chose 
 to tell, and it was only his own accusing con- 
 duct which troubled him not any fear of out- 
 side disgrace. But that came, too, in a way he 
 had never anticipated. 
 
 One day, at recess, Dick Foster pulled a piece 
 of money out of his pocket. " Look here, 
 Cleve," said he, "isn't this your mark?" 
 
 " So it is ! " exclaimed Cleve, after he had 
 looked at it a moment. " My mark, and my 
 money, too ! It's the very quarter I lost in 
 April, and I'd just like to know how you came 
 by it?" 
 
 " Fair and square," said Dick. " I got it at 
 Fricke's last night, in change for a half; and I 
 knew it must have passed through your hands 
 some time or other, when I saw the old Star- 
 spangled long may she wave ! " 
 
 " You hit the mark," said Cleve, thoughtfully. 
 " I certainly scratched that flag there it's cer- 
 tainly my quarter." 
 
 "Not quite!" cried Dick, laughingly. "It's 
 my quarter now, so fork it over, old fellow ! "
 
 RUSSELL S PAINT-BOX. 79 
 
 " O, of course ! " and Cleve tossed the coin 
 back into Foster's hands. " I'm curious to know 
 how Fricke got it, though ; I could swear it was 
 the very one I lost out of my last month's allow- 
 ance." 
 
 " Some fellow found it, I suppose, and was 
 mean enough to spend it." 
 
 " Think so ? I'll stop at Fricke's after school 
 and ask him. I'd just like to know if any of 
 our fellows would do such a shabby trick." 
 
 The two boys moved away, and Russell, who 
 had been standing out of sight, but in full hear- 
 ing, heard no more. I need not tell you how he 
 felt. It is easy to imagine his shame and confu- 
 sion, and the terror that filled his mind as he 
 thought how Cleve would be sure to trace the 
 quarter to him, and expose him before all his 
 schoolmates. Never in his life had he spent so 
 wretched an afternoon, never so learned by heart 
 the bittej: fact that " the way of the transgres- 
 sor is hard" 
 
 As for Cleve, in his careless way, he forgot all 
 about the thing, until in going home he fiad to 
 pass by the toy-shop. Then it came back to 
 him, and, "just for curiosity," he went in to 
 make his inquiries. Mr. Fricke remembered
 
 80 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 the coin. He had noticed the flag on it when it 
 was given to him. Russell Holmes paid it in 
 exchange for a paint-box about a week ago. 
 
 " All right," said Cleve. " It was only to set- 
 tle a little dispute that I wanted to know." 
 
 And he walked out " of the shop. But once 
 outside, it was not so easy to restrain his honest 
 indignation and contempt. He never could have 
 done such a thing himself, and it was hard to 
 have patience with such meanness in one whom 
 he had supposed his friend, and with whom he 
 had always shared freely his own luxuries. If 
 he had obeved his first impulse, called out by 
 these thoughts, he would have told the story to 
 the whole school, and justified himself by declar- 
 ing that " it served him right ; such a mean trick 
 ought to be known." 
 
 But a second thought came, and something 
 he could not tell "what made him think of the 
 prayer which his mother had taught him when he 
 was a little child, and which he still repeated 
 every day of his life, " Forgive us our debts, 
 as we forgive " 
 
 " Well," thought Cleve, " I guess I won't show 
 him up, after all. Maybe he didn't really know 
 it was mine, and he never has much money of
 
 RUSSELL'S PAINT-BOX. Si 
 
 his own, that's one excuse for him, at any 
 rate. I wish I hadn't found it out, that's all." 
 
 Russell came to school the next day with fear 
 and trembling. He knew directly from Cleve's 
 manner, though not a word was said, that the 
 truth was discovered ; and he expected nothing 
 less than to hear it told publicly, to Dick Foster 
 and the rest, as soon as recess came. But to his 
 intense surprise and relief, the play-hours passed 
 by without the dreaded disclosure. Cleve was a 
 little cool, to be sure, so was Dick Poster, 
 but it was nothing that any one else would 
 notice, and all the rest were just the same to 
 him. He began to comprehend, at last, the 
 generosity with which his companion was treat- 
 ing him. It was almost harder to bear than 
 public shame would have been, his own mean- 
 ness looked so black by contrast ; and that night, 
 when he went to bed, he fairly cried himself to 
 sleep with sorrow and humiliation. 
 
 The next day a good impulse came to him, 
 which he obeyed before it had time to cool. He 
 wrapped up the paint-box, and wrote a little note 
 to Cleve, begging him to take it, because he had 
 no money to pay him with, and confessing how 
 6
 
 02 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 and when he had found the quarter. He carried 
 these to Mrs. Morris's house and left them, and 
 when Cleve came home and found them, you 
 may be sure he was glad that he had kept to his 
 kind conclusion. He didn't rest until he had 
 seen Russell, and assured him that " he did not 
 care about it, not the least in the world, and 
 they would say no more about it, but just be as 
 good friends as ever." 
 
 And he was as good as his word. More than 
 that, when Christmas came, he sent him the 
 identical paint-box, as good as ever, for a pres- 
 ent. As for Russell, he took the lesson to heart, 
 and from that time never thought that anything 
 in the world was worth having, if it had to be 
 purchased at the expense of honesty.
 
 BESSIE'S FRIEND. 
 
 I WISH I could go to see Julia Sherman I 
 don't see why I mightn't, mamma, I'm 
 sure ! " 
 
 It was Bessie Henshaw a little girl whose 
 face would have been pretty and sweet if it had 
 not been disfigured just then by a very decided 
 pout on the lips who made this remark. She 
 was standing by the nursery window, drumming 
 on the pane in a most uncomfortable state of 
 mind ; for her mother, as Bessie thought, was 
 very unkind indeed. Julia Sherman was one of 
 her schoolmates, and had asked her to spend the 
 afternoon with her ; and Bessie had promised 
 to do so, taking her mother's permission for 
 granted ; but when she came to ask it, merely 
 as a matter of form, Mrs. Henshaw quietly and 
 firmly said, " No." 
 
 " I do not wish you to be intimate with Julia 
 Sherman," she went on to say. " You have to 
 meet her at school, and will, of course, always 
 
 (83)
 
 84 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 be kind to her there. But I cannot let you go to 
 her house, and I would rather not have her here 
 again. She is not a good companion for my 
 daughter." 
 
 "I wonder why?" was Bessie's fretful ex- 
 clamation. " The other girls go to see her ; I 
 don't see why /can't as well as they." 
 
 " I cannot help what the other girls do, and it 
 is no^ie of my business," said Mrs. Henshaw. 
 " But it is my business to see that my little 
 daughter's good manners are not corrupted by 
 evil communications." 
 
 " I don't get any evil communications from 
 her," said Bessie, sullenly. " She's just as good 
 as I am now ! " 
 
 " Perhaps so," Mrs. Henshaw answered, 
 quietly. " You are not a model of good man- 
 ners at this present moment, Bessie ; still, I hope 
 you have not yet learned to tell falsehoods, and 
 take things that do not belong to you, as Julia 
 Sherman does." 
 
 Bessie longed to say, " O, mamma ! Julia Sher- 
 man doesn't; " but she knew too well that the 
 charge was true. She remembered more than 
 one occasion, when Julia had been there, and 
 taken oranges from the nursery closet when
 
 BESSIE'S FRIEND. 85 
 
 there were no grown people by, and pulled June 
 apples in the garden, making Bessie promise not 
 to tell. Only the last time she was at the house, 
 Mrs. Henshaw had detected her in the act of 
 helping herself to some jelly that had been left 
 on the sideboard in the dining-room, where the 
 children had been allowed to play ; and from 
 that time she decided to break up the intimacy 
 as soon as possible. 
 
 The little girl knew that the case was hopeless, 
 as her mother laid lier work down and went out 
 of the room after these last words. If she had 
 been a reasonable little girl, she would have 
 given it up quietly, and amused herself in some 
 other way, trusting that her mother knew best 
 what was good for her. But I am sorry to say 
 that Bessie was not always a reasonable little 
 girl, and in this matter she behaved very foolishly 
 indeed ; for she put her head down upon the 
 window-sill, and cried with disappointment and 
 vexation, thinking her mother excessively strict, 
 and herself very ill used. 
 
 The door-bell rang in the midst of this per- 
 formance, and Bessie, in spite of her misery, had 
 curiosity enough to peep over the banisters, and 
 see who had come. It was only an aggravation
 
 00 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 to see that there were visitors for Mrs. Henshaw, 
 and to hear the sound of their cheerful voices in 
 the parlor below. She went back to her place 
 by the window, feeling " crosser " than ever. 
 
 " It's real mean, I do declare ! " she exclaimed, 
 aloud. " Mamma can have company as much as 
 she pleases, and she doesn't care how lonely I 
 am up here. I say it's too bad ! " 
 
 " So it is ! " exclaimed another voice, over her 
 shoulder ; and Bessie jumped with astonishment, 
 as well she might, for there stood Julia Sherman 
 herself, close beside her ! 
 
 "Did you think I was a ghost?" she said, 
 laughing at Bessie's startled look. 
 
 "How did you get in?" exclaimed Bessie.' 
 "When the bell rang, just now?" 
 
 " No, indeed ! It was some ladies that came 
 in then. I saw them ; and one was that horrid 
 Mrs. Chauncey. She hates me, and I hate her, 
 so I took care to keep out of her way." 
 
 "/don't think Mrs. Chauncey's horrid," said 
 Bessie. " She is always very kind to me when I 
 go to see Pauline and Amy." 
 
 " She was anything but kind to me when / 
 went," retorted Julia. " And so I hate her." 
 
 She forgot to explain that her own misconduct
 
 BESSIE'S FRIEND. 87 
 
 ivas the cause of Mrs. Chauncey's unkindness, so 
 tailed. But Bessie guessed at the truth, and did 
 not pursue the subject. 
 
 " Kow did you get in?" she asked again, re- 
 peating her first question. 
 
 " Through the basement ; how stupid you 
 are ! " answered Julia, sharply. " Your cook let 
 me in, and I came after you, to take you home 
 with me. What kept you so long, anyway? " 
 
 " I couldn't go," said Bessie, plaintively, " and 
 I can't now." 
 
 "Why not, I wonder? What's the matter 
 with you? You've been crying, I do believe!" 
 
 " O, mamma won't let me go to see you this 
 afternoon," said Bessie, ready to cry again. 
 " That's what the matter is, and I think it's 
 real mean." 
 
 " And so do I ! " cried Julia, angrily. " What's 
 the reason she won t let you ? " 
 
 " O, because I don't know because she 
 ivon't," Bessie answered, hesitatingly, unwilling 
 to give the true reason of her mother's refusal. 
 
 " It's just because she doesn't like me," Julia 
 exclaimed, her face getting red with passion. 
 " I don't like her, either, one bit ! My mother 
 isn't half so cross. I mean to go home, and 
 never come here a^ain ! "
 
 88 BIRD'S OF A FEATHER. 
 
 And she sprang towards the door ; but Bessie 
 caught hold of her dress in dismay, and begged 
 her not to go. She was frightened at Julia's 
 anger, and not willing to lose her company, now 
 that she had come so unexpectedly. 
 
 " Don't go, Julia, please don't," she pleaded. 
 " It isn't true that mamma doesn't like you. She 
 likes you as well as any of the girls." 
 
 " Then why won't she let you come to see 
 me?" asked Julia, still angrily, but stepping 
 back a little. " I've been here three dozen 
 times since you were at our house. You never 
 come." 
 
 " What nonsense three dozen ! " laughed 
 Bessie. 
 
 "Well, never mind, often enough. And now 
 I want to know why you are not to come." 
 
 " Mamma has got company this afternoon," 
 said Bessie, giving the only excuse she could 
 think of, " and I must stay in the nursery till 
 they are gone." 
 
 " What for? Why can't Bridget be here ? " 
 
 " O, I guess she's gone out ; I don't know," 
 
 Bessie answered, hastily, getting anxious to 
 
 change the subject. She knew she was not 
 
 telling the strict truth, by any means. " You
 
 BESSIE'S FRIEND. 89 
 
 stay, anyway, and we'll have a nice play to- 
 gether before Charlie wakes up. Come over by 
 the window, and I'll show you my dissected map. 
 Papa brought it to me last night, and I can put 
 it all together, myself. Come try if you can." 
 
 But Julia hung back still. " I don't like dis- 
 sected maps. There's no fun poking over those 
 little crooked bits of wood. I won't stay unless 
 you'll play party." 
 
 " But I haven't anything to play party with ! " 
 Bessie exclaimed. " I had some sugar-plums, 
 but they're all gone, and I haven't a thing 
 now." 
 
 " Well, you must get something, or else I 
 won't stay. You can get lots of things down 
 stairs, I know, and your mother always has 
 oranges in this closet besides. I mean to look 
 if there are not some here now." 
 
 Julia opened the closet door as she spoke, and 
 began to climb upon a chair, to search the upper 
 shelves. Bessie watched her, knowing very well 
 that she was doing a rude and impertinent thing, 
 and that it was her duty to forbid it. But she was 
 afraid to say a word ; so Julia rummaged the 
 closet to her heart's content, highly delighted at 
 the opportunity. The first treasure that she dis
 
 9O BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 covered was a great golden shaddock, which 
 Bessie's father had brought home the night be- 
 fore, and Mrs. Henshaw had put out of the chil- 
 dren's sight, because it was not yet ripe enough 
 for them to eat. Bessie, as it happened, had not 
 seen it at all, and she exclaimed, with astonish- 
 ment, " O, what a big orange ! " as Julia held 
 it up triumphantly. 
 
 " It isn't an orange, it's a shaddock ! " Julia 
 cried, jumping down. " I've seen 'em before, 
 and they're splendid with sugar ! You run down 
 stairs now, that's a good girl, and get a whole lot 
 of sugar, and then we'll have an elegant party ! " 
 
 " But I can't ! " exclaimed Bessie, in dismay. 
 " Mamma doesn't let me have sugar unless I ask 
 for it ; and besides, we can't have that orange at 
 all. It isn't mine, Julia, and you must put it 
 back in the closet ; indeed you must." 
 
 " Indeed I shan't, then," Julia returned, coolly. 
 " I'm going to cut it up for a party, and you're 
 going to get some sugar to put over it. So run 
 along, and make haste, and bring up a piece of 
 cake, too ; we can't have a party without cake." 
 
 " I can't do it ! " Bessie repeated, in great dis- 
 tress. " O, please, Julia, don't ask me ! Mam- 
 ma would be so vexed when she found it out."
 
 BESSIE S FRIEND. 9! 
 
 " But she needn't ever find it out," said Julia. 
 " You are not such a goose as to tell her every- 
 thing you do, I hope?" 
 
 " She'll miss the shaddock, and she'll be sure 
 to ask me about it," pleaded Bessie again. 
 
 " And you can tell her you never saw it," an- 
 swered Julia, boldly. " If she wasn't real mean 
 she'd never make a fuss about such a little thing ; 
 and when people are mean, it's no harm to tell 
 them a story." 
 
 This was a new argument to Bessie, and, not 
 quite seeing through the logic, she had nothing 
 to say. Julia went on still more boldly : 
 
 " If you don't do what I want you to, I'll 
 never speak to you again as long as I live ; and 
 I'll tell all the girls at school about it, so they 
 won't speak to you, either. There, now ! you 
 can just take your choice." 
 
 Poor silly little Bessie ! she listened to this 
 awful threat, and trembled with fear of it. She 
 did not think enough to see how ridiculous one 
 half of it was as if any sensible girl in school 
 would think less of her for refusing to do some- 
 thing wrong ! And as for the rest, if Julia only 
 would keep to the letter of her threat, and never 
 speak to Bessie again, why, so much the better 
 for Bessie !
 
 92 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 But no one was by to whisper this in the little 
 girl!s ear, and she was already corrupted by the 
 evil communications, which, a little while ago, 
 she had refused to believe in. It seemed better 
 to disobey and deceive her mother than to dis- 
 please this bad companion. So she made her 
 choice. 
 
 She stole softly down stairs, feeling guilty and 
 ashamed of herself, but still determined to obey 
 Julia's orders. The dining-room door was open, 
 and she slipped in without being seen, and hastily 
 filled a tea-cup with powdered sugar from the 
 sideboard. A silver basket full of cake stood 
 beside the sugar-bowl, and she took two large 
 pieces from that, crammed them into her pocket, 
 and hurried ofT with her plunder before any one 
 came in. The sound of her mother's voice in 
 the parlor made her tremble as she crept by the 
 door, but no one saw her after all, and she suc- 
 ceeded in reaching the nursery safely. There 
 Julia received her with abundant praise and flat- 
 tery, till the poor little dupe began to think she 
 had done something clever and brave. 
 
 In her absence Julia had been to the closet 
 again, and found a box of guava jelly, which 
 she appropriated to her own use as coolly
 
 BESSIE'S FRIEND. 93 
 
 as she had taken the shaddock. Bessie, of 
 course, could not say anything against it now ; 
 and Julia began to set out "the party" with 
 great satisfaction. 
 
 "Why didn't you think of a spoon?" -she 
 asked presently. " O, never mind ! here's your 
 mother's silver fruit-knife that will do." 
 
 And the knife a very nice one was taken 
 from Mrs. Henshaw's work-box, and plunged 
 into the thick skin of the shaddock. The sticky 
 guava jelly was served with the same thing 
 Julia getting a large mouthful herself before she 
 offered any to her hostess. 
 
 Bessie, however, had no appetite for the dain- 
 ties : every sound she heard filled her with terror, 
 lest somebody should come up and discover what 
 was going on. Julia was not in the least dis- 
 turbed. She enjoyed the party extremely, and 
 managed to eat Bessie's share, as well as her own, 
 without any difficulty. 
 
 " I guess I'll go home now," she said, when 
 the last crumb of cake had disappeared, and 
 there was nothing left of the fruit but its thick 
 bitter rind. " The ladies down stairs are getting 
 ready to go I heard them moving." 
 
 Bessie had heard the same thing, and she was
 
 94 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 quite willing to let Julia go before her mother 
 came up stairs. Julia herself, bold and impu- 
 dent as she was, had no wish to meet Mrs. Hen- 
 shaw after all this, and so her good by was said 
 quickly. Bessie watched her as she bounded 
 lightly down the steps, and disappeared in the 
 curve of the stairway that led to the basement 
 hall. She heard the lower door shut behind her, 
 and the next moment there was a rustle of dress- 
 es, and Mrs. Henshaw and her visitors came 
 out of the parlor. There were some last words 
 to be said there, and it gave Julia time to get at 
 a safe distance from the house, while Bessie stole 
 back to the nursery, and tried to look as if noth- 
 ing unusual had taken place. 
 
 It was not an easy thing to do, for this was her 
 first actual experiment in the art of deceit, and it 
 was hard to keep the terror that was in her heart 
 from showing itself on her face. Little Charlie, 
 who had been asleep in his crib in the curtained 
 alcove, lifted up his curly head, with a pair of 
 very wide-open blue eyes, as she came in ; and 
 she snatched him up with a great feeling of 
 relief, thinking her mother would take less no 
 tice of her now that Charlie was here to clairr,. 
 her attention. But the relief was changed into
 
 BESSIE'S FRIEND. 95 
 
 dismay by the first words which the little fellow 
 spoke. 
 
 " I'm glad that bad dirl's all done," he said, in 
 his broken, baby speech. " She's a naughty 
 dirl, and I'll tell my mamma of her." 
 
 "Tell her what, Charlie? What do you 
 mean?" Bessie exclaimed, growing pale with 
 fright. 
 
 " How she toot mamma's bid orange, an' made 
 you do det sudar," Charlie answered, promptly, 
 "/saw her, an' I'm doin' to tell mamma. We 
 won't let her tome here any more, will we, sister r " 
 " O, Charlie, don't ! " It was all Bessie 
 could say, for she felt as if she was going to 
 faint, in this new and unexpected fear. She had 
 not thought of the child while Julia was there, 
 though now she remembered well what a habit 
 he had of lying quiet in his crib for a long time 
 after waking from his nap. He had been awake 
 and seen the whole thing, and she felt only too 
 surely that he would do just as he said, and 
 "tell mamma all about it." He was too little 
 to be coaxed or frightened into keeping the 
 becret; he could not be made to understand, 
 as she knew in her heart ; yet she was so wild 
 with terror that she began eagerly to beg him
 
 96 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 not to tell, and promise him all sorts of pleas- 
 ures if he would not say anything about Julia. 
 She did not think, in her excitement, how loudly 
 she was talking, or remember how near her 
 mother was to her; and just as poor little Char- 
 lie, frightened by her vehemence, and bewildered 
 by the whole affair, had begun to cry, Mrs. Hen- 
 shaw came into the room. 
 
 " Bessie ! what is the meaning of all this?" 
 she asked, severely ; and one frightened glance at 
 her face told the poor child that any attempt at 
 concealment or deception was out of the ques- 
 tion now. She stammered some incoherent an- 
 swer that could not be heard, broke down in the 
 middle of it, and burst into tears. At that 
 moment she realized that her mother's favor 
 and approval were of more consequence to her 
 than Julia Sherman's, and she wished,. then, at 
 least, if not before, that she had made her choice 
 from that stand-point. 
 
 She wished it still more, when, in answer to 
 her mother's close questioning, she had to tell 
 the whole story : to confess how, in the first 
 place, she had persuaded Julia to stay, when 
 she knew it was wrong, and afterwards had lent 
 herself so weakly to be the tool of Julia's greedi-
 
 BESSIE'S FRIEND. 97 
 
 ness and trickery. The whole thing looked so 
 contemptible when it was set out plainly before 
 her ! She " had gone through so much to get so 
 little," as the saying is ; for, after all, what pleas- 
 ure had she felt in Julia's visit? Not a single 
 minute of the time but had been tortured with 
 anxiety, and fear, and self-reproach, all to end 
 in the shame and distress she felt now, and the 
 loss of her mother's confidence. 
 
 It does one good sometimes, however, to grow 
 heartily ashamed of one's self. Bessie had felt 
 so sure of her own "good manners" hitherto, 
 that she had not thought it necessary to be on 
 her guard against the danger of " evil communi- 
 cations." But she recognized her mother's wis- 
 dom now in contrast to her own foolishness ; and 
 henceforth was willing to be guided by that 
 wisdom in the choice of her companions. 
 
