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Spinning-Wheel Stories

by Louisa May Alcott · English · Gutenberg #36221 · 418,393 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Spinning-Wheel Stories

Author: Louisa May Alcott


        
Release date: May 26, 2011 [eBook #36221]

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Heather Clark, Julia Neufeld and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPINNING-WHEEL STORIES ***




Produced by Heather Clark, Julia Neufeld and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









  SPINNING-WHEEL
  STORIES.

  BY
  LOUISA M. ALCOTT,

  AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL," "LITTLE MEN,"
  "EIGHT COUSINS," "ROSE IN BLOOM," "UNDER THE LILACS,"
  "JACK AND JILL," "HOSPITAL SKETCHES," "WORK, A
  STORY OF EXPERIENCE," "MOODS, A NOVEL,"
  "PROVERB STORIES," "SILVER PITCHERS,"
  "AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG."

  BOSTON:
  LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY,
  1902.




  _Copyright, 1884,_
  BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

  University Press:
  JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.




                        CONTENTS.


                                                PAGE

  GRANDMA'S STORY                                 1

  TABBY'S TABLE-CLOTH                            25

  ELI'S EDUCATION                                47

  ONAWANDAH                                      71

  LITTLE THINGS                                  91

  THE BANNER OF BEAUMANOIR                      115

  JERSEYS; OR, THE GIRL'S GHOST                 137

  THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE GARDEN                163

  DAISY'S JEWEL-BOX, AND HOW SHE FILLED IT      187

  CORNY'S CATAMOUNT                             209

  THE COOKING-CLASS                             233

  THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE                     255




[Illustration]

Grandma's Story


"It is too bad to have our jolly vacation spoiled by this provoking
storm. Didn't mind it yesterday, because we could eat all the time; but
here we are cooped up for a week, perhaps, and I'd like to know what we
are to do," growled Geoff, as he stood at the window looking gloomily at
the bleak scene without. It certainly was discouraging; for the north
wind howled, the air was dark with falling snow, and drifts were rising
over fences, roads, and fields, as if to barricade the Christmas party
in the great country house.

"We can bear it pleasantly, since it can't be helped," said gentle
sister Mary, with a kind hand on his shoulder, and a face full of
sympathy for his disappointment. "I'm sorry for the coasting, skating,
and sleighing frolics we have lost; but if we must be shut up, I'm sure
we couldn't have a pleasanter prison or a kinder jailer. Don't let
grandma hear us complain, for she has made great exertions to have our
visit a merry one, and it will trouble her if we are not gay and
contented."

"That's easy for a parcel of girls, who only want to mull over the fire,
and chatter, and drink tea; but it's rough on us fellows, who come for
the outside fun. House is well enough; but when you've seen it once,
there's an end. Eating is jolly, but you can't stuff forever. We might
dig, or snowball, if it didn't blow a gale. Never saw such a beast of a
storm!"--and Geoff flattened his nose against the window-pane and
scowled at the elements.

A laugh made him turn around, and forget his woes to stare at the quaint
little figure that stood curtseying in the door-way of the keeping-room,
where a dozen young people were penned while the maids cleared up the
remains of yesterday's feast in the kitchen, the mothers were busy with
the babies upstairs, and the fathers read papers in the best parlor; for
this was a family gathering under the roof of the old homestead.

A rosy, dark-eyed face looked out from the faded green calash, a gayly
flowered gown was looped up over a blue quilted petticoat, and a red
camlet cloak hung down behind. A big reticule and a funny umbrella were
held in either hand, and red hose and very high-heeled, pointed shoes
covered a trim pair of feet.

  "God bless you, merry gentlemen!
    May nothing you dismay;
  Here's your ancient granny come
    To call, this Christmas day,"

sang Minnie, the lively member of the flock, as she bobbed little
curtseys and smiled so infectiously that even cross Geoff cheered up.

"Where did you get that rigging?" "Isn't it becoming?" "What queer
stuff!" "Did grandma ever look so, I wonder?"

These and many other questions rained upon the wearer of the old
costume, and she answered them as fast as she could.

"I went rummaging up garret for something to read, and found two chests
of old duds. Thought I'd dress up and see how you liked me. Grandma said
I might, and told me I looked like her when she was young. She was a
beauty, you know; so I feel as proud as a peacock." And Min danced away
to stand before the portrait of a blooming girl in a short-waisted,
white-satin gown and a pearl necklace, which hung opposite the companion
portrait of an officer in an old-fashioned uniform.

"So you do. Wonder if I should look like grandpa if I got into his old
toggery!" said Geoff, looking up at the handsome man with the queue and
the high coat-collar.

"Go and try; the uniform is in the chest, and not much moth-eaten. Let's
have a jolly rummage, and see what we can find. _We_ didn't eat
ourselves sick, so we will amuse these lazy invalids;" and Min glanced
pityingly at several cousins who lay about on sofas or in easy chairs,
pretending to read, but evidently suffering from too great devotion to
the bountiful dinner and evening feast of yesterday.

Away went Min and Lotty, Geoff and Walt, glad of anything to beguile the
stormy afternoon. Grandma smiled as she heard the tramp of feet
overhead, the peals of laughter, and the bang of chest-lids, well
knowing that a scene of dire confusion awaited her when the noisy frolic
was done, but thankful for the stores of ancient finery which would keep
the restless children happy for a day.

It was truly a noble garret, for it extended the whole length of the
great square house, with windows at either end, and divided in the
middle by a solid chimney. All around stood rows of chests, dilapidated
furniture, and wardrobes full of old relics, while the walls were hung
with many things for which modern tongues can find no names. In one
corner was a book-case full of musty books and papers; in another,
kitchen utensils and rusty weapons; the third was devoted to quilts hung
on lines, and in the fourth stood a loom with a spinning-wheel beside
it, both seemingly well cared for, as the dust lay lightly on them, and
flax was still upon the distaff.

A glorious rummage followed the irruption of the Goths and Vandals into
this quiet spot, and soon Geoff quite forgot the storm as he pranced
about in the buff-and-blue coat, with a cocked hat on his head, and
grandfather's sword at his side. Lotty arrayed herself in a pumpkin hood
and quilted cloak for warmth, while Walt, the book-worm, went straight
to the ancient library, and became absorbed in faded souvenirs, yellow
newspapers, and almanacs of a century ago.

Having displayed themselves below and romped all over the house, the
masqueraders grew tired at last, and early twilight warned them to leave
before ghostly shadows began to haunt the garret.

"I mean to take this down and ask grandma to show me how it's done. I've
heard her tell about spinning and weaving when she was a girl, and I
know I can learn," said Minnie, who had fallen in love with the little
wheel, and vainly tried to twist the flax into as smooth a thread as the
one hanging from the distaff, as if shadowy fingers had lately spun it.

"Queen Victoria set the fashion in England, and we might do it here.
Wouldn't it be fun to have a wheel in the parlor at home, and really use
it; not keep it tied up with blue ribbons, as the other girls do!" cried
Lotty, charmed with the new idea.

"Come, Geoff, take it down for us. You ought to do it out of gratitude
for my cheering you up so nicely," said Min, leading the way.

"So I will. Here, Walt, give it a hoist, and come behind to pick up the
pieces, for the old machine must be about a hundred, I guess."

Shouldering the wheel, Geoff carried it down; but no bits fell by the
way, for the stout little wheel was all in order, kept so by loving
hands that for more than eighty years had been spinning the mingled
thread of a long and useful life.

Glorious fires were roaring up the wide chimneys in parlor and
keeping-room, and old and young were gathering around them, while the
storm beat on the window-panes, and the wintry wind howled as if angry
at being shut out.

"See what we've stolen, grandma," cried Min, as the procession came in,
rosy, dusty, gay, and eager.

"Bless the child! What possessed you to lug that old thing down?" asked
Madam Shirley, much amused as the prize was placed before her, where she
sat in her high-backed chair,--a right splendid old lady in her stately
cap, black silk gown, and muslin apron, with a bunch of keys at her
side, like a model housekeeper, as she was.

"You don't mind our playing with it, do you? And will you teach me to
spin? I think it's such a pretty little thing, and I want to be like you
in all ways, grandma dear," answered Min, sitting on the arm of the
great chair, with her fresh cheek close to the wrinkled one where winter
roses still bloomed.

"You wheedling gypsy! I'll teach you with all my heart, for it is pretty
work, and I often wonder ladies don't keep it up. I did till I was too
busy, and now I often take a turn at it when I'm tired of knitting. The
hum is very soothing, and the thread much stronger than any we get
nowadays."

As she spoke, the old lady dusted the wheel, and gave it a skilful turn
or two, till the soft whir made pleasant music in the room.

"Is it really a hundred years old?" asked Geoff, drawing nearer with the
others to watch the new work.

"Just about. It was one of my mother's wedding presents, and she gave it
to me when I was fifteen. Deary me, how well I remember that day!" and
grandma seemed to fall a-dreaming as her eyes rested on the letters E.
R. M. rudely cut in the wood, and below these were three others with
something meant for a true lover's knot between.

"Whose initials are these?" asked Min, scenting a romance with girlish
quickness, for grandma was smiling as if her eyes read the title to some
little story in those worn letters.

"Elizabeth Rachel Morgan, and Joel Manlius Shirley. Your blessed
grandfather cut our names there the day I was sixteen, and put the
flourish between to show what he wanted," added the old lady, laughing
as she made the wheel hum again.

"Tell about it, please do," begged Min, remembering that grandma had
been a beauty and a belle.

"It's a long tale, my darling, and I couldn't tell it now. Sometime when
I'm teaching you to spin I'll do it, maybe."

But the girl was determined to have her story; and after tea, when the
little ones were in bed, the elders playing whist in the parlor, and the
young folks deciding what game to begin, Minnie sat down and tried to
spin, sure that the familiar sound would lure grandma to give the lesson
and tell the tale.

She was right, for the wheel had not gone around many times, when the
tap of the cane was heard, and the old lady came rustling in, quite
ready for a chat, now that three cups of her own good tea and a nap in
the chimney corner had refreshed her.

"No, dear, that's not the way; you need a dish of water to wet your
fingers in, and you must draw the flax out slow and steady, else it runs
to waste, and makes a poor thread. Fetch me that chair, and I'll show
you how, since you are bent on learning."

Establishing herself in the straight-backed seat, a skilful tap of the
foot set the wheel in swift and easy motion, and the gray thread twisted
fine and evenly from the distaff.

"Isn't it a pretty picture?" said Min to Lotty, as they watched the old
lady work.

"Not so pretty as the one I used to see when my dear mother sat here,
and I, a little child, at her knee. Ah, my dears, she could have told
you stories all night long, and well worth hearing. I was never tired of
them."

"Please tell one now, grandma. We don't know what to play, and it would
be so nice to sit around the fire and hear it this stormy night,"
suggested Min, artfully seizing the hint.

"Do! Do! We all love stories, and we'll be as still as mice," added
Geoff, beckoning to the others as he took the big arm-chair, being the
oldest grandson and leader of the flock.

Camping on the rug, or nestling in the sofa corner, the boys and girls
all turned expectant faces toward grandma, who settled her cap-strings
and smoothed her spotless apron, with an indulgent smile at her little
audience.

"I don't know which one to tell first."

"The ghost story; that's a splendid one, and most of the children never
heard it," said Walt.

"Have Indians and fighting in it. I like that kind," added Geoff.

"No; tell a love story. They are _so_ interesting," said Lotty.

"I want the story about the initials first. I know it is very
sentimental. So do begin with that, grandma," begged Min.

"Well, dears, perhaps I'd better choose that one, for it has the battle
of New Orleans, and wolves, and spinning, and sweethearts in it; so it
will suit you all, I hope."

"Oh, lovely! Do begin right away," cried Minnie, as the clapping of
hands showed how satisfactory the prospect was.

Grandma gave a loud "hem!" and began at once, while the little wheel
hummed a soft accompaniment to her words.


                           GRANDMA'S STORY.

"When I was fifteen, my mother gave me this wheel, and said: 'Now,
daughter Betsey, it is time for you to begin your wedding outfit, for I
mistrust you'll marry young.' In those days girls spun and wove webs of
fine linen and laid 'em up in chests, with lavender and rosemary, for
sheets and table-linen after they married. So I spun away, making all
manner of fine plans in my silly head, for I was a pretty piece, they
all said, and young as I was, two or three fine lads used to come
evenings and sit staring at me while I worked.

"Among these, was my neighbor Joel Manlius Shirley, and I was fond of
him; but he hadn't much money, so I put on airs, and tried his patience
very much. One day he came in and said: 'Betsey, I'm going
a-soldiering; they need men, and I'm off. Will you think of poor Joe
when I'm gone?'

"I don't know how I looked, but I felt as if I couldn't bear it. Only I
was too proud to show my trouble; so I laughed, and gave my wheel a
twist, and said I was glad of it, since anything was better than hanging
round at home.

"That hurt him; but he was always gentle to saucy Betsey, and taking out
his knife, he cut those letters under mine, saying, with a look I never
could forget:--

"'That will remind you of me if you are likely to forget. Good-by; I'm
going right away, and may never come back.'

"He kissed me, and was off before I could say a word, and then I cried
till my flax was wet and my thread tangled, and my heart 'most broken.
Deary me, how well I remember that heavy day!"

Grandma smiled, but something shone in her old eyes very like a tear,
and sentimental Lotty felt deeply interested at this point.

"Where does the fighting come in?" asked Geoff, who was of a military
turn, as became the descendant of a soldier.

"I didn't know or care much about the War of 1812, except as far as the
safety of one man was concerned. Joe got on without any harm till the
battle of New Orleans, when he was nearly killed behind the cotton-bale
breastworks General Jackson built."

"Yes, I know all about it. Jackson fought against twelve thousand, and
lost only seven men. That was the last battle of the war, January 8,
1815. Three cheers for grandpa!" shouted Geoff, waving a tidy, as no hat
was at hand.

The others echoed the hurrah, and grandma beamed with pride as she went
on: "We couldn't get news from the army very often in those troublous
times, and Joe was gone two years before the war ended. After the great
battle we had no news for a long spell, and we feared he was one of the
seven men killed. Those were dreadful days for all of us. My honored
mother was a pious soul, and so was Mrs. Shirley; and they kept up their
hearts with hope and prayer; but I, poor thing, was young and weak, and
I cried myself half blind, remembering how naughty I had been. I would
spin no more, but set the wheel away, saying I should have no need of
wedding gear, as I should never marry; and I wore black ribbon on my
caps, and one of Joe's buttons strung about my neck, mourning dismally
for my lost dear.

"So the winter ended, and the summer went, and no news came of Joe. All
said he was dead, and we had prayers at church, and talked of setting up
a stone in the grave-yard, and I thought my life was done; for I pined
sadly, and felt as if I could never laugh again. But I did; for the Lord
was very good to us, and out of danger and captivity delivered that dear
boy."

Grandma spoke solemnly, and folded her hands in thanksgiving as she
looked up at the picture of the handsome officer hanging on the wall
before her. The elder children could just remember grandpa as a very old
and feeble man, and it struck them as funny to speak of him as a "dear
boy;" but they never smiled, and dutifully lifted their eyes to the
queue and the high-collared coat, wondering if Joe was as rosy in real
life as in the portrait.

"Well, that's the sentimental part; now comes the merry part, and that
will suit the boys," said the old lady, briskly, as she spun away,--and
went on in a lively tone:--

"One December day, as I sat by that very window, dreaming sorrowfully at
my sewing work, while old Sally nodded over her knitting by the fire, I
saw a man come creeping along by the fence and dodge behind the
wood-pile. There were many bad folks 'round in those times; for war
always leaves a sight of lazy rascals afloat, as well as poor fellows
maimed and homeless.

"Mother had gone over to the sewing society at Mrs. Shirley's, and I was
all alone; for Sally was so stiff with rheumatics she could scarce stir,
and that was why I stayed to take care of her. The old musket always
hung over the kitchen chimney-piece, loaded, and I knew how to fire it,
for Joe had taught me. So away I went and got it down; for I saw the man
popping up his head now and then to spy the land, and I felt sure he
meant mischief. I knew Sally would only scream like a scared hen, so I
let her sleep; and getting behind the shutter I pointed my gun, and
waited to blaze away as soon as the enemy showed signs of attacking.

"Presently he came creeping up to the back door, and I heard him try the
latch. All was fast, so I just slipped into the kitchen and stood
behind the settle, for I was surer than ever he was a rascal since I'd
seen him nearer. He was a tall man, dreadful shabby in an old coat and
boots, a ragged hat over his eyes, and a great beard hiding the lower
part of his face. He had a little bundle and a big stick in his hands,
and limped as if foot-sore or lame.

"I was much afeard; but those were times that made heroes of men, and
taught women to be brave for love of home and country. So I kept steady,
with my eye on the window, and my finger on the trigger of the old gun,
that hadn't been fired for years. Presently the man looked in, and I saw
what a strange roll his great eyes had, for he was thin-faced and looked
half-starved. If mother had been there, she'd have called him in and fed
him well, but I dared not, and when he tried the window I aimed, but did
not fire; for finding the button down he went away, and I dropped on the
settle, shaking like a leaf. All was still, and in a minute I plucked up
courage to go to look out a bit; but just as I reached the middle of the
kitchen, the buttery door opened, and there stood the robber, with a
carving knife in one hand and my best loaf of spice bread in the other.
He said something, and made a rush at me; but I pulled the trigger, saw
a flash, felt a blow, and fell somewhere, thinking, 'Now I'm dead!'"

Here grandma paused for breath, having spoken rapidly and acted out the
scene dramatically, to the intense delight of the children, who sat like
images of interest, staring at her with round eyes.

"But you weren't dead? What next?" cried Walt, eagerly.

"Bless you, no! I only fell into Joe's arms, and when I came to, there
the dear fellow was, crying over me like a baby, while old Sally danced
round us like a bedlamite, in spite of her rheumatics, shouting:
'Hosanna! Thanks and praise! He's come, he's come!'"

"Was he shot?" asked Geoff, anxious for a little bloodshed.

"No, dear; the old gun burst and hurt my hands, but not a mite of harm
was done to Joe. I don't think I could tell all that happened for a
spell, being quite dazed with joy and surprise; but by the time mother
came home I was as peart as a wren, and Joe was at the table eating and
drinking every mortal thing I could find in the house.

"He'd been kept a prisoner till exchanged, and had had a hard time
getting home, with little money and a bad wound in the leg, besides
being feeble with jail fever. But we didn't fret over past troubles,
being so glad to get him back. How my blessed mother did laugh, when we
told her the reception I gave the poor lad! But I said it served him
right, since he came sneaking home like a thief, instead of marching in
like a hero. Then he owned that he came there to get something to eat,
being ashamed to go in upon his mother with all her company about her.
So we fed and comforted him; and when we'd got our wits about us, I
whipped away to Mrs. Shirley's and told my news, and every one of those
twenty-five women went straight over to our house and burst in upon
poor Joe, as he lay resting on the settle. That was my revenge for the
scare he gave me, and a fine one it was; for the women chattered over
him like a flock of magpies, and I sat in the corner and laughed at him.
Ah, I was a sad puss in those days!"

The old lady's black eyes twinkled with fun, and the children laughed
with her, till Walt caused a lull by asking:--

"Where do the wolves come in, grandma?"

"Right along, dear; I'm not likely to forget 'em, for they 'most cost me
my life, to say nothing of my new slippers. There was great rejoicing
over Joe, and every one wanted to do something to honor our hero; for he
had done well, we found out, when the General heard his story. We had a
great dinner, and Judge Mullikin gave a supper; but Major Belknap was
bound to outshine the rest, so he invited all the young folks over to
his house, nigh ten miles away, to a ball, and we all went. I made
myself fine, you may believe, and wore a pair of blue kid slippers, with
mother's best buckles to set 'em off. Joe had a new uniform, and was an
elegant figure of a man, I do assure you. He couldn't dance, poor dear,
being still very lame: but I was a proud girl when I marched into that
ball-room, on the arm of my limping beau. The men cheered, and the
ladies stood up in chairs to see him, and he was as red as my ribbons,
and I could hardly keep from crying, as I held him up,--the floor being
slippery as glass with the extra waxing it had got.

"I declared I wouldn't dance, because Joe couldn't; but he made me,
saying he could see me better; so I footed it till two o'clock, soon
forgetting all my sorrow and my good resolutions as well. I wanted to
show Joe that I was as much a favorite as ever, though I'd lived like a
widow for a year. Young folks will be giddy, and I hope these girls will
take warning by me and behave better when their time comes. There mayn't
be any wolves to sober 'em, but trouble of some sort always follows
foolish actions; so be careful, my dears, and behave with propriety when
you 'come out,' as you call it nowadays."

Grandma held up a warning forefinger at the girls, and shook her head
impressively, feeling that the moral of her tale must be made clear
before she went on. But the lassies blushed a little, and the lads
looked all impatience, so the dear old lady introduced the wolves as
quickly as she could.

