The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe; Or, There's No Place Like Home
by Amanda M. Douglas · English · Gutenberg #43659 · 481,866 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe; Or, There's No Place Like Home
Author: Amanda M. Douglas
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THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE
Or
There's No Place Like Home
by
AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
Author of "In Trust," "The Kathie Stories," etc.
Boston
Lee and Shepard, 47 Franklin Street
New York
Charles T. Dillingham. 678 Broadway
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
William F. Gill & Co.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
In Remembrance
OF
_MANY PLEASANT HOURS SPENT AT WOODSIDE_,
This Story
OF LOVE AND FAITH, OF WORK AND WAITING, AND THE GENTLE
VIRTUES THAT ARE NONE THE LESS HEROIC FOR
BLOOMING IN THE CENTRE OF THE
HOME CIRCLE,
_IS DEDICATED TO THE HAPPY HOUSEHOLD_
OF
MR. and MRS. A. C. NEUMANN.
* * * * * *
THE DOUGLAS NOVELS.
BY MISS AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.
_Uniform Volumes. Price $1.50 Each._
FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR.
"Fascinating throughout, and worthy of the reputation of the
author."--_Philadelphia Methodist._
WHOM KATHIE MARRIED.
Kathie was the heroine of the popular series of Kathie Stories for
young people, the readers of which were very anxious to know with whom
Kathie settled down in life. Hence this story, charmingly written.
LOST IN A GREAT CITY.
"There is the power of delineation and robustness of expression that
would credit a masculine hand in the present volume, and the reader
will at no stage of the reading regret having commenced its perusal. In
some parts it is pathetic, even to eloquence."--_San Francisco Post._
THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE.
"The romances of Miss Douglas's creation are all thrillingly
interesting."--_Cambridge Tribune._
HOPE MILLS; or, Between Friend and Sweetheart.
"Amanda Douglas is one of the favorite authors of American
novel-readers."--_Manchester Mirror._
FROM HAND TO MOUTH.
"There is real satisfaction in reading this book, from the fact that we
can so readily 'take it home' to ourselves."--_Portland Argus._
NELLY KINNARD'S KINGDOM.
"The Hartford Religious Herald" says, "This story is so fascinating,
that one can hardly lay it down after taking it up."
IN TRUST; or, Dr. Bertrand's Household.
"She writes in a free, fresh, and natural way; and her characters are
never overdrawn."--_Manchester Mirror._
CLAUDIA.
"The plot is very dramatic, and the _dénoûment_ startling. Claudia, the
heroine, is one of those self-sacrificing characters which it is the
glory of the female sex to produce."--_Boston Journal._
STEPHEN DANE.
"This is one of this author's happiest and most successful attempts at
novel-writing, for which a grateful public will applaud her."--_Herald._
HOME NOOK: or, the Crown of Duty.
"An interesting story of home-life, not wanting in incident, and
written in forcible and attractive style."--_New York Graphic._
SYDNIE ADRIANCE; or, Trying the World.
"The works of Miss Douglas have stood the test of popular judgment, and
become the fashion. They are true, natural in delineation, pure and
elevating in their tone."--_Express, Easton, Penn._
SEVEN DAUGHTERS.
The charm of the story is the perfectly natural and home-like air which
pervades it.
_Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of
price._
LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.
* * * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE.
JOE'S GRAND DISCOVERY 7
CHAPTER II.
PLANNING IN THE TWILIGHT 22
CHAPTER III.
A CHANCE FOR FLOSSY 36
CHAPTER IV.
THE IDENTICAL SHOE 52
CHAPTER V.
GOOD LUCK FOR JOE 68
CHAPTER VI.
FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES 84
CHAPTER VII.
THE OLD TUMBLER, AFTER ALL 103
CHAPTER VIII.
FLORENCE IN STATE 120
CHAPTER IX.
FOURTH OF JULY 137
CHAPTER X.
WHICH SHOULD SHE CHOOSE? 154
CHAPTER XI.
OUT OF THE OLD HOME-NEST 172
CHAPTER XII.
JOE'S FORTUNE 191
CHAPTER XIII.
FROM GRAY SKIES TO BLUE 209
CHAPTER XIV.
A FLOWER-GARDEN INDOORS 225
CHAPTER XV.
HOW CHARLIE RAN AWAY 244
CHAPTER XVI.
ALMOST DISCOURAGED 262
CHAPTER XVII.
LOST AT SEA 282
CHAPTER XVIII.
A SONG IN THE NIGHT 299
CHAPTER XIX.
IN THE OLD HOME-NEST AGAIN 317
CHAPTER XX.
WHEREIN THE OLD SHOE BECOMES CROWDED 337
CHAPTER XXI.
HOW THE DREAMS CAME TRUE 352
CHAPTER XXII.
CHRISTMASTIDE 366
THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME.
CHAPTER I.
JOE'S GRAND DISCOVERY.
Hal sat trotting Dot on his knee,--poor little weazen-faced Dot, who
was just getting over the dregs of the measles, and cross accordingly.
By way of accompaniment he sang all the Mother Goose melodies that he
could remember. At last he came to,--
"There was an old woman who lived in a shoe:
She had so many children she didn't know what to do;
To some she gave broth without any bread,"--
and Harry stopped to catch his breath, for the trotting was of the
vigorous order.
"And a thrashing all round, and sent them to bed!"
finished Joe, thrusting his shaggy head in at the window after the
fashion of a great Newfoundland dog.
Dot answered with a piteous cry,--a sort of prolonged wail,
heart-rending indeed.
"Serve you right," said Joe, going through an imaginary performance
with remarkably forcible gestures.
"For shame, Joe! You were little once yourself, and I dare say cried
when you were sick. I always thought it very cruel, that, after being
deprived of their supper, they should be"--
"Thrashed! Give us good strong Saxon for once, Flossy!"
Flossy was of the ambitious, correct, and sentimental order. She had
lovely light curls, and soft white hands when she did not have to work
too hard, which she never did of her own free will. She thought it
dreadful to be so poor, and aspired to a rather aristocratic ladyhood.
"I am sorry you were not among them," she replied indignantly. "You're
a hard-hearted, cruel boy!"
"When the thrashings went round? You're a c-r-u-e-l girl!" with a
prodigious length of accent. "Why, I get plenty of 'em at school."
"'Trot, trot, trot. There was an old woman'--what are you laughing at,
Joe?" and Hal turned red in the face.
"I've just made a brilliant discovery. O my poor buttons! remember
Flossy's hard labor and many troubles, and do not _bust_! Why, we're
the very children!"
At this, Joe gave a sudden lurch: you saw his head, and then you saw
his heels, and the patch on the knee of his trousers, ripped partly off
by an unlucky nail, flapped in the breeze; and he was seated on the
window-sill right side up with care, drumming both bare heels into the
broken wall. He gave a prolonged whistle of satisfaction, made big eyes
at Dot, and then said again,--
"Yes, we are the _very_ children!"
"What children? Joe, you are the noisiest boy in Christendom!"
"Flossy, the old woman who lived in a shoe is Granny, and no mistake!
I can prove it logically. Look at this old tumble-down rookery: it is
just the shape of a huge shoe, sloping gradually to the toe, which is
the shed-end here. It's brown and rusty and cracked and patched: it
wants heeling and toeing, and to be half-soled, greased to keep the
water out, and blacked to make it shine. It was a famous seven-leaguer
in its day; but, when it had lost its virtue, the giant who used to
wear it kicked it off by the roadside, little dreaming that it would be
transformed into a cabin for the aforesaid old woman. And here we all
are sure enough! Sometimes we get broth, and sometimes we don't."
Dot looked up in amazement at this harangue, and thrust her thumbs
in her mouth. Hal laughed out-right,--a soft little sound like the
rippling of falling water.
"Yes, a grand discovery! Ladies and gentlemen of the nineteenth
century, I rise to get up, to speak what I am about to say; and I hope
you will treasure the words of priceless wisdom that fall from my lips.
I'm not backward about coming forward"--
Joe was balancing himself very nicely, and making tremendous
flourishes, when two brown, dimpled hands scrubbed up the shock of
curly hair, and the sudden onslaught destroyed his equilibrium, as
Flossy would have said, and down he went on the floor in crab fashion,
looking as if he were all arms and legs.