 Julia Sherman had no more " parties " at Bes- 
 sie's expense. In fact she had made up her mind 
 that " it would not pay " to go there any more 
 after this ; so she devoted herself to some new 
 pupils who had just arrived, and " turned the 
 cold shoulder" to Bessie. For which Mrs. 
 Henshaw felt sincerely obliged to her, and Bes- 
 sie herself was not greatly grieved. 
 7
 
 SPENCER'S CHERRIES. 
 
 " TF there is one kind of fruit that I like better 
 -L than another," said Spencer Lane to himself, 
 " it's cherries. Strawberries are very good till 
 you get enough of 'em, but I never had as 
 many cherries as I wanted in my life. I guess 
 I would for once, though, if my father would 
 give me leave to climb that tree ! " 
 
 The boy leaned back in the garden-chair, and 
 cast longing eyes into the thick, leafy branches 
 above him, where scarlet clusters of fruit hung 
 ripening in the sunlight far out of his reach. 
 The tree looked, certainly, very tempting, with 
 that beautiful bright color gleaming everywhere 
 through the dark green leaves ; and this warm 
 June afternoon, when he was tired and heated 
 with his long morning of play, the idea of the 
 cool, juicy cherries was most attractive to Spen- 
 cer's fancy. 
 
 " I don't see why papa need be so particular," 
 he went on, in a complaining tone, speaking his 
 
 (98)
 
 SPENCER'S CHERRIES. 99 
 
 thoughts aloud, as if some one were there to 
 answer them. 
 
 " Anybody might see those cherries are ripe 
 red as they look ; and the idea of papa's in- 
 sisting they are not to be touched till the Fourth 
 of July ! It's ridiculous to have to wait a whole 
 week for what I might as well have now. I've 
 a great mind to go and ask mother if I can't 
 climb up and see if they're ripe. Maybe she 
 won't be so fussy." 
 
 He sprang up as this happy thought struck 
 
 him, and ran into the house, to lose no time in 
 
 * 
 carrying it out. Mrs. Lane was sitting in the 
 
 parlor, in her afternoon dress of delicate sum- 
 mer muslin ; her white hands and shining hair 
 made a striking contrast with Spencer's warm 
 and tumbled, not to say dirty, appearance, as he 
 rushed without ceremony into her presence. 
 
 " I say, mother," he began, eagerly, " mayn't I 
 climb the cherry tree? Just to see if the cher- 
 ries are ripe, you know. They're as red as fire 
 up at the top. Can't I do it?" 
 
 " My son ! " Mrs. Lane waved him from her 
 with a look of displeasure. " How often have I 
 told you never to come into this room unless you 
 look like a gentleman ! What a condition youl 
 face and hands and clothes are in ! "
 
 100 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " O, pshaw ! " Spencer gave his shoulders an 
 impatient jerk. " Can't a fellow ask you a ques- 
 tion without being dressed up, I'd like to know?" 
 
 He hardly intended to be so very rude, or knew 
 indeed that he was so, in his haste and eager- 
 ness, until his mother's surprised look recalled 
 him to consciousness. But then it was too late. 
 
 " You can leave the room, Spencer," she said, 
 quietly and gravely, '.' and do not come back 
 until you are dressed as you should be, and can 
 speak to me rather more respectfully." 
 
 "But can't I climb the cherry ti'ee?" he per- 
 sisted, in* spite of her reproof. 
 
 " Certainly not. I am surprised at your ask- 
 ing me, when you know your father has forbid- 
 den you positively." 
 
 It was useless to say another word, of course ; 
 so he flung himself out of the parlor in a rage. 
 He had fancied, very foolishly, that his mother 
 might allow him to do what his father had for- 
 bidden ; and he was so unreasonable as to be 
 angry and disappointed because she had too 
 much good sense to indulge him. He did not 
 stop to think I suppose children don't, as a 
 general thing that it would be wrong and 
 unwise in her to set at naught his father's com-
 
 SPENCER S CHERRIES. IOI 
 
 mands. He only knew that he wished for the 
 cherries very much, and the more he thought of 
 them, the more aggrieved he felt himself iu not 
 being allowed to have them. 
 
 He sulked up stairs in his room till the dinner- 
 bell rang, and would not have gone down then 
 only that hunger, and the anticipation of green 
 peas, proved too much for his dignity. If he 
 had not been in such a bad humor, he would 
 have cared no more for the cherries when so nice 
 a dinner was spread before him ; for the green 
 peas were there, with stuffed lamb, and delicious 
 mealy potatoes ; and sliced pineapple and sponge- 
 cake for dessert things that he really liked 
 better than cherries, if he had only chosen to 
 think so. He swallowed his food in sullen 
 silence, however, paying no attention to his 
 mother's reproachful glance ; and, as soon as 
 dinner was over, he put on his hat and went 
 out upon the sidewalk, where he staid ur.til his 
 father called him in, and sent him to bed. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, a beautiful, bright 
 summer Sunday, when the week-day noise was 
 hushed in the streets, and the song of the birds 
 rang out instead in sweet thanksgiving strains. 
 Under Spencer's window there were roses climb-
 
 IO2 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 ing over a trellis, their pink clusters sparkling 
 with dewdrops, and breathing out delicious fra- 
 grance ; along the garden-borders there were 
 beds of purple pansies, and clumps of carnations, 
 and lady-slippers, and phlox, gay with blossoms ; 
 while all over the fence ran morning-glory vines, 
 that were wonderful to look at, they were so 
 thickly hung with the blue, and crimson, and pur- 
 ple, and pink, and streaked and spotted bells. 
 
 But Spencer looked at none of them, beautiful 
 as they all were. He only saw the cherry tree, 
 whose scarlet clusters were redder than ever in 
 the brilliant sunlight, and the sight recalled all 
 the discontented, impatient feelings of the night 
 before. He had gone to bed without repenting 
 of them, so of course they were the first to visit 
 him again in the morning. 
 
 Going to church did not do him much good 
 that Sunday. All through the service he fidgeted 
 in his seat, shuffled his feet about, and rustled 
 the leaves of his prayer-book on purpose to an- 
 noy his parents, so completely had the evil spirit 
 taken possession of him. And even when he 
 chose to sit still, he did not listen to the sermon, 
 but only kept thinking how unkind they were to 
 deny him the pleasure he wished for.
 
 SPENCER'S CHERRIES. 103 
 
 It was not strange, when he gave himself up 
 to such wicked thoughts, that another more 
 wicked still should come to him at last. This 
 was nothing less than to climb the cherry tree, 
 in spite of being forbidden, and to do it that very 
 evening after his father and mother had gone to 
 church, so that there would be no danger of 
 his being seen. You will wonder that he dared 
 to think of such a thing on Sunday, and in 
 church, of all times and places ; but Satan is 
 bold when he sees that we are willing to be 
 tempted, and the holiest places are not safe from 
 his evil whispers as long as our own hearts open 
 to let them in. 
 
 Spencer did not consent immediately to this 
 sinful plan ; but, instead of driving it out as soon 
 as it came into his mind, with shame and dread, 
 he listened to it, and turned it over and over in 
 his thoughts, and wondered if anybody would 
 ever know, until the end of it was what the 
 end always is when we tamper with temptation 
 that he determined to climb the tree, and shut 
 his eyes to the sin. 
 
 He complained of a headache after tea, as an 
 excuse for not going to church, and, as no one 
 thought of doubting his word, he was left at
 
 104 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 home. Mrs. Lane brought him her vinaigrette, 
 and made him lie down on the sofa, giving him 
 a kiss as she went away, and telling him to go 
 to sleep and forget the pain. Spencer would 
 have been glad if she had not kissed him, know- 
 ing how little he deserved it. It made him so 
 uncomfortable for a little while that he almost 
 resolved to give up his evil intentions. But he 
 found that was not easy to do now. He had 
 yielded to Satan, and he was not strong enough 
 to draw back. 
 
 He went out into the yard as it grew darker, 
 and seated himself in the garden-chair under the 
 cherry tree. Everything was still and quiet 
 around him, no one stirring out of doors, and 
 not even a servant to be seen at the windows. 
 He knew there was no danger of discovery as 
 far as they were concerned, for the housemaid 
 was gone out, and the cook was more likely to 
 be on the sidewalk in front of the house gossip- 
 ping with some neighbor, than cooped up in the 
 kitchen this warm evening. Still he thought he 
 would be on the safe side, and not climb the tree 
 till it was quite dark. So he sat out in the 
 garden-chair, with the dew falling on his uncov- 
 ered head, until the soft summer twilight deep-
 
 SPENCER'S CHERRIES. 105 
 
 ened into night, and the shadow of the cherry 
 tree was all black around him. Then he climbed 
 upon the wood-shed, over which its branches 
 hung, and from which it was easy to get firm 
 footing on the lower limbs. 
 
 He was half frightened when he found him- 
 self fairly in the tree, and stood still and breath- 
 less amongst the leaves for two or three minutes, 
 dreading lest any one should see or hear him. 
 But there was no sound at all except the sleepy 
 twitter of a bird half awake on her nest. So he 
 plucked up courage, and began to go higher, 
 where the ripe cherries were. It was so dusky 
 that he could tell nothing by the color, and the 
 very first ones that he put in his mouth were 
 decidedly sour so little to his taste that he was 
 just on the point of spitting them out again, 
 when he remembered, in time to save himself, 
 that they would be a witness against him if they 
 were seen on the ground. 
 
 " I shall have to feel for the soft ones," he 
 thought, as this came into his mind. " It's no 
 fun eating such sour things as that first lot. My 
 teeth are all on edge now. It's lucky I don't 
 mind swallowing the stones, though. I always 
 did think it was a bother to have to spit 'em out."
 
 IO5 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " Feeling for the soft ones " proved rather a 
 troublesome task, and pencer got many a sour, 
 green thing in his mouth, which he was forced 
 to swallow with the best grace he could. He 
 did find some that were ripe and sweet, however, 
 and as in his eagerness he grew bolder, and ven- 
 tured up into the topmost branches, quite a 
 
 number came in his wav that he declared were 
 
 
 
 delicious. I doubt if he enjoyed them as much 
 as he tried to make himself believe ; but at any 
 rate he devoured a great many, determined " to 
 have enough for once," and did not come down 
 until he was really unable to eat any more. 
 
 The clock was striking nine as he crept stealth- 
 ily into the house, and he hurried up stairs to 
 bed, knowing that his parents would soon be at 
 home. It was impossible to go to sleep, how- 
 ever, and he was still wide awake when they 
 arrived. Mrs. Lane, missing him in the parlor, 
 came up stairs directly to look for him, and he 
 found it terribly hard to seem to be asleep as she 
 hung over his bed, the gaslight from the hall 
 shining full in his face. She did not stay long, 
 fortunately, and when she was fairly gone he 
 tried to go to sleep in earnest. But it was a 
 loii while before he could do so. He tossed
 
 SPENCER'S CHERRIES. 107 
 
 about the bed hour after hour, and when every 
 one else was wrapt in quiet slumber, his guilty 
 conscience still would not let him rest. In vain 
 he closed his eyes and tried not to think of any- 
 thing. He could not help going over the whole 
 affair in his mind, trying to remember whether he 
 had been very careful not to drop a single cherry, 
 or get a stain upon his clothes, and wonder- 
 ing whether, after all, anybody could have seen 
 him. 
 
 He dropped to sleep at last from absolute 
 weariness, and forgot it all for a few hours ; but 
 towards morning he was awakened again by a 
 very uncomfortable sensation. He could not 
 tell what the matter was at first, but he found 
 out soon when there came a spasm of pain so 
 violent that it almost took his breath away. 
 The exposure to night air, and the unwhole- 
 some food together, had prepai'ed a punishment 
 fot him which he had not thought of in all his 
 plans ; and as he lay now, pale and quivering 
 with mingled anguish and fear, he wished with 
 all his heart that he had never done so foolish 
 and wicked a thing. 
 
 He bore his suffering in silence for a while, 
 hoping that by keeping quite still it might pass
 
 IDS BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 over ; but instead, the pain grew worse and 
 worse, until he could endure it no longer with- 
 out help. A wild fear came over him that he 
 was going to die, and he screamed out so loudly 
 that his mother was roused from her sleep, and 
 came hurrying to his bedside to see what was 
 the matter. She saw at once that he was seri- 
 ously ill, though she did not for a moment sus- 
 pect the cause. She remembered the headache 
 that he had complained of in the evening, and 
 supposed that his disorder had really begun then. 
 Full of pity and tenderness for him, she hastened 
 to apply one remedy and another, until at length 
 the sharp pangs were relieved, and Spencer, 
 weary and exhausted, once more fell asleep. 
 
 It was late in the morning when he awoke 
 again. His head was aching, his mouth parched, 
 his hands dry with feverish heat. Mrs. Lane 
 was sitting by the bed, watching him anxiously, 
 and she gave him such a loving, tender smile as 
 his eyes unclosed, that a sudden pang of remorse 
 and shame shot through his heart. 
 
 "The doctor has been to see you, my son, 
 while you were asleep," she said, gently, " and 
 he has left some medicine for you. Do you feel 
 any better now ? "
 
 SPKNCER'S CHERRIES. 109 
 
 " Not much." 
 
 Spencer raised himself up, and swallowed the 
 medicine which his mother held out to him, but 
 he did not feel like saying any more. He was 
 glad he had been asleep when the doctor came, 
 for he dreaded the question that was sure to be 
 asked had he eaten anything that disagreed 
 with him? It was put oft' till another day, at 
 least, and by to-morrow, perhaps, he would be 
 over it. 
 
 So he turned his face to the wall, and lay there 
 silently hour after hour, feeling most miserable 
 in mind and body. His head was throbbing 
 with a burning pain, but he could not bear to 
 feel his mother's cool, soft hand upon it ; and 
 every tender, pitying word she spoke did but add 
 to his unhappiness. For he knew that he de- 
 served no kindness ; that his own sin had caused 
 all his suffering ; and that he had no right to any 
 sympathy or care. He longed secretly to throw 
 his arms around her neck, and tell her the whole 
 truth, but his courage failed as often as he tried 
 to speak ; the words clung to his lips. And the 
 day wore slowly away, as he lay there, still with 
 |iis sin unconfessed. 
 
 Towards evening a lady called to see his
 
 IIO BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 mother. It was a neighbor who visited them 
 intimately. And when she heard that Spencer 
 was sick, and Mrs. Lane up stairs, she ran up 
 without ceremony into Mrs. Lane's own room. 
 Spencer's bed was in the hall-room adjoining, 
 and the door was open between, so that he heard 
 all the conversation. At first it amused him, and 
 diverted his thoughts, for the lady was gay and 
 talkative. But he grew uncomfortable, by and 
 by, for she had taken a seat by the window, and 
 began to notice the cherry-tree. 
 
 " How full of fruit it is, and how red the cher- 
 ries begin to look ! " she exclaimed. " It's a 
 pity they're so unwholesome when they are so 
 pretty. By the way," and she turned sudden- 
 ly to Spencer, "I wonder if that isn't the 
 matter with you, young gentleman? I saw 
 somebody about your size climbing up the tree 
 last night." 
 
 " No, you didn't," answered Spencer, quickly. 
 But his face grew red with shame as he spoke, 
 and the next minute white with fear. 
 
 " O, it was a mistake, then," the lady replied, 
 hastily, seeing that she had made mischief. " It 
 must have been some on,e else that I saw. There 
 are so many boys in the neighborhood, you know,
 
 SPENCER'S CHERRIES. in 
 
 and they're always ready to rob a fruit tree, if 
 they get a good opportunity," she added, turning 
 to Mrs. Lane. 
 
 " I know it," said Mrs. Lane, quietly. " I do 
 not suppose we shall be exempt from the general 
 rule." 
 
 And there was nothing more said about it. 
 The lady took her leave soon after, and Mrs. 
 Lane went to the door with her ; but she came 
 back instantly, and Spencer saw, from one hur- 
 ried, ashamed gla*nce, that her face was as pale 
 as death as she stood beside his bed. 
 
 " Is it possible, Spencer," she exclaimed, in a 
 low voice, " that what Mrs. Ellis said of you is 
 true? Tell me at once." 
 
 Her tone was as gentle as ever, but how full 
 of sorrow, of reproach, of pain ! Spencer could 
 not bear it any longer ; it was the last drop in 
 his cup of misery ; and bursting into bitter tears, 
 he threw himself in her arms and told her all. 
 
 " O, mother, mother, only forgive me ! I never 
 will disobey you any more ! " he sobbed, in pas- 
 sionate regret ; and his mother saw that his 
 repentance was heartfelt. 
 
 It was a comfort to feel this, and to believe 
 that his eager promises were sincere. So she
 
 112 HIRES OF A FEATHER. 
 
 forgave him ; and kneeling by his sick bed, 
 prayed that God would forgive him, too, and 
 help him in future to i-esist temptation. Spencer 
 never forgot that pra}'er : the broken, sorrowful 
 voice that pleaded for him so earnestly ; the tears 
 that stood upon his mother's pale cheek when 
 she rose up ; the tender and yearning look which 
 she gave him when she left the room, lingered in 
 his heart forever after. 
 
 Many days of pain and weakness followed 
 this, and when, at last, the boy was able to creep 
 out of bed, and sit by the window a little while, 
 all the red clusters had vanished from the cherry 
 tree, and only the green leaves were fluttering in 
 the summer breeze. But Spencer did not regret 
 them : he only thought of the sin and suffering 
 he had fallen into, and prayed in his heart that 
 he might profit by the lesson he had learned so 
 hardly.
 
 ROSY LEE'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 OOD morning, Rosy. How's grand- 
 
 mother to-day ? " 
 
 " O, Miss Miller, how do you do? Good 
 morning ! " And Rosy Lee stopped in her brisk 
 walk, and held her hand out, with a bright look, 
 to the lady who had greeted her at the street- 
 crossing. 
 
 " Very well," answered Miss Miller, pleasant- 
 ly, " and I see you are, by your red cheeks. Is 
 your grandmother's rheumatism better?" 
 
 " Not much," said Rosy. " She hardly gets 
 any sleep at night, her arms ache so. I do wish 
 she could get better." 
 
 " So do I," said Miss Miller, kindly ; " and, 
 by the way, Rosy, I've got a prescription that 
 might be good for her. Mrs. Clinton told me of 
 it yesterday. She has had a great deal of rheu- 
 matism, and nothing ever did her so much good, 
 she says." 
 
 " O, please tell me what it is ! " Rosy ex- 
 claimed, eagerly. 
 
 8 (113)
 
 114 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " You must get a quart of port wine, a pound 
 of raisins, and a pound of loaf sugar," said Miss 
 Miller. " Mix them together, and take a wine- 
 glass full three times a day. It's not bad to take, 
 you see, and Mrs. Clinton says it's a good reme- 
 dy. Your grandmother had better try it; it 
 won't hurt her, at any rate." 
 
 " I'll tell her about it," answered Rosy ; " and 
 I'm very much obliged to you, Miss Miller." 
 
 But some way her face did not look so bright, 
 and her voice was not so cheery as it had been a 
 minute before ; and when Miss Miller said good 
 by, and turned down the side street, Rosy broke 
 out with a half petulant, half sorrowful exclama- 
 tion : 
 
 " Port wine, and raisins, and loaf sugar, in- 
 deed ! Where does she think we're going to get 
 them, when we can hardly afford a cup of tea 
 for grandma to drink? O dear! if I only knew 
 how to earn a little more money ! But I work 
 as hard as ever I can now." 
 
 The bundle of finished sewing that ^she was 
 carrying home proved that she was not idle, 
 indeed ; and anybody who had peeped into old 
 Mrs. Lee's tidy little lodging, at any hour of the 
 day, would have found out the same truth ; for
 
 ROSY LEE'S THANKSGIVING. 115 
 
 Rosy was busy from morning till night. She 
 was cook, and laundress, and housemaid, and 
 everything else in their little establishment, for 
 now that grandmother's rheumatism had fallen 
 into her arms and hands, she could do little or 
 nothing. 
 
 Then, in addition to the housework, Rosy had 
 to take in sewing to make their small income 
 sufficient for actual necessaries of food and 
 clothing. It had not been so hard when her 
 grandmother was well : she sewed nicely, and 
 knit beautiful socks and mittens, which found a 
 ready sale ; and Rosy had plenty of customers 
 for her neat work. So that., with the little an- 
 nuity which her father had left for them when he 
 died, they had managed to be quite comfortable, 
 in an economical way. 
 
 But things were different now, and it was very 
 hard to get along at all. So much more work 
 fell upon the child in consequence of her grand- 
 mother's helplessness, that of necessity she earned 
 less with her needle ; and in spite of her cheer- 
 ful disposition, and her natural habit of looking 
 on the bright side of tilings, her heart grew so 
 heavy sometimes that she felt ready to despair. 
 
 " I wonder what's the reason," she thought,
 
 Il6 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 as she hurried down the street, " that some peo- 
 ple have so much more than they need in this 
 world, and some others so much less. Just look 
 at Mrs. Clinton now. Such a beautiful house 
 she has, and everything about her so fine and 
 elegant ; and I heard Miss Miller say she was so 
 rich she didn't know how to spend her money. 
 And then think of grandma poor, dear grand- 
 ma ! how she has to suffer all this pain, be- 
 cause we can't afford to get the medicine that 
 would cure her ! I suppose it must be all right, 
 but it does seem very strange ! " 
 
 Older and wiser people than Rosy have puz- 
 zled over the same problem many a time, and 
 always will, I suppose, till the world comes to 
 an end. But the only thing to do, for great or 
 small, is to adopt the child's faith, and believe 
 that " it is all right," because it is God's will, 
 no matter how strange and hard it may seem 
 sometimes. 
 
 She had reached Mrs. 'Clinton's house by this 
 time, for it was to her that the work belonged ; 
 and the servant who was shaking the mats at 
 the door told her to " go right up stairs ; Mrs. 
 Clinton was waiting for her." 
 
 So Rosy mounted the elegant staircase, and
 
 ROSY LEES THANKSGIVING. 117 
 
 found her way to the large and luxurious cham- 
 ber where the old lady sat for the greater part of 
 the day. She was seated in a great easy-chair, 
 covered with velvet, with embroidered cushions 
 at her feet, and all manner of beautiful and cost- 
 ly things around her. An inlaid table at her 
 right hand held a silver basket full of superb hot- 
 house grapes ; a Bohemian vase in the window 
 was filled with the loveliest flowers ; and on a 
 marble slab, supported by a mermaid in bronze, 
 stood a salt-water aquarium, stocked with the 
 choicest of sea-plants and fishes. 
 