"About half-past two, Joe and I drove off home with four fine hams in
the bottom of the sleigh, sent by the Major to our mothers. It was a
bitter-cold February night, with just light enough to see the road, and
splendid sleighing; so we went along at a good pace, till we came to the
great woods. They are all gone now, and the woollen mills stand there,
but then they were a thick forest of pines, and for more than three
miles the road led through them. In former days Indians had lurked
there; bears and foxes were still shot, and occasionally wolves were
seen, when cold weather drove them to seek food near the sheep-folds and
barn-yards.

"Well, we were skimming along pleasantly enough, I rather sleepy, and
Joe very careful of me, when, just as I was beginning to doze a bit with
my head on his arm I felt him start. Old Buck, the horse, gave a jump
that woke me up, and in a minute I knew what the trouble was, for from
behind us came the howl of a wolf.

"'Just the night to bring 'em out,' muttered Joe, using the whip till
Buck went at his quickest trot, with his ears down and every sign of
hurry and worry about him.

"'Are you afraid of them?' I asked, for I'd never had a scare of this
sort, though I'd heard other people tell of the fierceness of the brutes
when hunger made them bold.

"'Not a bit, only I wish I had my gun along,' said Joe, looking over his
shoulder anxiously.

"'Pity I hadn't brought mine--I do so well with it,' I said, and I
laughed as I remembered how I aimed at Joe and hurt myself.

"'Are they chasing us?' I asked, standing up to look back along the
white road, for we were just on the edge of the woods now.

"'Shouldn't wonder. If I had a better horse it would be a lively race;
but Buck can't keep this pace long, and if he founders we are in a fix,
for I can't run, and you can't fight. Betsey, there's more than one;
hold tight and try to count 'em.'

"Something in Joe's voice told me plainer than words that we were in
danger, and I wished we'd waited till the rest of our party came; but I
was tired, and so we had started alone.

"Straining my eyes, I could see _three_ black spots on the snow, and
hear three howls as the wolves came galloping after us. I was a brave
girl, but I'd never tried this kind of thing before, and in a minute all
the wolf stories I'd ever heard came flying through my mind. I _was_
mortally afeard, but I wouldn't show it, and turned to Joe, trying to
laugh as I said: 'Only three as yet. Tell me just what to do, and I'll
do it.'

"'Brave lass! I must see to Buck or he'll be down, for he's badly
scared. You wait till the rascals are pretty close, then heave over one
of these confounded hams to amuse 'em, while we make the most of their
halt. They smell this meat, and that's what they are after,' said Joe,
driving his best, for the poor old horse began to pant, and limp on his
stiff legs.

"'Lucky for us we've got 'em,' says I, bound to be cool and gay; 'if we
hadn't, they'd get fresh meat instead of smoked.'

"Joe laughed, but a long howl close by made me dive for a ham; for in
the darkness of the woods the beasts had got closer, and now all I could
see were several balls of fire not many yards away. Out went the ham,
and a snarling sound showed that the wolves were busy eating it.

"'All right!' said Joe. 'Rest a bit, and have another ready. They'll
soon finish that and want more. We must go easy, for Buck is nearly
blown.'

"I prepared my ammunition, and, in what seemed five minutes, I heard the
patter of feet behind us, and the fiery eyes were close by. Over went
the second mouthful, and then the third, and the fourth; but they
seemed more ravenous than ever, and each time were back sooner in
greater numbers.

"We were nearly out of the woods when the last was gone, and if Buck had
only had strength we should have been safe. But it was plain to see that
he couldn't keep up much longer, for he was very old, though he'd been a
fine horse in his prime.

"'This looks bad, little Betsey. Cover up in the robes, and hold fast to
me. The beasts will begin to snatch presently, and I'll have to fight
'em off. Thank the powers, I've my arms left.'

"As he spoke, Joe pulled me close, and wrapped me up, then took the
whip, ready to rap the first wolf that dared come near enough to be hit.
We didn't wait long; up they raced, and began to leap and snarl in a way
that made my heart stand still, at first. Then my temper rose, and
catching up the hot brick I had for my feet, I fired it with such good
aim that one sharp, black nose disappeared with a yelp of pain.

"'Hit 'em again, Betsey! Take the demijohn and bang 'em well. We are
nearing Beaman's, and the brutes will soon drop off.'

"It was a lively scrimmage for a few minutes, as we both warmed to our
work, Joe thrashing away with his whip on one side, and I on the other
flourishing the demijohn in which we had carried some cider for the
supper.

"But it was soon over, for in the fury of the fight Joe forgot the
horse; poor Buck made a sudden bolt, upset the sleigh down a bank, and,
breaking loose, tore back along the road with the wolves after him.

"'Run, Betsey! run for your life, and send Beaman's folks back! I'm done
for--my leg's broken. Never mind. I'll crawl under the sleigh, and be
all right till you come. The wolves will take a good while to pick poor
Buck's bones.'

"Just waiting to see Joe safe, I ran as I never ran before,--and I was
always light of foot. How I did it I don't know, for I'd forgot to put
on my moccasins (we didn't have snow-boots, you know, in my young days),
and there I was, tearing along that snowy road in my blue kid slippers
like a crazy thing. It was nigh a mile, and my heart was 'most broke
before I got there; but I kept my eye on the light in Hetty's winder and
tugged along, blessing her for the guide and comfort that candle was.
The last bit was down hill, or I couldn't have done it; for when I fell
on the doorstep my voice was clean gone, and I could only lie and rap,
rap, rap! till they came flying. I just got breath enough to gasp out
and point:--

"'Joe--wolves--the big woods--go!' when my senses failed me, and I was
carried in."

Here Madam Shirley leaned back in her chair quite used up, for she had
been acting the scene to a breathless audience, and laying about her
with her handkerchief so vigorously that her eyes snapped, her cheeks
were red, and her dear old cap all awry.

"But Joe--did they eat him?" cried the boys in great excitement, while
the girls held to one another, and the poor little wheel lay flat, upset
by the blows of the imaginary demijohn, dealt to an equally imaginary
wolf.

"Hardly,--since he lived to be your grandfather," laughed the old lady,
in high feather at the success of her story.

"No, no,--we mean the horse;" shouted Geoff, while the others roared at
the mistake.

"Yes, they did. Poor old Buck saved us, at the cost of his own life. His
troubles were over, but mine were not; for when I came to, I saw Mr.
Beaman, and my first thought and word was 'Joe?'"

"'Too late--they'd got him, so we turned back to tell you,' said that
stupid man.

"I gave one cry and was going off again, when his wife shook me, and
says, laughing: 'You little goose! He means the folks from the Major's.
A lot came along and found Joe, and took him home, and soon's ever
you're fit we'll send you along, too.'

"'I'm ready now,' says I, jumping up in a hurry. But I had to sit down
again, for my feet were all cut and bleeding, and my slippers just rags.
They fixed me up and off I went, to find mother in a sad taking. But Joe
was all right; he hadn't broken his leg, but only sprained it badly, and
being the wounded one he was laid up longer than I. We both got well,
however, and the first time Joe went out he hobbled over to our house. I
was spinning again then, and thought I might need my wedding outfit,
after all--On the whole, I guess we'll end the story here; young folks
wouldn't care for that part."

As grandma paused, the girls cried out with one voice: "Yes, we do! we
like it best. You said you would. Tell about the wedding and all."

"Well, well, it isn't much. Joe came and sat by me, and, as we talked
over our adventure, he cut that true lover's knot between the letters. I
didn't seem to mind, and spun away till he pointed to it, saying, with
the look that always made me meek as a lamb, 'May it stand so, my little
Betsey?'

"I said 'Yes, Joe,' and then--well, never mind that bit;--we were
married in June, and I spun and wove my wedding things afterward.
Dreadful slack, my mother thought, but I didn't care. My wedding gown
was white lutestring, full trimmed with old lace. Hair over a cushion
with white roses, and the pearl necklace, just as you see up there. Joe
wore his uniform, and I tied up his hair with a white satin ribbon. He
looked beautiful,--and so did I."

At this artless bit of vanity, the girls smiled, but all agreed that
grandma was right, as they looked at the portraits with fresh interest.

"I call that a pretty good story," said Walt, with the air of an
accomplished critic.

"'Specially the wolf part. I wanted that longer," added Geoff.

"It was quite long enough for me, my dear, and I didn't hear the last of
it for years. Why, one of my wedding presents was four hams done up
elegantly in white paper, with posies on 'em, from the Major. He loved a
joke, and never forgot how well we fought with the pigs' legs that
night. Joe gave me a new sleigh, the next Christmas, with two wolf-skin
robes for it,--shot the beasts himself, and I kept those rugs till the
moths ate the last bit. He kept the leavings of my slippers, and I have
them still. Fetch 'em, Minnie--you know where they are."

Grandma pointed to the tall secretary that stood in a corner, and Minnie
quickly took a box from one of the many drawers. All the heads clustered
around grandma, and the faded, ragged shoes went from hand to hand,
while questions rained upon the story-teller till she bade them go to
bed.

Nothing but the promise of more tales would appease them; then, with
thanks and kisses, the young folks trooped away, leaving the old lady to
put the little wheel to rights, and sit thinking over her girlhood, in
the fire-light.




[Illustration]

TABBY'S TABLE CLOTH


The storm kept on all night, and next morning the drifts were higher,
the wind stronger, and the snow falling faster than ever. Through the
day the children roved about the great house, amusing themselves as best
they could; and, when evening came, they gathered around the fire again,
eager for the promised story from grandmamma.

"I've a little cold," said the old lady, "and am too hoarse for talking,
my dears; but Aunt Elinor has looked up a parcel of old tales that I've
told her at different times and which she has written down. You will
like to hear her reading better than my dull way of telling them, and I
can help Minnie and Lotty with their work, for I see they are bent on
learning to spin."

The young folk were well pleased with grandma's proposal; for Aunt Nell
was a favorite with all, being lively and kind and fond of children, and
the only maiden aunt in the family. Now, she smilingly produced a faded
old portfolio, and, turning over a little pile of manuscripts, said in
her pleasant way:--

"Here are all sorts, picked up in my travels at home and abroad; and in
order to suit all of you, I have put the names on slips of paper into
this basket, and each can draw one in turn. Does that please my
distinguished audience?"

"Yes, yes. Geoff's the oldest, let him draw first," cried the flock,
fluttering like a flight of birds before they settle.

"Girls come first," answered the boy, with a nod toward the eldest girl
cousin.

Lotty put in her hand and, after some fumbling, drew out a paper on
which was written, "_Tabby's Table-cloth_." "Is that a good one?" she
asked, for Geoff looked disappointed.

"More fighting, though a girl is still the heroine," answered Aunt Nell,
searching for the manuscript.

"I think two revolutions will be enough for you, General," added
grandmamma, laughing.

"Do we beat in both?" asked the boy, brightening up at once.

"Yes."

"All right, then. I vote for 'Dolly's Dish-cloth,' or whatever it is;
though I don't see what it can possibly have to do with war," he added.

"Ah, my dear, women have their part to play as well as men at such
times, and do it bravely, though one does not hear so much about their
courage. I've often wished some one would collect all that can be found
about these neglected heroines, and put it in a book for us to read,
admire, and emulate when our turn comes."

Grandma looked thoughtfully at the fire as she spoke, and Lotty said,
with her eye on the portfolio: "Perhaps Aunt Nell will do it for us.
Then history won't be so dry, and we can glorify our fore-mothers as
well as fathers."

"I'll see what I can find. Now spin away, Minnie, and sit still,
boys,--if you can."

Then, having settled grandma's foot-stool, and turned up the lamp, Aunt
Nell read the tale of

                        TABBY'S TABLE-CLOTH.

On the 20th day of March, 1775, a little girl was trudging along a
country road, with a basket of eggs on her arm. She seemed in a great
hurry, and looked anxiously about her as she went; for those were
stirring times, and Tabitha Tarbell lived in a town that took a famous
part in the Revolution. She was a rosy-faced, bright-eyed lass of
fourteen, full of vigor, courage, and patriotism, and just then much
excited by the frequent rumors which reached Concord that the British
were coming to destroy the stores sent there for safe keeping while the
enemy occupied Boston. Tabby glowed with wrath at the idea, and
(metaphorically speaking) shook her fist at august King George, being a
stanch little Rebel, ready to fight and die for her country rather than
submit to tyranny of any kind.

In nearly every house something valuable was hidden. Colonel Barrett had
six barrels of powder; Ebenezer Hubbard, sixty-eight barrels of flour;
axes, tents, and spades were at Daniel Cray's; and Captain David Brown
had guns, cartridges, and musket balls. Cannon were hidden in the woods;
fire-arms were being manufactured at Barrett's Mills; cartouch-boxes,
belts, and holsters, at Reuben Brown's; saltpetre at Josiah Melvin's;
and much oatmeal was prepared at Captain Timothy Wheeler's. A morning
gun was fired, a guard of ten men patrolled the town at night, and the
brave farmers were making ready for what they felt must come.

There were Tories in the town who gave the enemy all the information
they could gather; therefore much caution was necessary in making plans,
lest these enemies should betray them. Pass-words were adopted, secret
signals used, and messages sent from house to house in all sorts of
queer ways. Such a message lay hidden under the eggs in Tabby's basket,
and the brave little girl was going on an important errand from her
uncle, Captain David Brown, to Deacon Cyrus Hosmer, who lived at the
other end of the town, by the South Bridge. She had been employed
several times before in the same way, and had proved herself
quick-witted, stout-hearted, and light-footed. Now, as she trotted along
in her scarlet cloak and hood, she was wishing she could still further
distinguish herself by some great act of heroism; for good Parson
Emerson had patted her on the head and said, "Well done, child!" when he
heard how she ran all the way to Captain Barrett's, in the night, to
warn him that Doctor Lee, the Tory, had been detected sending
information of certain secret plans to the enemy.

"I would do more than that, though it was a fearsome run through the
dark woods. Wouldn't those two like to know all I know about the
stores? But I wouldn't tell 'em, not if they drove a bayonet through me.
I'm not afeard of 'em;" and Tabby tossed her head defiantly, as she
paused to shift her basket from one arm to the other.

But she evidently was "afeard" of something, for her ruddy cheeks turned
pale and her heart gave a thump, as two men came in sight, and stopped
suddenly on seeing her. They were strangers; and though nothing in their
dress indicated it, the girl's quick eye saw that they were soldiers;
step and carriage betrayed it, and the rapidity with which these martial
gentlemen changed into quiet travellers roused her suspicions at once.
They exchanged a few whispered words; then they came on, swinging their
stout sticks, one whistling, the other keeping a keen lookout along the
lonely road before and behind them.

"My pretty lass, can you tell me where Mr. Daniel Bliss lives?" asked
the younger, with a smile and a salute.

Tabby was sure now that they were British; for the voice was deep and
full, the face a ruddy English face, and the man they wanted was a
well-known Tory. But she showed no sign of alarm, beyond the modest
color in her cheeks, and answered civilly: "Yes, sir, over yonder a
piece."

"Thanks, and a kiss for that," said the young man, stooping to bestow
his gift. But he got a smart box on the ear, and Tabby ran off in a fury
of indignation.

With a laugh they went on, never dreaming that the little Rebel was
going to turn spy herself, and get the better of them. She hurried away
to Deacon Hosmer's, and did her errand, adding thereto the news that
strangers were in town. "We must know more of them," said the Deacon.
"Clap a different suit on her, wife, and send her with the eggs to Mrs.
Bliss. We have all we want of them, and Tabby can look well about her,
while she rests and gossips over there. Bliss must be looked after
smartly, for he is a knave, and will do us harm."

Away went Tabby in a blue cloak and hood, much pleased with her mission;
and, coming to the Tory's house about noon, smelt afar off a savory odor
of roasting meat and baking pies.

Stepping softly to the back-door, she peeped through a small window, and
saw Mrs. Bliss and her handmaid cooking away in the big kitchen, too
busy to heed the little spy, who slipped around to the front of the
house, to take a general survey before she went in. All she saw
confirmed her suspicions; for in the keeping-room a table was set forth
in great style, with the silver tankards, best china, and the fine
damask table-cloth, which the housewife kept for holidays. Still another
peep through the lilac bushes before the parlor windows showed her the
two strangers closeted with Mr. Bliss, all talking earnestly, but in too
low a tone for a word to reach even her sharp ears.

"I _will_ know what they are at. I'm sure it is mischief, and I won't go
back with only my walk for my pains," thought Tabby; and marching into
the kitchen, she presented her eggs with a civil message from Madam
Hosmer.

"They are mighty welcome, child. I've used a sight for my custards, and
need more for the flip. We've company to dinner unexpected, and I'm much
put about," said Mrs. Bliss, who seemed to be concerned about something
besides the dinner, and in her flurry forgot to be surprised at the
unusual gift; for the neighbors shunned them, and the poor woman had
many anxieties on her husband's account, the family being divided,--one
brother a Tory, and one a Rebel.

"Can I help, ma'am? I'm a master hand at beating eggs, Aunt Hitty says.
I'm tired, and wouldn't mind sitting a bit if I'm not in the way," said
Tabby, bound to discover something more before she left.

"But you be in the way. We don't want any help, so you'd better be
steppin' along home, else suthin' besides eggs may git whipped.
Tale-bearers ain't welcome here," said old Puah, the maid, a sour
spinster, who sympathized with her master, and openly declared she hoped
the British would put down the Yankee Rebels soon and sharply.

Mrs. Bliss was in the pantry, and heard nothing of this little passage
of arms; for Tabby hotly resented the epithet of "tale-bearer," though
she knew that the men in the parlor were not the only spies on the
premises.

"When you are all drummed out of town and this house burnt to the
ground, you may be glad of my help, and I wish you may get it. Good-day,
old crab-apple," answered saucy Tabby; and catching up her basket, she
marched out of the kitchen with her nose in the air.

But as she passed the front of the house, she could not resist another
look at the fine dinner-table; for in those days few had time or heart
for feasting, and the best napery and china seldom appeared. One window
stood open, and as the girl leaned in, something moved under the long
cloth that swept the floor. It was not the wind, for the March day was
still and sunny, and in a minute out popped a gray cat's head, and puss
came purring to meet the new-comer whose step had roused her from a nap.

"Where one tabby hides, another can. Can I dare to do it? What would
become of me if found out? How wonderful it would be if I could hear
what these men are plotting. I will!"

A sound in the next room decided her; and, thrusting the basket among
the bushes, she leaped lightly in and vanished under the table, leaving
puss calmly washing her face on the window-sill.

As soon as it was done Tabby's heart began to flutter; but it was too
late to retreat, for at that moment in bustled Mrs. Bliss, and the poor
girl could only make herself as small as possible, quite hidden under
the long folds that fell on all sides from the wide, old-fashioned
table. She discovered nothing from the women's chat, for it ran on
sage-cheese, egg-nog, roast pork, and lamentations over a burnt pie. By
the time dinner was served, and the guests called in to eat it, Tabby
was calm enough to have all her wits about her, and pride gave her
courage to be ready for the consequences, whatever they might be.

For a time the hungry gentlemen were too busy eating to talk much; but
when Mrs. Bliss went out, and the flip came in, they were ready for
business. The window was shut, whereat Tabby exulted that she was
inside; the talkers drew closer together, and spoke so low that she
could only catch a sentence now and then, which caused her to pull her
hair with vexation; and they swore a good deal, to the great horror of
the pious little maiden curled up at their feet. But she heard enough to
prove that she was right; for these men were Captain Brown and Ensign De
Bernicre, of the British army, come to learn where the supplies were
stored and how well the town was defended. She heard Mr. Bliss tell them
that some of the "Rebels," as he called his neighbors, had sent him word
that he should not leave the town alive, and he was in much fear for his
life and property. She heard the Englishmen tell him that if he came
with them they would protect him; for they were armed, and three of them
together could surely get safely off, as no one knew the strangers had
arrived but the slip of a girl who showed them the way. Here "the slip
of a girl" nodded her head savagely, and hoped the speaker's ear still
tingled with the buffet she gave it.

Mr. Bliss gladly consented to this plan, and told them he would show
them the road to Lexington, which was a shorter way to Boston than
through Weston and Sudbury, the road they came.

"These people won't fight, will they?" asked Ensign De Bernicre.

"There goes a man who will fight you to the death," answered Mr. Bliss,
pointing to his brother Tom, busy in a distant field.

The Ensign swore again, and gave a stamp that brought his heavy heel
down on poor Tabby's hand, as she leaned forward to catch every word.
The cruel blow nearly forced a cry from her; but she bit her lips and
never stirred, though faint with pain. When she could listen again, Mr.
Bliss was telling all he knew about the hiding places of the powder,
grain, and cannon the enemy wished to capture and destroy. He could not
tell much, for the secrets had been well kept; but if he had known that
our young Rebel was taking notes of his words under his own table, he
might have been less ready to betray his neighbors. No one suspected a
listener, however, and all Tabby could do was to scowl at three pairs of
muddy boots, and wish she were a man that she might fight the wearers of
them.

She very nearly had a chance to fight or fly; for just as they were
preparing to leave the table, a sudden sneeze nearly undid her. She
thought she was lost, and hid her face, expecting to be dragged out--to
instant death, perhaps--by the wrathful men of war.