"Charlie, you midget! just wait till I catch you. I haven't the broth,
but the other thing will do as well."
But Charlie was on the outside; and her little brown, bare feet were
as fleet as a deer's. Joe saw her skimming over the meadow; but the
afternoon was very warm, and a dozen yards satisfied him for a race, so
he turned about.
"Joe, you might take Dot a little while, I think," said Hal
beseechingly, as Joe braced himself against the door-post. "I've held
her all the afternoon."
"She won't come--will you, Dot?"
But Dot signified her gratification by stretching out her hands. Joe
was a good-natured fellow; and, though he might have refused Hal
easily, he couldn't resist Dot's tender appeal, so he took her on his
shoulder and began trotting off to Danbury Cross. Dot laughed out of
her sleepy eyes, highly delighted at this change in the programme.
"Oh, dear!" and Hal rubbed his tired arms. "I shouldn't think
grandmother would know what to do, sure enough! What a host of us there
are,--six children!"
"I'm sure I do my best," said Flossy with a pathetic little sniff. "But
it's very hard to be an orphan and poor."
"And when there are six of us, and we are all orphans, and all poor, it
must be six times as hard," put in Joe with a sly twinkle.
Then he changed Dot from her triumphal position on his shoulder to a
kind of cradle in his arms. Her eyelids drooped, and she began to croon
a very sleepy tune.
Hal looked out of the window, over to the woods, where the westward
sun was making a wonderful land of gold and crimson. Sometimes he
had beautiful dreams of that softened splendor, but now they were
mercenary. If one could only coin it all into money! There was poor
grandmother slaving away, over at Mrs. Kinsey's,--she should come home,
and be a princess, to say the very least.
"I guess I'll clear up a bit!" said Hal, coming down from the clouds,
and glancing round at the disorderly room. "Granny will be most tired
to death when her day's work is done. Flossy, if you wouldn't mind
going in the other room."
Flossy gathered up her skirts and her crocheting, and did not take the
invitation at all amiss.
Then Hal found the stubby broom, and swept the floor; dusted the
mantle, after removing an armful of "trash;" went at the wooden chairs,
that had once been painted a gorgeous yellow with green bars; and
cleared a motley accumulation of every thing off of the table, hanging
up two or three articles, and tucking the rest into a catch-all closet.
A quaint old pitcher, that had lost both spout and handle, was emptied
of some faded flowers, and a fresh lot cut,--nothing very choice; but
the honeysuckle scented the room, and the coxcombs gave their crimson
glow to the top of the pyramid.
"Why, Mrs. Betty," said Joe, "you've made quite a palace out of your
end of the shoe, and this miserable little Dot has gone to sleep at
last. Shall I put her in the cradle, or drop her down the well?"
Hal smiled a little, and opened the door. It was the best room, quite
large, uncarpeted, but clean; and though the bed was covered with a
homemade spread, it was as white as it could be. The cradle was not
quite as snowy; for the soiled hands that tumbled Dot in and out left
some traces.
To get her safely down was a masterpiece of strategy. Joe bumped her
head; and Hal took her in his arms, hushing her in a low, motherly
fashion, and pressing his brown cheek to hers, which looked the color
of milk that had been skimmed, and then split in two, and skimmed
again. She made a dive in Hal's hair with her little bird's claw of a
hand, but presently dropped asleep again.
"I guess she'll take a good long nap," whispered Hal, quite relieved.
"I'm sure she ought," sighed Florence.
Hal went back to his housekeeping. He was as handy as a girl, any day.
He pulled some radishes, and put them in a bowl of cold water, and
chopped some lettuce and onions together, the children were all so fond
of it. Then he gleaned the raspberries, and filled the saucer with
currants that were not salable.
Joe, in the meanwhile, had gone after Mrs. Green's cows. She gave them
a quart of milk daily for driving the cows to and from the pasture, and
doing odd chores.
"If you see the children, send them home," had been Hal's parting
injunction. "Grandmother will soon be here."
She came before Joe returned. The oddest looking little old woman that
you ever saw. Florence, at fourteen, was half a head taller. Thin and
wrinkled and sunburned; her flaxen hair turning to silver, and yet
obstinately full of little curls; her blue eyes pale and washed out,
and hosts of "crows'-feet" at the corners; and her voice cracked and
tremulous.
Poor Grandmother Kenneth! She had worked hard enough in her day, and
was still forced to keep it up, now that it was growing twilight with
her. But I don't believe there was another as merry a houseful of
children in all Madison.
Joe's discovery was not far out of the way. The old woman, whose
biography and family troubles were so graphically given by Mother
Goose, died long before our childhood; but I think Granny Kenneth must
have looked like her, though I fancy she was better natured. As for
the children, many and many a time she had not known what to do with
them,--when they were hungry, when they were bad, when their clothes
were worn out and she had nothing to make new ones with, when they had
no shoes; and yet she loved the whole six, and toiled for them without
a word of complaint.
Her only son, Joe, had left them to her,--a troublesome legacy indeed;
but at that time they had a mother and a very small sum of money.
Mrs. Joe was a pretty, helpless, inefficient body, who continually
fretted because Joe did not get rich. When the poor fellow lay on his
death-bed, his disease aggravated by working when he was not able, he
twined his arms around his mother's neck, and cried with a great gasp,--
"You'll be kind to them, mother, and look after them a little. God will
help you, I know. I should like to live for their sakes."
A month or two after this, Dot was born. Now that her dear Joe was
dead, there was no comfort in the world; so the frail, pretty little
thing grieved herself away, and went to sleep beside him in the
churchyard.
The neighbors made a great outcry when Grandmother Kenneth took the
children to her own little cottage.
"What could she do with them? Why, they will all starve in a bunch,"
said one.
"Florence and Joe might be bound out," proposed another.
A third was for sending them to the almshouse, or putting them in some
orphan asylum; but five years had come and gone, and they had not
starved yet, though once or twice granny's heart had quaked for fear.
Every one thought it would be such a blessing if Dot would only die.
She had been a sight of trouble during the five years of her life.
First, she had the whooping cough, which lasted three times as long as
with any ordinary child. Then she fell out of the window, and broke her
collar-bone; and when she was just over that, it was the water-pox. The
others had the mumps, and Dot's share was the worst of all. Kit had the
measles in the lightest possible form, and actually had to be tied in
bed to make him stay there; while it nearly killed poor Dot, who had
been suffering from March to midsummer, and was still poor as a crow,
and cross as a whole string of comparisons.
But Granny was patient with it all. The very sweetest old woman in the
world, and the children loved her in their fashion; but they seldom
realized all that she was doing for them. And though some of her
neighbors appreciated the toil and sacrifice, the greater part of them
thought it very foolish for her to be slaving herself to death for a
host of beggarly grandchildren.
"Well, Hal!" she exclaimed in her rather shrill but cheery voice,
"how's the day gone?"
"Pretty well: but you're tired to death. I suppose Mrs. Kinsey's
company came, and there was a grand feast?"
"Grand! I guess it was. Such loads of pies and puddings and kettles of
berries and tubs of cream"--
Granny paused, out of breath from not having put in any commas.
"Ice-cream, you mean? Freezers, they call 'em."
"You do know every thing, Hal!" And granny laughed. "I can't get all
the new-fangled names and notions in my head. There was Grandmother
Kinsey, neat as a new pin, and children and grandchildren, and aunts
and cousins. But it was nice, Hal."
The boy smiled, thinking of them all.
"Half of the goodies'll spile, I know. Mrs. Kinsey packed me a great
basket full; and, Hal, here's two dollars. I'm clean tuckered out."
"Then you just sit still, and let me 'tend to you. Dot's asleep; and if
I haven't worried with her this afternoon! That child ought to grow up
a wonder, she's been so much trouble to us all. Joe's gone after the
cows, and Florence is busy as a bee. Oh, what a splendid basket full!
Why, we shall feast like kings!"
With that Hal began to unpack,--a plate full of cut cake, biscuits by
the dozen, cold chicken, delicious slices of ham, and various other
delicacies.
"We'll only have a few to-night," said Hal economically. "'Tisn't every
day that we have such a windfall. I'll put these out of the children's
sight; for there they come."