 This last had been an unfailing wonder and 
 delight to Rosy, who had more than once asked 
 permission to watch the curious flesh-colored 
 anemones, and the brilliant fish gliding in and 
 out of the pretty rock-work caves. But she did 
 not give it a single glance this morning, and 
 stood so silent and sad while Mrs. Clinton ex- 
 amined her work, that the old lady took notice 
 of it, and asked in her sharp way, peering over 
 her spectacles, 
 
 " What ails you, to-day, that you look so glum? 
 Have you come to trouble, too, like all the rest 
 of the world?" 
 
 "I don't know, ma'am," Rosy answered, shy-
 
 Il8 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 ly. She did not care about telling her poor little 
 home sorrows to this grand old lady. 
 
 " Don't know ? You're better off than most 
 people, then," said Mrs. Clinton. " If you'd 
 seen the trouble / have you'd be apt to know." 
 
 Rosy wondered what sort of trouble she could 
 have, for, like a good many other people, she 
 had the notion that being rich was a sort of 
 security against trial. She did not venture to 
 say anything, however, and Mrs. Clinton asked 
 her no more questions. She took out her purse 
 to pay for the work, and then, seeing Rosy's 
 eyes fixed on the handsome' tidy at the back of 
 her chair, she asked if she knew how to crochet. 
 
 Rosy did, and a bright thought sprung up. 
 Perhaps Mrs. Clinton would give her some 
 crochet work to do, and it was paid for so much 
 better than sewing, that she might possibly get 
 the medicine for her grandmother after all. She 
 was not mistaken, for Mrs. Clinton unfastened 
 the tidy from her chair, and handed it to Rosy, 
 saying, 
 
 " If you think you can copy this pattern, you 
 may take it home with you, and make me an- 
 other just like it. And I want a set of table- 
 mats besides. If you do them nicely, I'll pay 
 you a good price for them."
 
 ROSY LEE'S THANKSGIVING. 119 
 
 Rosy was certain of that, for Mrs. Clinton 
 always paid her generously, and she accepted 
 the commission with a happy heart. She felt 
 far more bright and hopeful as she ran briskly 
 homeward than she would have believed possible 
 half an hour before ; and she worked with such 
 a hearty good will all day long, that the tidy was 
 one third done before night came. It was fin- 
 ished before she went to bed the next night, and 
 the table-mats were begun on the third day. 
 This was much slower work than the tidy, in 
 spite of the elaborate pattern, for it had gll to be 
 done in the closest and thickest stitch, so that it 
 took a good while to complete a single mat. 
 But she. worked diligently and cheerfully, resting 
 herself, when she was tired, with the pleasant 
 hope, that grew stronger every day, of being 
 able to relieve her dear grandmother from pain. 
 
 So three weeks went by, and Thanksgiving 
 Day was close at hand. Rosy had no bright 
 visions of a grand company dinner, with turkey 
 and plum pudding, and any quantity of nuts and 
 apples, and music and " blindman's buff" in the 
 evening.. She had never had much experience 
 of such things ; but still Thanksgiving Day had 
 always been made pleasant to her by a little
 
 I2O BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 treat of some kind. And she looked forward to 
 it now more eagerly than ever before, for she felt 
 almost sure that her crochet work would bring 
 her money enough to accomplish the purpose 
 she longed for, and leave something over besides 
 for a nice Thanksgiving dinner. There were 
 eighteen mats besides the tidy ; and- as Rosy 
 added the last one to the neat-looking pile, the 
 day before the twenty-ninth of November, she 
 felt exceedingly proud and happy. 
 
 " I shall get five dollars, I know ; maybe 
 more," she thought, as she walked through the 
 street with her pi'ecious bundle in her arms ; 
 " and won't grandma be surprised when she 
 sees what I shall bring her ! I'll get it this very 
 day, as soon as ever Mrs. Clinton gives me the 
 money." 
 
 On she went with a bounding step, singing 
 little scraps of songs under her breath as she 
 danced along, for she felt so happy that she 
 could not walk soberly. Mrs. Clinton's house 
 was soon reached at this rate, and her eager 
 hand gave the bell a vigorous pull that brought 
 a servant in haste to the door. 
 
 " O, it's you, then?" for they all knew Rosy's 
 face well enough. " Why didn't you pull off
 
 ROSY LEE'S THANKSGIVING. 121 
 
 the bell-handle, I wonder? What are you come 
 for now ? " 
 
 " To see Mrs. Clinton, of course ; I've brought 
 some work home," said Rosy, cheerfully, for she 
 did not care for the servant girl's saucy ways. 
 
 " Well, you can't see her," was the answer. 
 " She won't see nobody to-day, if it was the 
 king's wife." 
 
 " O, but I must ! " Rosy exclaimed. " Indeed, 
 I must. It's some work that she's very particu- 
 lar about, and she wants to see me herself." 
 
 " I can't help that," persisted the girl. " She's 
 got a headache, and she's given orders that no- 
 body is to disturb her. I ain't a-goin' to disobey 
 'em for you, I can tell you. So you'll just have 
 to call again." 
 
 " O, dear ! " Rosy was ready to cry in her 
 distress and disappointment. " I do want to see 
 her so badly ! Won't you please just tell her I'm 
 here, and see if she won't let me come up ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, I shan't ! " was the cross reply. 
 " I wouldn't dare to, and it's all nonsense, any- 
 how. You can come again easy enough. What's 
 to hinder you? So be off, and don't keep me 
 bothering here any longer." 
 
 She made a motion as if to shut the door in
 
 122 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 her face. Rosy retreated, too mortified and 
 angry to say another word, and ran down the 
 steps with a sob choking in her throat. She 
 had hardly got to the bottom before the door 
 opened again, and the pert voice called after 
 her, 
 
 " I say ! don't you come again to-morrow ; 
 for we're going to have a dinner party, and Mrs. 
 Clinton won't want to be bothered with you. 
 You hear, don't you ? " 
 
 And then the door slammed to, and poor Rosy 
 was left alone in the street, to get over her dis- 
 appointment the best way she could. It seemed 
 too much to be borne, indeed ; and hot tears 
 blinded her eyes, and bitter thoughts swelled in 
 her heart, as she recalled the unjust and insolent 
 way in which she had been treated. 
 
 " It's just because Pm poor, and poor peo- 
 ple are always treated like dogs ; " she said, 
 passionately, never caring that she spoke aloud, 
 and anybody might hear her. "She mustn't be 
 disturbed when she has a headache ; but it don't 
 make any difference how many headaches I have 
 over her work. And as long as her Thanks- 
 giving isn't bothered, it's no matter whether / 
 have any or not ! I've a great mind to throw
 
 ROSY LEE'S THANKSGIVING. 123 
 
 her mats in the street, and never go near the 
 house again." 
 
 She was hurrying on, too full of her grief and 
 anger to see anybody ; and so it happened that, 
 in turning a corner, she ran against her friend 
 Miss Miller, and had almost thrown her down, 
 before she recognized her. She muttered, has- 
 tily, 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Miller ; I didn't 
 mean to be so rude ; " and was rushing on again, 
 but the lady held her back. 
 
 " What in the world is the matter with you, 
 Rosy ?" in wonder at the child's red and tear- 
 stained face. " I don't believe I ever saw you 
 crying before. What has happened to you, my 
 dear?" 
 
 The kind voice, the ready sympathy, were too 
 much to resist in Rosy's excited condition. She 
 broke out passionately with the whole story, and 
 told Miss Miller, with plenty of sobs and tears 
 between, all about her three weeks' work, and 
 what she had intended to do with the money, 
 and how all her plans had been upset by Mrs. 
 Clinton's refusal to see her. 
 
 Miss Miller listened with the deepest interest. 
 She had never known before that her favorite
 
 124 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 pupil in her Sunday school class was so poor ; 
 for Rosy and her grandmother were far too 
 proud to speak of their wants. She never would 
 have known, except for this accident and Rosy's 
 excitement, which made her forget pride and 
 everything else but the comfort of telling her 
 trouble to so kind a listener. Now that she did 
 know, however, it did not take her long to de- 
 cide what to do. She was not one to lose an 
 opportunity of doing good. 
 
 " Give me your bundle, Rosy," she said, final- 
 ly, when the story was ended. " I'll see if I 
 can't deliver it for you, in spite of Mrs. Clinton's 
 saucy maid ; and you go home, dear, and make 
 yourself easy. This matter will be set right." 
 
 " O, Miss Miller ! " Rosy could hardly speak 
 for her tears. "You are too kind. I've no 
 right to give you such trouble." 
 
 " It will not be a trouble," said her teacher ; 
 " and if it were, isn't it my duty to help you bear 
 your burdens, so fulfilling' the law of Christ?" 
 
 So Rosy went on her way comforted, with a 
 heart so full of thankful love that there was no 
 longer room for the bitter and angry feelings 
 which had grown out of her disappointment. 
 She was not sorry to have them crowded out,
 
 ROSY LEE'S THANKSGIVING. 125 
 
 you may be sure, for they were neither welcome 
 nor accustomed guests in her loving and patient 
 little soul. The sweetest natures in the woi'ld, 
 however, have their bitter moments and evil im- 
 pulses : it would be well if we could all shake 
 them off as easily as Rosy did. 
 
 As for Miss Miller, she went straight to Mrs. 
 Clinton's house as soon as she had parted from 
 her little pupil. The pert housemaid did not 
 venture to refuse admittance to her, or to take 
 her message up to the mistress ; and Miss Miller 
 was soon in Mrs. Clinton's room, telling Rosy's 
 little story. What the result of her interference 
 was, we shall find out best by looking into 
 Mrs. Lee's snug sitting-room about dusk of the 
 same day. 
 
 The fire was burning cheerily in their little 
 cooking-stove, and the tea-kettle singing in tune. 
 Grandmother was dozing in her arm-chair, for- 
 getting her rheumatism for the time ; and Rosy 
 stood by the window, looking out into the lighted 
 street, where all the shops were gay with Thanks- 
 giving decorations. All at once there came a 
 sounding rap, that made Mrs. Lee start in her 
 sleep, and sent Rosy, with a beating heart, to 
 open the door. She had been expecting some'
 
 126 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 thing all the afternoon ; but she was hardly 
 prepared for the sight of Mrs. Clinton's magnifi- 
 cent coachman, with a letter in one hand, and a 
 big basket in the other. 
 
 "Your name is Rosy Lee?" he asked, con- 
 descendingly. " This basket is for you, then." 
 
 And setting it inside the door, he handed Rosy 
 the letter, and was gone before she could find 
 voice enough to speak to him. She lighted a 
 lamp in eager haste, and tore open the letter, 
 grandmother looking on, with curious interest. 
 Two notes were enclosed, and the first one was 
 from Miss Miller : 
 
 " MY DEAR ROSY : I think you will have a 
 happy Thanksgiving in spite of your disappoint- 
 ment this morning. Mrs. Clinton's note will 
 make amends for Nora's rudeness, and I know 
 you will enjoy the basket of good things she has 
 sent for your holiday. You must not think of 
 refusing the little present which I enclose for 
 you. It is sent with my best love and kindest 
 wishes, and I am always your affectionate 
 teacher, 
 
 MAGDALEN MILLER."
 
 ROSY LEE'S THANKSGIVING. I2/ 
 
 The " little present " was a five-dollar bill 
 a small fortune to Rosy. Mrs. Clinton's note 
 was this : 
 
 " DEAR LITTLE ROSY : Miss Miller has just 
 made me very angry, by telling me how badly 
 Nora behaved to you this morning. I had her 
 up stairs, and gave her such a lecture that she 
 will know how to behave herself in future, I 
 think. 
 
 " Your work is beautifully done, and I shall 
 have more of the same sort for you to do. I 
 send you six dollars to pay for it, and a basket 
 of trifles for your grandmother. Give her my 
 regards, and tell her to try my remedy for rheu- 
 matism. I am quite sure it will do her good. I 
 wish you a happy Thanksgiving, and am your 
 sincere friend, 
 
 H. B. CLINTON." 
 
 Rosy could hardly believe her own eyes, as 
 she read these kind words from the stately old 
 lady, who had always seemed to her like a dif- 
 ferent order of being from the common class of 
 mortals. " Dear little Rosy ! " Her cheeks flushed 
 with pride and pleasure as she looked at the
 
 128 BIJIDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 words ; and old Mrs. Lee was equally delighted, 
 though she thought Rosy was quite good enough 
 to be called " dear " by any lady in the land. 
 
 The " basket of trifles " was the next thing to 
 be examined ; and very nice trifles they proved 
 to be. A fine, fat turkey was one of them ; two 
 large bottles of old port, another ; and after that 
 came a variety of " trifles" in the shape of loaf 
 sugar, raisins, walnuts, Spitzenburg apples, and 
 a mince pie, under whose flaky crust many a 
 nice plum was hidden. Mrs. Clinton had packed 
 the basket with her own hands, and it was the 
 very pleasantest part of all her fine Thanksgiving 
 preparations. She quite forgot that she had a 
 headache, or was going to have a dinner party 
 to-morrow, in her anticipation of little Rosy's 
 delight. 
 
 As for that, you will have to imagine it ; for I 
 never could describe all the half-laughing, half- 
 tearful, altogether happy things she said and did ; 
 nor what a fuss and preparation was made over 
 the dinner next day, when two of Mrs. Lee's old 
 friends were invited to it, and one of Rosy's 
 class mates in Sunday school an orphan girl, 
 who had but scanty Thanksgiving at her own 
 home, and so enjoyed Rosy's all the more.
 
 ROSY LEE'S THANKSGIVING. Page 126.
 
 ROSY LEE'S THANKSGIVING. 129 
 
 One thing, however, I must tell you : that 
 Mrs. Clinton's receipt really proved a great re- 
 lief, and before the two bottles of wine were used 
 up, grandmother's rheumatism was so much 
 better that she could do her share of work 
 again ; and they got on very comfortably all 
 through the winter. And another thing I must 
 tell you : that Rosy learned a lesson of trust in 
 God's loving care and kindness from that Thanks- 
 giving Day, which made her better and happier 
 all the rest of her life.
 
 BLANCHE'S LESSON. 
 
 A LITTLE girl and a lady sat together in a 
 -Z~~\. pretty room one pleasant summer morning. 
 It was called " the school-room," and there was, 
 to be sure, a desk in it, covered with green cloth, 
 and strewn about with papers and pens ; also a 
 table, upon which lay two or three lesson-books 
 an arithmetic, a " speller and definer," and a 
 little volume of French phrases. 
 
 But the room, for all this, was very different 
 from most school-rooms. It had a cool, straw 
 matting on the floor ; delicate white curtains 
 inside the windows, and honeysuckle vines out- 
 side ; easy chairs and sofas all around ; pictures 
 on the walls, and flowers on the mantel. The 
 teacher, too, was no stern old pedagogue, or 
 sharp-faced schoolmistress, such as one sees often 
 enough. She was just as pretty as the room, 
 with a bright face and a sweet voice that were 
 enough in themselves to make fractions and 
 
 French verbs easy. 
 
 (130)
 
 BLANCHE'S LESSON. 131 
 
 After all this, it is to be supposed, of course, 
 that the little girl was a great deal happier than 
 ordinary school-girls ; that she was learning her 
 lessons with the greatest diligence and delight ; 
 and that her governess had never to speak a word 
 of reproof to her ! On the contrary, there was 
 quite a different state of things in the pretty 
 school-room that sunny summer morning. 
 
 " Blanche," said Miss Loxley, in a very de- 
 cided tone, " I am waiting to hear your lesson 
 in definitions." 
 
 " I don't know my lesson in definitions," very 
 sullenly from Blanche. 
 
 " You never will, if you sit all the morning 
 pinching the leaves of your book, and tearing 
 bits of paper off the edges, and never once 
 looking at your lesson. How do you expect 
 to learn it?" 
 . " I don't want to learn it," pouted Blanche. 
 
 " So I see," returned Miss Loxley, calmly. 
 "We are often obliged, however, to do things 
 that we don't want to do ; and this lesson of 
 yours, my dear, is a case in point. You will 
 please to bring your book, and sit beside me, 
 and study aloud until you can recite all those 
 definitions correctly. I do not intend to excuse 
 you again."
 
 1^2 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 She pointed with an air of authority to a little 
 chair beside her, and looked at Blanche with a 
 steady, quiet glance that showed she meant to be 
 obeyed. But Blanche was a wilful little girl, 
 who had been allowed to have her own way 
 the greater part of her life ; and she had no idea 
 of submitting to this new governess, who ordered 
 her to do this thing and that, as no other gov- 
 erness had ever ventured to do before. No, in- 
 deed ! So, instead of obeying, she kept her seat 
 resolutely, and neither spoke nor stirred, but set 
 her lips together with a defiant expression that 
 Miss Loxley understood at once to mean a dec- 
 laration of rebellion. 
 
 She was not alarmed by it, although she fore- 
 saw the struggle that must ensue. Her spirit 
 was quite as determined as her little pupil's, and 
 she knew that if she did not enforce her author- 
 ity now she would never be able to do it after- 
 wards. So she said, in the same, quiet tone, 
 
 " I think you heard me give you an order, 
 Blanche. Now I repeat it. Come and sit down 
 in this chair ! " 
 
 No answer from Blanche. Only the lips more 
 tightly compressed, and the feet firmly planted 
 upon the floor, as she obstinately kept her seat
 
 BLANCHE'S LESSON. 133 
 
 "You wish me to compel you, perhaps?" 
 asked Miss Loxley, calmly. 
 
 " You can't ! " answered the child, defiantly. 
 
 " Don't be too sure of that," with a little flash 
 in the bright blue eye. " I wouldn't advise you 
 to put it to the proof. Once more for the last 
 time I command you to come and take your 
 seat in this chair ! " 
 
 She laid her hand upon it, and her eyes met 
 Blanche's with such a " dangerous" look in them 
 that the little stubborn spirit quailed at last. She 
 rose with a jerk, marched across the room, and 
 flung herself into the seat pointed out. But the 
 book she kept shut in her hands, and would 
 neither open it, nor study aloud a single word 
 of the lesson. She was not afraid of punish- 
 ment, for she had never been punished in her 
 life ; and although she had changed her seat 
 because she knew Miss Loxley was stronger 
 than she, and could compel her to do so, she 
 also knew that Miss Loxley could not compel 
 her to speak aloud if she did not choose to ; and 
 therefore she obstinately chose not to. 
 
 It was a difficult and disagreeable case to man- 
 age, but the governess was not daunted. She 
 did not waste words in trying to make her pupil 
 speak; she only said,
 
 134 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " You can sit idle as long as you please, 
 Blanche ; I shall not interfere with you. But 
 remember that I do not allow you to leave this 
 room until you have learned your lesson, and 
 recited it properly." 
 
 Then she turned away to the green-covered 
 desk, and began to write. Blanche sat in sullen 
 anger, and watched her, with her heart full of 
 indignant rebellion " against an authority more 
 stringent than any she had ever felt before. 
 
 "What right has she to treat me so? Nobody 
 else ever made me learn lessons when I didn't 
 want to, and I won't learn it now ! I won't stay 
 in this room all day, either, and I'll tell my 
 grandma just as soon as ever she comes home. 
 So I will!" 
 
 And poor little naughty Blanche shed tears 
 of impotent rage as the passionate thoughts 
 surged up in her mind. " She would not give 
 up no, that she never would I " she said to 
 herself over and over again. But she felt through 
 it all that there was very little use in her 
 resistance ; for her grandmother, who had hu- 
 mored and petted -her far too much for her own 
 good, was away on a journey, and Miss Loxley 
 was mistress of the hous'e during her absence
 
 BLANCHE'S LESSON 135 
 
 Not a soul was there to interfere in her behalf; 
 and she was entirely in her teacher's power. So 
 it was a very vain and foolish resistance, and she 
 knew it. Yet she persevered in it, although it 
 was weary work, sitting idle and miserable in 
 the little chair, while Miss Loxley's busy pen 
 travelled over the paper, and her quick eye pre- 
 vented the little rebel from moving a step away. 
 
 It would have been easier to study the lesson 
 than to sit in this dreary silence and idleness ; 
 but she was too proud to own that, even to her- 
 self; too wilfully stubborn to do the only thing 
 that could bring her any relief. 
 
 So the hours dragged by till the sun was high 
 up in the deep-blue sky, and the pretty clock on 
 the mantel-shelf chimed out twelve silvery notes 
 for noon. This was the usual signal for her 
 release. There were no more lessons after 
 twelve, and she was free to amuse herself, as she 
 liked on ordinary days. But to-day the case 
 was different. Warm, and tired, and wretched 
 as she felt, she was stiil determined not to yield. 
 Miss Loxley understood it at a glance, when she 
 folded her letters, and rose from the desk. 
 
 " Very well," she said. " You choose to 
 spend the day. in the school-room, I see. But,
 
 136 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 for my part, I am tired of looking at such a silly 
 and naughty little girl. So I shall leave you to 
 enjoy your own company all alone. I will send 
 your luncheon to you here ; and when you have 
 made up your mind to learn your lesson, you can 
 ring the bell, and I will come and hear you 
 say it." 
 
 With this she walked out of the room, and, 
 lest Blanche in her absence should choose to 
 follow her example, she coolly locked the door 
 on the outside. 
 
 The sound of the key in the lock, that told the 
 little girl she was a prisoner indeed, changed 
 Blanche's sullen anger into a frenzy of rage. 
 She stamped her feet, she tossed the books to 
 and fro, she kicked the chairs about, she cried 
 and screamed. It was all to no purpose, for 
 nobody came to see what was the matter. The 
 servants were accustomed to her tantrums, and 
 not sorry to see that the new governess meant to 
 have the upper hand of her. 
 
 " Time somebody made her mind," said the 
 housekeeper, " Salt won't save her if she's let 
 alone much longer." 
 
 So she only smiled grimly as she heard the pas- 
 sionate shrieks and stamps that came from the
 
 BLANCHE'S LESSON. 137 
 
 school-room, and went to prepare the luncheon 
 that Miss Loxley had ordered to be sent up. 
 
 " Don't allow her to come out, if you please, 
 Mrs. Quince," Miss Loxley had said. " I have 
 told her to stay until she learns her lesson, and I 
 intend to make her do it." 
 
 "And I'm very glad you do," Mrs. Quince 
 responded, heartily. " She'll not get out by me, 
 I promise you." 
 
 So she carried up the luncheon-tray herself. 
 Blanche flew to the door as soon as it was 
 opened, and tried to rush past the housekeeper. 
 But Mrs. Quince was too quick and too strong 
 for her. 
 