"What's that?" exclaimed the Ensign, as a sudden pause followed that
fatal sound.

"It came from under the table," added Captain Brown, and a hand lifted a
corner of the cloth.

A shiver went through Tabby, and she held her breath, with her eye upon
that big, brown hand; but the next moment she could have laughed with
joy, for pussy saved her. The cat had come to doze on her warm skirts,
and when the cloth was raised, fancying she was to be fed by her master,
puss rose and walked out purring loudly, tail erect, with its white tip
waving like a flag of truce.

"'Tis but the old cat, gentlemen. A good beast, and, fortunately for us,
unable to report our conference," said Mr. Bliss, with an air of relief,
for he had started guiltily at the bare idea of an eavesdropper.

"She sneezed as if she were as great a snuff-taker as an old woman of
whom we asked our way above here," laughed the Ensign, as they all rose.

"And there she is now, coming along as if our grenadiers were after
her!" exclaimed the Captain, as the sound of steps and a wailing voice
came nearer and nearer.

Tabby took a long breath, and vowed that she would beg or buy the dear
old cat that had saved her from destruction. Then she forgot her own
danger in listening to the poor woman, who came in crying that her
neighbors said she must leave town at once, or they would tar and
feather her for showing spies the road to a Tory's house.

"Well for me I came and heard their plots, or I might be sent off in
like case," thought the girl, feeling that the more perils she
encountered, the greater heroine she would be.

Mr. Bliss comforted the old soul, bidding her stay there till the
neighbors forgot her, and the officers gave her some money to pay for
the costly service she had done them. Then they left the room, and after
some delay the three men set off; but Tabby was compelled to stay in her
hiding-place till the table was cleared, and the women deep in gossip,
as they washed dishes in the kitchen. Then the little spy crept out
softly, and raising the window with great care, ran away as fast as her
stiff limbs would carry her.

By the time she reached the Deacon's, however, and told her tale, the
Tories were well on their way, Mr. Bliss having provided them with
horses that his own flight might be the speedier.

So they escaped; but the warning was given, and Tabby received great
praise for her hour under the table. The town's-people hastened their
preparations, and had time to remove the most valuable stores to
neighboring towns; to mount their cannon and drill their minute-men; for
these resolute farmers meant to resist oppression, and the world knows
how well they did it when the hour came.

Such an early spring had not been known for years; and by the 19th of
April fruit trees were in bloom, winter grain was up, and the stately
elms that fringed the river and overarched the village streets were
budding fast. It seemed a pity that such a lovely world should be
disturbed by strife; but liberty was dearer than prosperity or peace,
and the people leaped from their beds when young Dr. Prescott came,
riding for his life, with the message Paul Revere brought from Boston in
the night:--

"Arm! arm! the British are coming!"

Like an electric spark the news ran from house to house, and men made
ready to fight, while the brave women bade them go, and did their best
to guard the treasure confided to their keeping. A little later, word
came that the British were at Lexington, and blood had been shed. Then
the farmers shouldered their guns, with few words but stern faces, and
by sunrise a hundred men stood ready, with good Parson Emerson at their
head. More men were coming in from the neighboring towns, and all felt
that the hour had arrived when patience ceased to be a virtue and
rebellion was just.

Great was the excitement everywhere; but at Captain David Brown's one
little heart beat high with hope and fear, as Tabby stood at the door,
looking across the river to the town, where drums were beating, bells
ringing, and people hurrying to and fro.

"I can't fight, but I _must_ see," she said; and catching up her cloak,
she ran over the North Bridge, promising her aunt to return and bring
her word as soon as the enemy appeared.

"What news? Are they coming?" called the people, from the Manse and the
few houses that then stood along that road. But Tabby could only shake
her head and run the faster, in her eagerness to see what was happening
on that memorable day. When she reached the middle of the town she found
that the little company had gone along the Lexington road to meet the
enemy. Nothing daunted, she hurried in that direction and, climbing a
high bank, waited to catch a glimpse of the British grenadiers, of whom
she had heard so much.

About seven o'clock they came, the sun glittering on the arms of eight
hundred English soldiers marching toward the hundred stout-hearted
farmers, who waited till they were within a few rods of them.

"Let us stand our ground; and if we die, let us die here," said brave
Parson Emerson, still among his people, ready for anything but
surrender.

"Nay," said a cautious Lincoln man, "it will not do for us to _begin_
the war."

So they reluctantly fell back to the town, the British following slowly,
being weary with their seven-mile march over the hills from Lexington.
Coming to a little brown house perched on the hillside, one of the
thirsty officers spied a well, with the bucket swinging at the end of
the long pole. Running up the bank, he was about to drink, when a girl,
who was crouching behind the well, sprang up, and with an energetic
gesture, flung the water in his face, crying:--

"That's the way we serve spies!"

Before Ensign De Bernicre--for it was he, acting as guide to the
enemy--could clear his eyes and dry his drenched face, Tabby was gone
over the hill with a laugh and a defiant gesture toward the red-coats
below.

In high feather at this exploit, she darted about the town, watching the
British at their work of destruction. They cut down and burnt the
liberty pole, broke open sixty barrels of flour, flung five hundred
pounds of balls into the mill-pond and wells, and set the court-house on
fire. Other parties were ordered to different quarters of the town to
ransack houses and destroy all the stores they found. Captain Parsons
was sent to take possession of the North Bridge, and De Bernicre led the
way, for he had taken notes on his former visit, and was a good guide.
As they marched, a little scarlet figure went flying on before them, and
vanished at the turn of the road. It was Tabby hastening home to warn
her aunt.

"Quick child, whip on this gown and cap and hurry into bed. These prying
fellows will surely have pity on a sick girl, and respect this room if
no other," said Mrs. Brown, briskly helping Tabby into a short
night-gown and round cap, and tucking her well up when she was laid
down, for between the plump feather-beds were hidden many muskets, the
most precious of their stores. This had been planned beforehand, and
Tabby was glad to rest and tell her tale while Aunty Brown put physic
bottles and glasses on the table, set some evil-smelling herbs to simmer
on the hearth, and, compromising with her conscience, concocted a nice
little story to tell the invaders.

Presently they came, and it was well for Tabby that the ensign remained
below to guard the doors while the men ransacked the house from garret
to cellar; for he might have recognized the saucy girl who had twice
maltreated him.

"These are feathers; lift the covers carefully or you'll be half
smothered, they fly about so," said Mrs. Brown, as the men came to some
casks of cartridges and flints, which she had artfully ripped up several
pillows to conceal.

Quite deceived, the men gladly passed on, leaving the very things they
most wanted to destroy. Coming to the bed-room, where more treasures of
the same valuable sort were hidden in various nooks and corners, the
dame held up her finger, saying, with an anxious glance toward Tabby:--

"Step softly, please. You wouldn't harm a poor, sick girl. The doctor
thinks it is small-pox, and a fright might kill her. I keep the chamber
as fresh as I can with yarbs, so I guess there isn't much danger of
catching it."

The men reluctantly looked in, saw a flushed face on the pillow (for
Tabby was red with running, and her black eyes wild with excitement),
took a sniff at the wormwood and motherwort, and with a hasty glance
into a closet or two where sundry clothes concealed hidden doors,
hastily retired to report the danger and get away as soon as possible.

They would have been much disgusted at the trick played upon them if
they had seen the sick girl fly out of bed and dance a jig of joy as
they tramped away to Barrett's Mills. But soon Tabby had no heart for
merriment, as she watched the minute-men gather by the bridge, saw the
British march down on the other side, and when their first volley killed
brave Isaac Davis and Abner Hosmer, of Acton, she heard Major Buttrick
give the order, "Fire, fellow-soldiers; for God's sake, fire!"

For a little while shots rang, smoke rose, shouts were heard, and red
and blue coats mingled in the struggle on the bridge. Then the British
fell back, leaving two dead soldiers behind them. These were buried
where they fell; and the bodies of the Acton men were sent home to their
poor wives, Concord's first martyrs for liberty.

No need to tell more of the story of that day; all children know it, and
many have made a pilgrimage to see the old monument set up where the
English fell, and the bronze Minute-Man, standing on his granite
pedestal to mark the spot where the brave Concord farmers fired the shot
that made the old North Bridge immortal.

We must follow Tabby, and tell how she got her table-cloth. When the
fight was over, the dead buried, the wounded cared for, and the
prisoners exchanged, the Tories were punished. Dr. Lee was confined to
his own farm, on penalty of being shot if he left it, and the property
of Daniel Bliss was confiscated by government. Some things were sold at
auction, and Captain Brown bought the fine cloth and gave it to Tabby,
saying heartily:--

"There, my girl, that belongs to you, and you may well be proud of it;
for, thanks to your quick wits and eyes and ears, we were not taken
unawares, but sent the red-coats back faster than they came."

And Tabby _was_ proud of it, keeping it carefully, displaying it with
immense satisfaction whenever she told the story, and spinning busily to
make a set of napkins to go with it. It covered the table when her
wedding supper was spread, was used at the christening of her first boy,
and for many a Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner through the happy years
of her married life.

Then it was preserved by her daughters, as a relic of their mother's
youth, and long after the old woman was gone, the well-worn cloth still
appeared on great occasions, till it grew too thin for anything but
careful keeping, to illustrate the story so proudly told by the
grandchildren, who found it hard to believe that the feeble old lady of
ninety could be the lively lass who played her little part in the
Revolution with such spirit.

In 1861, Tabby's table-cloth saw another war, and made an honorable end.
When men were called for, Concord responded "Here!" and sent a goodly
number, led by another brave Colonel Prescott. Barretts, Hosmers,
Melvins, Browns, and Wheelers stood shoulder to shoulder, as their
grandfathers stood that day to meet the British by the bridge. Mothers
said, "Go my son," as bravely as before, and sisters and sweethearts
smiled with wet eyes as the boys in blue marched away again, cheered on
by another noble Emerson. More than one of Tabby's descendants went,
some to fight, some to nurse; and for four long years the old town
worked and waited, hoped and prayed, burying the dear dead boys sent
home, nursing those who brought back honorable wounds, and sending more
to man the breaches made by the awful battles that filled both North and
South with a wilderness of graves.

The women knit and sewed Sundays as well as weekdays, to supply the call
for clothes; the men emptied their pockets freely, glad to give; and the
minister, after preaching like a Christian soldier, took off his coat
and packed boxes of comforts like a tender father.

"More lint and bandages called for, and I do believe we've torn and
picked up every old rag in the town," said one busy lady to another, as
several sat together making comfort-bags in the third year of the long
struggle.

"I have cleared my garret of nearly everything in it, and only wish I
had more to give," answered one of the patriotic Barrett mothers.

"We can't buy anything so soft and good as worn out sheets and
table-cloths. New ones wont do, or I'd cut up every one of mine," said a
newly married Wheeler, sewing for dear life, as she remembered the many
cousins gone to the war.

"I think I shall have to give our Revolutionary table-cloth. It's old
enough, and soft as silk, and I'm sure my blessed grandmother would
think that it couldn't make a better end," spoke up white-headed Madam
Hubbard; for Tabby Tarbell had married one of that numerous and worthy
race.

"Oh, you wouldn't cut up that famous cloth, would you?" cried the
younger woman.

"Yes, I will. It's in rags, and when I'm gone no one will care for it.
Folks don't seem to remember what the women did in those days, so it's
no use keeping relics of 'em," answered the old lady, who would have
owned herself mistaken if she could have looked forward to 1876, when
the town celebrated its centennial, and proudly exhibited the little
scissors with which Mrs. Barrett cut paper for cartridges, among other
ancient trophies of that earlier day.

So the ancient cloth was carefully made into a boxful of the finest lint
and softest squares to lay on wounds, and sent to one of the Concord
women who had gone as a nurse.

"Here's a treasure!" she said, as she came to it among other comforts
newly arrived from home. "Just what I want for my brave Rebel and poor
little Johnny Bullard."

The "brave Rebel" was a Southern man who had fought well and was badly
wounded in many ways, yet never complained; and in the midst of great
suffering was always so courteous, patient, and courageous, that the men
called him "our gentleman," and tried to show how much they respected so
gallant a foe. John Bullard was an English drummer-boy, who had been
through several battles, stoutly drumming away in spite of bullets and
cannon-balls; cheering many a camp-fire with his voice, for he sang like
a blackbird, and was always merry, always plucky, and so great a
favorite in his regiment, that all mourned for "little Johnny" when his
right arm was shot off at Gettysburg. It was thought he would die; but
he pulled through the worst of it, and was slowly struggling back to
health, still trying to be gay, and beginning to chirp feebly now and
then, like a convalescent bird.

"Here, Johnny, is some splendid lint for this poor arm, and some of the
softest compresses for Carrol's wound. He is asleep, so I'll begin with
you, and while I work I'll amuse you with the story of the old
table-cloth this lint came from," said Nurse Hunt, as she stood by the
bed where the thin, white face smiled at her, though the boy dreaded the
hard quarter of an hour he had to endure every day.

"Thanky, mum. We 'aven't 'ad a story for a good bit. I'm 'arty this
mornin', and think I'll be hup by this day week, won't I?"

"I hope so. Now shut your eyes and listen; then you wont mind the
twinges I give you, gentle as I try to be," answered the nurse,
beginning her painful task.

Then she told the story of Tabby's table-cloth, and the boy enjoyed it
immensely, laughing out at the slapping and the throwing water in the
ensign's face, and openly rejoicing when the red-coats got the worst of
it.

"As we've beaten all the rest of the world, I don't mind our 'aving bad
luck that time. We har' friends now, and I'll fight for you, mum, like a
British bull-dog, if I hever get the chance," said Johnny, when the tale
and dressing were ended.

"So you shall. I like to turn a brave enemy into a faithful friend, as I
hope we shall yet be able to do with our Southern brothers. I admire
their courage and their loyalty to what they believe to be right; and we
are all suffering the punishment we deserve for waiting till this sad
war came, instead of settling the trouble years ago, as we might have
done if we had loved honesty and honor more than money and power."

As she spoke, Miss Hunt turned to her other patient, and saw by the
expression of his face that he had heard both the tale and the talk. He
smiled, and said, "Good morning," as usual, but when she stooped to lay
a compress of the soft, wet damask on the angry wound in his breast, he
whispered, with a grateful look:--

"You _have_ changed one 'Southern brother' from an enemy into a friend.
Whether I live or die, I never can forget how generous and kind you have
all been to me."

"Thank you! It is worth months of anxiety and care to hear such words.
Let us shake hands, and do our best to make North and South as good
friends as England and America now are," said the nurse, offering her
hand.

"Me, too! I've got one 'and left, and I give it ye with all me 'art. God
bless ye, sir, and a lively getting hup for the two of us!" cried
Johnny, stretching across the narrow space that divided the beds, with a
beaming face and true English readiness to forgive a fallen foe when he
had proved a brave one.

The three hands met in a warm shake, and the act was a little lesson
more eloquent than words to the lookers-on; for the spirit of
brotherhood that should bind us all together worked the miracle of
linking these three by the frail threads spun a century ago.

So Tabby's table-cloth did make a beautiful and useful end at last.




[Illustration]

ELI'S EDUCATION


"My turn now," said Walt, as they assembled again, after a busy day
spent in snow-balling, statue-making, and tumbling in the drifts that
still continued to rise on all sides.

"Here is just the story for you and Geoff. You are getting ready for
college, after years of the best schooling, and it will do you good to
hear how hard some boys have had to work to get a little learning," said
Grandma, glancing at the slip that Walt drew from the basket which Aunt
Elinor held out to him, and from which Lotty had drawn the story of
"Tabby's Table Cloth."

"This is a true tale, and the man became famous for his wisdom, as well
as much loved and honored for his virtue, and interest in all good
things," added Aunt Elinor, as she began to read the story of


                           ELI'S EDUCATION.

Many years ago, a boy of sixteen sat in a little room in an old
farm-house up among the Connecticut hills, writing busily in a book
made of odd bits of paper stitched together, with a cover formed of two
thin boards. The lid of a blue chest was his desk, the end of a tallow
candle stuck into a potato was his lamp, a mixture of soot and vinegar
his ink, and a quill from the gray goose his pen. A "Webster's
Spelling-book," "Dilworth's New Guide to the English Tongue," "Daboll's
Arithmetic," and the "American Preceptor," stood on the chimney-piece
over his head, with the "Assembly Catechism," and New Testament, in the
place of honor. This was his library; and now and then a borrowed
"Pilgrim's Progress," "Fox's Book of Martyrs," or some stray volume,
gladdened his heart; for he passionately loved books, and scoured the
neighborhood for miles around to feed this steadily increasing hunger.
Every penny he could earn or save went to buy a song or a story from the
peddlers who occasionally climbed the hill to the solitary farm-house.
When others took a noon-spell, he read under the trees or by the fire.
He carried a book in his pocket, and studied as he went with the cows to
and from the pasture, and sat late in his little room, ciphering on an
old slate, or puzzling his young brain over some question which no one
could answer for him.

His father had no patience with him, called him a shiftless dreamer, and
threatened to burn the beloved books. But his mother defended him, for
he was her youngest and the pride of her heart; so she let him scribble
all over her floors before she scrubbed them up, dipped extra thick
candles for his use, saved every scrap of paper to swell his little
store, and firmly believed that he would turn out the great man of the
family. His brothers joked about his queer ways, but in his sisters he
found firm friends and tender comforters for all his woes. So he
struggled along, working on the farm in summer and in a clock shop
during the winter, with such brief spells of schooling as he could get
between whiles, improving even these poor opportunities so well that he
was letter-writer for all the young people in the neighborhood.

Now, he was writing in his journal very slowly, but very well, shaping
his letters with unusual grace and freedom; for the wide snow-banks were
his copy-books in winter, and on their white pages he had learned to
sweep splendid capitals or link syllables handsomely together. This is
what he wrote that night, with a sparkle in the blue eyes and a firm
folding of the lips that made the boyish face resolute and manly.

     "I am set in my own mind that I get learning. I see not how, but my
     will is strong, and mother hopes for to make a scholar of me. So,
     please God, we shall do it."

Then he shut the little book and put it carefully away in the blue
chest, with pen and ink, as if they were very precious things; piously
said his prayers, and was soon asleep under the homespun coverlet,
dreaming splendid dreams, while a great bright star looked in at the low
window, as if waiting to show him the road to fortune.

And God did please to help the patient lad; only the next evening came
an opportunity he had never imagined. As he sat playing "Over the Hills
and Far Away" on the fiddle that he had himself made out of maple-wood,
with a bow strung from the tail of the old farm horse, a neighbor came
in to talk over the fall pork and cider, and tell the news.

"Ef you want ter go over the hills and far away, Eli, here's the chance.
I see a man down to Woodtick who was askin' ef I knew any likely young
chap who'd like to git 'scribers for a pious book he wants to sell. He'd
pay for the job when the names is got and the books give out. That's
ruther in your line, boy, so I calk'lated your daddy would spare you, as
you ain't much of a hand at shuckin' corn nor cartin' pummace."

"Haw! haw!" laughed the big brothers, Ambrose Vitruvius and Junius
Solomon, as neighbor Terry spoke with a sly twinkle in his eye.

But the sisters, Miranda and Pamela, smiled for joy, while the good
mother stopped her busy wheel to listen eagerly. Eli laid down his
fiddle and came to the hearth where the others sat, with such a
wide-awake expression on his usually thoughtful face that it was plain
that he liked the idea.

"I'll do it, if father'll let me," he said, looking wistfully at the
industrious man, who was shaving axe-handles for the winter
wood-chopping, after his day's work was over.

"Wal, I can spare you for a week, mebby. It's not time for the clock
shop yet, and sence you've heerd o' this, you won't do your chores
right, so you may as wal see what you can make of peddlin'."

"Thank you, sir; I'll give you all I get, to pay for my time," began
Eli, glowing with pleasure at the prospect of seeing a little of the
world; for one of his most cherished dreams was to cross the blue hills
that hemmed him in, and find what lay beyond.

"Guess I can afford to give you all you'll make this trip," answered his
father, in a tone that made the brothers laugh again.

"Boys, don't pester Eli. Every one hasn't a call to farmin', and it's
wal to foller the leadin's of Providence when they come along," said the
mother, stroking the smooth, brown head at her knee; for Eli always went
to her footstool with his sorrows and his joys.

So it was settled, and next day the boy, in his home-spun and home-made
Sunday best, set off to see his employer and secure the job. He got it,
and for three days trudged up and down the steep roads, calling at every
house with a sample of his book, the Rev. John Flavel's treatise on
"Keeping the Heart." Eli's winning face, modest manner, and earnest
voice served him well, and he got many names; for books were scarce in
those days, and a pious work was a treasure to many a good soul who
found it difficult to keep the heart strong and cheerful in troublous
times.

Then the books were to be delivered, and, anxious to save his small
earnings, Eli hired no horse to transport his load, but borrowed a
stout, green shawl from his mother, and, with his pack on his back,
marched bravely away to finish his task. His wages were spent in a new
prayer-book for his mother, smart handkerchief-pins for the faithful
sisters, and a good store of paper for himself.