The "children" were Charlie and Kit, with barely a year between; Kit
being seven, and Charlie--her real name was Charlotte, but she was such
a tomboy that they gave her the nickname--was about eight. Hal was
ten, and Joe twelve.
"Children," said Hal, "don't come in till you've washed yourselves. Be
quiet, for Dot is asleep."
Thus admonished, Charlie did nothing worse than pour a basin of water
over Kit, who sputtered and scolded and kicked until Hal rushed out to
settle them.
"If you're not quiet, you shall not have a mouthful of supper; and
we've lots of goodies."
Kit began to wash the variegated streaks from his face. Charlie
soused her head in a pail of water, and shook it like a dog, then ran
her fingers through her hair. It was not as light or silken as that
of Florence, and was cropped close to her head. Kit's was almost as
black as a coal; and one refractory lock stood up. Joe called it his
"scalp-lock waving in the breeze."
"Now, Charlie, pump another pail of water. There comes Joe, and we'll
have supper."
Charlie eyed Joe distrustfully, and hurried into the house. Hal hung up
Granny's sun-bonnet, and placed the chairs around.
"Come, Florence," he said, opening the door softly.
"My eyes!" ejaculated Joe in amaze. "Grandmother, you're a trump."
"Joe!" exclaimed Hal reproachfully.
Joe made amends by kissing Granny in the most rapturous fashion. Then
he escorted her to the table in great state.
"Have you been good children to-day?" she asked, as they assembled
round the table.
"I've run a splinter in my toe; and, oh! my trousers are torn!"
announced Kit dolefully.
"If you ever had a whole pair of trousers at one time the world would
come to an end," declared Joe sententiously.
"Would it?" And Kit puzzled his small brain over the connection.
"And Charlie preserves a discreet silence. Charlie, my dear, I advise
you to keep out of the way of the ragmen, or you will find yourself on
the road to the nearest paper-mill."
Florence couldn't help laughing at the suggestion.
"Children!" said their grandmother.
Full of fun and frolic as they were, the little heads bowed reverently
as Granny asked her simple blessing. She would as soon have gone
without eating as to omit that.
"I really don't want any thing," she declared. "I've been tasting all
day,--a bit here and a bit there, and such loads of things!"
"Tell us all about it," begged Joe. "And who was there,--the grand
Panjandrum with a button on the top. Children's children unto the third
and fourth generation."
"O Joe! if you only wouldn't," began Granny imploringly.
"No, I won't, Granny;" and Joe made a face as long as your arm, or a
piece of string.
"Of course I didn't see 'em all, nor half; but men and women and
children and babies! And Grandmother Kinsey's ninety-five years old!"
"I hope I'll live to be that old, and have lots of people to give me a
golden wedding," said Charlie, with her mouth so full that the words
were pretty badly squeezed.
"This isn't a golden wedding," said Florence with an air of dignity:
"it's a birthday party."
"Ho!" and Joe laughed. "You'll be,--
'Ugly, ill-natured, and wrinkled and thin,
Worn by your troubles to bone and to skin.'"
"She's never been much else," rejoined Flossy, looking admiringly at
her own white arm.
"I'm not as old as you!" And Charlie flared up to scarlet heat.
"Oh! you needn't get so vexed. I was only thinking of the skin and
bone," said Florence in a more conciliatory manner.
"Well, I don't want to be a 'Mother Bunch.'"
"No fear of you, Charlie. You look like the people who live on some
shore,--I've forgotten the name of the place,--and, eat so many fish
that the bones work through."
Charlie felt of her elbows. They were pretty sharp, to be sure. She was
very tall of her age, and ran so much that it was quite impossible to
keep any flesh on her bones.
"Hush, children!" said grandmother. "I was going to tell you about the
party. Hal, give me a little of your salad, first."
The Kinseys had invited all their relations to a grand family
gathering. Granny told over the pleasant and comical incidents that had
come under her notice,--the mishaps in cooking, the babies that had
fallen down stairs, and various entertaining matters.
By that time supper was ended. Florence set out to take some lace that
she had been making to a neighbor; Hal washed the dishes, and Charlie
wiped them; Joe fed the chickens, and then perched himself astride the
gate-post, whistling all the tunes he could remember; Kit and Charlie
went to bed presently; and Hal and his grandmother had a good talk
until Dot woke up, strange to say quite good-natured.
"Granny," said Hal, preparing a bowl of bread and milk for his little
sister, "some day we'll all be grown, and you won't have to work so
hard."
"Six men and women! How odd it will be!" returned Granny with a smile
shining over her tired face.
"Yes. We'll keep you like a lady. You shall have a pretty house to live
in, and Dot shall wait upon you. Won't you, Dot?"
Dot shook her head sagely at Granny.
And in the gathering twilight Hal smiled, remembering Joe's conceit.
Granny looked happy in spite of her weariness. She, foolish body, was
thinking how nice it was to have them all, even to poor little Dot.
CHAPTER II.
PLANNING IN THE TWILIGHT.
It was a rainy August day, and the children were having a glorious
time up in the old garret. Over the house-part there were two rooms;
but this above the kitchen was kept for rubbish. A big wheel, on which
Granny used to spin in her younger days, now answered for almost any
purpose, from a coach and four, to a menagerie: they could make it into
an elephant, a camel, or a hyena, by a skilful arrangement of drapery.
There were several other pieces of dilapidated furniture, old hats,
old boots, a barrel or two of papers; in fact, a lot of useless
traps and a few trophies that Joe had brought home; to say nothing
of Charlie's endless heaps of trash, for she had a wonderful faculty
of accumulation; herbs of every kind, bundles of calamus, stacks of
"cat-tails," the fuzz of which flew in every direction with the least
whiff of wind.
The "children" had been raising bedlam generally. Joe was dressed in an
old scuttle-shaped Leghorn bonnet and a gay plaid cloak, a strait kind
of skirt plaited on a yoke. Granny had offered it to Florence for a
dress, but it had been loftily declined. Kit was attired as an Indian,
his "scalp-lock" bound up with rooster feathers; and he strutted up and
down, jabbering a most uncouth dialect, though of what tribe it would
be difficult to say. Charlie appeared in a new costume about every
half-hour, and improvised caves in every corner; though it must be
confessed Joe rather extinguished her with his style. He could draw in
his lips until he looked as if he hadn't a tooth in his head, and talk
like nearly every old lady in town.
Such whoops and yells and shouts as had rung through the old garret
would have astonished delicate nerves. In one of the bedrooms Granny
was weaving rag-carpet on a rickety loom, for she did a little of every
thing to lengthen out her scanty income; but the noise of that was as a
whiff of wind in comparison.
At last they had tried nearly every kind of transformation, and were
beginning to grow tired. It was still very cloudy, and quite twilight
in their den, when Florence came up stairs, and found them huddled
around the window listening to a wonderful story that Joe made up as
he went along. Such fortunes and adventures could only belong to the
Munchausen period.
"Dear!" exclaimed Florence, "I thought the chief of the Mohawks had
declared war upon the Narragansetts, and everybody had been scalped,
you subsided so suddenly. You've made racket enough to take off the
roof of the house!"
"It's on yet," was Joe's solemn assurance.
"O Joe!" begged Charlie: "tell us another story,--something about a
sailor who was wrecked, and lived in a cave, and found bags and bags of
money!"
"That's the kind, Charlie. Flo, come on and take a seat."
"Where's Dot?"
"Here in my arms," replied Hal; "as good as a kitten; aren't you, Dot?"
Dot answered with a contented grunt.
"Oh, let's all tell what we'd like to do!" said Charlie, veering round
on a new tack. "Flo'll want to be Cinderella at the king's ball."
Florence tumbled over the pile of legs, and found a seat beside Hal.
"Well, I'll lead off," began Joe with a flourish. "First, I'm going to
be a sailor. I mean to ship with a captain bound for China; and hurra!
we'll go out with a flowing sea or some other tip-top thing! Well, I
guess we'll go to China,--this is all suppos'n, you know; and while I'm
there I'll get such lots of things!--crape-shawls and silks for you,
Flossy; and cedarwood chests to keep out moths, and fans and beautiful
boxes, and a chest of tea, for Granny. On the way home we shall be
wrecked. You'll hear the news, and think that I'm dead, sure enough."