 "No, indeed, miss. You'll get out fast 
 enough if you try the right way. But you 
 don't run over me not yet." 
 
 She set down the tray, went out, and locked 
 the door again, quite indifferent to the torrent 
 of angry words that Blanche poured out in her 
 disappointment. She had counted upon making 
 her escape in this way, and she was more furious 
 than ever at being balked. For it was her only 
 chance : the window was far too high for her to 
 climb out into the garden, and there was not 
 even a door into another room. There was
 
 138 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 nothing to do but kick and scream, and call her 
 teacher all the ugly names she could think of; 
 and this Blanche did till she was tired out, and 
 then she lay on the floor and sobbed, in perfect 
 misery and exhaustion. Poor little soul ! the 
 one way of escape that was so easy and simple 
 she obstinately 'would not make use of. 
 
 A sweet little voice came to her ear by and 
 by, as she lay in a careless heap close by the 
 door. 
 
 " Blanchie ! " it said, " are you there, Blan- 
 chie?" 
 
 And she knew that it was her little sister 
 Alice who was calling her. She sprang to her 
 feet with a sudden hope. i 
 
 " Alice will open the door for me ; she doesn't 
 know," she thought ; and she answered hastily in 
 a loud, eager whisper, 
 
 " Yes, Alice, I'm here. Open the door for 
 me, and I'll come out and play with you." 
 
 " I can't open the door ! " cried the child. 
 " I'm too little to reach up ! Why don't you 
 open it yourself, Blanchie?" 
 
 " Because I can't," whispered Blanche, in an- 
 swer. " It's locked outside." 
 
 "O! who locked you in?" exclaimed little
 
 BLANCHES LESSON. 139 
 
 Alice, in a lone of dismay. " Was it Miss 
 Loxley ? " 
 
 " Never mind," said Blanche, hastily, " that's 
 no matter. I want you to unlock it, Ally, and 
 if you'll listen a minute, I'll tell you how. Just 
 run into grandma's room, and get one of her 
 hassocks they're not heavy to lift and bring 
 it here to stand on. Then you can turn the key 
 in the lock it turns ever so easy and I can 
 get out. Run along, Ally, quick, that's a good 
 girl ! I'll take you out in the woods, and find 
 huckleberries for you, and all sorts of things, if 
 you'll make haste, and not let anybody see you." 
 
 " Will you ? " little Alice answered, innocent- 
 ly. " Well, I'll make haste. I'll be back in a 
 minute." 
 
 And she tripped away, pleased to be made 
 useful, and quite unconscious that she was doing 
 anything wrong. She was a mere baby, only 
 four years old, and, of course, could know no 
 better. Blanche knew very well that she was 
 making her little sister do wrong, but she cared 
 nothing for that so long as she accomplished her 
 purpose. 
 
 In a minute or two the child came back, tug- 
 ging the hassock through the hall ; and climbing
 
 140 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 upon it, she was able, after a little fumbling and 
 working with the key, to get it turned in the 
 lock. Another moment and the door stood open, 
 and Blanche was no longer a prisoner. 
 
 It had all been done quietly and quickly, and 
 nobody had seen or heard them. Blanche car- 
 ried the hassock back to her grandmother's room, 
 and locked the door of the school-room as it had 
 been before. Then the two children stole softly 
 down stairs, past the door of the parlor where 
 Miss Loxley sat, all unconscious of what was 
 going on, and out upon the piazza., where they 
 found their round hats lying upon a bench. 
 
 "Blanche put on her own, and tied Alice's 
 under her chin, the little thing standing still and 
 silent, and not even venturing to whisper, be- 
 cause she was told not to. Nobody was in sight 
 at any door or window, and the runaway, hold- 
 ing her sister's little hand tightly in her own, 
 darted across the lawn, and made her way safely 
 down to the barn-yard. A lane led from that to 
 the woods, which were very near the house, and 
 once in that lane Blanche knew she was safe 
 from discovery. The thick foliage of the wil- 
 lows hid her from view, and the ducks and 
 chickens in the barn-yard would tell no talcs 
 of her.
 
 BLANCHE S LESSON. 14! 
 
 So, at last, they were fairly in the woods, 
 roaming at large under the shady old pine trees, 
 and far enough out of the reach of Miss Loxley 
 and her tiresome lessons. Blanche laughed, and 
 shouted, and tossed her hat in the air in the tri- 
 umph of her freedom. She snatched little Alice 
 up, and swung her round and round, until they 
 were both so dizzy that they dropped down in a 
 heap upon the dry leaves. Then she kissed the 
 child a dozen times, and declared that she was 
 the dearest little darling in the world, and she 
 loved her, .O, more than tongue could tell ! But 
 as for that ugly, old, cross, horrid Miss Loxley, 
 why, she was just hateful, and Blanche never 
 meant to like her any more, and neither must 
 Alice ; they must coax grandmamma to send her 
 away soon as ever she came home. 
 
 " But I don't want her to be sent away," said 
 little Alice, innocently. " She holds me on her 
 lap, and tells me about Chin-Chopper and Polly 
 Flinders. She isn't ugly, either. She has pret- 
 ty blue eyes and curly hair, and I don't think 
 she's horrid at all." 
 
 " But you must think so when I tell you," said 
 Blanche. "Don't you know I'm the oldest? 
 She's horrid and ugly, because she's so cross to
 
 142 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 me ; and you mustn't like people that treat sistei 
 badly, Alice." 
 
 "What did she do?" asked Alice, doubting 
 still. 
 
 " Do? Why, she locked me up in that nasty 
 school-room, and was* going to keep me there all 
 day, and all night, and all the time, just for 
 nothing! And only think, all she sent me for 
 my lunch was bread and milk ! Not a bit of 
 cake, or raspberries, or honey, or anything ! I 
 wonder what grandma will say when I tell her 
 that?" 
 
 Alice looked rather dismayed at this catalogue 
 of Miss Loxley's offences, but she ventured 
 another question : 
 
 " Weren't you naughty at alt? " 
 
 " No, I wasn't. But you are naughty to ask 
 such questions ; and I won't love you if you're 
 not angry with her for treating me so badly." 
 
 " Well, I'll be angry," Alice said, hastily, get- 
 ting frightened at her sister's scolding. " I won't 
 love her any more. But you promised to find 
 me some huckleberries." 
 
 "Jump up, then, and we'll go hunt for them," 
 said Blanche. And she scrambled with the 
 child down among the wild bushes and under-
 
 BLANCHE'S LESSON. 143 
 
 growth in search of berries. But there were 
 none to be found that were fit to eat. Plenty of 
 green ones on the bushes, but all that were black 
 and ripe had been picked off. Alice looked 
 rather downcast at the disappointment, but 
 Blanche said, 
 
 " Never mind, I'll give you a swing in the 
 grape-vines. I know how to make a beautiful 
 swing." 
 
 There were wild grape-vines in great abun- 
 dance in these woods. Their stout tendrils swung 
 from one tree-trunk to another, and clambered 
 up into the branches, covering the sober leafage 
 of the pines with a beautiful new growth. In 
 the autumn, clusters of grapes hung thick among 
 them ; and Blanche had climbed after these, 
 getting many a slip and tumble, and many an 
 ugly rent in her frocks, until she knew the grape- 
 vines all by heart. 
 
 But she was strong and fearless ; she had 
 played in the woods ever since she could re- 
 member, and did not mind the falls and scram- 
 bles. If she climbed into the vines, and fell 
 backwards, she could pick herself up none the 
 worse. If she made " a beautiful swing," as 
 she called it, and it broke down, carrying her
 
 144 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 with it, as was generally the case, she man- 
 aged to scramble out again, not much hurt. She 
 did not doubt but little Alice could do the same ; 
 and so she proceeded to make her swing. 
 
 She had found what she considered a good 
 vine for the purpose, and drawn down a long, 
 straggling tendril from the network of stems 
 interlaced overhead. It was in just the right 
 curve for a swing, and the ends seemed to be 
 securely fastened up in the tree. So she lifted 
 Alice into the loop, it was far above the ground, 
 and, bidding her "hold on tight," she gave 
 her a push that sent her swinging out beyond the 
 tree. 
 
 The child swung backwards, breathless with 
 delight, and Blanche gave her another push, and 
 another, throwing her farther and farther out 
 into the air. Something snapped and cracked 
 overhead, presently. Blanche shouted, 
 
 " Hold on, Alice ! " 
 
 And sprang towards the swing to stop it. 
 Perhaps it was the sudden outcry that frightened 
 the child ; perhaps she had grown giddy with 
 the unaccustomed motion ; there was no telling 
 exactly how it happened ; but the slender little 
 fingers grew suddenly powerless, the rough vine
 
 BLANCHE'S LESSON. 145 
 
 slipped away from their grasp, and her head be- 
 gan to swim with a dizzy sickness. She threw 
 her arms out wildly, and fell, face downward, in 
 a helpless heap, to the ground. 
 
 Blanche fled to her with a scream of affright. 
 It was a worse fall than ever she had had, and 
 her sudden terror was redoubled when she dis- 
 covered the condition that Alice was in. She 
 lay just as she had fallen, and made no sound. 
 Her little face was white as death, and drops of 
 blood were oozing from her lips. In vain her 
 terrified sister lifted her up, and called her by 
 name, begging her wildly, with tears and kisses, 
 only to speak to her once* just once! The 
 drooping eyelids were not lifted ; the little blood- 
 stained mouth gave no sign of life ; and Blanche, 
 in that dreadful hour, realized her fault and its 
 punishment with a suffering too sharp and bitter 
 for words to reveal. 
 
 " I have killed her ! I have killed my little 
 sister my dear, little, darling, beautiful sister ! " 
 she screamed aloud in her wild despair. And 
 her voice rang through the woods with such bit- 
 ter cries that it reached the ears of more than 
 one person, and a group of people, some stran- 
 10
 
 146 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 gers, some servants of the house, were soon hur- 
 rying to the spot. 
 
 Miss Loxley was among them, for she had 
 discovered Blanche's escape, and missed little 
 Alice, and was on her way to the wood to seek 
 for them, when she heard those piercing shrieks, 
 and recognized the voice that uttered them. She 
 was the first to reach the place, and Blanche's 
 punishment was complete when she met the 
 governess's look of stern a^nd sad reproach, as 
 she raised up the poor little broken flower from 
 the ground. 
 
 It was a mournful procession that marched 
 from the woods, down the pleasant, green lane, 
 through the barn-yard, where the ducks and 
 geese cackled unconsciously as ever, across the 
 shady lawn, and into the house, out of which 
 those little feet, so motionless now, had gone 
 merrily, an hour before. Servants and neighbors 
 gathered weeping about her, for little Alice was 
 the pet and darling of the household ; and now, 
 when it seemed as if she might never brighten 
 the place again with her beauty and sweetness, 
 there were many to tell how they would miss 
 and mourn her.
 
 BLANCHE S LESSON. 147 
 
 But I need not make the story sadder than it 
 really was. And the little life was given back 
 after all. There were many days when her feet 
 seemed close to the brink of the dark river ; 
 when a look, a breath almost, seemed enough to 
 send the little fluttering spirit up to heaven. 
 
 Some thought it would have been better for her 
 to have died then, than to go limping upon 
 crutches always afterwards, lame for life ! But 
 God knw best. And Blanche poor, penitent, 
 heart-broken child ! never ceased to thank him 
 for the life that he saved, " maimed and halt "as 
 it was. 
 
 It was a hard " lesson " that she learned that 
 day : spelling-book or grammar never held one 
 half so hard ! But the knowledge that came 
 with such suffering was precious knowledge all 
 the yeai - s of her life. Miss Loxley used to tell 
 afterwards how the whole nature of the child 
 had changed ; how gentle, and patient, and sub- 
 missive she had grown ; how good and thought- 
 ful, forever seeking to do a service for some one, 
 and living " close to God " in her constant watch- 
 fulness and prayers. 
 
 As for little Alice she used to say that it
 
 148 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 was worth while to be lame when one had such 
 a sister as Blanche a sister who was more like 
 a mother in her boundless love and tenderness. 
 So out of the root of evil God chose to let a good 
 fruit grow. But it is better to plant in the be- 
 ginning the " precious seed," which, of its own 
 impulse, blossoms into " sheaves of rejoicing."
 
 JESSIE'S JOURNEY. 
 
 " T ET me alone ! let me alone ! " screamed 
 
 J y Jessie Joralemono " If you don't let' me 
 go, Horace, I'll bite, you now so I will ! " 
 
 " As to that, Jet, I can bite, too, you know," 
 said her big brother Horace. And, instead of 
 letting her go, he tightened his grasp upon her 
 bare, sunburnt shoulders. 
 
 "You're a nice little girl now aren't you? 
 Down here in the village, hale fellow well met 
 with every little dirty brat you can find to play 
 with you ; your neck and arms uncovered, too, 
 and your face just about the col<5r of theirs. 
 Well, you are a nice little sister a fellow ought 
 to be proud of you ! " 
 
 " It's none of a fellow's business ! " sobbed 
 Jessie, angrily. " And I don't care whether you 
 are proud or not ! You let me alone ! " 
 
 " O, of course, it's none of my business ! " re- 
 torted Horace. " We'll go home, though, and 
 see whose business it is. Just march along, Miss 
 
 (H9)
 
 150 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 Jet, until we hear what mother has to say to 
 you ; and no biting now remember ! " 
 
 It was in vain for Jessie to resist : her brother 
 held her with a grasp that she could not shake 
 off, and she was forced to walk beside him, and 
 listen to his sarcastic speeches until they reached 
 their home, when Mrs. Joralemon, standing on 
 the piazza, was the first to meet them. 
 
 "Where have you been, Jessie? Horace, 
 what is the matter?" she asked, immediately, 
 seeing from the little girl's flushed and tear- 
 stained face that something had happened. 
 
 " Down in the village again," said Horace, 
 " making mud pies with half a dozen Irish 
 youngsters round her. Nice little girl ain't 
 she? But she says it's none of my business, 
 so I brought her home to see if it was any of 
 yours. There you can go now." 
 
 And Horace gave her a little push towards 
 her mother, and walked off whistling, with his 
 hands in his pockets. 
 
 " What a naughty child you are, Jessie ! " ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Joralemon, severely. " Down in 
 the village again, after you have so often been 
 forbidden, so often punished for going ! Go up 
 stairs to my room immediately ; and, when your
 
 JESSIE'S JOURNEY. 151 
 
 father corner home, we shall see what he has to 
 say to you." 
 
 Forlornly enough Jessie trudged up stairs, and 
 seated herself in her mother's room, in the cor- 
 ner farthest out of sight. Her frock was torn 
 and draggled, her face was stained with tears 
 and perspiration and dirt, her finger-nails had 
 the blackest of rims. Altogether she was a 
 dismal little object to look upon, and one can 
 hardly blame Horace for being disgusted with 
 her, for it was not the first time she had been 
 caught in this plight. 
 
 The village was her great temptation, though 
 what made it so was not easy to understand. It 
 was as ugly a little village as ever was seen, 
 consisting of one long, straggling street of 
 shabby houses and insignificant little shops, 
 with a sort of common, or green, at one end, 
 sloping down to a sluggish pond. Here ducks 
 and geese and dirty children paddled and played 
 at all hours of the day ; and here Jessie had 
 been found more than once before, and more 
 than once before brought home in disgrace. 
 There might have been some excuse for her if 
 she had had no playmates at home ; but when she 
 had brothers and sisters in plenty, books and
 
 152 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 playthings more than she knew what to do with, 
 and two or three acres of lawn and garden and 
 meadow, over which she was free to roam, it 
 was certainly very silly, as well as very naughty, 
 to behave as she did. 
 
 Jessie didn't see it, however, and, instead of 
 feeling penitent and ashamed, as she sat alone in 
 her corner, she only felt angry and insulted. 
 
 " I just don't care ! " she said, wilfully. " I'll 
 go again whenever I get a chance; and Horace 
 is a disagreeable, ugly boy that's what he is ; 
 and I've a great mind not to stay here any 
 longer, but just go to New York and live with 
 my grandfather ! There, now ! '* 
 
 This was a threat that she frequently made 
 when anything happened to vex her. Her 
 grandfather old Mr. Joshua Joralemon was 
 very fond of her ; she was his favorite of all the 
 children, in fact, and they knew it so well that 
 they made a rhyme about it to tease her : 
 
 " Here comes Jet, 
 Grandpa's pet." 
 
 Why he called her "Jet," instead of Jessie, 
 nobody could tell, for she had red hair, and blue 
 eyes, and there was nothing jetty whatever about
 
 JESSIE'S JOURNEY. 153 
 
 her. However, that was his name for her ; and 
 one day, .when he was at Windy-Knowe on a 
 visit, Miss Jet got into trouble, which was noth- 
 ing remarkable for her either. 
 
 It wasn't her stumbling-block the village; 
 nor yet the meadow-brook, which was another 
 of her pitfalls. It wasn't even green apples, nor 
 the duck's eggs, but only the hay-stack, through 
 which she came to grief. She had found a ladder 
 leaning against it, and she had climbed up to the 
 very top, and perched herself there with great sat- 
 isfaction ; but Broderick, coming along on the 
 other side, and never seeing her, had marched 
 off with the ladder. So, when Miss Jessie got 
 ready to descend from her airy heights, she had 
 no steps to help her, and she dared not slide 
 down the steep and slippery sides. Of course 
 she set up a scream immediately, Jet always 
 screamed ; and that brought Joe, and Pussy, 
 and Clem, all helter-skelter, to see what was the 
 matter, and to shout with laughter when they 
 discovered her ridiculous situation. 
 
 They got the ladder, and helped her down, 
 but they laughed at her, and teased her all the 
 time, until poor Jet was in a towering rage ; in 
 the midst of which grandpa came along, and 
 took her part, saying, soothingly,
 
 154 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 l \ Don't you mind them, Jet ; if they abuse you 
 here, just run away, and come and live with me. 
 I'll take care of you." 
 
 Of course he was only jesting with her ; but 
 Jessie took it quite in earnest, and from that 
 time, whenever she was angry, she avowed her 
 determination to run away and live with her 
 grandfather. Nobody heeded her, for nobody 
 dreamed that she would ever undertake to do 
 it, seeing that Windy-Knowe was at least thirty 
 miles away from New York. But the idea had 
 taken more serious hold of the child's fancy than 
 any one imagined ; and, as she sat alone this 
 afternoon, brooding over her sense of wrong and 
 ill-treatment, it came to her more and more seri- 
 ously, until at last she jumped up with a resolute 
 look upon her face, and exclaimed, half aloud, 
 
 " I'll just go, so I will ! I'll not stay shut up 
 here all the day, and I won't be punished when 
 my father comes home all for nothing ! I've 
 got some money of my own, and I'll go to New 
 York in the cars this very day I will ! " 
 
 No one was by to hear or see her, and so no 
 one could stop the wild plan which she immedi- 
 ately set to work to carry out. The first thing 
 was to wash her face and hands, and put on a
 
 JESSIE S JOURNEY. 155 
 
 tidy dress ; and, as a pile of her own clean frocks 
 had just been brought in from the laundry, and 
 lay on her mother's bed waiting to be put away, 
 she had no trouble in making the change with- 
 out notice. This done, she stole softly out of the 
 room, and crossed the hall, to the little chamber 
 where she slept with Pussy. 
 
 The door was open, and no one in sight. She 
 got her best hat and mantle out of the closet, 
 and dressed herself quickly in them ; and then, 
 from a little box in which she kept her particular 
 treasures, she took a tiny little gilt porte-monnaie. 
 In this there were four new three-cent pieces, 
 two half dimes, and a little gold dollar, all of 
 which had been given her by her grandfather at 
 different times. She did not know how much a 
 ticket to New York would cost, but the gold 
 dollar seemed an inexhaustible treasure, not to 
 speak of the three-cent pieces ; and she had no 
 doubt of being able to reach the city, if only she 
 could escape from the house without being seen. 
 
 There is an old story that tells about two 
 angels who follow us wherever we go ; and one 
 helps and encourages us in good works, and the 
 other in evil. Jessie's bad angel must have 
 taken great pains for her that day, otherwise I
 
 156 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 do not know how she could have managed to 
 get out of the house, where so many people were 
 always going to and fro, and out of the grounds 
 where some of the children were always at play, 
 without being seen by somebody. She certainly 
 did, however, and marched straight along the 
 public road to the railway station, entirely un- 
 interrupted. 
 
 She knew nothing about the hours at which 
 the trains left for New York, but it so happened 
 that a down train was due in a very few minutes 
 after she reached the depot. The people were 
 all standing outside upon the platform, waiting 
 for it ; and Jessie had only time to buy her ticket 
 at the office, before a snorting sound in the dis- 
 tance, a puff of white steam blown forward by 
 the wind, and then a rushing, fiery gallop of the 
 iron horse down the hill, announced the arrival 
 of the train. 
 
 Theje were only two or three passengers be- 
 sides herself at this hour of the day ; and as if 
 everything happened to help her in her naughty 
 plan, they were all strangers to Jessie, and all 
 too much in a hurry to get aboard to take any 
 notice of the solitary little girl who followed after 
 them, climbed up the steps without help from
 
 JESSIE'S JOURNEY. 157 
 
 any father or brother, and took her seat in the 
 far end of the car, as much out of sight as possi- 
 ble. In a minute more the iron horse gave an- 
 other puff and snort, and plunged away again ; 
 and Jessie Joralemon was fairly started upon her 
 journey. 
 
 She looked out of the window with a tri- 
 umphant feeling, as the clatter-clatter of the 
 engine grew louder and faster, and the station- 
 house, with its familiar landmarks around, was 
 left far behind. 
 
 " Now I am free ! " she thought, exultingly. 
 " I guess Master Horace won't fetch me home 
 again in a hurry ugly thing! and mamma will 
 be sorry for shutting me up, when she finds I am 
 gone. Grandpapa will treat me better, I know 
 he will ; and I'll stay with him all the time, and 
 coax him not to let papa or anybody know 
 where I am." 
 