This trip was so successful that he was seized with a strong desire to
try a more ambitious and extended one; for these glimpses of the world
showed him how much he had to learn, and how pleasantly he could pick up
knowledge in these flights.

"What be you a-brewdin' over now, boy? Gettin' ready for the clock shop?
It's 'most time for winter work, and Terry says you do pretty wal at
puttin' together," said the farmer, a day or two after the boy's return,
as they sat at dinner, all helping themselves from the large pewter
platter heaped with pork and vegetables.

"I was wishin' I could go South with Gad Upson. He's been twice with
clocks and notions, and wants a mate. Hoadley fits him out and pays him
a good share if he does well. Couldn't I go along? I hate that old shop,
and I know I can do something better than put together the insides of
cheap clocks."

Eli spoke eagerly, and gave his mother an imploring look which brought
her to second the motion at once, her consent having been already won.

The brothers stared as if Eli had proposed to go up in a balloon, for to
them the South seemed farther off than Africa does nowadays. The father
had evidently been secretly prepared, for he showed no surprise, and
merely paused a moment to look at his ambitious son with a glance in
which amusement and reproach were mingled.

"When a hen finds she's hatched a duck's egg, it's no use for her to
cackle; that ducklin' will take to the water in spite on her, and paddle
off, nobody knows where. Go ahead, boy, and when you get enough of
junketin' 'round the world, come home and fall to work."

"Then I _may_ go?" cried Eli, upsetting his mug of cider in his
excitement.

His father nodded, being too busy eating cabbage with a wide-bladed
green-handled knife to speak just then. Eli, red and speechless with
delight and gratitude, could only sit and beam at his family till a sob
drew his attention to sister Pamela, whose pet he was.

"Don't, Pam, don't! I'll come back all right, and bring you news and all
the pretty things I can. I _must_ go; I feel as if I couldn't breathe,
shut up here winters. I s'pose it's wicked, but I can't help it,"
whispered Eli, with his arm around his buxom eighteen-year old sister,
who laid her head on his shoulder and held him tight.

"Daughter, it's sinful to repine at the ways of Providence. I see a
leadin' plain in this, and ef _I_ can be chirk when my dear boy is
goin', 'pears to me you ought to keep a taut rein on your feelin's, and
not spile his pleasure."

The good mother's eyes were full of tears as she spoke, but she caught
up the end of her short gown and wiped them quickly away to smile on
Eli, who thanked her with a loving look.

"It's so lonesome when he's not here. What will we do evenings without
the fiddle, or Eli to read a piece in some of his books while we spin?"
said poor Pam, ashamed of her grief, yet glad to hide her tears by
affecting to settle the long wooden bodkin that held up her coils of
brown hair.

"Obed Finch will be comin' along, I guess likely, and he'll read to you
out uv Eli's book about keepin' the heart, and you'll find your'n gone
'fore you know it," said Junius Solomon, in a tone that made pretty Pam
blush and run away, while the rest laughed at her confusion.

So it was settled, and when all was ready, the boy came home to show his
equipment before he started. A very modest outfit,--only two tin trunks
slung across the shoulders, filled with jewelry, combs, lace, essences,
and small wares.

"I hate to have ye go, son, but it's better than to be mopin' to hum,
gettin' desperut for books and rilin' father. We'll all be workin' for
ye, so be chipper and do wal. Keep steddy, and don't disgrace your
folks. The Lord bless ye, my dear boy, and hold ye in the holler of his
hand!"

Her own rough hand was on his head as his mother spoke, with wet eyes,
and the tall lad kissed her tenderly, whispering, with a choke in his
throat:--

"Good-by, mammy dear; I'll remember."

Then he tramped away to join his mate, turning now and then to nod and
smile and show a ruddy face full of happiness, while the family watched
him out of sight with mingled hopes and doubts and fears.

Mails were slow in those days, but at length a letter came; and here it
is,--a true copy of one written by a boy in 1820:--

                                         NORFOLK, VA., December 4th.

     "HONORED PARENTS: I write to inform you I am safe here and to work.
     Our business is profitable, and I am fast learning the Quirks and
     Turns of trade. We are going to the eastern shore of Va.,
     calculating to be gone six weeks. The inhabitants are sociable and
     hospitable, and you need not fear I shall suffer, for I find many
     almost fathers and mothers among these good folks.

     "Taking our trunks, we travel through the country, entering the
     houses of the rich and poor, offering our goods, and earning our
     wages by the sweat of our brows. How do you think we look? Like two
     Awkward, Homespun, Tugging Yankee peddlers? No, that is not the
     case. By people of breeding we are treated with politeness and
     gentility, and the low and vulgar we do not seek. For my part, I
     enjoy travelling more than I expected. Conversation with new folks,
     observing manners and customs, and seeing the world, does me great
     good.

     "I never met a real gentleman till I came here. Their hospitality
     allows me to see and copy their fine ways of acting and speaking,
     and they put the most Bashful at ease. Gad likes the maids and
     stays in the kitchen most times. I get into the libraries and read
     when we put up nights, and the ladies are most kind to me
     everywhere.

     "I'm so tall they can't believe I'm only sixteen. They aren't as
     pretty as our rosy-faced girls, but their ways are elegant, and so
     are their clothes, tell Pam.

     "When I think how kind you were to let me come, I am full of
     gratitude. I made some verses, one day, as I waited in a hovel for
     the rain to hold up.

       "To conduce to my own and parents' good,
         Was why I left my home;
       To make their cares and burdens less,
         And try to help them some.
       'Twas my own choice to earn them cash,
         And get them free from debt;
       Before that I am twenty-one
         It shall be done, I bet.
       My parents they have done for me
         What I for them can never do,
       So if I serve them all I may,
         Sure God will help me through.
       My chief delight, therefore, shall be
         To earn them all I can,
       Not only now, but when that I
         At last am my own man.

     "These are the genuine Sentiments of your son, who returns thanks
     for the many favors you have heaped upon him, and hopes to repay
     you by his best Endeavors. Accept this letter and the inclosed
     small sum as a token of his love and respect.

                                      "Your dutiful son,

          "Tell the girls to write.                     ELI."


In reply to this, came a letter from the anxious mother, which shows not
only the tender, pious nature of the good woman, but also how much need
of education the boy had, and how well he was doing for himself:--

     "AFFECTIONATE SON: We was very glad to receave your letter. I feal
     very anctious about you this winter, and how you are a doing. You
     cannot know a mother's concern for her boy wen he is fur away. Do
     not git into bad habbits. Take the Bible for your rule and guide to
     vartue. I pray for your prosperity in all spiritall and temporrall
     things, and leave you in the care of Him who gave you breath and
     will keep you safe.

     "We are all well, and your father enjoys his helth better than last
     year. I visited Uncle Medad a spell last week. I am provided with a
     horse and shay to ride to meatin. Mr. Eben Welton took our cow and
     give us his old horse. Captain Stephen Harrington was
     excommunicated last Sabbath. Pamely goes away to learn dressmakin
     soon. I mistrust Mirandy will take up with Pennel Haskell; he is
     likely, and comes frequent. I wish you had been here a Christmas.
     We had a large company to dinner, and I got some wheat flower and
     made a fine chicken pye. Eli, I hope you attend meatin when you
     can. Do not trifle away the holy day in vane pleasures, but live to
     the glory of God, and in the fear of your parents. Father sold the
     white colt. He was too spirity, and upsat Ambrose and nigh broke
     his head. His nose is still black. Dear son: I miss you every time
     I set a platter in your place. Is your close warm and suffitient?
     Put your stockin round your throat if sore. Do you git good cyder
     to drink? Take the Pennyryal if you feal wimbly after a long spell
     of travil. The girls send love. No more now. Wright soon.

                      "Your mother,                  HANNAH GARDENER"

     "P. S.--Liddy Finch is married. Our pigs give us nine hunderd pound
     of prime pork."

Many such letters went to and fro that winter, and Eli faithfully
reported all his adventures. For he had many, and once or twice was in
danger of losing his life.

On one occasion, having parted from his mate for a day or two, wishing
to try his luck alone, our young peddler found himself, late in the
afternoon, approaching the Dismal Swamp. A tempest arose, adding to the
loneliness and terror of the hour. The cypresses uprooted by the blast
fell now and then across the road, endangering the poor boy's head. A
sluggish stream rolled through tangled junipers and beds of reeds, and
the fen on either side was full of ugly creatures, lizards, snakes, and
toads; while owls, scared by the storm, flew wildly about and hooted
dismally. Just at the height of the tumult, Eli saw three men coming
toward him, and gladly hastened to meet them, hoping to have their
company or learn of them where he could find a shelter. But their bad
faces daunted him, and he would have hurried by without speaking if they
had not stopped him, roughly demanding his name and business.

The tall stripling was brave, but his youthful face showed him to be but
a boy, and the consciousness of a well-filled purse in his pocket made
him anxious to escape. So he answered briefly, and tried to go on. But
two men held him, in spite of his struggles, while the third rifled his
pockets, broke open his trunks, and took all that was of any value in
the way of watches and jewelry. Then they left him, with a cruel joke
about a good journey, and made off with their booty. It was the first
time poor Eli had met with such a mishap, and as he stood in the rain
looking at his wares scattered about the road, he felt inclined to throw
himself into the creek, and forget his woes there among the frogs and
snakes. But he had a stout heart, and soon decided to make the best of
it, since nothing could be done to mend the matter. Gathering up his
bedraggled laces, scattered scent-bottles, and dirty buttons, pins, and
needles, he trudged sadly on, feeling that for him this was indeed a
Dismal Swamp.

"I told you we'd better stick together, but you wanted to be so dre'dful
smart, and go travellin' off alone in them out'n the way places. Might
'a' known you'd get overhauled somers. I always did think you was a
gump, Eli, and now I'm sure on't," was all the comfort Gad gave him when
they met, and the direful tale was told.

"What shall I do now?" asked the poor lad. "My notions aren't worth
selling, and my money's gone. I'll have to pay Hoadley somehow."

"You'd better foot it home and go to choppin' punkins for the cows, or
help your marm spin. I vow I never did see such a chap for gettin' into
a mess," scolded Gad, who was a true Yankee, and made a successful
trader, even in a small way.

"We'll sleep on it," said Eli, gently, and went to bed very low in his
mind.

Perhaps a few tears wet his pillow as he lay awake, and the prayers his
mother taught him were whispered in the silence of the night; for hope
revived, comfort came, and in the morning his serene face and sensible
plan proved to his irate friend that the "gump" had a wise head and a
manly heart, after all.

"Gad, it is just the time for the new almanacs, and Allen wants men to
sell 'em. I thought it was small business before, but beggars mustn't be
choosers, so I'm going right off to offer for the job 'round here. It
will do for a start, and if I'm smart, Allen will give me a better
chance maybe."

"That's a fust-rate plan. Go ahead, and I'll say a good word for you.
Allen knows me, and books is in your line, so I guess you'll do wal if
you keep out'n the mashes," answered Gad, with great good will, having
slept off his vexation.

The plan did go well, and for weeks the rosy-faced, gentle-voiced youth
might have been seen mildly offering the new almanacs at doors and
shops, and at street corners, with a wistful look in his blue eyes, and
a courtesy of manner that attracted many customers and earned many a
dollar. Several mates, envying his fine handwriting and pitying his hard
luck, took lessons in penmanship of him and paid him fairly, whereat he
rejoiced over the hours spent at home, flat on the kitchen floor, or
flourishing splendid capitals on the snow-banks, when his nose was blue
with cold and his hands half-frozen.

When the season for the yellow-covered almanacs was over, Eli, having
won the confidence of his employer, was fitted out with more notions,
and again set forth on his travels, armed, this time, and in company
with his townsman. He prospered well, and all winter trudged to and fro,
seemingly a common peddler, but really a student, making the world his
book, and bent on learning all he could. Travel taught him geography and
history, for he soon knew every corner of Virginia; looked longingly at
the ancient walls of William and Mary College, where Jefferson and
Monroe studied; where young George Washington received his surveyor's
commission, and in his later years served as Chancellor. In Yorktown, he
heard all about the siege of 1781; saw Lord Cornwallis's lodgings and
the cave named for him; met pleasant people, whose fine speech and
manners he carefully copied; read excellent books wherever he could find
them, and observed, remembered, and stored away all that he saw, heard,
and learned, to help and adorn his later life.

By spring he set out for home, having slowly saved enough to repay
Hoadley for the lost goods. But as if Providence meant to teach him
another lesson, and make him still more prudent, humble, and manly, a
sad adventure befell him on his way.

While waiting for the coaster that was to take them home, he one day
went in swimming with Gad; for this was one of the favorite pastimes of
the Connecticut boys, who on Saturday nights congregated by the score at
a pond called Benson's Pot, and leaped from the spring-board like circus
tumblers, turning somersaults into the deep water below.

It was too early for such sport now; the water was very cold, and poor
Gad, taken with cramp, nearly drowned Eli by clinging to his legs as he
went down. Freeing himself with difficulty, Eli tried to save his
friend; but the current swept the helpless man away, and he was lost.
Hurriedly dressing, Eli ran for aid, but found himself regarded with
suspicion by those to whom he told his story; for he was a stranger in
the place and certain peddlers who had gone before had left a bad name
behind them.

To his horror, he was arrested, accused of murder, and would have been
tried for his life, if Mr. Allen of Norfolk had not come to testify to
his good character, and set him free. Poor Gad's body was found and
buried, and after a month's delay, Eli set out again, alone,
heavy-hearted, and very poor, for all his own little savings had been
consumed by various expenses. Mr. Hoadley's money was untouched, but not
increased, as he hoped to have it; and rather than borrow a penny of it,
Eli landed barefooted. His boots were so old he threw them overboard,
and spent his last dollar for a cheap pair of shoes to wear when he
appeared at home, for they were not stout enough to stand travel. So,
like Franklin with his rolls, the lad ate crackers and cheese as he
trudged through the city, and set out for the far-away farm-house among
the hills.

A long journey, but a pleasant one, in spite of his troubles; for spring
made the world lovely, habit made walking no hardship, and all he had
seen in his wanderings passed before him at will, like a panorama full
of color and variety.

Letters had gone before, but it was a sad homecoming, and when all was
told, Eli said:--

"Now, father, I'll go to work. I've had my wish and enjoyed it a sight;
and would go again, but I feel as if I ought to work, as long as I can't
pay for my time."

"That's hearty, son, and I'm obleeged to ye. Hear what mother's got to
say, and then do whichever you prefer," answered the farmer, with a nod
toward his wife, who, with the girls, seemed full of some pleasant news
which they longed to tell.

"I've sold all the cloth we made last winter for a good sum, and father
says you may hev the spendin' on't. It will be enough to pay your board
down to Uncle Tillotson's while you study with him, so 's 't you kin be
gettin' ready for college next year. I've sot my heart on't, and you
musn't disapp'int me and the girls," said the good woman, with a face
full of faith and pride in her boy, in spite of all mishaps.

"Oh, mammy, how good you be! It don't seem as if I ought to take it. But
I _do_ want to go!" cried Eli, catching her round the neck in an ecstasy
of boyish delight and gratitude.

Here Miranda and Pamela appeared, bringing their homely gifts of warm
hose, and new shirts made from wool and flax grown by the father, and
spun and woven by the accomplished housewife.

A very happy youth was Eli when he again set off to the city, with his
humble outfit and slender purse, though father still looked doubtful,
and the brothers were more sure than ever that Eli was a fool to prefer
dry books to country work and fun.

A busy year followed, Eli studying, as never boy studied before, with
the excellent minister, who soon grew proud of his best pupil. Less
preparation was needed in those days, and perhaps more love and industry
went to the work; for necessity is a stern master, and poor boys often
work wonders if the spark of greatness is there.

Eli had his wish in time, and went to college, mother and sisters making
it possible by the sale of their handiwork; for the girls were famous
spinners, and the mother the best weaver in the country around. How
willingly they toiled for Eli!--rising early and sitting late, cheering
their labor with loving talk of the dear lad's progress, and an
unfailing faith in his future success. Many a long ride did that good
mother take to the city, miles away, with a great roll of cloth on the
pillion behind her to sell, that she might pay her son's college bills.
Many a coveted pleasure did the faithful sisters give up that they might
keep Eli well clothed, or send him some country dainty to cheer the
studies which seemed to them painfully hard and mysteriously precious.
Father began to take pride in the ugly duckling now, and brothers to
brag of his great learning. Neighbors came in to hear his letters, and
when vacation brought him home, the lads and lasses regarded him with a
certain awe; for his manners were better, his language purer, than
theirs, and the new life he led refined the country boy till he seemed a
gentleman.

The second year he yielded to temptation, and got into debt. Being
anxious to do credit to his family, of whom he was secretly a little
ashamed about this time, he spent money on his clothes, conscious that
he was a comely youth with a great love of beauty, and a longing for all
that cultivates and embellishes character and life. An elegant gentleman
astonished the hill folk that season, by appearing at the little church
in a suit such as the greatest rustic dandy never imagined in his
wildest dreams,--the tall white hat with rolling brim, Marseilles vest
with watch-chain and seals festooned across it, the fine blue coat with
its brass buttons, and the nankeen trousers strapped over boots so tight
that it was torture to walk in them. Armed with a cane in the
well-gloved hand, an imposing brooch in the frills of the linen shirt,
Eli sauntered across the green, the observed of all observers, proudly
hoping that the blue eyes of a certain sweet Lucinda were fixed
admiringly upon him.

The boys were the first to recover from the shock, and promptly resented
the transformation of their former butt into a city beau, by jeering
openly and affecting great scorn of the envied splendor. The poor
jackdaw, somewhat abashed at the effect of his plumes, tried to prove
that he felt no superiority, by being very affable, which won the
lasses, but failed to soften the hearts of the boys; and when he secured
the belle of the village for the Thanksgiving drive and dance, the young
men resolved that pride should have a fall.

Arrayed in all his finery, Eli drove pretty Lucinda in a smart borrowed
wagon to the tavern where the dance was held. Full of the airs and
graces he had learned at college, the once bashful, awkward Eli was the
admired of all eyes, as he pranced down the long contra-dance in the
agonizing boots, or played "threading the needle" without the least
reluctance on the part of the blushing girls to pay the fine of a kiss
when the players sung the old rhyme:--

  "The needle's eye no one can pass;
    The thread that runs so true--
  It has caught many a pretty lass,
    And now it has caught you."

But his glory was short-lived; for some enemy maliciously drew out the
linchpin from the smart wagon, and as they were gayly driving homeward
over the hills, the downfall came, and out they both went, to the great
damage of Eli's city suit, and poor Lucinda's simple finery.

Fortunately, no bones were broken, and picking themselves up, they sadly
footed it home, hoping the mishap would remain unknown. But the rogues
took care that Eli should not escape, and the whole neighborhood laughed
over the joke; for the fine hat was ruined, and the costly coat split
down the back, in the ignominious tumble.

Great was the humiliation of the poor student; for not only was he
ridiculed, but Lucinda would not forgive him, and the blue eyes smiled
upon another; worst of all, he had to confess his debts and borrow
money of his father to pay them. He meekly bore the stern rebuke that
came with the hard-earned dollars, but the sight of the tears his mother
shed, even while she comforted him, filled him with remorse. He went
back to his books, in a homespun suit, a sadder and a wiser boy, and
fell to work as if resolved to wash out past errors and regain the
confidence he had lost.

All that winter the wheels turned and the loom jangled, that the rolls
of cloth might be increased; and never was the day too cold, the way too
long, for the good mother's pious pilgrimage.

That summer, a man came home to them, shabby enough as to his clothes,
but so wonderfully improved in other ways, that not only did the women
folk glow with tender pride, but father and brothers looked at him with
respect, and owned at last there was something in Eli. "No vacation for
me," he said; "I must work to pay my debts; and as I am not of much use
here, I'll try my old plan, and peddle some money into my empty
pockets."

It was both comic and pathetic to see the shoulders that had worn the
fine broadcloth burdened with a yoke, the hands that had worn kid gloves
grasping the tin trunks, and the dapper feet trudging through dust and
dew in cow-hide boots. But the face under the old straw hat was a
manlier one than that which the tall beaver crowned, and the heart under
the rough vest was far happier than when the gold chain glittered above
it. He did so well that when he returned to college his debts were paid,
and the family faith in Eli restored.

That was an eventful year; for one brother married, and one went off to
seek his fortune, the father mortgaging his farm to give these sons a
fair start in life. Eli was to be a minister, and the farmer left his
fortunes in the hands of his wife, who, like many another good mother,
was the making of the great man of the family, and was content with that
knowledge, leaving him the glory.

The next year, Eli graduated with honor, and went home, to be received
with great rejoicing, just twenty-one, and a free man. He had longed for
this time, and planned a happy, studious life, preparing to preach the
gospel in a little parsonage of his own. But suddenly all was changed;
joy turned to sorrow, hope to doubt, and Eli was called to relinquish
liberty for duty,--to give up his own dreams of a home, to keep a roof
over the heads of the dear mother and the faithful sisters. His father
died suddenly, leaving very little for the women folk besides the
independence that lay in the skill of their own thrifty hands. The elder
brothers could not offer much help, and Eli was the one to whom the poor
souls turned in their hour of sorrow and anxiety.