"But how will Flo get her shawls?" asked Charlie.
"Oh, you'll hear presently! That's way in the end. I shall be wrecked
on an island where there's a fierce native chief; and first he and his
men think they'll kill me." Joe always delighted in harrowing up the
feelings of his audience. "So I offer him the elegant shawls and some
money"--
"But I thought you lost them all in the wreck!" interposed
quick-brained Charlie.
"Oh, no! There's always something floats ashore, you must remember.
Well, he concluded not to kill me, though they have a great festival
dance in honor of their idols; and I only escape by promising to be
his obedient slave. I find some others who have been cast on that
desolate shore, and been treated in the same manner. The chief beats
us, and makes us work, and treats us dreadfully. Then we mutiny, and
have a great battle, for a good many of the natives join us. In the
scrimmage the old fellow is killed; and there's a tremendous rejoicing,
I can tell you, for they all hate him. We divide his treasure, and
it's immense, and go to live in his palace. Well, no boat ever comes
along; so we build one for ourselves, and row to the nearest port and
tell them the chief is dead. They are very glad, for he was a cruel old
fellow. Then we buy a ship, and go back for the rest of our treasures.
We take a great many of the beautiful things out of the palace, and
then we start for home, double-quick. It's been a good many years; and,
when I come back, Granny is old, and walking with a cane, Florence
married to a rich gentleman, and Dot here grown into a handsome girl.
But won't I build a stunning house! There'll be a scattering out of
this old shoe, I tell you."
"Oh, won't it be splendid!" exclaimed Charlie, with a long-drawn
breath. "It's just like a story."
"Now, Hal, it's your turn."
Hal sighed softly, and squeezed Dot a little.
"I shall not go off and be a sailor"--
"Or a jolly young oysterman," said Joe, by way of assistance.
"No. What I'd like most of all"--and Hal made a long pause.
"Even if it's murder, we'll forgive you and love you," went on
tormenting Joe.
"O Joe, don't!" besought Florence. "I want to hear what Hal will
choose, for I know just what I'd like to have happen to me."
"So do I," announced Charlie confidently.
"I don't know that I can have it," said Hal slowly; "for it costs a
good deal, though I might make a small beginning. It's raising lovely
fruit and flowers, and having a great hot-house, with roses and lilies
and dear white blossoms in the middle of the winter. I should love them
so much! They always seem like little children to me, with God for
their father, and we who take care of them for a stepmother; though
stepmothers are not always good, and the poor wicked ones would be
those who did not love flowers. Why, it would be like fairy-land,--a
great long hot-house, with glass overhead, and all the air sweet with
roses and heliotrope and mignonette. And it would be so soft and still
in there, and so very, very beautiful! It seems to me as if heaven must
be full of flowers."
"Could you sell 'em if you were poor?" asked Charlie, in a low voice.
"Not the flowers in heaven! Charlie, you're a heathen."
"I didn't mean that! Don't you suppose I know about heaven!" retorted
Charlie warmly.
"Yes," admitted Joe with a laugh: "he could sell them, and make lots of
money. And there are ever so many things: why, Mr. Green paid six cents
apiece for some choice tomato-plants."
"When I'm a man, I think I'll do that. I mean to try next summer in my
garden."
"May I tell now?" asked Charlie, who was near exploding with her secret.
"Yes. Great things," said Joe.
"I'm going to run away!" And Charlie gave her head an exultant toss,
that, owing to the darkness, was lost to her audience.
Joe laughed to his utmost capacity, which was not small. The old garret
fairly rang again.
Florence uttered a horrified exclamation; and Kit said,--
"I'll go with you!"
"Girls don't run away," remarked Hal gravely.
"But I mean to, and it'll be royal fun," was the confident reply.
"Where will you go? and will you beg from door to door?" asked Joe
quizzically.
"No: I'm going out in the woods," was the undaunted rejoinder. "I mean
to find a nice cave; and I'll bring in a lot of good dry leaves and
some straw, and make a bed. Then I'll gather berries; and I know how to
catch fish, and I can make a fire and fry them. I'll have a gay time
going off to the river and rambling round, and there'll be no lessons
to plague a body to death. It will be just splendid."
"Suppose a bear comes along and eats you up?" suggested Joe.
"As if there were any bears around here!" Charlie returned with immense
disdain.
"Well, a snake, or a wild-cat!"
"I'm not afraid of snakes."
"But you'd want a little bread."
"Oh! I'd manage about that. I do mean to run away some time, just for
fun."
"You'll be glad to run back again!"
"You see, now!" was the decisive reply.
"Florentina, it is your turn now. We have had age before beauty."
Florence tossed her soft curls, and went through with a few pretty
airs.
"I shouldn't run away," she said slowly; "but I'd like to _go_, for
all that. Sometimes, as I sit by the window sewing, and see an elegant
carriage pass by, I think, what if there should be an old gentleman in
it, who had lost his wife and all his children, and that one of his
little girls looked like--like me? And if he should stop and ask me for
a drink, I'd go to the well and draw a fresh, cool bucketful"--
"From the north side--that's the coldest," interrupted Joe.
"Hush, Joe! No one laughed at you!"
"Laugh! Why, I am sober as an owl."
"Then I'd give him a drink. I wish we could have some goblets: tumblers
look so dreadfully old-fashioned. I mean to buy _one_, at least, some
time. He would ask me about myself; and I'd tell him that we were all
orphans, and had been very unfortunate, and that our grandmother was
old"--
"'Four score and ten of us, poor old maids,--
Four score and ten of us,
Without a penny in our _puss_,
Poor old maids,'"
sang Joe pathetically, cutting short the _purse_ on account of the
rhyme.
"O Joe, you are too bad! I won't tell any more."
"Yes, do!" entreated Hal. "And so he liked you on account of the
resemblance, and wanted to adopt you."
"Exactly! Hal, how could you guess it?" returned Florence, much
mollified. "And so he would take me to a beautiful house, where there
were plenty of servants, and get me lovely clothes to wear; and there
would be lots of china and silver and elegant furniture and a piano.
I'd go to school, and study music and drawing, and never have to sew or
do any kind of work. Then I'd send you nice presents home; and, when
you were fixed up a little, you should come and see me. And maybe, Hal,
as you grew older, he would help you about getting a hot-house. I think
when I became a woman, I would take Dot to educate."
"I've heard of fairy godmothers before, but this seems to be a
godfather. Here's luck to your old covey, Florrie, drunk in imaginary
champagne."
"Joe, I wish you wouldn't use slang phrases, nor be so disrespectful."
"I'm afraid I'll have to keep clear of the palace."
"Oh, if it only could be!" sighed Hal. "I think Flo was meant for a
lady."
Florence smiled inwardly at hearing this. It was her opinion also.
"Here, Kit, are you asleep?" And Joe pulled him out of the pile by one
leg. "Wake up, and give us your heart's desire."
Kit indulged in a vigorous kick, which Joe dodged.
"It'll be splendid," began Kit, "especially the piano. I've had my
hands over my eyes, making stars; and I was thinking"--
"That's just what we want, Chief of the Mohawk Valley. Don't keep us in
suspense."
"I'm going to save up my money, like some one Hal was reading about the
other day, and buy a fiddle."
A shout of laughter greeted this announcement, it sounded so comical.
Kit rubbed his eyes in amazement, and failed to see any thing amusing.
Then he said indignantly,--
"You needn't make such a row!"
"But what will you do with a fiddle? You might tie a string to Charlie,
and take her along for a monkey; or you might both go round singing in
a squeaky voice,--
'Two orphan boys of Switzerland.'"
"You're real mean, Joe," said Kit, with his voice full of tears.
"Kit, I'll give you the violin myself when I get rich," Florence
exclaimed in a comforting tone, her soft hand smoothing down the
refractory scalp-lock; "but I would say violin, it sounds so much
nicer. And then you'll play."
"Play!" enunciated Kit in a tone that I cannot describe, as if that
were a weak word for the anticipated performance. "I'd make her talk!
They'd sit there and listen,--a whole houseful of people it would
be, you know; and when I first came out with my fiddle,--violin.