 Pleasant visions of the gay life she would lead 
 at grandpapa's rose up in her imagination. No 
 lessons to learn, no hemming or knitting to do, no 
 music to practise, no big brother Horace to hector 
 over her; she would lie in bed as long as she 
 liked every morning, and sit up late every night ; 
 she would have strong coffee for breakfast, and
 
 150 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 floating-island for dessert ; she would go to the 
 Museum, and the Central Park, and the Circus, 
 and have no end of nuts and raisins every even- 
 ing. As for ice-cream and jelly-cake, she'd 
 soon find out how much would make her sick. 
 Wasn't Jet grandpa's pet ? and she guessed she 
 could do as she chose in his house there, now ! 
 Clatter-clatter up hill and down dale, thunder- 
 ing over bridges, flashing past green meadows 
 and silvery streams, puffing and snorting through 
 pretty way-side villages, rushing into tunnels full 
 of smoky darkness, darting out again into fresh 
 air and sunlight away went the iron horse, 
 carrying little Jessie Joralemon farther and far- 
 ther from her safe and quiet home at Windy- 
 Knowe, nearer and nearer to the noise and 
 bustle and bewilderment of the great, strange 
 city. She was not afraid ; the novelty and ex- 
 citement of her adventure had not yet given 
 place to any fears for its safe termination, and 
 the swift, exhilarating motion was delightful to 
 her daring spirit. So the first hour of her journey 
 was all enjoyment : satisfaction at having made 
 her escape so cleverly, anticipation of the wel- 
 come she would receive from her grandfather, 
 and pleasure in the very journey itself.
 
 JESSIE S JOURNEY, 159 
 
 But there came a change to this pleasant state 
 of feeling. The first thing that caused it was 
 the sudden coming up of a summer storm. The 
 pretty fleecy clouds that had been sailing so 
 brightly over the blue sky grew all at once dark 
 and lowering ; the trees began to bend before a 
 rising wind, and soon great drops of rain came 
 dashing up against the window beside which 
 Jessie sat. She did not mind it much at first, 
 being sheltered for the time, and not thinking 
 how disagreeable it would be to be landed in the 
 city streets in a drenching ^rain. But the dis- 
 contented looks of the people around her, and 
 their expressions of annoyance as the shower in- 
 creased, made her presently realize her situation. 
 She began to watch anxiously, as the others did, 
 for some break in the clbuds that should give a 
 promise of sunshine by and by. But none came : 
 the sky darkened more and more, and the rain 
 fell with a steady persistence that proved it no 
 mere transient shower. 
 
 Meanwhile the train sped swiftly on, and they 
 were rapidly nearing the city. Soon the little 
 Irish cabins, perched among the rocks, came in 
 sight ; Jessie could see the goats huddling to- 
 gether in the rain, and bare-footed, shock-headed
 
 l6o BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 children running out in spite of it, to look at the 
 cars. Then came groups of houses of a better 
 order ; then long, ugly, grimy factories, and 
 presently the engine began to slacken speed, and 
 the bell to ring out its warning, for they were 
 fairly in the city streets. People gathered up 
 their luggage, and wrapped up their children ; 
 those who were so lucky as to have umbrellas 
 brought them out for use ; those who had none 
 grumbled audibly at the provoking rain. But it 
 rained on in spite of them ; and Jessie, who had s 
 nobody to speak to, looked in dismay at the 
 streams of water'rushing down the window-pane, 
 and wondered how she would ever reach her 
 grandfather's house. 
 
 Her pretty Leghorn hat, with its white ribbon 
 
 9 
 
 and curling ostrich plume, her new black silk 
 basque, and her white cambric dress, would all 
 be in a sad plight before she could reach Second 
 Avenue ; for there was no omnibus running 
 across from Fourth to Second Avenue, and she 
 knew that she would have to walk every step of 
 the way. It was only about half a mile noth- 
 ing to speak of in pleasant weather ; but half a 
 mile in a pouring rain, with no umbrella, and 
 your best clothes on, becomes a serious matter;
 
 JESSIE'S JOURNEY. 161 
 
 and the more Jessie thought about it, the more 
 serious it became to her. 
 
 By the time the cars stopped, a good deal of 
 her self-complacency had departed. She began 
 to think that perhaps grandpapa wouldn't alto- 
 gether approve of what she had done, after all ; 
 and an uncomfortable misgiving stole over her, 
 that Mrs. Bunn, the housekeeper, would consider 
 the whole proceeding highly improper ; especially 
 if she arrived with her clothes all drenched and 
 ruined, as they certainly would be, the way this 
 rain was coming down. And then there would 
 be no dry things for her to put on, for there were 
 no children about the house, and she could hardly 
 wear grandpapa's clothes, or Mrs. Bunn's either, 
 for that matter. 
 
 But there was no help for it now, and she' must 
 make the best of it. So she got out of the car, 
 and followed the crowd into the ladies' room at 
 the depot, trying to look perfectly self-possessed 
 and unconcerned ; for she was conscious that 
 people were noticing her, and making remarks 
 about so young a child being left to travel alone. 
 A great many curious glances were directed to 
 her, but nobody spoke ; for Jessie was a proud 
 little thing, and her face wore such an indepen- 
 ii
 
 1 62 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 dent, half-defiant expression, that no one felt at 
 liberty to question her. 
 
 She sat down by a window, and waited a while, 
 to f see if the rain would cease; but waiting is 
 tiresome work to the most patient of people, and 
 Jessie, not having any gift that way, found it 
 desperately " slow." She soon made up her 
 mind that it was going to rain all night, and she 
 might as well get wet first as last. So she tied 
 her pocket-handkerchief over her hat, by way of 
 protection to its white ribbons, and marched out 
 into the street. 
 
 A crowd of hack-drivers, in shiny oil-skin 
 coats, all streaming with rain, were hanging 
 round, tormenting people to " have a carriage, 
 sir? have a carriage?" men were hurrying to 
 and fro with baggage, people jostling each other 
 with umbrellas, and such a general bustle and 
 hubbub going on, that Jessie could hardly make 
 her way to the corner. She squeezed, and 
 pushed, and twisted in and out of the crowd, 
 until she got across the wide avenue, with its 
 tumult of trains and vehicles passing and re- 
 passing in such perilous confusion, and found 
 herself safe at last in the quieter street below. 
 But, O, how dripping and drowned she felt
 
 JESSIE'S JOURNEY. 163 
 
 already ! Her shoes were soaked up to her 
 ankles ; her white dress clung to her like a wet 
 rag ; and her hat, in spite of the handkerchief, 
 was hopelessly ruined in three minutes' time. 
 
 No matter, she must go on. And on she went, 
 growing wetter and wetter, as the pitiless rain 
 pelted down upon her. ' Children looked out of 
 their nursery windows, and laughed at her, as 
 she ran dripping by ; and mothers wondered 
 how any other mother could leave her child so 
 unprotected. But Jessie ran on desperately, 
 jumping over gutters swollen with muddy water, 
 and getting moi'e than one slide and fall upon 
 the slippeiy flags, Until at last she came in sight 
 of her grandfather's house. 
 
 Never was there a more welcome sight to the 
 drenched and breathless child. She hurried up 
 the steps, and gave the bell such a pull, quite in- 
 different for the minute to Mrs. Bunn's opinion, 
 she was so eager to get under shelter. The ring- 
 ing sound echoed through the house, and came 
 back clearly to her ears ; but no sound of voice 
 or footstep, in answer to it, followed. She rang 
 again, loudly and impatiently. The tinkling 
 echoes were again the only reply. She looked 
 up at the windows ; the shutters were all closed
 
 164 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 there was no sign of anybody stirring about 
 the house. 
 
 Jessie's heart sank with the worst fear she had 
 known yet. But it was too terrible to believe in 
 without making another effort ; and so she rang 
 again, and again, and again, jerking the bell- 
 handle till she almost snapped the wire. It was 
 all to no purpose. No one came to let her in, 
 and she was forced to believe the truth at last 
 miserable Jessie ! that her grandfather and 
 Mrs. Bunn were both away from home ; and 
 she poor, forlorn little runaway had nowhere 
 in all the great city to go for-shelter. 
 
 She felt so overwhelmed at first that she could 
 not even cry, but stood and stared stupidly at the 
 heavy oak door, as if she expected it to open of 
 its own accord. Then all the wretchedness of 
 her situation seemed to come upon her like a 
 sudden flood, and she crouched down upon the 
 wet stone steps, and cried as if her heart would 
 break. Poor, little, desolate, naughty Jet ! She 
 did not look much like anybody's " pet " as she 
 sat there sobbing in the rain, so dirty and drag- 
 gled and forsaken that they might have used her 
 for a scarecrow in the cornfield. 
 
 What was she to do? Wherever was she to
 
 JESSIE'S JOURNEY. 165 
 
 go? She did not know anybody in all New 
 York not a single soul ; and she would have 
 to wander in the streets all night, or maybe be 
 taken up by a policeman and put in the station- 
 house. O, dear, if she only hadn't run away ! 
 if she could only get home again ! But here it 
 was, raining so hard, and getting darker all the 
 time. It was almost night now, she was sure ; 
 and she should never get home any more. She 
 should die in the streets, and never see mamma 
 again, and nobody would know what became 
 of her ! 
 
 These were the despairing thoughts of her first 
 distress ; but by and by, when she grew a little 
 calmer, a more sensible idea than that of dying 
 in the streets came to her. It was simply to go 
 home again, the same way she had come ; and, 
 although that was certainly humiliating, it was 
 nevertheless better than sitting all night on grand- 
 papa's doorsteps. 
 
 You see Jet was a sensible child, after all, in 
 spite of her naughtiness. She proved it by get- 
 ting up at once, and making her way back to the 
 New Haven depot as speedily as possible. The 
 children, watching at their nursery windows, 
 saw her go past again, and shouted,
 
 1 66 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " There goes that little girl again ! Only see 
 what a draggletail ! " 
 
 And their mothers pitied her once more, and 
 wondered what could have happened to the 
 child. Jessie could not hear them ; but she 
 would not have cared for what they said if she 
 had. She only cared now to reach the depot in 
 time for the train that would, take her home ; 
 and she hurried on with wild haste, plunging 
 through pools of muddy water without a thought 
 of her clothes, though to be sure they were past 
 being injured now. 
 
 It was the good angel, I think, that lent her a 
 helping hand at this time ; for she reached the 
 depot just as a car was about to go out to join 
 the up-train. A few minutes later, and she 
 would have had to wait a whole hour, which 
 would have made the matter much worse than 
 it was ; and it was quite bad enough already, 
 Jessie thought. She was heartily thankful when 
 she found herself seated in the car, and knew 
 that her face was fairly turned homewai'ds ; and, 
 notwithstanding all that had happened, she was 
 in a much better humor than when she had 
 started for the city. 
 
 Meanwhile, what had been going on at Windy-
 
 JESSIE'S JOURNEY. 167 
 
 Knowe? The first thing that happened, of im- 
 portance, was the unexpected arrival of Mr. 
 Joshua Joralemon, and his good housekeeper, 
 Mrs. Bunn. Grandpapa had taken a whim to 
 spend a day or two at Windy-Knowe ; and, as 
 it was the height of the currant and raspberry 
 season, Mrs. Bunn thought she would improve 
 the opportunity to make jelly. 
 
 There was a shout of delight and surprise at 
 the sight of them, and then a general outcry, 
 "Where's Jet? Call Jet to see grandpa! " 
 
 And a dozen voices called Jet, up stairs and 
 down ; but no Jet responded. Mrs. Joralemon 
 remembered that she had been sent up in dis- 
 grace, and went to her room to look for her. 
 But she did not find her, as we know very well ; 
 and nobody else could find her, though a gen- 
 eral and particular search was instituted imme- 
 diately. 
 
 Horace went down to the village, and the 
 other children scattered round in every direction 
 to look for the truant. But all their efforts were 
 in vain, of course ; and then everybody grew 
 frightened, Mrs. Joralemon especially, for she 
 was sure that something terrible had happened 
 to the child, and could hardly be persuaded that
 
 1 68 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 her body would not be found, finally, drowned 
 in the pond on the village green." When her 
 father came home, he found the household in- 
 the greatest distress. The heavy rain had com- 
 pelled them to give up their search for the lost 
 child, and they were all gathered together in- 
 doors, in a state of despair. Mrs. Joralemon 
 was standing at a window, very quiet, but pale 
 as death. Some of the children were sobbing 
 in a sort of nervous terror ; and poor Horace, 
 who some way felt as if he was guilty of all the 
 trouble, watched his mother and the rain by 
 turns, and wished he had been in Jericho before 
 ever he had meddled with Jet and her mud pies. 
 
 Just as miserable as Jessie had been in New 
 York the whole family were at Windy-Knowe. 
 Mr. Joralemon and grandpapa got into the light 
 wagon, and drove off to make inquiries at all 
 the neighbors' houses. The others stopped at 
 home, watching the dreary ram, and waiting, in 
 anxious expectation, for they knew not what. 
 Mischievous and troublesome as Jet too often 
 was, they all loved her dearly ; and the thought 
 of any harm coming to her made every heart 
 heavy with sorrow and dread. 
 
 So the time wore on, sadly enough. And at
 
 JESSIE'S JOURNEY. 169 
 
 last the rain ceased to fall, and the clouds cleared 
 away, just in time to let the sun throw a parting 
 glow over the wet, green leaves. It lighted up 
 the room so brightly, for a moment, that a gleam 
 of hope flashed up almost as suddenly in their 
 hearts. Nobody said anything ; but all at once 
 Horace rushed to the window, and gave a great 
 shout. 
 
 " Hallo, mother ! there she is ! Here comes 
 Jet, grandpa's pet ! " 
 
 And, before any one had time to take breath, 
 he had jumped through the window out upon 
 the wet grass, and was tearing down the gravel 
 walk towards a little, forlorn, limp, draggled, 
 disreputable object, that was creeping, slow and 
 ashamed, up to the house. 
 
 " Master Horace won't fetch me home again 
 in a hurry ! " Jessie had said to herself, as she 
 rode in triumph to New York. She did not 
 dream how soon he would have it to do, and 
 how meekly she would submit to it ! 
 
 " Well, Jet, where under the sun have you 
 been?" he began, as he seized her. But she 
 burst into tears for her only answer ; and Horace 
 said not another word, but just snatched her up 
 in his arms, and carried her bodily to the piazza,
 
 170 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 where everybody had collected by this time, full 
 of joyful excitement at her safe return. There 
 he put her into her mother's hands, as he had 
 done once before that day, and said, as he 
 did so, 
 
 " Now, Jet, I'll tell you what. You may go 
 down to the village every day of your life after 
 this ; and I'll never meddle .with you again while 
 my name's Horace Joralemon. Bet your boots 
 on that!" 
 
 And he walked off, whistling once more. But 
 Jet sprang after him, and threw her arms round 
 his neck. " I'll never go again, Horace, never ! 
 I'll promise, upon my word and honor ; and 
 I'm so sorry ! " 
 
 But she broke down here with a jerk, and 
 finished up her confessions with a good hearty fit 
 of crying, in the midst of which she was carried 
 off up stairs, to be dressed in dry clothes, and 
 made decent to look at. I am happy to state, 
 however, that she made a point of keeping that 
 promise ; and every one declares that Jet's un- 
 lucky journey has taught her a better lesson than 
 she ever learned at school.
 
 LOUISE'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 THANKSGIVING comes on the twen- 
 ty-seventh this year ! Isn't that nice?" 
 
 Louise Ashley had picked up the morning 
 paper, dropped on the floor as her father left 
 the breakfast-table, and the governor's procla* 
 mation of Thanksgiving, just issued, had been 
 the first thing to catch her eye. 
 
 " Did you hear, mamma? Thanksgiving 
 comes on my birthday again," she repeated, as 
 her mother, who was busy writing out a list for 
 the day's supplies, took no notice o the first 
 exclamation. 
 
 " Very well, my dear," was the rather absent 
 answer given then, and Mrs. Ashley glanced 
 over her list, to see if she had forgotten nothing. 
 
 " Run down to the kitchen, Louise, and ask 
 Kate if it was fine hominy or samp that she 
 wanted, and whether there is cold meat enough 
 in the pantry to do for dinner to day. O ! and 
 if the grocer's boy left the pass-book yesterday."
 
 172 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 Louise pushed her chair back from the table, 
 and went briskly to do her mother's bidding. 
 Slie was always quick to comprehend and 
 deliver a message, and she was back again 
 immediately, with the book in her hand, and 
 the cook's instructions. 
 
 " Kate says there's plenty of meat, mamma, 
 and she wants fine hominy for hominy-balls. 
 And, mamma, hadn't you better send for some 
 raisins for the fruit cake and plum puddings? 
 It takes so long to stone them, you know, and 
 I could do it in the evenings, after I learned my 
 lessons, if the raisins were here." 
 
 " Fruit cake and plum puddings ! My dear, 
 what are you talking about?" her mother asked, 
 in surprise. 
 
 " Why v Thanksgiving, of course ! Didn't 
 you hear me say just now it comes on the 
 twenty-seventh? And I can have a party, as 
 I did when it came on nay birthday before 
 can't I, mamma?" 
 
 Mrs. Ashley's face grew grave all at once. " I 
 am afraid not, Louise," she said, gently. " You 
 must content yourself without a birthday party 
 this year, my daughter." 
 
 "I wonder why?" Louise gave her shoul-
 
 LOUISE'S BIRTHDAY. 1 73 
 
 ders an impatient jerk, always a sign of rising 
 temper with her. " I am sure you said ' Very 
 well,' when I spoke of it at first," she went on, 
 fretfully ; " and now you tell me I can't have it 
 after all. I think it's too bad ! " 
 
 " And I also think it is ' too bad,' Louise, that 
 you should speak to your mother so disrespect- 
 fully," Mrs. Ashley said, quietly. 
 
 " But, mamma, I do want the party so much ! 
 Why can't I have it? We had such a nice time 
 before, Thanksgiving and a birthday together, 
 and I always thought it would be exactly the 
 same whenever Thanksgiving fell on the twenty- 
 seventh." 
 
 " You can have a nice time still, my dear. I 
 mean that you shall. You know I never forget 
 your birthday, and that I always try to make 
 Thanksgiving pleasant. Your aunt and cousins 
 will be here to dinner, and we will all have a 
 merry evening." 
 
 " O, pshaw ! " with another jerk of the shoul- 
 ders. " I can see my aunt and cousins any time. 
 That isn't half as nice as a party, and I don't see 
 why I mayn't have one.". 
 
 " Let me tell you, then, Louise," Mrs. Ashley 
 said, gently, not noticing the little girl's rude
 
 1 74 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 manner; for she pitied her disappointment, 
 and regretted being obliged to inflict it. " You 
 are old enough to understand something about 
 the war that is going on, and the high prices 
 that have been put upon everything ; and, when 
 I tell you that we cannot afford to give you a 
 party, you will understand the reason." 
 
 " But I am sure we are not so very poor," 
 said Louise, discontentedly. " I heard papa tell 
 you myself that his business was -very good this 
 fall." 
 
 " There is so much the more reason, then, for 
 us to help others who are poor," her mother 
 answered. " Everything is so dear food, and 
 fuel, and clothing that poor people, and even 
 people who in better times would be able to live 
 comfortably, will have to suffer severely this 
 winter, unless others, better supplied, are willing 
 to help them. For that reason I say we cannot 
 afford to spend money upon a party, when it is 
 needed so much to feed the hungry, and clothe 
 the naked. I should think you would feel that 
 yourself, my daughter, without any more words 
 
 from me." 
 
 
 
 " I suppose I shall have to, any way," Louise 
 said, sullenly, under her breath, as she moved
 
 LOUISE'S BIRTHDAY. 1 75 
 
 away from her mother. Mrs, Ashley heard the 
 ungracious speech, and it made her sad all day ; 
 but she did not notice it then, for she saw that 
 Louise was not in a mood to be benefited by any 
 more talking. She folded up her housekeeping 
 list, and went up stairs to find Mr. Ashley, 
 leaving her daughter to get over her ill-humor 
 alone, and hoping that by and by she would 
 come into a happier temper. 
 
 But the little girl's disappointment was deeper 
 than her mother understood. She had been 
 talking with her schoolmates about Thanks- 
 giving, and boasting, as little girls are apt to, of 
 the great things that would happen if it fell on 
 her birthday. She had promised to invite her 
 favorite companions to the party that she was 
 sure to have ; and they had consulted together upon 
 the important question of party dresses, Louise as- 
 serting that she meant to have a new silk, 
 trimmed with I don't know how many ruffles 
 around the skirt, and any quantity of gilt but- 
 tons everywhere else ! Now it would all have 
 to be taken back, party and invitations, gilt 
 buttons, and everything, and the mortification 
 of this was worse than the actual loss of the 
 party.
 
 176 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 She went to school that morning in a very 
 uncomfortable state of mind, and it was not 
 bettered by her first greeting from Kitty Price, 
 the most particular of her school friends. 
 
 " O, Louise ! " was the eager salutation, . fol- 
 lowed by a rapturous kiss, as the two little maid- 
 ens met in the play-room. u Papa read out of 
 the paper this morning that Thanksgiving Day 
 was announced, and only think, it really falls on 
 your birthday ! . Isn't it lovely ? " 
 
 " I wish it didn't I" Louise answered, angrily ; 
 and when Kitty exclaimed, " O ! " with her 
 round eyes of wonder and dismay, she went on 
 still more petulantly : 
 
 " Why, I can't have my birthday party at all, 
 just for a foolish notion of mamma's. She says 
 the times are so hard for poor people, and we 
 ought to help them, and not spend money for 
 parties. And so I've got to give up all my 
 pleasure just for that. I'm so provoked I don't 
 know what to do." 
 
 She knew very well that she should not be 
 doing this; that if her mother could hear her 
 saying such things, she would be both grieved 
 and indignant. But in her vexation she did not 
 care to do right, and so said a great many things
 
 LOUISE'S BIRTHDAY. 1^7 
 
 that she had to blush for afterwards when she 
 remembered them. Kitty, of course, sympa- 
 thized and condoled with her ; but, in spite of 
 her friendship, she could not help triumphing a 
 little. Louise had boasted so much, and now it 
 had all come to nothing ! Some of the other 
 girls, when they came to hear of it, expressed the 
 same feeling more openly ; and, before the day 
 was over, poor Louise had a great deal to bear 
 in the way of pretended pity and mocking taunts 
 about the sudden failure of all her grand plans. 
 
 Of course she came home in no amiable mood 
 when school was over at last. She had only 
 been sullen when she went away in the morning ; 
 now she was irritable and passionate. The door- 
 bell was pulled with a force that threatened to 
 snap the wires ; her books slammed down upon 
 the hall-table with the same violence ; and when 
 her little brother Hal came running to meet her, 
 with his loving cry, " Weezy tome home, see 
 Hally ! " she .would not even give the dear little 
 fellow a look to pay for his welcome. 
 