"Go on, dear, and don't pester yourself about us. We can find food and
firin' here as long as the old farm is ours. I guess we can manage to
pay off the mortgage by-and-by. It don't seem as if I _could_ turn out,
after livin' here ever sense I was married, and poor father so fond
on't."

The widow covered her face with her apron, and Eli put his arms about
her, saying manfully, as he gave up all his fondest hopes for her dearer
sake--

"Cheer up, mother, and trust to me. I should be a poor fellow if I
allowed you and the girls to want, after all you've done for me. I can
get a school, and earn instead of spend. Teaching and studying can go on
together. I'm sure I shouldn't prosper if I shirked my duty, and I
won't." The three sad women clung to him, and the brothers, looking at
his brave, bright face, felt that Eli was indeed a man to lean on and to
love in times like this.

"Well," thought the young philosopher, "the Lord knows what is best for
me, and perhaps this is a part of my education. I'll try to think so,
and hope to get some good out of a hard job."

In this spirit he set about teaching, and prospered wonderfully, for his
own great love of learning made it an easy and delightful task to help
others as he had longed to be helped. His innocent and tender nature
made all children love him, and gave him a remarkable power over them;
so when the first hard months were past, and his efforts began to bear
fruit, he found that what had seemed an affliction was a blessing, and
that teaching was his special gift. Filial duty sweetened the task, a
submissive heart found happiness in self-sacrifice, and a wise soul
showed him what a noble and lovely work it was to minister to little
children,--for of such is the kingdom of heaven.

For years Eli taught, and his school grew famous; for he copied the
fashions of other countries, invented new methods, and gave himself so
entirely to his profession that he could not fail of success. The
mortgage was paid off, and Eli made frequent pilgrimages to the dear
old mother, whose staff and comfort he still was. The sisters married
well, the brothers prospered, and at thirty, the schoolmaster found a
nobler mate than pretty Lucinda, and soon had some little pupils of his
very own to love and teach.

There his youth ends; but after the years of teaching he began to preach
at last, not in one pulpit, but in many all over the land, diffusing
good thoughts now as he had peddled small wares when a boy; still
learning as he went, still loving books and studying mankind, still
patient, pious, dutiful, and tender, a wise and beautiful old man, till,
at eighty, Eli's education ended.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

ONAWANDAH


"What in the world have _I_ chosen?" exclaimed Geoff, as he drew out a
manuscript in his turn and read the queer name.

"A story that will just suit you, I think. The hero is an Indian, and a
brave one, as you will see. I learned the little tale from an old woman
who lived in the valley of the Connecticut, which the Indians called the
Long River of Pines."

With this very short preface, Aunt Elinor began to read, in her best
manner, the story of


                               ONAWANDAH.

Long ago,--when hostile Indians haunted the great forests, and every
settlement had its fort for the protection of the inhabitants,--in one
of the towns on the Connecticut River, lived Parson Bain and his little
son and daughter. The wife and mother was dead; but an old servant took
care of them, and did her best to make Reuben and Eunice good children.
Her direst threat, when they were naughty, was, "The Indians will come
and fetch you, if you don't behave." So they grew up in great fear of
the red men. Even the friendly Indians, who sometimes came for food or
powder, were regarded with suspicion by the people. No man went to work
without his gun near by. On Sundays, when they trudged to the rude
meeting-house, all carried the trusty rifle on the shoulder; and while
the pastor preached, a sentinel mounted guard at the door, to give
warning if canoes came down the river or a dark face peered from the
wood.

One autumn night, when the first heavy rains were falling and a cold
wind whistled through the valley, a knock came at the minister's door,
and, opening it, he found an Indian boy, ragged, hungry, and foot-sore,
who begged for food and shelter. In his broken way, he told how he had
fallen ill, and been left to die by enemies who had taken him from his
own people, months before; how he had wandered for days till almost
sinking; and that he had come now to ask for help, led by the hospitable
light in the parsonage window.

"Send him away, master, or harm will come of it. He is a spy, and we
shall all be scalped by the murdering Injuns who are waiting in the
wood," said old Becky, harshly; while little Eunice hid in the old
servant's ample skirts, and twelve-year-old Reuben laid his hand on his
cross-bow, ready to defend his sister if need be.

But the good man drew the poor lad in, saying, with his friendly smile:
"Shall not a Christian be as hospitable as a godless savage? Come in,
child, and be fed: you sorely need rest and shelter."

Leaving his face to express the gratitude he had no words to tell, the
boy sat by the comfortable fire and ate like a famished wolf, while
Becky muttered her forebodings and the children eyed the dark youth at a
safe distance. Something in his pinched face, wounded foot, and eyes
full of dumb pain and patience, touched the little girl's tender heart,
and, yielding to a pitiful impulse, she brought her own basin of new
milk and, setting it beside the stranger, ran to hide behind her father,
suddenly remembering that this was one of the dreaded Indians.

"That was well done, little daughter. Thou shalt love thine enemies, and
share thy bread with the needy. See, he is smiling; that pleased him,
and he wishes us to be his friends."

But Eunice ventured no more that night, and quaked in her little bed at
the thought of the strange boy sleeping on a blanket before the fire
below. Reuben hid his fears better, and resolved to watch while others
slept; but was off as soon as his curly head touched the pillow, and
dreamed of tomahawks and war-whoops till morning.

Next day, neighbors came to see the waif, and one and all advised
sending him away as soon as possible, since he was doubtless a spy, as
Becky said, and would bring trouble of some sort.

"When he is well, he may go whithersoever he will; but while he is too
lame to walk, weak with hunger, and worn out with weariness, I will
harbor him. He cannot feign suffering and starvation like this. I shall
do my duty, and leave the consequences to the Lord," answered the
parson, with such pious firmness that the neighbors said no more.

But they kept a close watch upon Onawandah, when he went among them,
silent and submissive, but with the proud air of a captive prince, and
sometimes a fierce flash in his black eyes when the other lads taunted
him with his red skin. He was very lame for weeks, and could only sit in
the sun, weaving pretty baskets for Eunice, and shaping bows and arrows
for Reuben. The children were soon his friends, for with them he was
always gentle, trying in his soft language and expressive gestures to
show his good-will and gratitude; for they defended him against their
ruder playmates, and, following their father's example, trusted and
cherished the homeless youth.

When he was able to walk, he taught the boy to shoot and trap the wild
creatures of the wood, to find fish where others failed, and to guide
himself in the wilderness by star and sun, wind and water. To Eunice he
brought little offerings of bark and feathers; taught her to make
moccasins of skin, belts of shells, or pouches gay with porcupine quills
and colored grass. He would not work for old Becky,--who plainly showed
her distrust,--saying: "A brave does not grind corn and bring wood; that
is squaw's work. Onawandah will hunt and fish and fight for you, but no
more." And even the request of the parson could not win obedience in
this, though the boy would have died for the good man.

"We can not tame an eagle as we can a barnyard fowl. Let him remember
only kindness of us, and so we turn a foe into a friend," said Parson
Bain, stroking the sleek, dark head, that always bowed before him, with
a docile reverence shown to no other living creature.

Winter came, and the settlers fared hardly through the long months, when
the drifts rose to the eaves of their low cabins, and the stores,
carefully harvested, failed to supply even their simple wants. But the
minister's family never lacked wild meat, for Onawandah proved himself a
better hunter than any man in the town; and the boy of sixteen led the
way on his snow-shoes when they went to track a bear to its den, chase
the deer for miles, or shoot the wolves that howled about their homes in
the winter nights.

But he never joined in their games, and sat apart when the young folk
made merry, as if he scorned such childish pastimes and longed to be a
man in all things. Why he stayed when he was well again, no one could
tell, unless he waited for spring to make his way to his own people. But
Reuben and Eunice rejoiced to keep him; for while he taught them many
things, he was their pupil also, learning English rapidly, and proving
himself a very affectionate and devoted friend and servant, in his own
quiet way.

"Be of good cheer, little daughter; I shall be gone but three days, and
our brave Onawandah will guard you well," said the parson, one April
morning, as he mounted his horse to visit a distant settlement, where
the bitter winter had brought sickness and death to more than one
household.

The boy showed his white teeth in a bright smile as he stood beside the
children, while Becky croaked, with a shake of the head:--

"I hope you mayn't find you've warmed a viper in your bosom, master."

Two days later, it seemed as if Becky was a true prophet, and that the
confiding minister _had_ been terribly deceived; for Onawandah went away
to hunt, and that night the awful war-whoop woke the sleeping villagers,
to find their houses burning, while the hidden Indians shot at them by
the light of the fires kindled by dusky scouts. In terror and confusion
the whites flew to the fort; and, while the men fought bravely, the
women held blankets to catch arrows and bullets, or bound up the hurts
of their defenders.

It was all over by daylight, and the red men sped away up the river,
with several prisoners, and such booty as they could plunder from the
deserted houses. Not till all fear of a return of their enemies was
over, did the poor people venture to leave the fort and seek their
ruined homes. Then it was discovered that Becky and the parson's
children were gone, and great was the bewailing, for the good man was
much beloved by all his flock.

Suddenly the smothered voice of Becky was heard by a party of visitors,
calling dolefully:--

"I am here, betwixt the beds. Pull me out, neighbors, for I am half dead
with fright and smothering."

The old woman was quickly extricated from her hiding-place, and with
much energy declared that she had seen Onawandah, disguised with
war-paint, among the Indians, and that he had torn away the children
from her arms before she could fly from the house.

"He chose his time well, when they were defenceless, dear lambs! Spite
of all my warnings, master trusted him, and this is the thanks we get.
Oh, my poor master! How can I tell him this heavy news?"

There was no need to tell it; for, as Becky sat moaning and beating her
breast on the fireless hearth, and the sympathizing neighbors stood
about her, the sound of a horse's hoofs was heard, and the parson came
down the hilly road like one riding for his life. He had seen the smoke
afar off, guessed the sad truth, and hurried on, to find his home in
ruins, and to learn by his first glance at the faces around him that his
children were gone.

When he had heard all there was to tell, he sat down upon his door-stone
with his head in his hands, praying for strength to bear a grief too
deep for words. The wounded and weary men tried to comfort him with
hope, and the women wept with him as they hugged their own babies closer
to the hearts that ached for the lost children. Suddenly a stir went
through the mournful group, as Onawandah came from the wood with a young
deer upon his shoulders, and amazement in his face as he saw the
desolation before him. Dropping his burden, he stood an instant looking
with eyes that kindled fiercely; then he came bounding toward them,
undaunted by the hatred, suspicion, and surprise plainly written on the
countenances before him. He missed his playmates, and asked but one
question:--

"The boy, the little squaw,--where gone?"

His answer was a rough one, for the men seized him and poured forth the
tale, heaping reproaches upon him for such treachery and ingratitude. He
bore it all in proud silence till they pointed to the poor father, whose
dumb sorrow was more eloquent than all their wrath. Onawandah looked at
him, and the fire died out of his eyes as if quenched by the tears he
would not shed. Shaking off the hands that held him, he went to his good
friend, saying with passionate earnestness:--

"Onawandah is _not_ traitor! Onawandah remembers! Onawandah grateful!
You believe?"

The poor parson looked up at him, and could not doubt his truth; for
genuine love and sorrow ennobled the dark face, and he had never known
the boy to lie.

"I believe and trust you still, but others will not. Go, you are no
longer safe here, and I have no home to offer you," said the parson,
sadly, feeling that he cared for none, unless his children were restored
to him.

"Onawandah has no fear. He goes; but he comes again to bring the boy,
the little squaw."

Few words, but they were so solemnly spoken that the most unbelieving
were impressed; for the youth laid one hand on the gray head bowed
before him, and lifted the other toward heaven, as if calling the Great
Spirit to hear his vow.

A relenting murmur went through the crowd, but the boy paid no heed, as
he turned away, and with no arms but his hunting knife and bow, no food
but such as he could find, no guide but the sun by day, the stars by
night, plunged into the pathless forest and was gone.

Then the people drew a long breath, and muttered to one another:--

"He will never do it, yet he is a brave lad for his years."

"Only a shift to get off with a whole skin, I warrant you. These varlets
are as cunning as foxes," added Becky, sourly.

The parson alone believed and hoped, though weeks and months went by,
and his children did not come.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meantime, Reuben and Eunice were far away in an Indian camp, resting as
best they could, after the long journey that followed that dreadful
night. Their captors were not cruel to them, for Reuben was a stout
fellow, and, thanks to Onawandah, could hold his own with the boys who
would have tormented him if he had been feeble or cowardly. Eunice also
was a hardy creature for her years, and when her first fright and
fatigue were over, made herself useful in many ways among the squaws,
who did not let the pretty child suffer greatly; though she was
neglected, because they knew no better.

Life in a wigwam was not a life of ease, and fortunately the children
were accustomed to simple habits and the hardships that all endured in
those early times. But they mourned for home till their young faces
were pathetic with the longing, and their pillows of dry leaves were
often wet with tears in the night. Their clothes grew ragged, their hair
unkempt, their faces tanned by sun and wind. Scanty food and exposure to
all weathers tried the strength of their bodies, and uncertainty as to
their fate saddened their spirits; yet they bore up bravely, and said
their prayers faithfully, feeling sure that God would bring them home to
father in His own good time.

One day, when Reuben was snaring birds in the wood,--for the Indians had
no fear of such young children venturing to escape,--he heard the cry of
a quail, and followed it deeper and deeper into the forest, till it
ceased, and, with a sudden rustle, Onawandah rose up from the brakes,
his finger on his lips to prevent any exclamation that might betray him
to other ears and eyes.

"I come for you and little Laroka" (the name he gave Eunice, meaning
"Wild Rose"). "I take you home. Not know me yet. Go and wait."

He spoke low and fast; but the joy in his face told how glad he was to
find the boy after his long search, and Reuben clung to him, trying not
to disgrace himself by crying like a girl, in his surprise and delight.

Lying hidden in the tall brakes they talked in whispers, while one told
of the capture, and the other of a plan of escape; for, though a
friendly tribe, these Indians were not Onawandah's people, and they must
not suspect that he knew the children, else they might be separated at
once.

"Little squaw betray me. You watch her. Tell her not to cry out, not
speak me any time. When I say come, we go--fast--in the night. Not ready
yet."

These were the orders Reuben received, and, when he could compose
himself, he went back to the wigwams, leaving his friend in the wood,
while he told the good news to Eunice, and prepared her for the part she
must play.

Fear had taught her self-control, and the poor child stood the test
well, working off her relief and rapture by pounding corn on the stone
mortar till her little hands were blistered, and her arms ached for
hours afterward.

Not till the next day did Onawandah make his appearance, and then he
came limping into the village, weary, lame, and half starved, after his
long wandering in the wilderness. He was kindly welcomed, and his story
believed; for he told only the first part, and said nothing of his life
among the white men. He hardly glanced at the children when they were
pointed out to him by their captors, and scowled at poor Eunice, who
forgot her part in her joy, and smiled as she met the dark eyes that
till now had always looked kindly at her. A touch from Reuben warned
her, and she was glad to hide her confusion by shaking her long hair
over her face, as if afraid of the stranger.

Onawandah took no further notice of them, but seemed to be very lame
with the old wound in his foot, which prevented his being obliged to
hunt with the men. He was resting and slowly gathering strength for the
hard task he had set himself, while he waited for a safe time to save
the children. They understood, but the suspense proved too much for
little Eunice, and she pined with impatience to be gone. She lost
appetite and color, and cast such appealing glances at Onawandah, that
he could not seem quite indifferent, and gave her a soft word now and
then, or did such acts of kindness as he could perform unsuspected. When
she lay awake at night thinking of home, a cricket would chirp outside
the wigwam, and a hand slip in a leaf full of berries, or a bark-cup of
fresh water for the feverish little mouth. Sometimes it was only a
caress or a whisper of encouragement, that re-assured the childish
heart, and sent her to sleep with a comfortable sense of love and
protection, like a sheltering wing over a motherless bird.

Reuben stood it better, and entered heartily into the excitement of the
plot; for he had grown tall and strong in these trying months, and felt
that he must prove himself a man to sustain and defend his sister.
Quietly he put away each day a bit of dried meat, a handful of parched
corn, or a well-sharpened arrowhead, as provision for the journey; while
Onawandah seemed to be amusing himself with making moccasins and a
little vest of deer-skin for an Indian child about the age of Eunice.

At last, in the early autumn, all the men went off on the war-path,
leaving only boys and women behind. Then Onawandah's eyes began to
kindle, and Reuben's heart to beat fast, for both felt that their time
for escape had come.

All was ready, and one moonless night the signal was given. A cricket
chirped shrilly outside the tent where the children slept with one old
squaw. A strong hand cut the skin beside their bed of fir-boughs, and
two trembling creatures crept out to follow the tall shadow that flitted
noiselessly before them into the darkness of the wood. Not a broken
twig, a careless step, or a whispered word betrayed them, and they
vanished as swiftly and silently as hunted deer flying for their lives.

Till dawn they hurried on, Onawandah carrying Eunice, whose strength
soon failed, and Reuben manfully shouldering the hatchet and the pouch
of food. At sunrise they hid in a thicket by a spring and rested, while
waiting for the friendly night to come again. Then they pushed on, and
fear gave wings to their feet, so that by another morning they were far
enough away to venture to travel more slowly and sleep at night.

If the children had learned to love and trust the Indian boy in happier
times, they adored him now, and came to regard him as an earthly
Providence; so faithful, brave, and tender was he,--so forgetful of
himself, so bent on saving them. He never seemed to sleep, ate the
poorest morsels, or went without any food when provision failed; let no
danger daunt him, no hardship wring complaint from him, but went on
through the wild forest, led by guides invisible to them, till they
began to hope that home was near.

Twice he saved their lives. Once, when he went in search of food,
leaving Reuben to guard his sister, the children, being very hungry,
ignorantly ate some poisonous berries which looked like wild cherries,
and were deliciously sweet. The boy generously gave most of them to
Eunice, and soon was terror-stricken to see her grow pale, and cold, and
deathly ill. Not knowing what to do, he could only rub her hands and
call wildly for Onawandah.

The name echoed through the silent wood, and, though far away, the keen
ear of the Indian heard it, his fleet feet brought him back in time, and
his knowledge of wild roots and herbs made it possible to save the child
when no other help was at hand.

"Make fire. Keep warm. I soon come," he said, after hearing the story
and examining Eunice, who could only lift her eyes to him, full of
childish confidence and patience.

Then he was off again, scouring the woods like a hound on the scent,
searching everywhere for the precious little herb that would counteract
the poison. Any one watching him would have thought him crazy, as he
rushed hither and thither, tearing up the leaves, creeping on his hands
and knees that it might not escape him, and when he found it, springing
up with a cry that startled the birds, and carried hope to poor Reuben,
who was trying to forget his own pain in his anxiety for Eunice, whom he
thought dying.

"Eat, eat, while I make drink. All safe now," cried Onawandah, as he
came leaping toward them with his hands full of green leaves, and his
dark face shining with joy.

The boy was soon relieved, but for hours they hung over the girl, who
suffered sadly, till she grew unconscious and lay as if dead. Reuben's
courage failed then, and he cried bitterly, thinking how hard it would
be to leave the dear little creature under the pines and go home alone
to father. Even Onawandah lost hope for a while, and sat like a bronze
statue of despair, with his eyes fixed on his Wild Rose, who seemed
fading away too soon.

Suddenly he rose, stretched his arms to the west, where the sun was
setting splendidly, and in his own musical language prayed to the Great
Spirit. The Christian boy fell upon his knees, feeling that the only
help was in the Father who saw and heard them even in the wilderness.
Both were comforted, and when they turned to Eunice there was a faint
tinge of color on the pale cheeks, as if the evening red kissed her; the
look of pain was gone, and she slept quietly, without the moans that had
made their hearts ache before.

"He hears! he hears!" cried Onawandah, and for the first time Reuben saw
tears in his keen eyes, as the Indian boy turned his face to the sky,
full of a gratitude that no words were sweet enough to tell.

All night Eunice lay peacefully sleeping, and the moon lighted
Onawandah's lonely watch, for Reuben was worn out with suspense, and
slept beside his sister.

In the morning she was safe, and great was the rejoicing; but for two
days the little invalid was not allowed to continue the journey, much as
they longed to hurry on. It was a pretty sight, the bed of hemlock
boughs spread under a green tent of woven branches, and on the pillow of
moss the pale child watching the flicker of sunshine through the
leaves, listening to the babble of a brook close by, or sleeping
tranquilly, lulled by the murmur of the pines. Patient, loving, and
grateful, it was a pleasure to serve her, and both the lads were
faithful nurses. Onawandah cooked birds for her to eat, and made a
pleasant drink of the wild-raspberry leaves to quench her thirst. Reuben
snared rabbits, that she might have nourishing food, and longed to shoot
a deer for provision, that she might not suffer hunger again on their
journey. This boyish desire led him deeper into the wood than it was
wise for him to go alone, for it was near nightfall, and wild creatures
haunted the forest in those days. The fire, which Onawandah kept
constantly burning, guarded their little camp where Eunice lay; but
Reuben, with no weapon but his bow and hunting knife, was beyond this
protection when he at last gave up his vain hunt and turned homeward.
Suddenly, the sound of stealthy steps startled him, but he could see
nothing through the dusk at first, and hurried on, fearing that some
treacherous Indian was following him. Then he remembered his sister, and
resolved not to betray her resting-place if he could help it, for he had
learned courage of Onawandah, and longed to be as brave and generous as
his dusky hero.