I mean,--they would look at me as if they thought I couldn't do
much. I'd begin with a slow sound, like the wind wailing on a winter
night,--I guess I'd have it a storm, and a little lost child, for
you can make almost any thing with a violin; and the cries should
grow fainter and fainter, for she would be chilled and worn out;
and presently it should drop down into the snow, and there'd be the
softest, strangest music you ever heard. The crowd would listen and
listen, and hold their breath; and when the storm cleared away, and the
angels came down for the child, it would be so, so sad"--and there was
an ominous falter in Kit's voice, "they couldn't help crying. There'd
be an angel's song up in heaven; and in the sweetest part of it all,
I'd go quietly away, for I wouldn't want any applause."
"But you'd have it," said Hal softly, reaching out for the small
fingers that were to evoke such wonderful melody. "It almost makes me
cry myself to think of it! and the poor little girl lost in the snow,
not bigger than Dot here!"
"Children!" called Granny from the foot of the stairs, "ain't you going
to come down and have any supper? I've made a great pot full of mush."
There was a general scrambling. Hal carried Dot in his arms, for she
was fast asleep. Two or three times in the short journey he stopped to
kiss the soft face, thinking of Kit's vision.
"Oh, we've been having such a splendid time!" announced Charlie. "All
of us telling what we'd like to do; and, Granny, Joe's going to build
you an _elegant_ house!" with a great emphasis on the word, as Charlie
was not much given to style, greatly to the sorrow and chagrin of
Florence.
Granny gave a cheerful but cracked treble laugh, and asked,--
"What'll he build it of, my dear,--corn-cobs?"
"Oh, a _real_ house! He's going to make lots of money, Joe is, and get
shipwrecked."
Granny shook her head, which made the little white curls bob around
oddly enough.
"How you do mix up things, Charlie," said Joe, giving her a poke with
his elbow. "You're a perfect harum-scarum! I don't wonder you want to
live in the woods. Go look at your head: it stands out nine ways for
Sunday!"
Charlie ran her fingers through her hair, her usual manner of arranging
it.
"Granny, here's this little lamb fast asleep. She's grown to be one of
the best babies in the world;" and Hal kissed her again.
He had such a tender, girlish heart, that any thing weak or helpless
always appealed to him. Their sleek, shining Tabby had been a poor,
forlorn, broken-legged kitten when he found her; and there was no end
to the birds and chickens that he nursed through accidents.
But for a fortnight Dot had been improving, it must be confessed,
being exempt from disease and broken bones.
"Poor childie! Just lay her in the bed, Hal."
There was a huge steaming dish of mush in the middle of the table; and
the hungry children went at it in a vigorous manner. Some had milk,
and some had molasses; and they improvised a dessert by using a little
butter, sugar, and nutmeg. They spiced their meal by recounting their
imaginary adventures; but Granny was observed to wipe away a few tears
over the shipwreck.
"It was all make believe," said Joe sturdily. "Lots of people go to
sea, and don't get wrecked."
"But I don't want you to go," Granny returned in a broken tone of voice.
"Pooh!" exclaimed Joe, with immense disdain. "Don't people meet with
accidents on the land? Wasn't Steve Holder killed in the mill. And if I
was on the cars in a smash-up, I couldn't swim out of that!"
Joe took a long breath, fancying that he had established his point
beyond a cavil.
"But sailors never make fortunes," went on Granny hesitatingly.
"Captains do, though; and it's a jolly life. Besides, we couldn't all
stay in this little shanty, unless we made nests in the chimney like
the swallows; and I don't know which would tumble down first,--we or
the chimney."
Charlie laughed at the idea.
"I shall stay with you always, Granny," said Hal tenderly. "And Dot,
you know, will be growing into a big girl and be company for us. We'll
get along nicely, never fear."
Some tears dropped unwittingly into Granny's plate, and she didn't want
any more supper. It was foolish, of course. She ought to be thankful to
have them all out of the way and doing for themselves. Here she was,
over fifty, and had worked hard from girlhood. Some day she would be
worn out.
But, in spite of all their poverty and hardship, she had been very
happy with them; and theirs were by no means a forlorn-looking set of
faces. Each one had a little beauty of its own; and, though they were
far from being pattern children, she loved them dearly in spite of
their faults and roughnesses. And in their way they loved her, though
sometimes they were great torments.
And so at bed-time they all crowded round to kiss the wrinkled face,
unconsciously softened by the thought of the parting that was to come
somewhere along their lives. But no one guessed how Granny held little
Dot in her arms that night, and prayed in her quaint, fervent fashion
that she might live to see them all grown up and happy, good and
prosperous men and women, and none of them straying far from the old
home-nest.
I think God listened with watchful love. No one else would have made
crooked paths so straight.
CHAPTER III.
A CHANCE FOR FLOSSY.
The vacation had come to an end, and next week the children were to go
to school again. Florence counted up her small hoard; for though she
did not like to sweep, or wash dishes, she was industrious in other
ways. She crocheted edgings and tidies, made lamp-mats, toilet-sets,
and collars, and had earned sixteen dollars. Granny would not have
touched a penny of it for the world.
So Florence bought herself two pretty delaine dresses for winter wear,
and begged Granny to let Miss Brown cut and fit them. Florence had a
pretty, slender figure; and she was rather vain of it. Her two dresses
had cost seven dollars, a pair of tolerably nice boots three and a
half, a plaid shawl four, and then she had indulged in the great luxury
of a pair of kid gloves.
It had come about in this wise. Mrs. Day had purchased them in New
York, but they proved too small for her daughter Julia. She was owing
Florence a dollar; so she said,--
"Now, if you have a mind to take these gloves, Florence, I'd let you
have them for seventy-five cents. I bought them very cheap: they ask
a dollar and a quarter in some stores;" and she held them up in their
most tempting light.
Florence looked at them longingly.
"They are lovely kid, and such a beautiful color! Green is all the
fashion, and you have a new green dress."
There was a pair of nice woollen gloves at the store for fifty cents;
and although they were rather clumsy, still Florence felt they would be
warmer and more useful.
"I don't know as I can spare you the dollar now," continued Mrs. Day,
giving the dainty little gloves a most aggravating stretch.
"I'd like to have them," said Florence hesitatingly.
"I suppose your grandmother won't mind? Your money is your own."
Now, Mrs. Day knew that it was wrong to tempt Florence; but the gloves
were useless to her, and she felt anxious to dispose of them.
"Grandmother said I might spend all my money for clothes," was the
rather proud reply.
"Kid gloves always look so genteel, and are so durable. You have such a
pretty hand too."
"I guess I will take them," Florence said faintly.
So Mrs. Day gave her the gloves and twenty-five cents. Florence
carried them home in secret triumph, and put them in _her_ drawer in
Granny's big bureau. She had not told about them yet; and sometimes
they were a heavier burden than you would imagine so small a pair of
gloves could possibly be.
Joe had earned a little odd change from the farmers round, and bought
himself a pair of new trousers and a new pair of boots; while Hal had
been maid-of-all-work in doors, and head gardener out of doors.
"Just look at these potatoes!" he said in triumph to Granny. "There's
a splendid binful, and it'll last all winter. And there'll be cabbage
and pumpkins and marrow-squash and Lima beans, and lots of corn for the
chickens. The garden has been a success this summer."
"And you've worked early and late," returned Granny in tender triumph.
"There isn't such another boy in the State, I'll be bound!" And she
gave him the fondest of smiles.
"But the best of all is Dot. She's actually getting fat, Granny; and
she has a dimple in her cheek. Why, she'll be almost as pretty as
Flossy!"
Granny gave the little one a kiss.
"She's as good as a kitten when she is well," was the rejoinder, in a
loving tone.
Kit and Charlie still romped like wild deers. They had made a cave in
the wood, and spent whole days there; but Charlie burned her fingers
roasting a bird, and went back to potatoes and corn, that could be put
in the ashes without so much risk.
The old plaid cloak had been made over for a school-dress, and Charlie
thought it quite grand. Kit and Hal had to do the best they could about
clothes.
"Never mind me, Granny," Hal said cheerfully; though he couldn't help
thinking of his patched Sunday jacket, which was growing short in the
sleeves for him.
So on Saturday the children scrubbed and scoured and swept, and made
the place quite shine again. Hal arranged the flowers, and then they
all drew a restful breath before the supper preparations began.