 " Out of my way ! " was her only greeting ; 
 and she brushed by him so roughly that his 
 unsteady little feet lost their balance, and he 
 toppled over on the oil-cloth, getting a bruise 
 12
 
 178 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 that lingered for a week, to reproach his sistei 
 for her unkindness. 
 
 She did not even stop to pick him up then, 
 however, but went on up stairs to her own room, 
 where she shut herself in for the rest of the 
 afternoon. Mrs. Ashley had gone out to make 
 some calls, and did not return till nearly dinner- 
 time, so that nobody interrupted Louise's soli- 
 tude, and she was at liberty to indulge her sulks 
 to their utmost extent. This liberty she improved 
 so largely that, when she came down to dinner 
 at last, she made herself disagreeable to every- 
 body, and twice drew upon herself a rebuke 
 from her father for impertinent replies to her 
 mother. 
 
 The evening passed quite as unhappily. Lou- 
 ise was determined to feel herself aggrieved, and, 
 though her mother showed her the greatest kind- 
 ness and consideration, trying to talk to her and 
 interest her in other things, she still refused to 
 be mollified. She sulked off tombed without 
 kissing any one good night, and went to sleep 
 without saying her prayers a very unhappy, 
 as she was certainly a very naughty, little girl. 
 
 Things went on in this way for several days. 
 Louise had a great faculty for sulking, nnc! could
 
 LOUISES BIRTHDAY. 179 
 
 not easily give up her sense of an injury. It was 
 kept alive at school, also, by the frequent com- 
 ments of Kitty Price and others ; and Mrs. Ash- 
 ley was much distressed by this wilful persistence 
 in a temper so unlovely. She had thought at 
 first that she would take no notice of it, but trust 
 to Louise's own good sense to make her ashamed 
 of it, But she finally determined to talk seri- 
 ously with her, and make her see, if possible, 
 how wrong and foolish her behavior was. 
 
 She called her into her room one day, and 
 talked with her a long time, earnestly and lovingly. 
 She told her how much suffering and poverty 
 there was through the land already, how much 
 more there certainly would be, and how religious 
 a duty it was for every one, who could spare 
 anything at all from their own means, to assist 
 in relieving these bitter" necessities. She asked 
 her if she could be happy, wearing her costly 
 party dress, and entertaining her little friends 
 with music and dancing, and expensive refresh- 
 ments, while she knew that other children were 
 
 
 
 suffering with cold and hunger? 
 
 Louise knew in her heart that she could not 
 be ; that her mother was right in everything, and 
 she herself altogether wrong ; yet an evil spirit
 
 l8o BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 of pride lingered in her, and would not let her 
 say so. She could not bear to acknowledge her 
 selfishness, and confess that she was wrong. So, 
 after all her tender remonstrances, Mrs. Ashley 
 had to go away sad and unsatisfied, and leave 
 her wilful daughter to her own sullen compan- 
 ionship. Louise was ashamed and sorry as soon 
 as her mother had left the room, but it was too 
 late then to say so, and Mrs. Ashley never al- 
 luded to the subject again. 
 
 So days and weeks went on, and Thanksgiving 
 Day was near at hand. There were no great 
 preparations for it at the Ashleys', as there had 
 been in other years. The grocer brought no 
 boxes of raisins, no almonds and oranges, no 
 citron and spices ; and instead of the large 
 loaves of rich fruit-cake, and the ample plum 
 puddings that used to be made for days before- 
 hand, Kate seemed only to be making the great- 
 est quantity of gingerbread, and plain cookies, 
 and pumpkin pies. 
 
 Mrs. Ashley in the parlors busied herself with 
 much sewing. Every evening, for weeks past, 
 she had been working upon garments that Louise 
 knew would never be worn in their own family. 
 Now it was a child's frock or apron, then a flan-
 
 LOUISK'S ::TRTIIDAY. 181 
 
 nel petticoat, or a warm quilted one ; some were 
 made of old dresses of her own ; others were 
 pieced of odds and ends ; all were plain and 
 simple, but strong and serviceable for use, and 
 evidently intended for poor people. Louise saw 
 that her mother was putting her charitable theo- 
 ries into practice. She often longed to help her 
 when she saw her stitching up the coarse seams 
 so patiently every evening, but her assistance was 
 never asked, and she felt too proud and ashamed 
 to volunteer it. 
 
 One . morning, at the breakfast table, her 
 mother said to her, " Louise, ask Miss Derby, 
 to-day, if she will be kind enough to excuse you 
 from school this afternoon. I want you to go 
 out with me, and I would like you to come home 
 to luncheon." 
 
 Louise's face brightened, more in the old way 
 than her mother had seen it lately, and her 
 " Thank you, mamma," sounded full of pleasure. 
 It was always a treat to go out with her mother, 
 and she appreciated it the more now for feeling 
 that she had not deserved it of late. 
 
 Mrs. Ashley saw her gratification, and her 
 work that morning, pleasant work as it was, waa 
 made all the pleasanter by her remembrance of
 
 I S2 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 Louise's bright, grateful manner, so different 
 from the sullen looks she had worn so long. 
 
 The work began just as soon as the breakfast 
 dishes were removed from the table. Kate 
 brought in a number of baskets, some large, 
 some small, and ranged them on the floor ; 
 then she brought in pumpkin pies, two at a 
 time, till there was a long row upon the dining- 
 table ; then came loaves of gingerbread, and 
 large dishes filled with caraway cookies, and 
 sugar cakes, in fanciful shapes of hearts, and 
 stars, and oak leaves ; then a great basket of 
 apples, and another of walnuts, black and 
 brown ; then two or three pieces of roast beef, 
 two or three more of pork, and two pairs of fat 
 chickens ; then potatoes, and turnips, and cab- 
 bages ; then loaves of bread ; and, last of all, 
 some small parcels, from which the pleasant 
 fragrance of tea stole out into the room. 
 
 Mrs. Ashley filled one basket after another, 
 selecting from the stores on the table just what 
 she knew was needed in each family. In some 
 she put meat, and a plentiful supply of vegeta- 
 bles, where she knew there was a crowd of 
 hungry little mouths to be filled ; in others she 
 would put only a pie, a few apples, and a little
 
 LOUISE'S BIRTHDAY. 183 
 
 tea and sugar, for some poor old woman, per- 
 haps, who lived alone, and would be glad of 
 the unexpected treat for her Thanksgiving din- 
 ner. 
 
 The table was emptied, at last, of all its abun- 
 dance, and every basket well filled. The warm 
 garments she had made were neatly folded on 
 top of them, and each basket had its card of 
 direction securely fastened and plainly written, 
 so that the expressman who was to call for them 
 should make no mistake in delivering them to 
 their proper owners. 
 
 There was no trace of the morning's work hi 
 the room when Louise made her appearance at 
 luncheon, for the express wagon had rattled 
 away with the whole load of baskets an hour 
 before. But, although nothing had been said 
 about it, she felt secretly conscious that her 
 mother was going to take her to see some of 
 the poor people whom she often visited herself. 
 She was not surprised, therefore, when Mrs. 
 Ashley got out of the car, and turned off* the 
 avenue into a shabby side street that Louise 
 had never been in before. 
 
 "You are not tired, I hope, my dear? We 
 have got to walk down to York street/' her
 
 184 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 mother said. And they went on, block after 
 block, the houses growing more shabby all the 
 way, until at last they reached a dingy-looking 
 street of tumble-down tenement-houses and mis- 
 erable little shops. Half way down the block 
 an old wooden church, with a cross on the spire, 
 reared itself among the wretched buildings 
 around ; and Mrs. Ashley, passing by this, 
 entered one of the poorest houses, two doors 
 beyond. Dirty children were around the doors, 
 and ragged, slatternly women stared at them as 
 they mounted the rickety stairs ; but Mrs. Ash- 
 ley went on, as one accustomed to the place, 
 never stopping till she reached the topmost room. 
 There sheknocked'at the door, and it was opened 
 by a young Irish woman, whose simple face 
 brightened into grateful pleasure at the sight of 
 her visitor. 
 
 " O, blessins on yez ! Sure an' yer the lady 
 that I'm always glad to see, thin," she broke out 
 in Irish fashion. And two little children, pretty 
 in spite of dirty faces, crowded up to Mrs. Ash- 
 ley, as if they, too, were " always glad " to see 
 this lady. 
 
 Louise looked round her in painful wonder 
 when she was seated at last in the room. Never
 
 LOUISE'S BIRTHDAY. 185 
 
 before had she seen a place so destitute of all 
 comforts as that seemed to be There were two 
 chairs only in the room ; she and her mother 
 occupied those, and the Irish woman, Mary 
 Dunlevy, sat on an old wooden block. A half- 
 post bedstead, with a patched calico quilt, stood 
 in one corner of the room ; a rickety table was 
 between the windows ; a shelf with a few bits 
 of crockery in another corner ; and an old cook- 
 ing-stove in the fireplace. This was all the 
 furniture. The children wore frocks that Louise 
 easily recognized as having once belonged to her 
 little brother Hal, and Mrs. Dunlevy herself 
 was dressed in a cast-off wrapper of her 
 mother's. 
 
 Yet miserable and poverty-stricken as every- 
 thing about her was, there was a cheerful pa- 
 tience in this woman's look and words that even 
 Louise could feel. She seemed so happy to see 
 Mrs. Ashley that Louise could not help thinking 
 how few pleasures she must have in her life 
 when such a little thing made her so glad ! She 
 listened with a sense of shame and regret, that 
 grew deeper all the time, to the talk that went 
 on between her mother and Mary Dunlevy. 
 The children had each been made happy by
 
 1 86 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 the gift of an apple, produced, to Louise's 
 amazement, from her mother's pocket, and 
 were sitting in a corner munching them in 
 perfect satisfaction. The mother was telling, 
 in the simplest words, how she had had to 
 struggle to keep her children from starving 
 since her husband " went to the war." 
 
 " An' if it wasn't for yur, ma'am," she said, 
 " I'm sure I don't know where me an' the little 
 fellows 'ud. ha' been now. It was the blessed 
 Lord that sent me to your house that day, sure ; 
 though, indade, ma'am, 'twas a heavy heart that 
 went wid me." 
 
 " I remember the day very well," said Mrs. 
 Ashley. " Everything looked very dark to you 
 then. But you get on better now? " 
 
 " O, yis, ma'am ! " and Louise wondered at 
 her bright smile. " We've never had to go hun- 
 gry since that day. There's two or three ladies 
 that give me work steady besides yourself; and 
 the little fellows are hearty now, since Johnny 
 got well o' that burn. The father '11 come back 
 to us some day, I'm thinking, an' you'll not for- 
 get us, I know." 
 
 " Of course not ; and there is some One else, 
 better than I, who will not forget you either. 
 You must remember that."
 
 LOUISE'S BIRTHDAY. 187 
 
 " Sure, an' I do, thin. I wouldn't be like to 
 forget him after his leadin' my feet straight to 
 you ! O, indade I know I have a great dale to 
 be thankful for, an' so I am." 
 
 " Well, I hope you will have a happy day to- 
 morrow," Mrs. Ashley said, kindly. " My ex- 
 pressman hasn't been here yet has he? He has 
 got a basket for you somewhere, with some little 
 things for your Thanksgiving dinner ; a nice big 
 cooky for you, Johnny, and another for little 
 Mike." 
 
 " An' one for my mudder, too? " asked Johnny, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " O, yes, one for your mudder, too," Mrs. 
 Ashley answered, laughingly. " You are a good 
 little boy to look out for your mother, Johnny. 
 But now I must go away ; and you watch out of 
 the window till you see the expressman. The 
 basket will be sure to come by and by." 
 
 Mrs. Dunlevy's grateful thanks followed them 
 to the door, and Louise saw how her eyes filled 
 with tears as she clasped her mother's out- 
 stretched hand. " Mamma, what a grateful 
 creature she is!" she exclaimed, enthusiasti- 
 cally, when they were fairly outside. " And 
 how patiently she talks, when she must be so 
 very, -very poor ! "
 
 iSS BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " She has had to support herself and those ba- 
 bies for more than two years," said Mrs. Ashley. 
 " Her husband was in South Carolina when the 
 war began. Some railroad work had been of- 
 fered to him, and he left his wife, thinking to 
 come "back in a few months, and bring her a 
 snug little sum of money. Instead of that he 
 was forced to join the Confederate army at the 
 beginning of the war, and for six months fought 
 against the Union very unwillingly he says. 
 After that he got an opportunity to escape, by 
 giving himself up as a prisoner to some Northern 
 pickets ; and six months ago his wife had a letter 
 from him, dated from Fort Delaware, where he 
 had been imprisoned. That letter had been de- 
 tained a long time, so that when she sent her 
 answer to Fort Delaware, he was gone from 
 there, nobody knew where. Since then she has 
 never heard a word from him, and doesn't know 
 whether he's living or dead. He has never sent 
 her a dollar, and she has to support those help- 
 less little children whatever way she can. She 
 came to my house one day last summer, desti- 
 tute and heart-broken. One child was in her 
 arms, crying with the pain of a bad burn ; 
 the other was clinging to her skirts, crying for
 
 LOUISE'S BIRTHDAY. 189 
 
 something to eat. And she was half frantic be- 
 tween them, without a penny, or a crust of 
 bread, or a friend to turn to. You see how 
 poverty-stricken her condition is still, Louise, 
 and yet you heard her say how thankful she 
 was." 
 
 " O, mamma ! I think it is perfectly pitiful ! " 
 Louise exclaimed. " I am so ashamed so 
 sorry " 
 
 Her voice broke down, fairly choked with 
 tears. But her mother knew what she meant 
 to say. 
 
 " Then you think I was right about the party, 
 after all ? You would rather Mary Dunlevy had 
 a ton of coal, to keep her warm all winter, than 
 to have a new silk dress yourself? Because I 
 could not have afforded both, you know." 
 
 " I never want another silk dress ! " Louise 
 cried, with emphasis. " I'll do without every- 
 thing I'll wear my old hat this winter I'll 
 do anything in the world, mamma, if you'll only 
 forget how hatefully I behaved about that party. 
 If you knew how ashamed of myself I have been 
 all along ! But I was too proud to tell you so." 
 
 " Too proud to tell your mother? O, Louise ! " 
 
 And that tone of sorrowful reproach made the
 
 190 BIftDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 child more ashamed and penitent than anything 
 else could have done. She vowed in her heart 
 that she never again would grieve her mother 
 by her sullen, unlovely tempers ; and that this 
 should be a lesson to her as long as she lived. 
 
 But there was not time to say any more about 
 it, for Mrs. Ashley had found another of her 
 poor people, and was climbing up another flight 
 of tumble-down stairs, whose worn steps creaked 
 under their feet as they mounted. This time it 
 was an old woman that she went to see a poor 
 old creature, whose wrinkled cheeks and trem- 
 bling, misshapen hands told of many a sorrow 
 and many a hardship. But her homely old face 
 was lighted up now with beaming smiles. Mrs. 
 Ashley's messenger had been there, and the con- 
 tents of the basket a pie, a paper of tea and 
 sugar, a loaf of cake, some apples, and best of 
 all, a nice, thick, calico double-gown were 
 spread out around her. 
 
 It made the girl's heart thrill with a pride and 
 love for her mother that she had never felt be- 
 fore, as she saw these tokens of her thoughtful- 
 ness and tender charity, and heard poor old 
 widow Maloney pouring out thanks and bless- 
 ings upon her. She began to wonder if she
 
 LOUISE S BIRTHDAY. 19! 
 
 herself could not do something to deserve these 
 blessings of the widow and orphan ; and before 
 she went home that day the wondering thought 
 resolved itself inta a purpose. 
 
 If you could look into the prettily-furnished 
 chamber that Louise had for her own, some 
 Saturday afternoon, and see the busy group 
 gathered there, Kitty Price, with her auburn 
 curls and saucy smile ; Lily Delano, grave and" 
 gentle, but with such swift fingers at her needle ; 
 Harriet Macaulay, and Mabel Shonnard, and 
 Ida Pierson, all as busy as bees in a hive, 
 you might guess what the purpose was. Some 
 time I may tell you a story about this little sew- 
 ing society, organized by Louise and her com- 
 panions, and the results achieved by it ; but now 
 I must finish my history of the visits made that 
 afternoon. 
 
 There was one to see a child, about as old as 
 Louise, whose foot had been crushed in step- 
 ping off a ferry-boat. She had suffered dreadful 
 pain, and the doctor* said it would be a year 
 before she could stand on the foot again. Louise 
 thought, as she looked at the child's pale cheeks 
 and hollow eyes, that before the year was out 
 the poor foot would be at rest forever, never to
 
 192 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 know any more pain. But still she sat up in 
 her chair, patient and smiling, " trying to help 
 a little," as she said, by wrapping wire for some 
 factory work that her sister" was busy with. 
 There was a Thanksgiving basket for them, 
 and the sick child watched, with happy eyes, 
 the large orange, and the glass of ruby-colored 
 jelly, put in expressly for herself. 
 
 In another house there was a family of father- 
 less children, made so by the war. The father 
 had been buried on the bloody battle-field of 
 Antietam, and poverty was beginning to be felt, 
 in addition to the sore and recent grief. It was 
 little that Mrs. Ashley could do to comfort them 
 in such trouble ; still Louise could see how her 
 tender words of sympathy went straight to the 
 poor mother's heart, and how the generous sup- 
 ply of provisions and needful garments went 
 far to lighten her heavy load of anxiety. 
 
 " We shall have a day of Thanksgiving, ma'am, 
 in spite of our sorrow," she said. " God is good 
 to us still." 
 
 " Indeed he is ; indeed he always will -be," 
 Mrs. Ashley answered, earnestly. " He has 
 promised to take care of the widows and the 
 orphans, you know, and he will never forsake
 
 LOUISE'S BIRTHDAY. 193 
 
 you while you trust in him. It is very, very 
 hard often, I know ; but he sees what is best, 
 and he does not leave us comfortless." 
 
 " My mother is the best woman in the world," 
 thought Louise, as they went away ; and the 
 conviction grew stronger as she followed her 
 from one poor home of sorrow and suffering to 
 another, and saw how everywhere she left bright 
 faces and grateful hearts behind her. There was 
 a sick baby in one room, that moaned and fretted 
 in its cradle when she went in. The mother 
 was ironing, and had no time to hold it ; but 
 Mrs. Ashley took it up as tenderly as if it had 
 been her own, bathed its little hot face, and 
 rocked it softly on her knee until it was soothed 
 into quiet sleep. 
 
 In another room, in the same tenement, a 
 woman was dying with consumption ; and here, 
 besides the Thanksgiving basket, Louise recog- 
 nized a dozen things that she knew had come 
 from her mother. The old-fashioned rocking- 
 chair, with its comfortable cushions, she had 
 missed from the attic not long since ; the white 
 sheet and pillow-slip on which the poor, pale 
 cheek rested, were marked " Ashley ; " the jar 
 of orange marmalade on the dresser had her 
 '3
 
 194 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 mother's handwriting on the label ; and there 
 were books on the little table beside the bed 
 that Louise had seen many a time before. Her 
 mother took up one of these, and read to the 
 sick woman some tender words of hope, and 
 faith, and patience, that brought a look of peace 
 and gladness to her eyes. 
 
 " To-morrow is Thanksgiving Day," said 
 Mrs. Ashley, when she rose to go. " It will be 
 spent in weakness and pain, perhaps, by you ; 
 but you will feel, I am sure, that you have some- 
 thing to be thankful for still." 
 
 " God bless you, ma'am ; indeed I will. You 
 have made all my days Thanksgiving days," was 
 the loving answer. 
 
 So they went home in the deepening twilight ; 
 Louise with a heart full of new and tender 
 thoughts, and her mother glad and grateful to 
 see that the evil spirit of pride and selfishness 
 was banished at last. The bright windows of 
 their own home flashed out a welcome to them 
 as they reached it ; and there was Hal's dear 
 little nose flattened up against the pane, on the 
 watch for them. You maybe sure""Weezy" 
 gave him kisses enough this time !
 
 LOUISE'S BIRTHDAY. 195 
 
 And then came the morning Louise's birth- 
 day, and Thanksgiving Day too. Her father 
 and her mother gave her, each, a loving kiss 
 when she came down to prayers ; and little Hal 
 rushed up to her, holding something gathered 
 up in his frock, and shouting out, 
 
 " I'se dot a p'esent for you, Weezy ! Hally's 
 dot a birseday p'esent for you ! " 
 
 And what should it be but a beautiful photo- 
 graph album, bound in green morocco, with her 
 own initials in relief upon the cover, the very 
 thing she had been wishing for. Inside were a 
 lot of pictures, too, that she had never seen ; a 
 lovely vignette of her mother, in the first place, 
 with that sweet, spirituelle expression that 
 Louise had never fully appreciated until yes- 
 terday. Then a fine likeness of her father, and 
 the most charming picture of cunning little Hal, 
 in a 'cocked hat, with a toy gun on his shoulder. 
 There were some sweet little baby pictures of 
 Louise herself, copied from old daguerreotypes, 
 and a set of the " Palmer Marbles " besides. So 
 that her album was half full already. 
 
 Altogether it was a most satisfactory birthday, 
 although there was no party, and no new dress. 
 Louise wore her blue merino to church, but
 
 196 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 never thought of its being a last winter's frock, 
 and quite old-fashioned in comparison with 
 Kitty's Price's plaid poplin, made in the latest 
 " Zouave " style. The sermon had a great deal 
 to say about the duty of remembering the .poor, 
 and how the right way to prove our own thank- 
 fulness was to help others to be thankful also ; 
 and Louise thought of what she had seen yes- 
 terday, and it did not occur to her to notice who 
 wore handsome dresses or who didn't. 
 
 They never had a merrier dinner party, either, 
 although there was not the least bit of plum 
 pudding for dessert. Everybody praised Kate's 
 pumpkin pies, however, " the genuine, far- 
 famed, Yankee pumpkin pie," and the chil- 
 dren had plenty of apples and nuts, and*molasses 
 candy of their own making, which they declared 
 to be a great deal nicer than French sugar plums. 
 
 " It's the happiest birthday I ever had, mam- 
 ma," Louise said, when her mother came to kiss 
 her good night, after she had gone to bed. " I 
 thought about those poor people through every- 
 thing, and I was so glad so glad that you 
 did not let me have that party."
 
 LUCY'S BEST HAT. 
 
 " A PLACE for everything, and everything 
 
 -Z~~\. in its place," was a proverb that Mrs. 
 Gifford very often repeated to her little daughter 
 Lucy. She had good reason for it, for Lucy was 
 one of those heedless children who never put 
 anything in its place, and was always in a dif- 
 ficulty of some sort in consequence. 
 