So he paused to watch and wait, and soon saw the gleam of two fiery
eyes, not behind, but above him, in a tree. Then he knew that it was an
"Indian devil," as they called a species of fierce animal that lurked in
the thickets and sprang on its prey like a small tiger.

"If I could only kill it alone, how proud Onawandah would be of me,"
thought Reuben, burning for the good opinion of his friend.

It would have been wiser to hurry on and give the beast no time to
spring; but the boy was over bold, and, fitting an arrow to the string,
aimed at the bright eye-ball and let fly. A sharp snarl showed that some
harm was done, and, rather daunted by the savage sound, Reuben raced
away, meaning to come back next day for the prize he hoped he had
secured.

But soon he heard the creature bounding after him, and he uttered one
ringing shout for help, feeling too late that he had been foolhardy.
Fortunately, he was nearer camp than he thought. Onawandah heard him,
and was there in time to receive the beast, as, mad with the pain of the
wound, it sprung at Reuben. There was no time for words, and the boy
could only watch in breathless interest and anxiety the fight which went
on between the brute and the Indian.

It was sharp but short; for Onawandah had his knife, and as soon as he
could get the snarling, struggling creature down, he killed it with a
skilful stroke. But not before it had torn and bitten him more
dangerously than he knew; for the dusk hid the wounds, and excitement
kept him from feeling them at first. Reuben thanked him heartily, and
accepted his few words of warning with grateful docility; then both
hurried back to Eunice, who till next day knew nothing of her brother's
danger.

Onawandah made light of his scratches, as he called them, got their
supper, and sent Reuben early to bed, for to-morrow they were to start
again.

Excited by his adventure, the boy slept lightly, and waking in the
night, saw by the flicker of the fire Onawandah binding up a deep wound
in his breast with wet moss and his own belt. A stifled groan betrayed
how much he suffered; but when Reuben went to him, he would accept no
help, said it was nothing, and sent him back to bed, preferring to
endure the pain in stern silence, with true Indian pride and courage.

Next morning, they set out and pushed on as fast as Eunice's strength
allowed. But it was evident that Onawandah suffered much, though he
would not rest, forbade the children to speak of his wounds, and pressed
on with feverish haste, as if he feared that his strength might not hold
out. Reuben watched him anxiously, for there was a look in his face that
troubled the boy and filled him with alarm, as well as with remorse and
love. Eunice would not let him carry her as before, but trudged bravely
behind him, though her feet ached and her breath often failed as she
tried to keep up; and both children did all they could to comfort and
sustain their friend, who seemed glad to give his life for them.

In three days they reached the river, and, as if Heaven helped them in
their greatest need, found a canoe, left by some hunter, near the shore.
In they sprang, and let the swift current bear them along, Eunice
kneeling in the bow like a little figure-head of Hope, Reuben steering
with his paddle, and Onawandah sitting with arms tightly folded over his
breast, as if to control the sharp anguish of the neglected wound. He
knew that it was past help now, and only cared to see the children safe;
then, worn out but happy, he was proud to die, having paid his debt to
the good parson, and proved that he was not a liar nor a traitor.

Hour after hour they floated down the great river, looking eagerly for
signs of home, and when at last they entered the familiar valley, while
the little girl cried for joy, and the boy paddled as he had never done
before, Onawandah sat erect, with his haggard eyes fixed on the dim
distance, and sang his death-song in a clear, strong voice,--though
every breath was pain,--bent on dying like a brave, without complaint or
fear.

At last they saw the smoke from the cabins on the hillside, and, hastily
mooring the canoe, all sprang out, eager to be at home after their long
and perilous wandering. But as his foot touched the land, Onawandah felt
that he could do no more, and stretching his arms toward the parsonage,
the windows of which glimmered as hospitably as they had done when he
first saw them, he said, with a pathetic sort of triumph in his broken
voice: "Go. I cannot. Tell the good father, Onawandah not lie, not
forget. He keep his promise."

Then he dropped upon the grass and lay as if dead, while Reuben, bidding
Eunice keep watch, ran as fast as his tired legs could carry him to tell
the tale and bring help.

The little girl did her part tenderly, carrying water in her hands to
wet the white lips, tearing up her ragged skirt to lay fresh bandages
on the wound that had been bleeding the brave boy's life away, and,
sitting by him, gathered his head into her arms, begging him to wait
till father came.

But poor Onawandah had waited too long; now he could only look up into
the dear, loving, little face bent over him, and whisper wistfully:
"Wild Rose will remember Onawandah?" as the light went out of his eyes,
and his last breath was a smile for her.

When the parson and his people came hurrying up full of wonder, joy, and
good-will, they found Eunice weeping bitterly, and the Indian boy lying
like a young warrior smiling at death.

"Ah, my neighbors, the savage has taught us a lesson we never can
forget. Let us imitate his virtues, and do honor to his memory," said
the pastor, as he held his little daughter close and looked down at the
pathetic figure at his feet, whose silence was more eloquent than any
words.

All felt it, and even old Becky had a remorseful sigh for the boy who
had kept his word so well and given back her darlings safe.

They buried him where he lay; and for years the lonely mound under the
great oak was kept green by loving hands. Wild roses bloomed there, and
the murmur of the Long River of Pines was a fit lullaby for faithful
Onawandah.




[Illustration]

Little Things


"That's the sort I like," said Geoff, as the story ended; "Onawandah was
a trump, and I'd give a good deal to know such a fellow, and go hunting
with him. Got any more like it, aunty?"

"Perhaps; but it is the girls' turn now, and here is a quiet little
story that teaches the same lesson in a different way. It contains a
hint which some of you would better take;" and Aunt Elinor glanced
around the circle with a smile that set her hearers on the alert to see
who was to be hit.

"Hope it isn't _very_ moral," said Geoff, with a boyish dislike of being
preached at.

"It won't harm you to listen, and take the moral to heart, my lad. Wild
horses, gold mines, and sea scrapes, are not the only things worth
reading about. If you ever do half so much good in the world as the
people in this story did, I shall be proud of you," answered Aunt
Elinor, so soberly that Geoff folded his hands, and tried to look meekly
impressed.

"Is it true?" asked Min.

"Yes. I heard 'Abby' tell it herself, and saw the silk stocking, and the
scar."

"That sounds _very_ interesting. I do like to hear about good clothes
and awful accidents," cried the girl, forgetting to spin, in her
eagerness to listen.

They all laughed at her odd mixture of tastes, and then heard the story
of


                           LITTLE THINGS.

Abigail sat reading "Rasselas" aloud to her father while he shaved,
pausing now and then to explain a word or correct the girl's
pronunciation; for this was a lesson, as well as a pleasure. The
handsome man, in his nankin dressing-gown, ruffled shirt, black
small-clothes, and silk stockings, stood before the tall, old-fashioned
bureau, looking often from the reflection of his own ruddy face to the
pale one beside him, with an expression of tender pride, which plainly
showed how dear his young daughter was to him.

Abby was a slender girl of fifteen, in a short-waisted gingham gown,
with a muslin tucker, dimity apron, and morocco shoes on a pair of small
feet demurely crossed before her. A blue-eyed, brown-haired little
creature, with a broad brow, and a sweet mouth, evidently both
intelligent and affectionate; for she heartily enjoyed the story, and
answered her father's approving glances with a face full of the loving
reverence so beautiful to see.

Schools were not abundant in 1815; and, after learning to read, spell,
sew, and cipher a little at some dame school, girls were left to pick
up knowledge as they could; while the brothers went to college, or were
apprenticed to some trade. But the few things they did study were well
learned; so that Abby's reading was a pleasure to hear. She wrote a
fine, clear hand, seldom misspelled a word, kept her own little
account-book in good order, and already made her father's shirts,
hemstitching the linen cambric ruffles with the daintiest skill, and
turning out button-holes any one might be proud of. These
accomplishments did not satisfy her, however, and she longed to know
much more,--to do and be something great and good,--with the sincere
longing of an earnest, thoughtful girl.

These morning talks with her father were precious half-hours to her; for
they not only read and discussed well-chosen books, but Abby opened her
heart freely, and received his wise counsels with a grateful docility
which helped to make her after-life as benevolent and blessed as his.

"I don't wonder that Rasselas wanted to get out of the Happy Valley and
see the world for himself. I often feel so, and long to go and have
adventures, like the people I read about; to do something very splendid,
and be brave and great and loved and honored," said Abby, as she closed
the book, and looked out of the open window with wistful eyes; for the
chestnut trees were rustling in the May sunshine, and spring was
stirring in the girl's heart, as well as in the budding boughs and early
flowers on the green bank below.

"Do not be in a hurry to leave your Happy Valley, my dear; but help to
keep it so by doing your part well. The happiness of life depends very
much on little things; and one can be brave and great and good while
making small sacrifices and doing small duties faithfully and
cheerfully," answered Mr. Lyon, with the look of one who practised what
he preached.

"But _my_ little things are so stupid and easy. Sewing, and learning to
pickle and preserve, and going out to tea when I don't want to, and
helping mother, are none of them romantic or exciting duties and
sacrifices. If I could take care of poor people, or be a colonel in a
splendid uniform, and march with drums and trumpets,--or even a
fire-warden, and run to save lives and property, and be loved and
thanked and trusted, as you are, I should be contented," continued Abby,
kindling at the thought; for she considered her father the noblest of
men, and glowed with pride when she saw him in his regimentals on great
occasions, or when she helped him into the leathern cap and coat, and
gave him the lantern, staff, and canvas bags he used, as fire-warden,
long before steam-engines, hook and ladder companies, and electric
alarms were dreamed of.

Mr. Lyon laughed as he washed his face at the queer, three-cornered
stand, and then sat down to have his hair tied in a queue by his
daughter, who prided herself on doing this as well as a barber.

"Ah, my girl, it's not the things that make the most noise and show that
are the bravest and the best; but the everlasting patience, charity, and
courage needed to bear our daily trials like good Christians." And the
smile changed to a sigh, for the excellent man knew the value of these
virtues, and their rarity.

"Yes, I know, sir; but it is so splendid to be a hero, and have the
world ring with one's glory, like Washington and Lafayette, or Perry,
Hull, and Lawrence," said Abby, winding the black ribbon so
energetically that it nearly broke; for her head was full of the brave
deeds performed in the wars of 1775 and 1812, the latter of which she
well remembered.

"Easy, my dear, easy!--remember that it was the faithful doing of small
things which fitted these men to do the grand deeds well, when the time
came. Heroes are not made in a minute, and we never know what we may be
called upon to live through. Train yourself now to be skilful, prompt,
courageous, and kind; then when the duty or the danger comes, you will
be prepared for it. 'Keep your spindle ready, and the Lord will send the
flax,' as the old proverb says."

"I will, father, and remember the other saying that you like and live up
to, 'Do right and leave the consequences to God,'" answered Abby, with
her arm about his neck, and a soft cheek against his, feeling that with
such an example before her she ought not to fail.

"That's my good girl! Come, now, begin at once. Here's a little thing to
do, a very homely one, but useful, and some honor may be gained by doing
it nicely; for, if you'll darn this bad rent in my new stocking, I'll
give you five dollars."

As he spoke, Mr. Lyon handed her a heavy silk stocking with a great
"barn-door" tear in the calf. He was rather proud of his handsome legs,
and dressed them with care, importing hose of unusual fineness for state
occasions; being one of the old-time gentlemen whose stately elegance
added dignity to any scene.

Abby groaned as she examined the hole torn by a nail, for it was a very
bad one, and she knew that if not well done, the costly stocking would
be ruined. She hated to darn, infinitely preferring to read, or study
Latin with her brother, instead of repairing old damask, muslin gowns,
and the family hose. But she did it well, excelling her elder sister in
this branch of needle-work; so she could not refuse, though the
sacrifice of time and taste would have been almost impossible for any
one but father.

"I'll try, sir, and you shall pay me with a kiss; five dollars is too
much for such a little thing," she said, smiling at him as she put the
stocking into the capacious pocket where girls kept housewife, scissors,
thimble, pin-ball, and a bit of lovage or flag-root in those days.

"I'm not so sure that you'll find it an easy job; but remember Bruce and
his spider, and don't be conquered by the 'little thing.' Now I must be
off. Good-by, my darling," and Mr. Lyon's dark eyes twinkled as he
thought of the task he had set her; for it seemed as if nothing short of
a miracle could restore his damaged stocking.

Abby forgot her heroics and ran to get his hat and cane, to receive his
morning kiss, and answer the salute he always paused at the street
corner to give her before he went away to the many cares and labors of
his own busy day. But while she put her little room in order, dusted the
parlor, and clapped laces for her mother, who, like most ladies long
ago, did up her own caps and turbans, Abby was thinking over the late
conversation, and wondering if strict attention to small affairs would
really lead to something good or glorious in the end.

When her other duties were done, she resolutely sat down to the detested
darn, although it would have been much pleasanter to help her sister cut
out green satin leaves and quill up pink ribbon into roses for a garland
to festoon the skirt of a new white dress.

Hour after hour she worked, slowly and carefully weaving the torn edges
together, stitch by stitch, till her eyes ached and the delicate needle
grew rusty in her warm hand. Her mother begged her to stop and rest,
sister Catharine called her to come and see how well the garland looked,
and a friend came to take her to drive. But she refused to stir, and
kept at her weaving, as patiently as King Robert's spider, picking out a
bit that puckered, turning the corner with breathless care, and rapping
it with her thimble on the wooden egg till it lay flat. Then she waited
till an iron was heated, and pressed it nicely, finishing in time to put
it on her father's bureau, where he would see it when he dressed for
dinner.

"Nearly four hours over that dreadful darn! But it's done now, and
hardly shows, so I do think I've earned my money. I shall buy that
work-box I have wanted so long. The inlaid one, with nice velvet beds
for the thimble, scissors, and bodkin, and a glass in the cover, and a
little drawer for my silk-reels. Father will like that, and I shall be
proud to show it."

These agreeable thoughts were passing through Abby's mind as she went
into the front yard for a breath of air, after her long task was over.
Tulips and hyacinths were blooming there, and, peeping through the bars
of the gate, stood a little girl wistfully watching the gay blossoms and
enjoying their perfume. Now, Abby was fond of her garden, and had been
hurrying the early flowers, that they might be ready for her father's
birthday nosegay; so her first impulse was to feign that she did not see
the child, for she did not want to give away a single tulip. But the
morning talk was fresh in her memory, and presently she thought:--

"Here is a little thing I can do;" and ashamed of the selfish impulse,
she gathered several of her finest flowers and offered them, saying
cordially:--

"I think you would like these. Please take them, and by and by when
there are more, you shall have prettier ones."

"Oh, thank you! I did want some for mamma. She is ill, and will be so
pleased," was the grateful answer, given with a little courtesy, and a
smile that made the wistful face a very happy one.

"Do you live near by?" asked Abby, seeing at once from the child's
speech and manner that she was both well-bred and grateful.

"Just around the corner. We are English, and papa is dead. Mamma kept
school in another place till she was too ill, and now I take care of her
and the children as well as I can."

The little girl of twelve, in her black frock, with a face far too old
and anxious for her years, was so innocently pathetic as she told the
sad story, that Abby's tender heart was touched, and an impetuous desire
to do something at once made her exclaim:--

"Wait a minute, and I'll send something better than flowers. Wouldn't
your mother like some wine jelly? I helped make it, and have a glassful
all my own."

"Indeed she would!" began the child, blushing with pleasure; for the
poor lady needed just such delicacies, but thought only of the
children's wants.

Waiting to hear no more, Abby ran in to get her offering, and came back
beaming with benevolent good-will.

"As it is not far and you have that big basket, I'll go with you and
help carry the things, if I may? My mother will let me, and my father
will come and see you, I'm sure, if you'd like to have him. He takes
care of everybody, and is the best and wisest man in all the world."

Lucy Mayhew accepted these kind offers with childish confidence,
thinking the young lady a sort of angel in a coal-scuttle bonnet, and
the two went chatting along, good friends at once; for Abby had most
engaging manners, and her cheerful face won its way everywhere.

She found the English family a very interesting one, for the mother was
a gentlewoman, and in sore straits now,--being unable to use her
accomplishments any longer, and failing fast, with no friends to protect
the four little children she must soon leave alone in a strange land.

"If _they_ were only cared for, I could go in peace; but it breaks my
heart to think of them in an asylum, when they need a home," said the
poor lady, telling her greatest anxiety to this sympathetic young
visitor; while Lucy regaled the noses of the eager little ones with
delicious sniffs of the pink and blue hyacinths.

"Tell father all about it, and he'll know just what to do. He always
does, and every one goes to him. May he come and see you, ma'am?" said
Abby, longing to take them all home at once.

"He will be as welcome as an angel from Heaven, my child. I am failing
very fast, and help and comfort are sorely needed," answered the
grateful woman, with wet eyes and a heart too full for many thanks.

Abby's eyes were full also, and promising to "send father soon," she
went away, little dreaming that the handful of flowers and a few kind
words were the first links in a chain of events that brought a blessing
into her own home.

She waited anxiously for her father's return, and blushed with pleasure
as he said, after examining her morning's work:--

"Wonderfully well done, my dear! Your mother says she couldn't have done
it better herself."

"I'm sorry that it shows at all; but it was impossible to hide that
corner, and if you wear it on the inside of the leg, it won't be seen
much," explained Abby, anxiously.

"It shows just enough for me to know where to point when I boast of my
girl's patience and skill. People say I'm making a blue-stocking of you,
because we read Johnson; but my black stocking will prove that I haven't
spoiled you yet," said Mr. Lyon, pinching her cheek, as they went down
to dinner arm in arm.

Literary ladies were looked upon with awe, and by many with disapproval,
in those days; so Abby's studious tastes were criticised by the good
cousins and aunts, who feared she might do something peculiar; though,
years later, they were very proud of the fine letters she wrote, and the
intellectual society which she had unconsciously fitted herself to enjoy
and adorn.

Abby laughed at her father's joke, but said no more just then; for young
people sat silent at table while their elders talked. She longed to tell
about Lucy; and when dessert came, she drew her chair near to her
father's, that she might pick the kernels from his walnuts and drop them
into his wine, waiting till he said, as usual: "Now, little girl, let's
take comfort." For both enjoyed the hour of rest he allowed himself in
the middle of the day.

On this occasion he varied the remark by adding, as he took a bill from
his pocket-book and gave it to her with a kiss: "Well-earned money, my
dear, and most cheerfully paid."

"Thank you, sir! It seems a great deal for such a small job. But I _do_
want it very much. May I tell you how I'd like to spend it, father?"
cried Abby, beaming with the sweet delight of helping others.

"Yes, child; come and tell me. Something for sister, I suspect; or a new
book, perhaps." And, drawing her to his knee, Mr. Lyon waited with a
face full of benignant interest in her little confidences.

She told her story eagerly and well, exclaiming as she ended: "And now,
I'm so glad, so very glad, I have this money, all my own, to spend for
those dear little things! I know you'll help them; but it's so nice to
be able to do my part, and giving away is such a pleasure."

"You are your father's own daughter in that, child. I must go and get my
contribution ready, or I shall be left out," said Mrs. Lyon, hastening
away to add one more charity to the many which made her quiet life so
beautiful.

"I will go and see our neighbor this evening, and you shall come with
me. You see, my girl, that the homely 'little job' is likely to be a
large and pleasant one, and you have earned your part in it. Do the duty
that comes first, and one never knows what beautiful experience it may
blossom into. Use your earnings as you like, and God bless you, my
dear."

So Abby had her part in the happy days that came to the Mayhews, and
enjoyed it more than a dozen work-boxes; while her father was never
tired of showing the handsome darn and telling the story of it.

Help and comfort were much needed around the corner; for very soon the
poor lady died. But her confidence in the new friends raised up to her
was not misplaced; and when all was over, and people asked, "What will
become of the children?" Mr. Lyon answered the sad question by leading
the four little orphans to his own house, and keeping them till good
homes were found for the three youngest.

Lucy was heart-broken, and clung to Abby in her sorrow, as if nothing
else could console her for all she had lost. No one had the heart to
speak of sending her away at present; and, before long, the grateful
little creature had won a place for herself which she never forfeited.

It was good for Abby to have a care of this sort, and her generous
nature enjoyed it thoroughly, as she played elder sister in the sweetest
way. It was her first real lesson in the charity that made her
after-life so rich and beautiful; but then she little dreamed how well
she was to be repaid for her small share in the good work which proved
to be a blessing to them all.