"There's Mrs. Van Wyck coming!" and Charlie flew up the lane, dashing
headlong into the house, to the imminent peril of her best dress, which
she had been allowed to put on for an hour or two.
"Mrs. Van Wyck!"
Granny brushed back her bobbing flaxen curls, washed Dot's face over
again with the nearest white cloth, which happened to be Flossy's best
handkerchief that she had been doing up for Sunday.
"Oh!" the young lady cried in dismay, and then turned to make her
prettiest courtesy. Mrs. Van Wyck was very well off indeed, and lived
in quite a pretentious cottage,--villa she called it; but, as she had a
habit of confusing her V's and W's, Joe re-christened it the Van Wyck
Willow.
"Good-afternoon, Mrs. Kenneth. How d'y do, Florence?"
Florence brought out a chair, and, with the most polite air possible,
invited her to be seated.
Mrs. Van Wyck eyed her sharply.
"'Pears to me you look quite fine," she said.
Florence wore a white dress that was pretty well outgrown, and had
been made from one of her mother's in the beginning. It had a good many
little darns here and there, and she was wearing it for the last time.
She had tied a blue ribbon in her curls, and pinned a tiny bouquet on
her bosom. She looked very much dressed, but that was pretty Flossy's
misfortune.
Mrs. Van Wyck gathered up her silk gown,--a great staring brocade in
blue and gold, that might have been her grandmother's, it looked so
ancient in style.
"I've come over on some business," she began, with an important air and
a mysterious shake of the head.
Granny sat down, and took Dot upon her lap. Kit and Charlie peered out
of their hiding-places, and Joe perched himself upon the window-sill.
"How do you ever manage with all this tribe?" And Mrs. Van Wyck gave
each of them a scowl.
"There's a houseful," returned Granny, "but we _do_ get along."
"Tough scratching, I should say."
"And poor pickings the chickens might add, if they had _such_ an old
hen," commented Joe _soto voce_. "There'd be something worse than
clucking."
Hal couldn't help laughing. Mrs. Van Wyck was so ruffled and frilled,
so full of ends of ribbon about the head and neck, that she did look
like a setting hen disturbed in the midst of her devotions.
"Them children haven't a bit of manners," declared Mrs. Van Wyck, in
sublime disregard of syntax. "Trot off, all of you but Florence: I have
something to say to your grandmother."
Joe made a somerset out of the window, and placed himself in a good
listening position; Hal went out and sat on the doorstep; and Charlie
crawled under the table.
"I don't see how you manage to get along with such a houseful. I always
did wonder at your taking 'em."
"Oh! we do pretty well," returned Granny cheerily.
"They're growing big enough to help themselves a little. Why don't you
bind Joe out to some of the farmers. Such a great fellow ought to be
doing something besides racing round and getting into mischief."
Joe made a series of such polite evolutions, that Hal ran to the gate
to have a good laugh without being heard.
"He's going to school," said Granny innocently. "They all begin on
Monday."
"Going to school?" And Mrs. Van Wyck elevated her voice as if she
thought them all deaf. "Why, _I_ never went to school a day after I
was twelve year old, and my father was a well-to-do farmer. There's no
sense in children having so much book-larnin'. It makes 'em proud and
stuck up, and good for nothing.
"Oh! where's that dog? Put him out! Put him out! I can't bear dogs. And
the poorer people are, the more dogs they'll keep."
Joe, the incorrigible, was quite a ventriloquist for his years and
size. He had just made a tremendous ki-yi, after the fashion of the
most snarling terrier dog, and a kind of scrabbling as if the animal
might be under Mrs. Van Wyck's feet.
"Oh, my! Take the nasty brute away. Maybe he's full of fleas or has the
mange"--
"It is only Joe," explained Florence, as soon as she could put in a
word.
"I'd Joe him, if I had him here! You're a ruining of these children
as I've always said; and you may thank your stars if Joe escapes the
gallows. I've positively come on an errand of mercy."
"Not for Joe," declared the owner of the name with a sagacious shake of
the head, while Mrs. Van Wyck paused for breath.
"Yes. Not one of them'll be worth a penny if they go on this way. Now,
here's Florence, growing up in idleness"--
"She keeps pretty busy," said Granny stoutly.
"Busy! Why, you've nothing for her to do. When I was a little girl,
my mother made me sit beside her, and sew patchwork; and before I was
twelve year old I had finished four quilts. And she taught me the
hymn,--
'Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.'"
"They always learn a verse for Sunday," said Granny deprecatingly.
"But you let 'em run wild. I've seen it all along. I was a talkin' to
Miss Porter about it; and says I, 'Now, I'll do one good deed;' and the
Lord knows it's needed."
Everybody listened. Joe from the outside made a pretence of picking his
ears open with the handle of a broken saucepan.
"Florence is getting to be a big girl, and it's high time she learned
something. As I was a sayin' to Miss Porter, 'I want just such a girl;
and it will be the making of Florence Kenneth to fall into good hands.'"
"But you don't mean"--and Granny paused, aghast.
"I mean to make the child useful in her day and generation. It'll be a
good place for her."
Mrs. Van Wyck nodded her head until the bows and streamers flew in
every direction.
Granny opened her eyes wide in surprise.
"What do you want of her, Mrs. Van Wyck?"
Charlie peeped out from between the legs of the table to hear, her
mouth wide open lest she should lose a word.
"Want of her?" screamed the visitor. "Why, to work, of course! I don't
keep idle people about me, I can tell you. I want a girl to make beds,
and sweep, and dust, and wash dishes, and scour knives, and scrub, and
run errands, and do little chores around. It'll be the making of her;
and I'm willing to do the fair thing."
Granny was struck dumb with amazement. Florence could hardly credit her
ears. Hal sprang up indignantly, and Joe doubled his fists as if he
were about to demolish the old house along with Mrs. Van Wyck.
"Yes. I've considered the subject well. I always sleep on a thing
before I tell a single soul. And, if Florence is a good smart girl,
I'll give her seventy-five cents a week and her board. For six dollars
a month I could get a grown girl, who could do all my work."
Granny looked at Florence in helpless consternation; and Florence
looked at Granny with overwhelming disdain.
"Well! why don't you answer?" said the visitor. She had supposed they
would jump at the offer.
"I don't expect to go out doing housework, Mrs. Van Wyck," said
Florence loftily.
"Hoity-toity! how grand we are! I've never been above doing my own
housework; and I could buy and sell the whole bunch of you, a dozen
times over."
"Florence wouldn't like it, I'm afraid," said Granny mildly.
"A fine way to bring up children, truly! You may see the day when
you'll be thankful to have a home as good as my kitchen."
There was a bright red spot in Florence's cheeks.
"Mrs. Van Wyck," Florence began in a quiet, ladylike manner, although
she felt inclined to be angry, "grandmother is right: I should not like
it. I have no taste for housework; and I can earn more than you offer
to give by doing embroidering and crocheting. Through the six weeks of
vacation I earned sixteen dollars."
"Fancy work! What is the world coming to? Children brought up to
despise good, honest employment."
"No, I don't despise it," amended Florence; "but I do not like it, and
I think it a hard way of earning a little money. If I can do better, of
course I have the right."
Granny was amazed at the spirit Florence displayed.
"You'll all be paupers on the town yet, mark my words. Flaunting round
in white dresses and ribbons, and"--
She glanced around for some further vanity to include in her inventory.
"I am sure we are obliged to you," said Granny mildly. "But Florence"--
"Yes, Florence is too good to work. There's no sense in such high-flown
names. I'd have called her plain Peggy. She must curl her hair, and
dress herself--oh my lady, if I had you, you'd see!"
And Mrs. Van Wyck arose in great wrath, her streamers flying wildly.
"You'll remember this when you come to beggary,--refusing a good home
and plenty. Your grandmother is a foolish old woman; and you're a lazy,
shiftless, impudent set! I wash my hands of the whole lot."
"I'm sorry," began Granny.
"There's no use talking. I wouldn't have the girl on any account. I can
get her betters any day. You'll come to no good end, I can tell you!"
With that, Mrs. Van Wyck flounced out; but at the first turn tumbled
over Kit, who had rolled himself in a ball on the doorstep.