 " If you only would hang up your hat when 
 you come in from play, Lucy, how much trouble 
 and vexation it would save," said her mother, 
 one morning, after half an hour had been wasted 
 in a vain search for the missing hat, and the 
 ninth stroke of the clock had already proclaimed 
 her late for school. 
 
 " I'm sure I o?zV/hang it up ! " Lucy exclaimed, 
 her first impulse being always to excuse herself. 
 " The children must have taken it down ; they 
 are always meddling with my things." 
 
 " They never meddle with them when they 
 are put in the proper place," her mother an-
 
 190 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 svvered ; " but that is a piece of good fortune 
 that seldom happens to your things, Lucy. 
 However, it is only wasting time to talk about 
 it. You must go to school, and you have noth- 
 ing to wear but your best hat. So go up stairs 
 for it quickly." 
 
 Lucy needed no second bidding for this. With 
 nimble feet she flew up stairs, and with ready 
 fingers she drew out the pretty Sunday hat from 
 its box, and buttoned the elastic band under her 
 chin. She was very fond of wearing nice 
 clothes ; and this hat, with its long ribbon 
 streamers, and its brilliant bunch of poppies 
 and green-grass blades, 'all spangled with " dew- 
 drops," was a grand improvement upon the 
 plain, tan-colored straw, with its brown trim- 
 mings, that she wore to school every day. She 
 surveyed herself with a satisfied air, as she stood 
 before the nursery mirror, and 
 
 " How nice I look ! " was the complacent 
 reflection. " Anna Stanton won't call me Qua- 
 ker to-day, I guess. I don't believe her Sunday 
 hat is as pretty, for all she is so grand every 
 day." 
 
 " And if I was your mother, I'd set you up 
 with Sunday hats," grumbled Catharine, the
 
 LUCY'S BEST ITAT. 199 
 
 nursery-maid, who had been trotting up and 
 down stairs in search of the tan-color until her 
 feet were tired, and her temper slightly the worse 
 for wear. " Much you rriind all the trouble 
 you've given people this blessed day ! You 
 should wear your old winter hood if ' I was 
 your mother, and not be prinking there before 
 the glass with your best things on, I can tell 
 you, miss." 
 
 " And I can tell you that you'd better mind 
 your own business, and not be lecturing me ! " 
 said Lucy, pertly. " You're not my mother, nor 
 likely to be, thank goodness ! " 
 
 " Indade, an' I can thank goodness for that, 
 too," retorted Catharine ; " an' it's a fine thing 
 we've got such thankful hearts the two of us." 
 
 " I shall tell mamma of you ! " Lucy ex- 
 claimed, angrily, exasperated by the maid's 
 scornful air. But her mother called impera- 
 tively at that moment from the foot of the 
 stairs, 
 
 " Lucy, how much longer do you intend to 
 delay? Come down immediately, and go to 
 
 school ! " 
 
 
 
 So there was no time for complaints of Cath- 
 arine, and her irritation was soon forgotten in
 
 2OO BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 her complacent consciousness of her fine hat as 
 she walked along to school ; not a single com- 
 punction for her heedlessness, or the trouble it had 
 caused her mother and Catharine, disturbed her 
 mind : she did not even feel ashamed at her teach- 
 er's reproof for tardiness, and the assurance that 
 she would get a bad mark. She saw the eyes 
 of her classmates Anna Stanton's in particular 
 fixed upon her poppy-flowers and white rib- 
 bons as she passed on to the wardrobe, and her 
 foolish vanity excluded every better feeling. 
 
 It would hardly require a prophet to foresee 
 that a day begun after this fashion was not likely 
 to be a good day. Her heedlessness went into 
 her lessons, as into everything else. She always 
 put off studying them until the last minute, and 
 her Geography and Definitions, especially, she 
 never looked at until the half hour allowed for 
 extra preparation before reciting. To-day, to 
 her dismay, she discovered that both those books 
 were missing from her desk. She had not the 
 dimmest idea when or where she had seen them 
 last only a faint recollection of having squeezed 
 the book of Definitions into the crown of her tan- 
 colored hat (not much to the improvement of its 
 shape) at some time or other, yesterday after-
 
 LUCY'S BEST HAT. Page 198.
 
 LUCY'S BEST HAT. 2OT 
 
 noon. It was probably keeping company with 
 die hat still, in some unknown corner, and as for 
 the Geography well ! it wasn't in her desk, at 
 any rate, and any further speculations concern- 
 ing it were useless. 
 
 Her recitations in these branches to-day were 
 not altogether satisfactory to her teacher. She 
 did her best, peeping over the shoulders of the 
 girl in front of her, and snatching a word here 
 and there from the open book of the girl who 
 sat beside her. But the answers, on the whole, 
 were of such a speculative and imaginary char- 
 acter, that Miss Hartley was indignant, and the 
 girls excessively amused. 
 
 " It was all her new hat, you may be sure," 
 said Anna Stanton, at recess. " She's got pop- 
 pies on the brain." 
 
 At which brilliant witticism there was a gen- 
 eral laugh, which grew loud and long when 
 Lucy and the poppies marched into the play- 
 ground, grand and unconscious. 
 
 "What's the fun?" she asked. "What are 
 you all laughing at?" 
 
 " O, nothing ! " cried Anna Stanton, malicious- 
 ly, "but a little geographical exercise. We 
 were giving the boundaries of Brazil after the 
 view style."
 
 2O2 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 "No such thing!" exclaimed Nelly Har- 
 baugh. " We were defining idiosyncrasy after 
 the new style." 
 
 " You be still ! " Anna retorted. " I say, 
 Lucy, don't you want to hear the new boundary 
 of Brazil? On the north by two large-sized 
 poppies, on the east by a Leghorn hat, on the 
 south by sixteen blades of grass, 'with the morn- 
 ing-dew thrown in, on the west by three yards 
 of white ribbon, warranted not to wash ! " 
 
 Another peal of laughter followed this smart 
 speech, and before Lucy could make any reply, 
 Nelly Harbaugh began a string of nonsense 
 equally witty and equally ill-natured, in which 
 Lucy's hat and her unfortunate failures in defi- 
 nitions were absurdly connected. In the midst 
 of it, Anna Stanton, anxious to make a further 
 display of her cleverness, broke in with a parody 
 upon Betty Martin, which she sang at the top of 
 her voice, 
 
 " Hi, Lucy Gifford, tip-toe, tip-toe, 
 Hi, Lucy Gifford, tip-toe fine ; 
 
 She can't wear a brown hat, she can't wear a black hat, 
 She has to have a Leghorn to please her mind ! " 
 
 This was too much for endurance. Lucy,
 
 LUCY S BEST TIAT. 2O$ 
 
 half choking with rage, gasped out, " I'll tell 
 Miss Hartley, so I will ! " and flew, furious, 
 from the playground up to the class-room again. 
 Miss Hartley sat there sharpening lead-pencils, 
 and took the complaint very coolly. 
 
 " I am sorry the little girls laugh at you, my 
 dear," she said ; " but you know you did make 
 most ridiculous mistakes in your lessons. I was 
 quite provoked with you, for there is no excuse 
 for such failures. That you lost your books, was 
 certainly not one : it was rather an aggravation 
 of the offence." 
 
 " They need not make fun of my hat at any 
 rate," sobbed Lucy, passing by the book ques- 
 tion. " I'm sure it's as nice and pretty as any of 
 theirs." 
 
 " Very pretty, indeed," said Miss Hartley ; 
 " rather .fine for school, however, and that is the 
 reason, I suppose together with the fact that 
 you were a little vain of your appearance in it this 
 morning that the girls were tempted to laugh 
 at you. At the same time it was not kind of them,, 
 and I shall tell them so when they crime in." 
 
 Cool comfort, but all that was to be got from 
 Miss Hartley ; so Lucy retired to her desk in the 
 frame of mind generally described as the " sulks." 
 It was not improved by the taunts and whispers
 
 204 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 of her schoolmates after Miss Hartley's reproof 
 for their ridicule of her. " Tell-tale ! Cry-baby ! 
 Dear little thing, it shouldn't have its fine hat 
 laughed at, so it shouldn't, bless its little heart ! " 
 were some of the jeers that Anna Stanton and 
 her set kept flinging to and fro all the afternoon. 
 Lucy felt as if she was being slapped and 
 pinched, or stung by invisible gnats ; she would 
 have liked to strike Anna Stanton, she was so 
 angry with her ; but she could not complain, for 
 no one actually said anything to her. The mock- 
 ing whisper floated past her in the air like thistle- 
 down, and when she turned to catch it, it was 
 gone. 
 
 It was altogether a most miserable afternoon, 
 and Lucy was glad to escape from her tormentors 
 by going home as soon as possible after school 
 was dismissed. She did not carry her head quite 
 so proudly as she had done in the morning ; neither 
 did she stop to " prink " at the looking-glass, as 
 Catharine said, before she took off the unfortu- 
 nate "best hat." 
 
 " I'll never wear it to school again never ! " 
 was her inward determination. " I'll find my 
 brown hat, if I have to search all night for it ! " 
 
 As "it happened, however, the brown hat was 
 already found. " Tito," a little dog belonging
 
 LUCY'S BEST HAT. 205 
 
 to the children, had dragged it up by its ribbons 
 from the coal-cellar, the book of Definitions still 
 jammed in the crown ; and Lucy all at once 
 remembered that she had come in through the 
 basement entrance the afternoon before, and left 
 the hat and books on a bench in the cellar, while 
 she passed on to the kitchen to get a glass of 
 water. From there she went into the garden, to 
 look at some double-spotted lady-slippers just 
 blooming, and then a story-book claimed her 
 attention, so that she did not care about going 
 out to play, and the hat was forgotten from 
 henceforth. 
 
 It was in a dismal plight when Tito finally 
 brought it up stairs. He had dragged it about 
 amongst the coal until it was almost as black as 
 it was brown, and as for the shape it was left 
 in, the least said on the subject is soonest 
 mended. 
 
 Whether it could ever be worn again was a 
 doubtful question ; at the least it would be a week 
 before it could be made fit to be seen, the mil- 
 liner said. So Miss Lucy had to wear her Leg- 
 horn again in spite of her resolution, and to put 
 up with plenty of teasing in consequence ; for, 
 when school-girls take up a silly joke, they are 
 not apt to drop it in a hurry.
 
 2O6 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 A certain amount of vexation, however, is 
 wholesome, by way of warning. What her 
 mother's gentle remonstrances -could not effect, 
 the raillery of her schoolmates did ; and now 
 Mrs. Gifford congratulates herself that Lucy 
 has really begun to appreciate, and put in prac- 
 tice, that excellent old rule, of " a place for every- 
 thing, and everything in its place."
 
 TOM'S ALLOWANCE: 
 
 HOW HE EARNED IT, AND HOW HE SPENT IT. 
 
 DEAR! The house is as cold as a 
 barn. I do wish Uncle Levi would 
 speak to that lazy Tom, and make him light the 
 stove a little before ten o'clock in the morning." 
 Miss Julia's shoulders, very much shrugged 
 up, and the expression of her countenance, at 
 this moment decidedly cross, were quite in keep- 
 ing with this impatient speech. It was a frosty 
 October morning, in a climate where winter 
 begins early, and there was no denying that the 
 room had a very barn-like feeling, and a very 
 comfortless, discouraging appearance in the cold, 
 gray light of the early hour ; for it was not ten 
 o'clock, or anywhere near it, that was only a 
 little exaggeration of Miss Julia's, as the hands 
 of the old-fashioned " moon-face " in the corner, 
 just now pointing to seven, were ready to prove. 
 It was a great, queer, old-fashioned room, 
 
 (207)
 
 2O8 BIRDS OK A FEATHER. - 
 
 altogether. The eight-day clock, in one corner, 
 was fronted by a cupboard, with glass doors, in 
 another ; a " Dr. Nott " stove stood by the chim- 
 ney-piece, and all the chairs and tables had 
 spider-legs and claw-feet, and a generally anti- 
 quated appearance. When the breakfast was 
 laid on one of the old tables, and the fire glowing 
 from the old stove, and the sun shining through 
 the narrow, deep-set windows, it was a very 
 cheerful and pleasant room. But just now there 
 was nothing cheerful about it. The stove was 
 black and fireless ; newspapers were scattered 
 untidily about the floor ; chairs huddled in dis- 
 orderly groups ; Uncle Levi's cigar-stand, full of 
 ashes and half-smoked cigars, upon the round 
 table ; and dust thick upon everything. 
 
 It was Julia's business to bring order out of all 
 this confusion ; her morning duty to dust, ar- 
 range the furniture, and set the breakfast table 
 before Uncle Levi came down stairs. She did 
 not particularly like the task at any time, but she 
 liked it still less when Tom was lazy, as he was 
 very apt to be, and neglected his morning work 
 making the fire until after she came down. 
 
 Her feather duster was flourished this morning, 
 with many a jerk of her shoulders, and many a
 
 TOM'S ALLOWANCE. 209 
 
 fretful expression of her discontent ; and when 
 Master Tom made his appearance at last, just as 
 she was arranging the cups and saucers on the 
 breakfast-tray, she was quite in the humor to give 
 him a good scolding, and did it accordingly. 
 
 " It's too mean of you, I declare, Tom ! " was 
 her opening salutation. " I wouldn't be as self- 
 ish and disagreeable as you are for all the 
 world ! " 
 
 " What's the row, now? " asked Tom, coolly. 
 He was accustomed to " Jule's tantrums," as he 
 called them, and they did not make much im- 
 pression on him. 
 
 " It's very well to ask what's the row, as if you 
 didn't know ! Just look at the clock, and see 
 what time it is ; and then look at that stove, if 
 you please." 
 
 " Very good stove ; what's the matter with 
 it?" said Tom, provokingly. " As for the clock, 
 it's half past seven exactly, and Uncle Levi comes 
 down to breakfast at eight not a minute earlier, 
 not a minute later. We'll give Dr. Nott a jolly 
 red nose before that time, Miss Jule ; so don't 
 you fret." 
 
 " Yes, and that's all you care about, you dis- 
 obliging, selfish boy ! " Julia exclaimed, angrily.
 
 2IO BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " You'll have the fire ready for Uncle Levi, be- 
 cause you don't want to get a scolding ; but you 
 never care how cold / am, with all this dusting 
 and cleaning to do, and the room like a barn. I 
 think you ought to be ashamed of yourself." 
 
 " You take a nice way to make me ashamed, 
 Jule," said Tom, looking up from the pan of 
 ashes he was lifting out. " At this present min- 
 ute I'm more ashamed of you" 
 
 " I don't care if you are ! " Julia's voice grew 
 louder, and her cheek redder with her anger. 
 "I can tell you one thing, Mister Tom, I shall 
 speak to Uncle Levi this very morning, and we'll 
 see if you are to impose upon me this way any 
 longer. And another thing, you may just clear 
 up all the mess you make with those ashes. 
 I'm not going to dust after you ! " 
 
 So she flirted out of the room, not condescend- 
 ing to notice Tom's irritating advice : 
 
 " Take it easy, Jule ; you don't look pretty 
 when you get so red in the face." 
 
 She was as good as her word when breakfast- 
 time came ; and as soon as she had poured out 
 the coffee, she began, in an injured tone, and 
 flashing a defiant look at Tom, to pour out her 
 grievances.
 
 TOMS ALLOWANCE. 211 
 
 " I don't think it's fair, Uncle Levi. I think 
 you might speak to Tom, and make him get up 
 earlier in the morning. I have to do all my work 
 in the cold ; and if I say anything, he only laughs 
 at me, and makes hateful speeches." 
 
 " Hey ! What's all that, Tom?" Uncle Levi 
 laid down his newspaper, and pushed back his 
 spectacles, with a questioning look at Tom. 
 " You and Julia ought not to quarrel. You are 
 the same as brother and sister." 
 
 " O, I guess not!" exclaimed Julia, tossing her 
 head. " I'm glad he isn't my brother, for I don't 
 like him any too well as a cousin." 
 
 Tom only laughed. " It's nothing but Jule's 
 nonsense, Uncle Levi. I didn't make the fire 
 early enough to suit her this morning, and so 
 she was cross." 
 
 " He didn't come down till half past seven," 
 cried Julia, " and he never does ; and I say it's 
 very mean and selfish of him." 
 
 " Why don't you get up earlier, Tom?" asked 
 Uncle Levi, with a perplexed look, as if he did 
 not quite understand the vexed question. 
 
 " O, I don't know," Tom answered, lazily. " I 
 get up time enough to make the fire for break- 
 fast. What's the use of bothering about it an 
 hour beforehand?"
 
 212 BIRDS OF A FEATI1EK. 
 
 " The use of it is not to annoy your cousin." 
 
 " O, she's always being annoyed. If it isn't 
 one thing it's another. I couldn't undertake to 
 keep her in a good humor." 
 
 Tom sent a mischievous glance across the table 
 at Julia, and her tongue was ready with a sharp 
 retort ; but Uncle Levi prevented it by speaking 
 first. A bright thought had just occurred to him, 
 by which he supposed he could settle the whole 
 difficulty. 
 
 "I'll tell you what, Tom," he said, "you're 
 always wanting pocket-money, and now I'll give 
 you a chance to earn some. You shall have 
 three cents a day for every morning that you are 
 up the first one in the house, and have the fire 
 made, and the room comfortable before your 
 cousin comes down. What do you say to that?" 
 
 " Done ! " cried Tom, in great glee. " That's 
 the way to put it, Uncle Levi. Give a fellow an 
 object, and you'll see if I don't get up with the 
 larks." 
 
 "Very well. Remember, though, that your 
 allowance will be docked every day that you are 
 not punctual. And now, Julia, my dear, I hope 
 you won't have to complain of him again." 
 
 So Uncle Levi sipped his coffee, and retired
 
 TOM'S ALLOWANCE. 213 
 
 behind the newspaper once more, convinced that 
 the matter was settled in the most satisfactory 
 manner. Which it was, as far as Tom was con- 
 cerned. He was jubilant in the prospect of such 
 a permanent fund, and visions of new skates, 
 new sleds, tops, and taffy unlimited, danced 
 already in his brain. 
 
 Julia, on the contrary, was more disgusted 
 than ever. She got up early every morning; 
 had done it faithfully for a year and a half, ever 
 since she came there to live. But no reward 
 was offered to her! It never occurred to Uncle 
 Levi that she had any use for pocket-money 
 no, indeed ! And she might go on so forever, 
 working like a slave, and getting no credit for it, 
 while Tom was coaxed and paid for doing the 
 least thing It was too mean, it was too unfair, 
 Julia thought, angrily and bitterly. And it was 
 true that she had some reason to feel herself 
 aggrieved. 
 
 Uncle Levi never meant to be partial, or to 
 make the slightest difference between the two 
 children. They had been left orphans about the 
 same time, both dependent upon him for home 
 and support ; and he had cared for them as kindly 
 as he knew how. But he was an old bachelor,
 
 214 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 and children especially girls were mysteri- 
 ous beings to him. He did not know what they 
 thought about, or what they wanted ; he had no 
 idea how to talk to them, and he felt more com- 
 fortable when they were out of his sight. So he 
 had left Julia pretty much to Mrs. Croaker, and 
 had little to say to her himself, simply for the 
 reason that he did not know how. 
 
 It was different with Tom. He was an out- 
 spoken, careless, good-tempered fellow, who was 
 apt to ask for what he wanted, and not be 
 bashful about it either. Uncle Levi could under- 
 stand Tom ; so, naturally, he took more notice of 
 him than he did of Julia, who was shy, and sen- 
 sitive, and hardly ever spoke to him on any 
 account. The one got the lion's share of the in- 
 dulgences, the other got the lion's share of the 
 tasks ; but Uncle Levi was quite unconscious of 
 both facts. 
 
 He had an old servant, who had kept house 
 for him ever since anybody could remember. 
 Her name was Mrs. Croaker, and her nature was 
 something similar. She had strict notions about 
 the way in which girls should be brought up. 
 Plenty of work, and very little play ; no nonsense 
 about dolls and story-books; no foolish finery to
 
 TOM S ALLOWANCE. 215 
 
 
 
 turn their Aeads ; no company to waste their 
 time ; schooling enough for reading and writing, 
 and then housework and sewing from morning 
 to night. To do those two things as they ought 
 to be done, was the chief end of woman, in Mrs. 
 Croaker's catechism. 
 
 So you see, in her hands, Julia did not lead a 
 very easy life. There was some task or other for 
 every hour that she was out of school : the break- 
 fast-room in the morning, and her own bed to 
 make up ; the tea-cups to wash at night ; stock- 
 ings to darn ; patch-work and knitting for even- 
 ings ; lessons in making bi-ead and pies on 
 Saturdays ; and any quantity of very tiresome 
 advice and scolding mixed up with it all. 
 
 While Tom was not called upon for anything, 
 except an errand now and then, to bring Mrs. 
 Croaker something from the village ; and regu- 
 larly to make this one fire. And now he was to 
 be paid three cents a day for that, while Julia had 
 three times the work to do, and was paid no cents 
 at all. Certainly, it seemed very aggravating. 
 
 She was too proud, however, to complain ; and 
 neither Tom nor Uncle Levi imagined how she 
 felt, as she sat silent, and "-sulky," Tom would 
 have said, behind the breakfast-tray. She poured
 
 2l6 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 | 
 
 the coffee for them r but they never noticed that 
 she did not drink her own, or touch the food upon 
 her plate. The poor little thing was swelling 
 with a sense of wrong and injustice, aching with 
 loneliness, and longing for some one to comfort 
 and sympathize with her ; but not a soul in the 
 house had any idea of what she kept shut up in 
 her little proud heart. 
 
 How should they? Uncle Levi didn't look 
 at her twice a day ; Mrs. Croaker had no heart 
 of her own to speak about, and couldn't be 
 expected to understand Julia's. Children were 
 nuisances, and she had no opinion of girls in 
 particular. Tom's thoughts were all taken up 
 with his own amusements ; he had plenty, 
 though Julia had none. It was no wonder that 
 she grew irritable, moody, and unhappy. 
 
 Tom called her cross, and teased . her, and 
 laughed, at her ; but it did not occur to him that 
 he could do anything to make her more amia- 
 ble. He got up punctually, and made the fire 
 every morning in good season, and he wondered 
 that she was so often snappish with him, in spite 
 of it, when she came down. He did not know 
 that she never looked at "Dr. Nott" without a 
 bitter feeling of injustice and partiality, which
 
 TOM'S ALLOWANCE. 217 
 
 was all the harder to bear for being shut up in 
 her own heart, and never expressed to any one. 
 