Soon, preparations for sister Catharine's wedding produced a pleasant
bustle in the house, and both the younger girls were as busy as bees,
helping everywhere. Dressmakers ripped and stitched upstairs, visitors
gossiped in the parlor, and cooks simmered and scolded in the kitchen;
while notable Madam Lyon presided over the household, keeping the peace
and gently bringing order out of chaos.

Abby had a new sprigged muslin frock, with a white sash, and her first
pair of silk stockings, a present from her father. A bunch of pink
roses gave the finishing touch, and she turned up her hair with a
tortoise-shell comb in honor of the occasion.

All the relations--and there were many of them--came to the wedding, and
the hospitable mansion was crowded with old and young. A fine breakfast
was prepared, a line of carriages filled the quiet street, and troops of
stately ladies and gentlemen came marching in; for the Lyons were a
much-honored family.

The interesting moment arrived at last, the minister opened his book,
the lovely bride entered with her groom, and a solemn silence fell upon
the rustling crowd. Abby was much excited, and felt that she was about
to disgrace herself by crying. Fortunately she stood near the door, and
finding that a sob _would_ come at thought of her dear sister going away
forever, she slipped out and ran upstairs to hide her tears in the back
bedroom, where she was put to accommodate guests.

As she opened the door, a puff of smoke made her catch her breath, then
run to throw open the window before she turned to look for the fallen
brand. A fire had been kindled in this room a short time before, and, to
Abby's dismay, the sudden draught fanned the smouldering sparks which
had crept from a fallen log to the mop-board and thence around the
wooden mantel-piece. A suspicious crackling was heard, little tongues of
flame darted from the cracks, and the air was full of smoke.

Abby's first impulse was to fly downstairs, screaming "Fire!" at the top
of her voice; her second was to stand still and think what to do,--for
an instant's recollection showed her what terror and confusion such a
cry would produce in the crowded house, and how unseemly a panic would
be at such a time.

"If I could only get at father! But I can't without scaring every one.
What would he do? I've heard him tell about fires, and how to put them
out; I know,--stop the draught first," and Abby shut the window. "Now
water and wet blankets," and away she ran to the bath-room, and filling
a pail, dashed the water over the burning wood. Then, pulling the
blankets from off the bed, she wet them as well as she could, and hung
them up before the fire-place, going to and fro for more water till the
smoke ceased to pour out and the crackling stopped.

These energetic measures were taken just in time to prevent a serious
fire, and when Abby dared to rest a moment, with her eyes on the
chimney, fearing the treacherous blaze might burst out in a new place,
she discovered that her clothes were wet, her face blackened, her hands
blistered, and her breath gone.

"No matter," she thought, still too much elated with her success to feel
the pain. "Father will be pleased, I know; for this is what he would
call an emergency, and I've had my wits about me. I wish mother would
come. Oh, dear! how queerly I feel--" and in the midst of her
self-congratulation, poor little Abby fainted away,--slipping to the
floor and lying there, like a new sort of Casabianca, faithful at her
post.

Lucy found her very soon, having missed her and come to look for her the
minute the service was over. Much frightened, she ran down again and
tried to tell Mr. and Mrs. Lyon quietly. But her pale face alarmed every
one, and when Abby came to herself, she was in her father's arms, being
carried from the scene of devastation to her mother's room, where a
crowd of anxious relatives received her like a conquering hero.

"Well done, my brave little fire-warden! I'm proud of you!" were the
first words she heard; and they were more reviving than the burnt
feathers under her nose, or the lavender-water plentifully sprinkled
over her by her mother and sister.

With that hearty commendation, her father left her, to see that all was
safe, and Abby found that another sort of courage was needed to support
her through the next half-hour of trial; for her hands were badly
burned, and each of the excellent relatives suggested a different
remedy.

"Flour them!" cried Aunt Sally, fanning her violently.

"Goose-oil and cotton-batting," suggested Aunt Patty.

"Nothing so good as lard," pronounced Aunt Nabby.

"I always use dry starch or a piece of salt pork," added cousin
Lucretia.

"Butter them!" commanded grandma. "That's what I did when my Joseph fell
into the boiler and came out with his blessed little legs the color of
lobsters. Butter them, Dolly."

That settled the vexed question, and Abby's hands were well buttered,
while a hearty laugh composed the spirits of the agitated party; for the
contrast between grandma's words and her splendid appearance, as she sat
erect in the big arm-chair issuing commands like a general, in
silver-gray satin and an imposing turban, was very funny.

Then Abby was left to repose, with Lucy and old Nurse beside her, while
the rest went down to eat the wedding feast and see the happy pair off
in a chaise, with the portmanteau slung underneath, on their quiet
honey-moon trip to Pomfret.

When the bustle was all over, Abby found herself a heroine in her small
circle of admiring friends and neighbors, who praised and petted her as
if she had saved the city from destruction. She needed comfort very
much; for one hand was so seriously injured that it never entirely
recovered from the deep burn, which contracted two of her finger-tips.
This was a great sorrow to the poor girl; for she could no longer play
on her piano, and was forced to content herself with singing like a lark
when all joined in the sweet old ballads forgotten now.

It was a misfortune, but it had its happy side; for, during the long
months when she was partially helpless, books were her solace, and she
studied many things which other duties or pleasures would have crowded
out, if "Abby's poor hand" had not been an excuse for such liberty and
indulgence. It did not make her selfish, however, for while regretting
her uselessness, she unexpectedly found work to do that made her own
life happy by cheering that of another.

Lucy proved to be a most intelligent child; and when Abby asked what
return she could make for all the little girl's loving service during
her trouble, she discovered that help about lessons would be the favor
most desired. Lucy's too early cares had kept her from learning much,
and now that she had leisure, weak eyes forbade study, and she longed
vainly to get on as her new friend did; for Abby was her model in all
things,--looked up to with admiration, love, and wonder.

"Father, I've been thinking that I might read Lucy's lessons to her and
hear her recite. Then she wouldn't grieve about being backward, and I
can be eyes to her as she is hands to me. I can't sew or work now, but I
can teach the little I know. May I, sir?" asked Abby, one morning, after
reading a paper in the _Spectator_, and having a pleasant talk about it
during the happy half-hour.

"A capital plan, daughter, if you are sure you can keep on. To begin and
then fail would leave the child worse off for the hope and
disappointment. It will be tiresome to go on day after day, so think
well before you propose it," answered her father, much pleased with the
idea.

"I _can_ do it, and I _will_! If I get tired, I'll look at you and
mother,--always so faithful to what you undertake,--and remember my
motto," cried Abby, anxious to follow the example set her in the daily
life of these good parents.

A hearty hand-shake rewarded her, and she set about the new task with a
resolute purpose to succeed. It was hard at first to go back to her
early lessons and read them over and over again to eager Lucy, who did
her best to understand, remember, and recite. But good-will and
gratitude worked wonders; and day after day, week after week, month
after month, the teaching went on, to the great surprise and
satisfaction of those who watched this labor of love. Both learned much,
and a very strong, sweet friendship grew up, which lasted till the young
girls became old women.

For nearly two years the daily lessons were continued; then Lucy was
ready and able to go to school, and Abby free from the duty that had
grown a pleasure. Sister Catherine being gone, she was the young lady of
the house now, and began to go to a few parties, where she distinguished
herself by her graceful dancing, and sprightly though modest manners.
She had grown strong and rosy with the exercise her sensible mother
prescribed and her energetic father encouraged, taking long walks with
her to Roxbury and Dorchester on holidays, over bridges and around the
common before breakfast each morning, till the pale little girl was a
tall and blooming creature, full of life and spirit,--not exactly
beautiful, but with a sweet, intelligent face, and the frank, cordial
ways that are so charming. Her brother Sam was very proud of her, and
liked to see her surrounded by his friends at the merry-makings to which
he escorted her; for she talked as well as she danced, and the older
gentlemen enjoyed a good chat with Miss Abby as much as the younger
ones did the elaborate pigeon-wings and pirouettes then in vogue.

Among the older men was one whom Abby much admired; for he had fought,
travelled, and studied more than most men of his age, and earned the
honors he wore so modestly. She was never tired of asking him questions
when they met, and he never seemed tired of giving long, interesting
replies; so they often sat and talked while others danced, and Abby
never guessed that he was studying her bright face and innocent heart as
eagerly as she listened to his agreeable conversation and stirring
adventures.

Presently he came to the house with brother Sam, who shared Abby's
regard for him; and there, while the young men amused themselves, or
paid their respects to the elders, one of them was still watching the
tall girl with the crown of brown hair, as she sat by her father, poured
the tea for Madam, laughed with her brother, or made bashful Lucy share
their pleasures; always so busy, dutiful, and winning, that the visitor
pronounced Mr. Lyon's the most delightful house in Boston. He heard all
the little tales of Abby's youth from Sam, and Lucy added her tribute
with the eloquence of a grateful heart; he saw how loved and trusted she
was, and he soon longed to know how she would answer the question he
desired to ask her. Having received permission from Papa, in the
decorous old style, he only waited for an opportunity to discover if
charming Abigail would consent to change her name from Lyon to Lamb;
and, as if her lesson was to be quite complete, a little thing decided
her fate and made a very happy woman of the good girl.

On Abby's seventeenth birthday, there was to be a party in her honor, at
the hospitable family mansion, to which all her friends were invited;
and, when she came down early to see that all was in order, she found
one impatient guest had already arrived.

It was not alone the consciousness that the new pink taffeta gown and
the wreath of white roses were very becoming which made her blush so
prettily as she thanked her friend for the fine nosegay he brought her,
but something in his face, though he only wished her many happy returns
in a hearty way, and then added, laughing, as the last button flew off
the glove he was awkwardly trying to fasten,--

"It is evident that you didn't sew on these buttons, Miss Abby. I've
observed that Sam's never come off, and he says you always keep them in
order."

"Let me put one on for you. It will take but a moment, and you'll be so
uncomfortable without it," said Abby, glad to find employment for her
eyes.

A minute afterward she was sorry she had offered; for he accepted the
little service with thanks, and stood watching while she sat down at her
work-table and began to sew. She was very sensitive about her hand, yet
ashamed of being so; for the scar was inside and the drawn fingers
showed very little, as it is natural to half close them. She hoped he
had never seen it, and tried to hide it as she worked. But this, or
some new consciousness, made her usually nimble fingers lose their
skill, and she knotted the silk, split the button, and dropped her
thimble, growing angry with herself for being so silly and getting so
red and flurried.

"I'm afraid I'm giving you a deal of trouble," said the gentleman, who
was watching the white hand with great interest.

"No; it is I who am foolish about my burnt hands," answered Abby, in her
frank, impetuous way. "See how ugly it is!" And she held it out, as if
to punish herself for the girlish feeling she despised.

The answer to this little outburst made her forget everything but the
sweetest pleasure and surprise; for, kissing the scarred palm with
tender respect, her lover said:--

"To me it is the finest and the dearest hand in the world. I know the
brave story, and I've seen the good this generous hand is never tired of
doing. I want it for my own. Will you give it to me, dear?"

Abby must have answered, "Yes;" for she wore a new ring under her glove
that night, and danced as if there were wings on the heels of her pink
shoes.

Whether the button ever got sewed on or not, no one knows; but that bit
of needlework was even more successful than the other small job; for in
due time there was a second wedding, without a fire, and Abby went away
to a happy home of her own, leaving sister Lucy to fill her place and be
the most loving and faithful of daughters to her benefactors while they
lived.

Long years afterward, when she had children and grandchildren about her,
listening to the true old stories that are the best, Abby used to say,
with her own cheerful laugh:--

"My father and mother taught me many useful lessons, but none more
valuable than those I learned that year; and I may honestly say that
patience, perseverance, courage, friendship, and love, came out of that
silk stocking. So let me give you this bit of advice: Don't despise
little things, my dears!"

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

The Banner of Beaumanior


Larks were singing in the clear sky over Dinan, the hill-sides were
white with hosts of blooming cherry-trees, and the valley golden with
willow blossoms. The gray tower of the good Duchess Anne was hung with
garlands of ivy and gay with tufts of fragrant wallflowers, and along
the fosse the shadows deepened daily as the young leaves thickened on
the interlacing branches overhead. Women sang while they beat their
clothes by the pool; wooden shoes clattered to and fro as the girls
brought water from the fountain in Place St. Louis; men, with their long
hair, embroidered jackets, and baggy breeches, drank cider at the inn
doors; and the great Breton horses shook their high collars till the
bells rang again, as they passed along the roads that wound between wide
fields of colza, buckwheat, and clover.

Up at the chateau, which stood near the ruins of the ancient castle, the
great banner streamed in the wind, showing, as its folds blew out, the
device and motto of the Beaumanoir--two clasped hands and the legend,
"_En tout chemin loyaute_."[1] In the courtyard, hounds brayed, horses
pranced, and servants hurried about; for the count was going to hunt the
wild boar. Presently, away they went, with the merry music of horns, the
clatter of hoofs, and the blithe ring of voices, till the pleasant
clamor died away in the distant woods, where mistletoe clung to the
great oaks, and menhirs and dolmens, mysterious relics of the Druids,
were to be seen.

[1] Always loyal.

From one of the windows of the chateau-tower a boy's face looked out,
full of eager longing,--a fine, strong face, but sullen now, with black
brows, dark, restless eyes, and lips set, as if rebellious thoughts were
stirring in his mind. He watched the gay cavalcade disappear, until a
sunny silence settled over the landscape, broken only by the larks and
the sound of a girl's voice singing. As he listened, the frown smoothed
itself from his brow, and his eye brightened when it rested on a
blue-gowned, white-capped figure, sprinkling webs of linen, spread to
bleach in the green meadow by the river Rance.

"If I may not hunt, I'll away to Yvonne[2] and take a holiday. She can
tell better tales than any in this weary book, the bane of my life!"

[2] Pronounced Evone.

As he spoke, the boy struck a volume that lay on the wide ledge, with a
petulant energy that sent it fluttering down into the court-yard below.
Half-ashamed and half-amused, young Gaston peeped to see if this random
shot had hit any one. But all was quiet and deserted now; so, with a
boyish laugh and a daring glance at the dangerous descent, he said to
the doves cooing on the roof overhead: "Here's a fine pretext for
escape. Being locked in, how can I get my lesson unless I fetch the
book? Tell no tales of the time I linger, and you shall be well fed, my
pretty birds."

Then swinging himself out as if it were no new feat, he climbed boldly
down through the ivy that half hid the carved flowers and figures which
made a ladder for his agile feet.

The moment he touched ground, he raced away like a hound in full scent
to the meadow, where he was welcomed by a rosy, brown-eyed lass, whose
white teeth shone as she laughed to see him leap the moat, dodge behind
the wall, and come bounding toward her, his hair streaming in the wind,
and his face full of boyish satisfaction in this escapade.

"The old tale," he panted, as he threw himself down upon the grass and
flung the recovered book beside him. "This dreary Latin drives me mad,
and I will _not_ waste such days as this poring over dull pages like a
priest, when I should be hunting like a knight and gentleman."

"Nay, dear Gaston, but you ought, for obedience is the first duty of the
knight, and honor of the gentleman," answered the girl, in a soft,
reproachful tone, which seemed to touch the lad, as the voice of a
master tames a high-mettled horse.

"Had Father Nevin trusted to my honor, I would not have run away; but he
locked me in, like a monk in a cell, and that I will not bear. Just one
hour, Yvonne, one little hour of freedom, then I will go back, else
there will be no sport for me to-morrow," said the lad, recklessly
pulling up the bluets that starred the grass about him.

"Ah, if I were set to such a task, I would so gladly learn it, that I
might be a fitter friend for you," said the girl, reverently turning the
pages of the book she could not read.

"No need of that; I like you as you are, and by my faith, I doubt your
great willingness, for when I last played tutor and left you to spell
out the pretty legend of St. Coventin and his little fish, I found you
fast asleep with the blessed book upon the floor," laughed Gaston,
turning the tables on his mentor, with great satisfaction.

The girl laughed also as she retorted, "My tutor should not have left me
to play with his dogs. I bore my penance better than you, and did not
run away. Come now, we'll be merry. Will you talk, or shall I sing,
while you rest this hot head, and dream of horse and hound and spearing
the wild boar?" added Yvonne, smoothing the locks of hair scattered on
the grass, with a touch as gentle as if the hand were that of a lady,
and not that of a peasant, rough with hard work.

"Since I may not play a man's part yet, amuse me like a boy, with the
old tales your mother used to tell, when we watched the fagots blaze in
the winter nights. It is long since I have heard one, and I am never
tired hearing of the deeds I mean to match, if not outdo, some day.

"Let me think a bit till I remember your favorites, and do you listen to
the bees above there in the willow, setting you a good example, idle
boy," said Yvonne, spreading a coarse apron for his head, while she sat
beside him racking her brain for tales to beguile this truant hour.

Her father was the count's forester, and when the countess had died some
sixteen years before, leaving a month-old boy, good dame Gillian had
taken the motherless baby, and nursed and reared him with her little
girl, so faithfully and tenderly that the count never could forget the
loyal service. As babies, the two slept in one cradle; as children they
played and quarrelled together; and as boy and girl they defended,
comforted, and amused each other. But time brought inevitable changes,
and both felt that the hour of separation was near; for, while Yvonne
went on leading the peasant life to which she was born, Gaston was
receiving the education befitting a young count. The chaplain taught him
to read and write, with lessons in sacred history, and a little Latin;
of the forester he learned woodcraft; and his father taught him
horsemanship and the use of arms, accomplishments considered
all-important in those days.

Gaston cared nothing for books, except such as told tales of chivalry;
but dearly loved athletic sports, and at sixteen rode the most fiery
horse without a fall, handled a sword admirably, could kill a boar at
the first shot, and longed ardently for war, that he might prove
himself a man. A brave, high-spirited, generous boy, with a very tender
spot in his heart for the good woman who had been a mother to him, and
his little foster-sister, whose idol he was. For days he seemed to
forget these humble friends, and led the gay, active life of his age and
rank; but if wounded in the chase, worried by the chaplain, disappointed
in any plan, or in disgrace for any prank, he turned instinctively to
Dame Gillian and Yvonne, sure of help and comfort for mind and body.

Companionship with him had refined the girl, and given her glimpses of a
world into which she could never enter, yet where she could follow with
eager eyes and high hopes the fortunes of this dear Gaston, who was both
her prince and brother. Her influence over him was great, for she was of
a calm and patient nature, as well as brave and prudent beyond her
years. His will was law; yet in seeming to obey, she often led him, and
he thanked her for the courage with which she helped him to control his
fiery temper and strong will. Now, as she glanced at him she saw that he
was already growing more tranquil, under the soothing influences of the
murmuring river, the soft flicker of the sunshine, and a blessed sense
of freedom.

So, while she twisted her distaff, she told the stirring tales of
warriors, saints, and fairies, whom all Breton peasants honor, love, and
fear. But best of all was the tale of Gaston's own ancestor, Jean de
Beaumanoir, "the hero of Ploermel, where, when sorely wounded and
parched with thirst, he cried for water, and Geoffrey du Bois answered,
like a grim old warrior as he was, 'Drink thy blood, Beaumanoir, and the
thirst will pass;' and he drank, and the battle madness seized him, and
he slew ten men, winning the fight against great odds, to his
everlasting glory."

"Ah, those were the times to live in! If they could only come again, I
would be a second Jean!"

Gaston sprung to his feet as he spoke, all aglow with the warlike ardor
of his race, and Yvonne looked up at him, sure that he would prove
himself a worthy descendant of the great baron and his wife, the
daughter of the brave Du Guesclin.

"But you shall not be treacherously killed, as he was; for I will save
you, as the peasant woman saved poor Giles de Bretagne when starving in
the tower, or fight for you, as Jeanne d'Arc fought for her lord,"
answered Yvonne, dropping her distaff to stretch out her hand to him;
for she, too, was on her feet.

Gaston took the faithful hand, and pointing to the white banner floating
over the ruins of the old castle, said heartily: "We will always stand
by one another, and be true to the motto of our house till death."

"We will!" answered the girl, and both kept the promise loyally, as we
shall see.

Just at that moment the sound of hoofs made the young enthusiasts start
and look toward the road that wound through the valley to the hill. An
old man on a slowly pacing mule was all they saw, but the change that
came over both was comical in its suddenness; for the gallant knight
turned to a truant school-boy, daunted by the sight of his tutor, while
the rival of the Maid of Orleans grew pale with dismay.

"I am lost if he spy me, for my father vowed I should not hunt again
unless I did my task. He will see me if I run, and where can I hide till
he has past?" whispered Gaston, ashamed of his panic, yet unwilling to
pay the penalty of his prank.

But quick-witted Yvonne saved him; for lifting one end of the long web
of linen, she showed a hollow whence some great stone had been removed,
and Gaston slipped into the green nest, over which the linen lay
smoothly when replaced.

On came the chaplain, glancing sharply about him, being of an austere
and suspicious nature. He saw nothing, however, but the peasant girl in
her quaint cap and wooden sabots, singing to herself as she leaned
against a tree, with her earthen jug in her hand. The mule paused in the
light shadow of the willows, to crop a mouthful of grass before climbing
the hill, and the chaplain seemed glad to rest a moment, for the day was
warm and the road dusty.