Down she went, and Joe set up a shout. Hal couldn't help laughing, and
Charlie ran to pull out Kit.
"You good-for-nothing, beggarly wretches!"
While she was sputtering and scrambling about, Joe began a hideous
caterwauling.
"Drat that cat! Pity I hadn't broken his neck! And my second-best
bonnet!"
Kit hid himself in his grandmother's gown, sorely frightened, and a
little bruised.
[Illustration]
"It's the last time I'll ever step inside of this place. Such an awful
set of children I never did see!"
To use Joe's expressive phraseology, she "slathered" right and left,
her shrill voice adding to the confusion.
Granny watched the retreating figure with the utmost bewilderment.
"The mean old thing!" began Florence, half crying. "Why, I couldn't
stand her temper and her scolding, and to be a common kitchen-girl!"
"She meant well, dear. In my day girls thought it no disgrace to live
out."
"Wasn't it gay and festive, Granny? I believe I've burst every button,
laughing; and you'll have to put a mustard plaster on my side to draw
out the soreness. And oh, Kit, what a horrible yell you gave! How could
you be the ruin of that second best bonnet?"
"'Twasn't me," said Kit, rubbing his eyes. "But she most squeezed the
breath out of me."
"Flossy, here is your fortune, and your coach-and-four. My dear child,
I hope you will not be too much elated, for you must remember"--
"'Satan finds some mischief still,' &c."
Joe whisked around, holding Dot's apron at full length in imitation of
a streamer.
"I wonder if she really thought I would go. Scouring and scrubbing, and
washing dishes. I'd do with one meal a day first."
"She is a coarse, ill-bred woman," said Hal; "not a bit like Mrs.
Kinsey."
"We will not be separated just yet," exclaimed Granny, with a sigh for
the time that must come.
"And I don't mean to live out," was the emphatic rejoinder of Florence.
"My dear, you mustn't be too proud," cautioned Granny.
"It isn't altogether pride. Why should I wash dishes when I can do
something better?"
"That's the grit, Flossy. I'll bet on you!"
"O Joe! don't. I wish you would learn to be refined. Now, you see all
Mrs. Van Wyck's money cannot make her a lady."
Joe put on a solemn face; but the next moment declared that he must
keep a sharp look out, or some old sea-captain would snap him up, and
set him to scrubbing decks, and holystoning the cable.
And yet they felt quite grave when the fun was over. Their merry
vacation had ended, and there was no telling what a year might bring
forth.
"I think I should like most of all to be a school-teacher," Florence
declared.
"You'll have to wait till you're forty. Who do you s'pose is going to
mind a little gal?"
"Not you; for you never mind anybody," was the severe reply.
Florence felt quite grand on the following day, attired in her new
green delaine, and her "lovely" gloves. Granny was so busy with the
others that she never noticed them; and Florence quieted her conscience
by thinking that the money was her own, and she could do what she liked
with it. She kept self generally in view, it must be admitted.
Mrs. Van Wyck's overture was destined to make quite a stir. She
repeated it to her neighbors in such glowing terms that it really
looked like an offer to adopt Florence; and she declaimed bitterly
against the pride and the ingratitude of the whole Kenneth family.
Florence held her head loftily, and took great pains to contradict the
story; and Joe became the stoutest of champions, though he teased her
at home.
"But it's too bad to have her tell everybody such falsehoods; and,
after all, three dollars a month would be very low wages. Why, Mary
Connor gets a dollar a week for tending Mrs. Hall's baby; and she never
scrubs or scours a thing!"
Truth to tell, Florence felt a good deal insulted.
But the whole five went to school pretty regularly. Hal was very
studious, and Florence also, in spite of her small vanities; but Joe
was incorrigible everywhere.
Florence gained courage one day to ask Mr. Fielder about the prospect
of becoming a teacher. She was ambitious, and desired some kind of a
position that would be ladylike.
"It's pretty hard work at first," he answered with a smile.
"But how long would I have to study?"
"Let me see--you are fourteen now: in three years you might be able
to take a situation. Public schools in the city are always better for
girls, for they can begin earlier in the primary department. A country
school, you see, may have some troublesome urchins in it."
Florence sighed. Three years would be a long while to wait.
"I will give you all the assistance in my power," Mr. Fielder said
kindly. "And I may be able to hear of something that will be to your
advantage."
Florence thanked him, but somehow the prospect did not look brilliant.
Then she thought of dressmaking. Miss Brown had a pretty cottage,
furnished very nicely indeed; and it was her boast that she did it all
with her own hands. She kept a servant, and dressed quite elegantly;
and all the ladies round went to her in their carriages. Then she had
such beautiful pieces for cushions and wonderful bedquilts,--"Though
I never take but the least snip of a dress," she would say with a
virtuous sniff. "I have heard of people who kept a yard or two, but to
my mind it's downright stealing."
There was a drawback to this picture of serene contentment. Miss Brown
was an old maid, and Florence hoped devoutly that would never be her
fate. And then Miss Skinner, who went out by the day, was single also.
Was it the natural result of the employment?
CHAPTER IV.
THE IDENTICAL SHOE.
They did pretty well through the fall. Joe came across odd jobs,
gathered stores of hickory-nuts and chestnuts; and now and then of an
evening they had what he called a rousing good boil; and certainly
chestnuts never tasted better. They sat round the fire, and told
riddles or stories, and laughed as only healthy, happy children can.
What if they were poor, and had to live in a little tumble-down shanty!
Sometimes Joe would surprise them with a somerset in the middle of the
floor, or a good stand on his head in one corner.
"Joe," Granny would say solemnly, "I once knowed a man who fell that
way on his head off a load of hay, and broke his back."
"Granny dear, 'knowed' is bad grammar. When you go to see Florence in
her palace, you must say knew, to rhyme with blew. But your old man's
back must have grown cranky with rheumatism, while mine is limber as an
eel."
"He wasn't old, Joe. And in my day they never learned grammar."
"Oh, tell us about the good old times!" and Hal's head was laid in
Granny's lap.
The children were never tired of hearing these tales. Days when
Granny was young were like enchantment. She remembered some real
witch stories, that she was sure were true; and weddings, quiltings,
husking-bees, and apple-parings were full of interest. How they went
out sleigh-riding, and had a dance; and how once Granny and her lover,
sitting on the back seat, were jolted out, seat and all, while the
horses went skimming along at a pace equal to Tam O'Shanter's. And how
they had to go to a neighboring cottage, and stay ever so long before
they were missed.
"There'll never be such times again," Joe would declare solemnly.
Florence would breath a little sigh, and wonder if she could ever
attain to beaux and merriment, and if any one would ever quarrel about
dancing with her. How happy Granny must have been!
Dot had a dreadful cold, and Granny an attack of rheumatism; but they
both recovered before Christmas. Every one counted so much on this
holiday. All were making mysterious preparations. Joe and Hal and
Florence had their heads together; and then it was Granny and Florence,
or Granny and Hal.
"I don't dare to stir out," said Joe lugubriously, "lest you may say
something that I shall not hear."
Hal killed three fine young geese. Two were disposed of for a dollar
apiece, and the third he brought to the kitchen in triumph.
"There's our Christmas dinner, and a beauty too!" he announced.
Hal had sold turkeys and chickens enough to buy himself a good warm
winter coat.
Granny had a little extra luck. In fact, it was rather a prosperous
winter with them; and there was nothing like starvation, in spite of
Mrs. Van Wyck's prediction.
They all coaxed Granny to make doughnuts. Joe dropped them in the
kettle, and Hal took them out with the skimmer. How good they did smell!
Kit and Charlie tumbled about on the floor, and were under everybody's
feet; while Dot sat in her high chair, looking wondrous wise.
"How'll we get the stockings filled?" propounded Joe, when the
supper-table had been cleared away.
They all glanced at each other in consternation.
"But where'll you hang 'em?" asked Kit after a moment or two of
profound study.
"Some on the andirons, some on the door-knob, some on the kettle-spout,
and the rest up chimney."
"I say, can't we have two?" was Charlie's anxious question.
"Lucky if you get one full. What a host of youngsters! O Granny! did
you know that last summer I discovered that you were the old woman who
lived in a shoe?"
"O Joe! don't;" and Hal raised his soft eyes reproachfully.