 So the time passed on until Christmas came. 
 Tom earned his allowance honestly every day, 
 having never once failed in his duty to Dr. Nott 
 since that morning in October. His exemplary 
 conduct was surprising to Uncle Levi, not so 
 much because he earned the money, as becanse 
 he did not spend it. Not a single sixpence had 
 been drawn as yet, for Tom knew that if he 
 had it in small sums he should spend it in the 
 same way, and he had an ambitious project in 
 his mind which was not to be accomplished on 
 small capital. 
 
 This was no less than an outfit of steel " shoes " 
 for his beloved sled, " The Black Wolf." Steel 
 shoes were rather expensive affairs, greatly ad- 
 mired by all the boys in Edgehill, but possessed 
 by very few. Dick Hartley and Steve Whitlock 
 were the only boys in Tom's set whose sleds 
 were supplied with the coveted addition. Their 
 fathers were the richest men in the village ; the 
 sons, consequently, could afford luxuries which 
 other boys might not aspire to. 
 
 Tom cared nothing about luxuries, properly 
 speaking. He did not envy Steve Whitlock's
 
 2l8 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 handsome clothes, or Dick Hartley's lunch- 
 basket, stuffed every day with dainties. His 
 rough jacket kept him warm, and bread and 
 butter were as good as cake when he was hun- 
 gry. But those steel shoes he did covet, for the 
 reason that, in all boyish sports, Tom liked to be 
 second to nobody. He was active and daring 
 in everything. No one could beat him in 
 skating, or coasting, or swimming, or climbing, 
 if only he had a fair chance. His " Black 
 Wolf" was acknowledged to be the swiftest 
 runner of all the iron-shod sleds ; but, of 
 course, it could not compete with " The Red 
 Fox " and " The Sylph," when they shot by on 
 their smooth, shining steel tires. 
 
 Tom had gazed after these with longing eyes 
 many a time ; but the price two dollars and a 
 half for the pair made the longing vain. He 
 had more than once tried to save up the odd pen- 
 nies and sixpences that fell into his possession, but 
 they accumulated so slowly that he had given it 
 up as hopeless. Now, however, "thanks to 
 Jule's tantrum," as he said, laughingly, the 
 long-desired articles were in his reach. 
 
 The three cents per diem had grown by Christ- 
 mas Eve to two dollars and thirty-seven cents,
 
 TOM'S ALLOWANCE. 219 
 
 and Tom calculated that Uncle Levi would give 
 him at least a quarter for a Christmas gift ; so 
 that by New Year's Day the Black Wolf would 
 have her new shoes on and then let Dick 
 Hartley and Steve Whitlock look out for their 
 honors ! 
 
 He was in such a good humor with his bright 
 expectations that he felt like being amiable to 
 Julia. So he ran into the dining-room, where she 
 sat darning stockings the afternoon before Christ- 
 mas, and asked her to go out on the ice with him. 
 It was a half holiday at the girls' school, as well 
 as at the academy, and groups of merry children 
 boys and girls together were down at the 
 skating-pond. Julia knew they were to be there 
 this afternoon, and some of her schoolmates had 
 invited her to join them. But she had refused 
 them all, for a reason of her own ; and here she 
 sat, poking a darning-needle in and out of Uncle 
 Levi's blue yarn stockings, looking just as 
 " blue " and unhappy herself when Tom came 
 after her. 
 
 " I say, Jule," he began, in his usual blunt 
 fashion, " tuck away those blue rags, and get 
 your muffles on. There's a jolly time down at 
 the pond, and I came after you on purpose."
 
 220 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 
 
 " Very much obliged to you," she answered, 
 shortly, "but I can't go." 
 
 "Nonsense! Why not? As if you couldn't 
 darn stockings any other day ! But I can tell you, 
 you don't always have a chance for such a jolly 
 slide ! The ice is like glass, and the girls are 
 having such fun ! Come, get your things on, 
 and don't be a goose ! " 
 
 " I shan't be such a goose as to go," she re- 
 turned, coldly. 
 
 "And why rrot, I wonder?" Tom began to 
 get vexed. " Are you obliged to darn stockings 
 for a living? " 
 
 " It's not the stockings." 
 " What the mischief is it, then ? " 
 " It's because I've nothing fit to wear. I don't 
 choose to go among those girls, who are all 
 dressed so nicely, in the shabby old clothes / 
 have to wear. It's bad enough to have to go 
 to school in them but I can't help that." 
 
 " That's a woman's reason for everything, I 
 do believe!" Tom exclaimed, impatiently. "I 
 wonder what ails the clothes you've got on? 
 I don't see any difference in 'em from the clothes 
 other girls wear." 
 
 " Of course you don't, because you don't care
 
 TOM'S ALLOWANCE. 221 
 
 anything about me, and you never notice what I 
 have on. I guess if you had to wear such a mis- 
 erable old hood as that, though," and Julia 
 pointed scornfully to a quilted brown merino 
 hood on a chair beside her, " you would see 
 the difference." 
 
 " It's a very good hood as far as I see," Tom 
 returned ; " about as good looking as my cap, I 
 guess." 
 
 " Your cap is the same sort of a cap that other 
 boys wear," she answered, sharply. "My hood 
 might have come out of the ark for all its like- 
 ness to the things that are worn nowadays. Ev- 
 erybody else has a worsted hood, something 
 bright-colored and pretty, but I have to wear 
 this old dud that everybody laughs at, because 
 there's no one in all the world that cares a fig 
 how I look. And I wish I was dead, and with 
 my mother that I do ! " 
 
 At this climax the blue yarn stockings were 
 tossed passionately upon the floor, and Julia 
 rushed out of the room in a storm of tears, 
 which she was too proud to let Tom see. 
 
 He stood and looked after her for a full minute 
 in silent wonder. Then he picked up the unfor- 
 tunate hood, and examined it closely. It was
 
 222 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 made of brown merino, inside and out, quilted 
 in diamonds by Mrs. Croaker's own bony fingers, 
 and tied with stingy-looking brown merino 
 strings. It certainly was not pretty, but then 
 it looked warm and comfortable. Tom couldn't 
 see why it wasn't just as good as a " worsted 
 hood," and, by the way, what were " worsted 
 hoods"? 
 
 " I declare I don't know," he said to himself. 
 " I haven't the dimmest idea what the difference 
 is ; but I suppose there must be a difference, or 
 Jule wouldn't get into such a tantrum. Well, 
 it's no use wasting time here ; if she won't go, 
 she won't." 
 
 So he marched out again, and made his way 
 in a few minutes to the skating-pond. A group 
 of girls called after him, 
 
 "Where's Julia, Tom? Isn't she coming 
 out?" 
 
 And when he shook his head by way of an- 
 swer, one of them ran forward merrily, and held 
 out her arms to prevent his coming on the ice. 
 
 " You're to go right back, skates and all," 
 she cried, laughingly, " and bring Julia out ! It's 
 a shame the way that old Mrs. Croaker keeps 
 her at home ! She never has any fun at all I "
 
 TOM'S ALLOWANCE. 223 
 
 " But Mrs. Croaker isn't keeping her now," 
 said Tom ; " she's keeping herself. I asked her 
 to come with me, and she wouldn't." 
 
 "Why not?" cried the whole group, in cho- 
 rus. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know. She said something 
 about her hood being shabby, and not like other 
 people's. I didn't make out exactly what she 
 meant." 
 
 " O, pooh! Is that all? Who cares about 
 the hood?" 
 
 It was pretty little Kitty Carey who spoke, 
 with a merry shake of her head that set in mo- 
 tion all the balls of her " rigolette," such a 
 host of dainty little balls, nestling in a scarlet 
 fringe above her brown curls, and tossing them- 
 selves about in a bewitching sort of way, that 
 made Tom, for the first time, comprehend the 
 difference. 
 
 " I don't know about that, / should care," 
 said Annie Rosman, in answer to Kitty's speech. 
 She was quite conscious that her own hood was 
 pretty and becoming. 
 
 " I shouldn't want to wear that old brown 
 merino thing any more than Julia does. It looks 
 as if it came out of the ark."
 
 224 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 " Why, that's what Jule said ! " exclaimed 
 Tom, in astonishment. " Is it really such a 
 horrid old affair after all?" 
 
 There was a general burst of laughter at his 
 perplexed look, and two or three voices an- 
 swered, promptly, 
 
 " Of course it is ! Look at my hood look 
 at Kitty's look at Belle's, don't you see any 
 difference?" 
 
 And Tom had to confess, when he opened his 
 eyes at last, that there -was a difference. Carry 
 Blake had on something in blue and white that 
 made her look as fair as a lily ; Annie Rosman's 
 golden hair peeped out from a border of brilliant 
 scarlet ; Lucy Whitlock's laughing eyes sparkled 
 under a crimson hood, spotted with black ; Belle 
 Hartley wore a dainty white one, tied under the 
 chin with rose-colored ribbons. 
 
 They were all graceful in shape, bright in 
 color, becoming in effect : as different as possible 
 from the clumsy, sun-brown thing which, now 
 that Tom really thought about it, made Julia 
 look so plain and common " for all the world 
 like a servant girl," he thought, with a sudden 
 remembi-ance of Mrs. Blake's housemaid, who 
 had been sweeping the doorsteps as Tom passed
 
 TOM S ALLOWANCE. 225 
 
 by that very afternoon, with exactly such a hood 
 upon her head. 
 
 He could not put the thought out of his mind 
 all through the afternoon. The frosty air rang 
 with merry laughter, the ice glittered with the 
 long, shining tracks of the skates, the pretty 
 hoods flitted in and out of the crowd, now up 
 and now down, as the wearers lost their balance 
 on the slippery surface, and the boys wheeled 
 and circled round them in many an airy flight. 
 But though Tom's skates went ringing along the 
 ice as merrily as the rest, he could not enjoy the 
 fun as usual for thinking of poor little Julia, 
 alone in the dingy, old-fashioned dining-room, 
 darning blue yarn stockings, and wishing she 
 was dead. 
 
 " Hullo, Tom ! " called a boy, skating past 
 him. " Black Wolf got her steel shoes on?" 
 
 " No ! " answered Tom, emphatically. 
 
 " How long before you get 'em ? " 
 
 " Some time next year, maybe maybe not at 
 all." 
 
 "Why, what do you mean by that?" ex- 
 claimed the boy, skating back to Tom, and bal- 
 ancing himself in front of him. "You told me 
 
 15
 
 226 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 you would have money enough by Christmas ; 
 you know you did." 
 
 " Suppose I did? and if I choose to spend it 
 for something else, what's that to you ? " and 
 Tom wheeled round, made a series of extraordi- 
 nary curveSj and then struck a bee line for the 
 edge of the pond. There he unbuckled his 
 skates, slung them over his arm, and marched 
 off towards home. He had made a resolution, 
 and it was Tom's way to put his resolves into 
 execution with as little delay as possible. 
 
 " Uncle Levi, I would like to draw my allow- 
 ance now, if you please," he said, as he walked 
 into the library, where Uncle Levi sat in a cloud 
 of cigar smoke. " Two dollars and thirty-seven 
 cents for twenty-five days in October, thirty in 
 November, and twenty-four in December." 
 
 " Well," said Uncle Levi, " this is rather an 
 expensive bargain of mine. Two dollars and 
 thirty-seven cents ! What do you intend to do 
 with all that money, sir?" 
 
 " If you please, sir, I would rather not tell 
 you." 
 
 The color rushed up 'to Tom's brown cheek, 
 and Uncle Levi looked surprised. 
 
 " Don't throw it away for nonsense, my boy.
 
 TOM'S ALLOWANCE. 2 27 
 
 It's your own, to be sure, but still I wouldn't 
 spend it foolishly." 
 
 " I don't intend to, Uncle Levi. At least, I 
 don't think you'd call it foolishness if you knew ; 
 but I'd rather not tell you just yet." 
 
 _" Very well ; " and Uncle Levi handed out the 
 money. 
 
 Never in his life before had Tom possessed so 
 much, and he felt very rich indeed as he marched 
 out of the room, jingling his silver quarters, and 
 tossing them from one hand to the other. 
 
 Perhaps you have already guessed what he 
 meant to do with them, and so you'll not be so 
 much astonished as Julia was the next morning, 
 when she discovered a brown paper parcel on 
 the foot of her bed, directed to "Miss Julia 
 Jerome." 
 
 She had been dreaming poor little Jule ! 
 about Christmas-time at home when her mother 
 was living, and there were always pretty gifts for 
 the children, and A merry, happy day for all the 
 household. She waked up with a start, some- 
 body had thrown an orange at her in her dream, 
 and for a minute, as she sat up in bed, rubbing 
 her eyes, she fancied it was all true, and cried, 
 " Merry Christmas ! " half aloud, before she 
 knew what she was doing.
 
 228 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 The next minute came back the dreary recol- 
 lection of orphanhood and loneliness, and she 
 murmured, bitterly, 
 
 " Merry Christmas, indeed ! There'll be no 
 Christmas in this house there never is ! " 
 
 But the brown paper parcel caught her eye 
 suddenly, and she snatched it up with eager 
 curiosity, and tore it open. It only contained a 
 hood a pretty, crimson hood with a soft, 
 puffy border, tufted with chinchilla spots, and 
 two long, crimson ribbons to tie under the chin. 
 A slip of paper pinned to it had a line in Tom's 
 boyish handwriting : 
 
 " DEAR JULE : Wish you ' Merry Christmas ! ' 
 and the next time I ask you to go out with me, I 
 hope you won't be ashamed of your hood. 
 
 " Your affectionate cousin, TOM. 
 
 " P. S. You may thank yourself and Dr. 
 Nott for this. Not me." 
 
 Was that anything to make her burst into tears 
 and hide her face in the bed-clothes, and cry for 
 five minutes as if her heart would break ? Of 
 course not ; but then Jule had a way of crying 
 when she was pleased as well as when she was
 
 TOM S ALLOWANCE. 229 
 
 sorry ; and she was all alone now nobody 
 could laugh at her for being foolish. 
 
 The first thought that shaped itself out of her 
 excitement was, 
 
 " O, how selfish, and mean, and hateful I have 
 been ! To think how I grudged Tom that mon- 
 ey ; how cross I've been ever since, and how he 
 has spent it for me ! " 
 
 It was quite five minutes more before she could 
 allow herself to try the hood on, and see how 
 pretty it was, and how very becoming. She 
 came to it at last, however, and managed to 
 dress herself, too. Then she darted off in search 
 of Tom, who was down stairs on his knees be- 
 fore Dr. Nott, just as busy as if Christmas was 
 no more than any other day. But he was on the 
 lookout for Julia, nevertheless, and ready to give 
 her a complacent kiss in return for the enthusias- 
 tic hug she inflicted upon him. 
 
 " I'll never be cross to you again, Tom, 
 never ! " she declared, solemnly. 
 
 " I won't count upon that," he answered, mis- 
 chievously. 
 
 " But you may, for I mean it. I was never 
 cross to anybody that loved me, Tom ; only I 
 never knew you did before."
 
 230 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 Tom had not been quite sure of that fact him- 
 self till this moment. It came over him sudden- 
 ly now that he might grow very fond of her if 
 she continued to look as pretty, and speak to him 
 in that tender, wistful way. But he answered 
 with a boy's conceit, 
 
 " There's lots of things you don't know yet, 
 Miss Jule. Hold on to what you've learned, 
 though, and keep up to your promises." 
 
 " I always do," said Julia, a little proudly. 
 "You shall see." 
 
 "Another thing," he added, rather more ten- 
 derly, " don't say again that I don't care how 
 you look. You look like a little beauty this 
 morning, that's a fact. And next to Kitty Carey 
 I think you are the prettiest girl in town." 
 
 At which Julia told him he was a goose, re- 
 gardless of gender. But she laughed, and she 
 blushed, and looked prettier than ever in her 
 delight at Tom's admiration. 
 
 So, of course, it was a happy Christmas after 
 that, and it grew into a surprisingly merry one, 
 too ; for when Uncle Levi found out the state of 
 things, he concluded to profit by Tom's example, 
 and make Christmas gifts himself, which was a 
 thing he had not thought of doing in many 3
 
 TOM'S ALLOWANCE, 231 
 
 long year before. Julia had an opportunity to 
 display her new hood immediately after break- 
 fast, when Uncle Levi invited her to walk down 
 town with Tom and himself. The walk ended, 
 to her surprise, at Mr. Thingumbob's fancy store, 
 " open on Christmas Day till twelve o'clock 
 only," and when they went out they had cer- 
 tainly more to carry than when they went in. 
 
 Uncle Levi's pockets bulged out in every direc- 
 tion ; so did Tom's. Julia's hands were filled 
 chiefly with the dearest little gray muff, whose 
 crimson lining and tassels exactly matched her 
 hood. She had longed unspeakably for a muff, 
 and needed nothing more to complete her happi- 
 ness. Yet Uncle Levi, in his sudden enjoyment 
 of the thing, and in the Christmas excitement 
 which seemed to be in the air, seemed bent upon 
 filling her cup to overflowing. A work-box, with 
 a silver thimble, and all sorts of implements, was 
 added to the muff: and then a brilliant box of 
 bon-bons, and lastly, a book of fairy tales, gor- 
 geous in scarlet and gold binding. 
 
 As for Tom, he was entirely satisfied with the 
 new penknife, the handsome color-box and 
 brushes, and the nicely bound copy of " The 
 Young Marooners," which fell to his share.
 
 232 BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 Even Mrs. Croaker was not forgotten ; and Julia 
 was delighted at being called upon to select 
 something as a gift from herself, and something 
 also from Tom, as well as from Uncle Levi. 
 She pondered and puzzled over the important 
 matter a great while, but finally accepted Mr. 
 Thingumbob's suggestion of a new pair of spec- 
 tacles as Uncle Levi's gift, and a fine, soft 
 blanket shawl as a joint offering from Tom and 
 herself. 
 
 " Pretty much ! " said Tom, scornfully, " when 
 Uncle Levi pays for it ! " 
 
 He didn't disdain, however, to attend the pre- 
 sentation with Julia, and accepted Mrs. Croaker's 
 grim acknowledgments with becoming gravity. 
 
 " There wern't no call to give it to me," she 
 remarked, solemnly, smoothing down the soft, 
 gray fringe, with appreciation of its " quality ; " 
 " I aint one o' the sort that expects to get pres- 
 ents for doin' their dooty. But it's a fine piece 
 of goods, and I'm obleeged to you both." 
 
 For three days after that it was remarked that 
 Mrs. Croaker was in an angelic temper, and in 
 fact she never was quite so grim and unsympa- 
 thetic again, as Julia had thought her before. 
 Perhaps it was because Julia herself had met
 
 TOM S ALLOWANCE. 233 
 
 with a change. She certainly was not so mis- 
 erable as she used to think herself, nor so moody 
 and fretful as other people had found her, after 
 that happy Christmas Day. She knew now that 
 Tom loved her, and that Uncle Levi did care 
 about her ; and so she set to work to make her- 
 self worthy of love and consideration. 
 
 Tom never regretted having to wait three 
 whole months for his steel shoes, and getting no 
 opportunity to use them then. The constant 
 affection and kindness which Julia gave him, 
 and her bright, cheerful companionship which 
 made home pleasant for him, were better than 
 all the coasting triumphs of the season ; certainly 
 worth all it had cost him to win them. " The 
 only wonder was that it had taken him so long 
 to find out what a nice little thing Jule really 
 was ! " he thought. 
 
 Possibly some other boys might make a simi- 
 lar discovery concerning their sisters or girl- 
 cousins, if they went to work in the same spirit. 
 I leave the suggestion for particular considera- 
 tion, and wish you all 
 
 A very Merry Christmas I
 
 LEE & SHEPARD'S 
 
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 OLIVER OPTIC'S BOOKS. 
 
 Each Set in a neat Box with Illuminated Titles. 
 
 Army and Navy Stories. A Library for Young and 
 
 Old, in 6 volumes. i6mo. Illustrated. Pervol $i SO 
 
 The Soldier Boy. The Yankee Middy. 
 
 The Sailor Boy. Fighting Joe. 
 
 The Young Lieutenant Brave Old Salt. 
 
 Famous " Boat-dull " Series. A Library for Young 
 People. Handsomely Illustrated. Six volumes, in neat 
 box. Per vol I 25 
 
 The Boat Club ; or, The Bunkers of Rippleton. 
 
 All Aboard ; or, Life on the Lake. 
 
 Now or Never ; or, The Adventures of Bobby Bright. 
 
 Try Again ; or, The Trials and Triumphs of Harry West. 
 
 Poor and Proud ; or, The Fortunes of Katy Redburn. 
 
 Little by Little ; or, The Cruise of the Flyaway. 
 
 Lake Shore Series, The. Six volumes. Illustrated. 
 
 In neat box. Per vol I 25 
 
 Through by Daylight ; or, The Young Engineer of the 
 
 Lake Shore Railroad. 
 
 Lightning Express ; or, The Rival Academies. 
 On Time , or, The Young Captain of the Ucayga Steamer. 
 Switch Off ; or, The War of the Students. 
 Break Up ; or, The Young Peacemakers. 
 Bear and Forbear; or, The Young Skipper of Lake 
 
 Ucayga.
 
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 box. Illustrated. Per vol i o 
 
 The Soldier Boy ; or, Tom Somers in the Army. 
 
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 Officer. 
 Fighting Joe ; or, The Fortunes of a Staff Officer. 
 
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 Illustrated. Per vol I 50 
 
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 Starry Flag Series, The. Six volumes. Illustrated. 
 
 Per vol I 25 
 
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 Breaking Away ; or, The Fortunes of a Student 
 Seek and Find ; or, The Adventures of a Smart Boy. 
 Freaks of Fortune ; or, Half Round the World. 
 Make or Break ; or, The Rich Man's Daughter. 
 Down the River ; or, Buck Bradford and the Tyrants. 
 
 The Household Library* 3 volumes. Illustrated. 
 
 Per volume I 50 
 
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 The Way of the World. 
 
 Way of the World, The. By William T. Adams (Oliver 
 
 Optic) 1 2ino I 50 
 
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 People. Six volumes. Illustrated. Per vol i6mo I 25 
 
 Rich and Humble ; or, The Mission of Bertha Grant 
 In School and Out ; or, The Conquest of Richard Grant 
 Watch and Wait ; or, The Young Fugitives. 
 Work and Win ; or, Noddy Newman on a Cruise. 
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