"Come hither, child, and give me a draught of water," he called, and the
girl ran to fill her pitcher, offering it with a low reverence.

"Thanks, daughter! A fine day for the bleaching, but over warm for much
travel. Go to your work, child; I will tarry a moment in the shade
before I return to my hard task of sharpening a dull youth's wit," said
the old man when he had drunk; and with a frowning glance at the room
where he had left his prisoner, he drew a breviary from his pocket and
began to read, while the mule browsed along the road-side.

Yvonne went to sprinkling the neglected linen, wondering with mingled
anxiety and girlish merriment how Gaston fared. The sun shone hotly on
the dry cloth, and as she approached the boy's hiding-place, a stir
would have betrayed him had the chaplain's eyes been lifted.

"Sprinkle me quickly; I am stifling in this hole," whispered an
imploring voice.

"Drink thy blood, Beaumanoir, and the thirst will pass," quoted Yvonne,
taking a naughty satisfaction in the ignominious captivity of the wilful
boy. A long sigh was the only answer he gave, and taking pity on him,
she made a little hollow in the linen where she knew his head lay, and
poured in water till a choking sound assured her Gaston had enough. The
chaplain looked up, but the girl coughed loudly, as she went to refill
her jug, with such a demure face that he suspected nothing, and
presently ambled away to seek his refractory pupil.

The moment he disappeared, a small earthquake seemed to take place under
the linen, for it flew up violently, and a pair of long legs waved
joyfully in the air as Gaston burst into a ringing laugh, which Yvonne
echoed heartily. Then, springing up, he said, throwing back his wet hair
and shaking his finger at her: "You dared not betray me, but you nearly
drowned me, wicked girl. I cannot stop for vengeance now; but I'll toss
you into the river some day, and leave you to get out as you can."

Then he was off as quickly as he came, eager to reach his prison again
before the chaplain came to hear the unlearned lesson. Yvonne watched
him till he climbed safely in at the high window and disappeared with a
wave of the hand, when she, too, went back to her work, little dreaming
what brave parts both were to play in dangers and captivities of which
these youthful pranks and perils were but a foreshadowing.

Two years later, in the month of March, 1793, the insurrection broke out
in Vendee, and Gaston had his wish; for the old count had been an
officer of the king's household, and hastened to prove his loyalty.
Yvonne's heart beat high with pride as she saw her foster-brother ride
gallantly away beside his father, with a hundred armed vassals behind
them, and the white banner fluttering above their heads in the fresh
wind.

She longed to go with him; but her part was to watch and wait, to hope
and pray, till the hour came when she, like many another woman in those
days, could prove herself as brave as a man, and freely risk her life
for those she loved.

Four months later the heavy tidings reached them that the old count was
killed and Gaston taken prisoner. Great was the lamentation among the
old men, women, and children left behind; but they had little time for
sorrow, for a band of the marauding Vendeans burned the chateau, and
laid waste the Abbey.

"Now, mother, I must up and away to find and rescue Gaston. I promised,
and if he lives, it shall be done. Let me go; you are safe now, and
there is no rest for me till I know how he fares," said Yvonne, when the
raid was over, and the frightened peasants ventured to return from the
neighboring forests, whither they had hastily fled for protection.

"Go, my girl, and bring me news of our young lord. May you lead him
safely home again to rule over us," answered Dame Gillian, devoted
still,--for her husband was reported dead with his master, yet she let
her daughter go without a murmur, feeling that no sacrifice was too
great.

So Yvonne set out, taking with her Gaston's pet dove and the little sum
of money carefully hoarded for her marriage portion. The pretty winged
creature, frightened by the destruction of its home, had flown to her
for refuge, and she had cherished it for its master's sake. Now, when it
would not leave her, but came circling around her head a league away
from Dinan, she accepted the good omen, and made the bird the companion
of her perilous journey.

There is no room to tell all the dangers, disappointments, and fatigues
endured before she found Gaston; but after being often misled by false
rumors, she at last discovered that he was a prisoner in Fort
Penthievre. His own reckless courage had brought him there; for in one
of the many skirmishes in which he had taken part, he ventured too far
away from his men, and was captured after fighting desperately to cut
his way out. Now, alone in his cell, he raged like a caged eagle,
feeling that there was no hope of escape; for the fort stood on a
plateau of precipitous rock washed on two sides by the sea. He had heard
of the massacre of the royalist emigrants who landed there, and tried to
prepare himself for a like fate, hoping to die as bravely as young
Sombreuil, who was shot with twenty others on what was afterward named
the "_Champ des Martyrs_."[3] His last words, when ordered by the
executioner to kneel, were, "I do it; but one knee I bend for my God,
the other for my king."

[3] The Field of Martyrs.

Day after day Gaston looked down from his narrow window, past which the
gulls flew screaming, and watched the fishers at their work, the women
gathering sea-weed on the shore, and the white sails flitting across the
bay of Quiberon. Bitterly did he regret the wilfulness which brought him
there, well knowing that if he had obeyed orders he would now be free to
find his father's body and avenge his death.

"Oh, for one day of liberty, one hope of escape, one friend to cheer
this dreadful solitude!" he cried, when weeks had passed and he seemed
utterly forgotten.

As he spoke, he shook the heavy bars with impotent strength, then bent
his head as if to hide even from himself the few hot tears wrung from
him by captivity and despair.

Standing so, with eyes too dim for seeing, something brushed against his
hair, and a bird lit on the narrow ledge. He thought it was a gull, and
paid no heed; but in a moment a soft coo started him, and looking up,
he saw a white dove struggling to get in.

"Blanchette!" he cried, and the pretty creature flew to his hand,
pecking at his lips in the old caressing way he knew so well.

"My faithful bird, God bless thee!" exclaimed the poor lad, holding the
dove close against his cheek to hide the trembling of his lip,--so
touched, so glad was he to find in his dreary prison even a dumb friend
and comforter.

But Blanchette had her part to play, and presently fluttered back to the
window ledge, cooing loudly as she pecked at something underneath her
wing.

Then Gaston remembered how he used to send messages to Yvonne by this
carrier-dove, and with a thrill of joy looked for the token, hardly
daring to hope that any would be found. Yes! there, tied carefully among
the white feathers, was a tiny roll of paper, with these words rudely
written on it:--

"Be ready; help will come. Y."

"The brave girl! the loyal heart! I might have known she would keep her
promise, and come to save me;" and Gaston dropped on his knees in
gratitude.

Blanchette meantime tripped about the cell on her little rosy feet, ate
a few crumbs of the hard bread, dipped her beak in the jug of water,
dressed her feathers daintily, then flew to the bars and called him. He
had nothing to send back by this sure messenger but a lock of hair, and
this he tied with the same thread, in place of the note. Then kissing
the bird he bade it go, watching the silver wings flash in the sunshine
as it flew away, carrying joy with it and leaving hope behind.

After that the little courier came often unperceived, carrying letters
to and fro; for Yvonne sent bits of paper, and Gaston wrote his answers
with his blood and a quill from Blanchette's wing. He thus learned how
Yvonne was living in a fisher's hut on the beach, and working for his
rescue as well as she dared. Every day she might be seen gathering
sea-weed on the rocks or twirling her distaff at the door of the
dilapidated hut, not as a young girl, but as an old woman; for she had
stained her fair skin, put on ragged clothes, and hidden her fresh face
under the pent-house cap worn by the women of Quiberon. Her neighbors
thought her a poor soul left desolate by the war, and let her live
unmolested. So she worked on secretly and steadily, playing her part
well, and biding her time till the long hempen rope was made, the sharp
file procured unsuspected, and a boat ready to receive the fugitives.

Her plan was perilously simple, but the only one possible; for Gaston
was well guarded, and out of that lofty cell it seemed that no prisoner
could escape without wings. A bird and a woman lent him those wings, and
his daring flight was a nine days' wonder at the fort. Only a youth
accustomed to feats of agility and strength could have safely made that
dangerous escape along the face of the cliff that rose straight up from
the shore. But Gaston was well trained, and the boyish pranks that used
to bring him into dire disgrace now helped to save his life.

Thus, when the order came, written in the rude hand he had taught Yvonne
long ago, "Pull up the thread which Blanchette will bring at midnight.
Watch for a light in the bay. Then come down, and St. Barbe protect
you," he was ready; for the tiny file of watch-spring, brought by the
bird, had secretly done its work, and several bars were loose. He knew
that the attempt might cost him his life, but was willing to gain
liberty even at that price; for imprisonment seemed worse than death to
his impatient spirit. The jailer went his last round, the great bell
struck the appointed hour, and Gaston stood at the window, straining his
eyes to catch the first ray of the promised light, when the soft whir of
wings gladdened his ear, and Blanchette arrived, looking scared and wet
and weary, for rain fell, the wind blew fitfully, and the poor bird was
unused to such wild work as this. But obedient to its training, it flew
to its master; and no angel could have been more welcome than the
storm-beaten little creature as it nestled in his bosom, while he
untangled the lengths of strong thread wound about one of its feet.

He knew what to do, and tying a bit of the broken bar to one end, as a
weight, he let it down, praying that no cruel gust would break or blow
it away. In a moment a quick jerk at the thread bade him pull again. A
cord came up, and when that was firmly secured, a second jerk was the
signal for the last and most important haul. Up came the stout rope,
knotted here and there to add safety and strength to the hands and feet
that were to climb down that frail ladder, unless some cruel fate dashed
the poor boy dead upon the rocks below. The rope was made fast to an
iron staple inside, the bars were torn away, and Gaston crept through
the narrow opening to perch on the ledge without, while Blanchette flew
down to tell Yvonne he was coming.

The moment the distant spark appeared, he bestirred himself, set his
teeth, and boldly began the dangerous descent. Rain blinded him, the
wind beat him against the rock, bruising hands and knees, and the way
seemed endless, as he climbed slowly down, clinging with the clutch of a
drowning man, and blessing Yvonne for the knots that kept him from
slipping when the gusts blew him to and fro. More than once he thought
it was all over; but the good rope held fast, and strength and courage
nerved heart and limbs. One greater than St. Barbe upheld him, and he
dropped at last, breathless and bleeding, beside the faithful Yvonne.

There was no time for words, only a grasp of the hand, a sigh of
gratitude, and they were away to the boat that tossed on the wild water
with a single rower in his place.

"It is our Hoel. I found him looking for you. He is true as steel. In,
in, and off, or you are lost!" whispered Yvonne, flinging a cloak about
Gaston, thrusting a purse, a sword, and a flask into his hand, and
holding the boat while he leaped in.

"But you?" he cried; "I cannot leave you in peril, after all you have
dared and done for me."

"No one suspects me; I am safe. Go to my mother; she will hide you, and
I will follow soon."

Waiting for no further speech, she pushed the boat off, and watched it
vanish in the darkness; then went away to give thanks, and rest after
her long work and excitement.

Gaston reached home safely, and Dame Gillian concealed him in the ruins
of the Abbey, till anxiety for Yvonne drove him out to seek and rescue
in his turn. For she did not come, and when a returning soldier brought
word that she had been arrested in her flight, and sent to Nantes,
Gaston could not rest, but disguising himself as a peasant, went to find
her, accompanied by faithful Hoel, who loved Yvonne, and would gladly
die for her and his young master. Their hearts sunk when they discovered
that she was in the Boufflay, an old fortress, once a royal residence,
and now a prison, crowded with unfortunate and innocent creatures,
arrested on the slightest pretexts, and guillotined or drowned by the
infamous Carrier. Hundreds of men and women were there, suffering
terribly, and among them was Yvonne, brave still, but with no hope of
escape; for few were saved, and then only by some lucky accident. Like a
sister of mercy she went among the poor souls crowded together in the
great halls, hungry, cold, sick, and despairing, and they clung to her
as if she were some strong, sweet saint who could deliver them or teach
them how to die.

After some weeks of this terrible life, her name was called one
morning, on the list for that day's execution, and she rose to join the
sad procession setting forth.

"Which is it to be?" she asked, as she passed one of the men who guarded
them, a rough fellow, whose face was half hidden by a shaggy beard.

"You will be drowned; we have no time to waste on women;" was the brutal
answer; but as the words passed his lips, a slip of paper was pressed
into her hand, and these words breathed into her ear by a familiar
voice: "I am here!"

It was Gaston, in the midst of enemies, bent on saving her at the risk
of his life, remembering all he owed her, and the motto of his race. The
shock of this discovery nearly betrayed them both, and turned her so
white that the woman next her put her arm about her, saying sweetly:--

"Courage, my sister; it is soon over."

"I fear nothing now!" cried Yvonne, and went on to take her place in the
cart, looking so serene and happy that those about her thought her
already fit for heaven.

No need to repeat the dreadful history of the Noyades; it is enough to
say that in the confusion of the moment Yvonne found opportunity to read
and destroy the little paper, which said briefly:--

"When you are flung into the river, call my name and float. I shall be
near."

She understood, and being placed with a crowd of wretched women on the
old vessel which lay in the river Loire, she employed every moment in
loosening the rope that tied her hands, and keeping her eye on the
tall, bearded man who moved about seeming to do his work, while his
blood boiled with suppressed wrath, and his heart ached with unavailing
pity. It was dusk before the end came for Yvonne, and she was all
unnerved by the sad sights she had been forced to see; but when rude
hands seized her, she made ready for the plunge, sure that Gaston would
"be near." He was, for in the darkness and uproar, he could leap after
her unseen, and while she floated, he cut the rope, then swam down the
river with her hand upon his shoulder till they dared to land. Both were
nearly spent with the excitement and exertion of that dreadful hour; but
Hoel waited for them on the shore and helped Gaston carry poor Yvonne
into a deserted house, where they gave her fire, food, dry garments, and
the gladdest welcome one human creature ever gave to another.

Being a robust peasant, the girl came safely through hardships that
would have killed or crazed a frailer creature; and she was soon able to
rejoice with the brave fellows over this escape, so audaciously planned
and so boldly carried out. They dared stay but a few hours, and before
dawn were hastening through the least frequented ways toward home,
finding safety in the distracted state of the country, which made
fugitives no unusual sight, and refugees plentiful. One more adventure,
and that a happy one, completed their joy, and turned their flight into
a triumphant march.

Pausing in the depths of the great forest of Hunaudaye to rest, the two
young men went to find food, leaving Yvonne to tend the fire and make
ready to cook the venison they hoped to bring. It was nightfall, and
another day would see them in Dinan, they hoped; but the lads had
consented to pause for the girl's sake, for she was worn out with their
rapid flight. They were talking of their adventures in high spirits,
when Gaston laid his hand on Hoel's mouth and pointed to a green slope
before them. An early moon gave light enough to show them a dark form
moving quickly into the coppice, and something like the antlers of a
stag showed above the tall brakes before they vanished. "Slip around and
drive him this way. I never miss my aim, and we will sup royally
to-night," whispered Gaston, glad to use the arms with which they had
provided themselves.

Hoel slipped away, and presently a rustle in the wood betrayed the
cautious approach of the deer. But he was off before a shot could be
fired, and the disappointed hunters followed long and far, resolved not
to go back empty-handed. They had to give it up, however, and were
partially consoled by a rabbit, which Hoel flung over his shoulder,
while Gaston, forgetting caution, began to sing an old song the women of
Brittany love so well:--

  "Quand vous etiez, captif, Bertrand, fils de Bretagne,
  Tous les fuseaux tournaient aussi dans la campagne."

He got no further, for the stanza was finished by a voice that had often
joined in the ballad, when Dame Gillian sang it to the children, as she
spun:--

  "Chaque femme apporte son echeveau de lin;
  Ce fut votre rancon, Messire du Guesclin."

Both paused, thinking that some spirit of the wood mocked them; but a
loud laugh, and a familiar "Holo! holo!" made Hoel cry, "The forester!"
while Gaston dashed headlong into the thicket whence the sound came,
there to find the jolly forester, indeed, with a slain deer by his side,
waiting to receive them with open arms.

"I taught you to stalk the deer, and spear the boar, not to hunt your
fellow-creatures, my lord. But I forgive you, for it was well done, and
I had a hard run to escape," he said, still laughing.

"But how came you here?" cried both the youths, in great excitement; for
the good man was supposed to be dead, with his old master.

"A long tale, for which I have a short and happy answer. Come home to
supper with me, and I'll show you a sight that will gladden hearts and
eyes," he answered, shouldering his load and leading the way to a
deserted hermitage, which had served many a fugitive for a shelter. As
they went, Gaston poured out his story, and told how Yvonne was waiting
for them in the wood.

"Brave lads! and here is your reward," answered the forester, pushing
open the door and pointing to the figure of a man, with a pale face and
bandaged head, lying asleep beside the fire.

It was the count, sorely wounded, but alive, thanks to his devoted
follower, who had saved him when the fight was over; and after weeks of
concealment, suffering, and anxiety, had brought him so far toward
home.

No need to tell of the happy meeting that night, nor of the glad return;
for, though the chateau was in ruins and lives were still in danger,
they all were together, and the trials they had passed through only made
the ties of love and loyalty between high and low more true and tender.
Good Dame Gillian housed them all, and nursed her master back to health.
Yvonne and Hoel had a gay wedding in the course of time, and Gaston went
to the wars again. A new chateau rose on the ruins of the old, and when
the young lord took possession, he replaced the banner that was lost
with one of fair linen, spun and woven by the two women who had been so
faithful to him and his, but added a white dove above the clasped hands
and golden legend, never so true as now,--

                         "En tout chemin loyaute."




[Illustration]

JERSEYS OR THE GIRLS' GHOST:


"Well, what do you think of her? She has only been here a day, but it
doesn't take _us_ long to make up our minds," said Nelly Blake, the
leader of the school, as a party of girls stood chatting round the
register one cold November morning.

"I like her, she looks so fresh and pleasant, and so strong. I just
wanted to go and lean up against her, when my back ached yesterday,"
answered Maud, a pale girl wrapped in a shawl.

"I'm afraid she's very energetic, and I do hate to be hurried," sighed
plump Cordelia, lounging in an easy chair.

"I know she is, for Biddy says she asked for a pail of cold water at six
this morning, and she's out walking now. Just think how horrid," cried
Kitty with a shiver.

"I wonder what she does for her complexion. Never saw such a lovely
color. Real roses and cream," said Julia, shutting one eye to survey the
freckles on her nose, with a gloomy frown.

"I longed to ask what sort of braces she wears, to keep her so straight.
I mean to by and by; she looks as if she wouldn't snub a body;" and
Sally vainly tried to square her own round shoulders, bent with much
poring over books, for she was the bright girl of the school.

"She wears French corsets, of course. Nothing else gives one such a fine
figure," answered Maud, dropping the shawl to look with pride at her own
wasp-like waist and stiff back.

"Couldn't move about so easily and gracefully if she wore a
strait-jacket like you. She's not a bit of a fashion plate, but a
splendid woman, just natural and hearty and sweet. I feel as if I
shouldn't slouch and poke so much if I had her to brace me up," cried
Sally, in her enthusiastic way.

"I know one thing, girls, and that is, _she_ can wear a jersey and have
it set elegantly, and _we_ can't," said Kitty, laboring with her own,
which would wrinkle and twist, in spite of many hidden pins.

"Yes, I looked at it all breakfast time, and forgot my second cup of
coffee, so my head aches as if it would split. Never saw anything fit so
splendidly in my life," answered Nelly, turning to the mirror, which
reflected a fine assortment of many colored jerseys; for all the girls
were out in their fall suits, and not one of the new jackets set like
Miss Orne's, the teacher who had arrived to take Madame's place while
that excellent old lady was laid up with a rheumatic fever.

"They are pretty and convenient, but I'm afraid they will be a trial to
some of us. Maud and Nelly look the best, but they have to keep stiff
and still, or the wrinkles come. Kit has no peace in hers, and poor
Cordy looks more like a meal bag than ever, while I am a perfect
spectacle, with my round shoulders and long thin arms. 'A jersey on a
bean-pole' describes me; but let us be in the fashion or die," laughed
Sally, exaggerating her own defects by poking her head forward and
blinking through her glasses in a funny way.

There was a laugh and then a pause, broken in a moment by Maud, who
said, in a tone of apprehension:

"I do hope Miss Orne isn't full of the new notions about clothes and
food and exercise and rights and rubbish of that sort. Mamma hates such
ideas, and so do I."

"I hope she _is_ full of good, wise notions about health and work and
study. It is just what we need in this school. Madame is old and lets
things go, and the other teachers only care to get through and have an
easy time. We ought to be a great deal better, brisker, and wiser than
we are, and I'm ready for a good stirring up if any one will give it to
us," declared Sally, who was a very independent girl and had read as
well as studied much.

"You Massachusetts girls are always raving about self-culture, and ready
for queer new ways. I'm contented with the old ones, and want to be let
alone and finished off easily," said Nelly, the pretty New Yorker.

"Well, I go with Sally, and want to get all I can in the way of health,
learning, and manners while I'm here; and I'm real glad Miss Orne has
come, for Mada

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