Granny laughed, not understanding Hal's anxiety.
"Because I had so many children?"
"Exactly; but I think you are better tempered than your namesake."
Granny's eyes twinkled at this compliment.
"It was an awful hot day, and Dot was cross enough to kill a cat with
nine lives."
"But she's a little darling now," said Hal, kissing her. "I think the
sand-man has been around;" and he smiled into the little face with its
soft drooping eyes.
"Yes, she ought to be in bed, and Kit and Charlie. Come, children."
"I want to see what's going to be put in my stocking," whined Charlie
in a very sleepy tone.
"No, you can't. March off, you small snipes, or you will find a whip
there to-morrow morning."
That was Joe's peremptory order.
They had a doughnut apiece, and then went reluctantly. Charlie was very
sure that she was wider awake than ever before in her life, and could
not get asleep if she tried all night. Kit didn't believe that morning
would ever come. Hal put on Dot's nightgown, and heard her say, "Now I
lay me down to sleep;" while Joe picked up the cat, and irreverently
whispered,--
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
All curled up in a little heap.
If I should wake before 'tis day,
What do you s'pose the doctor'd say?"
"O Joe!" remonstrated Granny.
"That's Tabby's prayers. Tabby is a high principled, moral, and
intellectual cat. Now go to sleep, and dream of a mouse."
Tabby winked her eyes solemnly, as if she understood every word; and
it's my firm belief that she did.
Then Granny, Florence, Joe, and Hal sat in profound thought until the
old high clock in the corner struck nine.
"Well," said Joe, "what are we waiting for?"
Hal laughed and answered,--
"For some one to go to bed."
"What is to be done about it?"
Florence looked wise, and said presently,--
"We'll all have to go in the other room except the one who is to put
something in the stockings."
"That's it. Who will begin?"
"Not I," rejoined Joe. "I don't want to be poked down into the toe."
"And I can't have my gifts crushed," declared Florence.
"Hal, you begin."
Hal was very cheerful and obliging. Granny lighted another candle, and
the three retired. He disposed of his gifts, and then called Joe.
Joe made a great scrambling around. One would think he had Santa Claus
himself, and was squeezing him into the small stocking, sleigh, ponies,
and all.
"Now, Granny, it's your turn."
Granny fumbled about a long while, until the children grew impatient.
Afterward Florence found herself sorely straitened for room; but she
had a bright brain, and what she could not put inside she did up
in papers and pinned to the outside, giving the stockings a rather
grotesque appearance, it must be confessed. There they hung in a row,
swelled to dropsical proportions, and looking not unlike stumpy little
Dutchmen who had been beheaded at the knees.
"Now, Granny, you must go to bed," said Joe with an air of importance.
"And you must promise to lie there until you are called to-morrow
morning,--honor bright!"
Granny smiled, and bobbed her flaxen curls.
"Now," exclaimed Florence, bolting the middle door so they would be
sure of no interruption.
Joe went out to the wood-shed, and dragged in a huge shoe. The toe was
painted red, and around the top a strip of bright yellow, ending with
an immense buckle cut out of wood.
"Oh, isn't it splendid!" exclaimed Florence, holding her breath.
"That was Hal's idea, and it's too funny for any thing. Granny could
crawl into it head first. If we haven't worked and conjured to keep Kit
and Charlie out of the secret, then no one ever had a bit of trouble
in this world."
Joe laughed until he held his sides. It was a sort of safety
escape-valve with him.
"H-u-s-h!" whispered Hal. "Now, Flossy."
Florence brought a large bundle out of the closet. There were some
suppressed titters, and "O's," and "Isn't it jolly?"
"Now you must tie your garters round the bedpost, put the toe of your
shoes toward the door, and go to bed backward. That'll make every thing
come out just right," declared Joe.
"Oh, dear! I wish it was morning!" said Hal. "I want to see the fun."
"So don't this child. I must put in some tall snoring between this and
daylight."
They said good-night softly to each other, and went off to bed. Joe was
so full of mischief, that he kept digging his elbows into Hal's ribs,
and rolling himself in the bedclothes, until it was a relief to have
him commence the promised snoring.
With the first gray streak of dawn there was a stir.
"Merry Christmas!" sang out Joe with a shout that might have been heard
a mile. "Hal and Kit"--
"Can't you let a body sleep in peace?" asked Kit in an injured tone,
the sound coming from vasty deeps of bedclothes.
Joe declared they always had to fish him out of bed, and that buckwheat
cakes was the best bait that could be used.
"Why, it's Christmas. Hurrah! We're going to have a jolly time. What do
you suppose is in your stocking?"
That roused Kit. He came out of bed on his head, and commenced putting
his foot through his jacket sleeve.
"I can't find my stockings! Who's got 'em?"
"The fellow who gets up first always takes the best clothes," said Joe
solemnly.
With that he made a dive into his. It was the funniest thing in the
world to see Joe dress. His clothes always seemed joined together in
some curious fashion; for he flung his arms and legs into them at one
bound.
"Oh, dear! Don't look in my stocking, Joe. You might wait. I know
you've hidden away my shoe on purpose."
With this Kit sat in the middle of the floor like a heap of rains, and
began to cry.
Hal came to the rescue, and helped his little brother dress. But Joe
was down long before them. He gave a whoop at the door.
"Merry Christmas!" exclaimed Florence with a laugh, glad to think she
had distanced him.
"Merry Christmas! The top o' the mornin' to you, Granny! Long life and
plenty of 'praties and pint.' Santa Claus has been here. My eyes!"
Hal and Kit came tumbling along; but the younger stood at the door in
amaze, his mouth wide open.
"Hush for your life!"
But Kit had to make a tour regardless of his own stocking, while Joe
brandished the tongs above his head as if to enforce silence.
Hal began to kindle the fire. Charlie crept out in her nightgown, with
an old shawl about her, and stood transfixed with astonishment.
"Oh, my! Isn't that jolly? Doesn't Granny know a bit?"
"Not a word."
"Mrs. McFinnegan," said Joe through the chink of the door, "I have to
announce that the highly esteemed and venerable Mr. Santa Claus, a
great traveller and a remarkably generous man, has made a call upon you
during the night. As he feared to disturb your slumbers, he left a ball
of cord, a paper of pins, and a good warm night-cap."
Florence was laughing so that she could hardly use buttons or hooks.
Dot gave a neglected whine from the cradle.
"Is Granny ready?" Hal asked as she came out.
"She's just putting on her cap."
Hal went in for a Christmas kiss. Granny held him to her heart in a
fond embrace, and wished the best of every thing over him.
"Merry Christmas to you all!" she said as Hal escorted her out to the
middle of the room.
Joe went over on his head, and then perched himself on the back of a
chair. The rest all looked at Granny.
"Is this really for me?" she asked in surprise, though the great
placard stared her in the face.
The children set up a shout. Kit and Charlie paused, open-mouthed, in
the act of demolishing something.
"Why, I never"--
"Tumble it out," said Joe.
"This great shoe full"--
Florence handed the first package to Granny. She opened it in amaze, as
if she really could not decide whether it belonged to her or not.
There was a paper pinned on it, "A Merry Christmas from Mrs. Kinsey."
A nice dark calico dress-pattern, at which Granny was so overcome that
she dropped into the nearest chair.
Next a pair of gloves from Joe; a pretty, warm hood from Mrs. Howard,
the clergyman's wife; a bowl of elegant cranberry sauce from another
neighbor; a crocheted collar from Florence, and then with a big tug--
"Oh!" exclaimed Granny, "is it a comfortable, or what?"
A good thick plaid shawl. Just bright enough to be handsome and not
too gay, and as soft as the back of a lamb.
"Where did it come from?"
Granny's voice trembled in her excitement.
"From all of us," said Florence. "I mean, Joe and Hal and me. We've
been saving our money this ever so long, and Mrs. Kinsey bought it for
us. O Granny!"--
But Granny had her arms around them, and was crying over heads golden
and brown and black; and Hal, little chicken-heart, was sobbing and
smiling together. Joe picked a big tear or two out of his eye, and
began with some nonsense.
"And to keep it a secret all this time! and to make this great shoe!
There never was such a Christmas before. Oh, children, I'm happier than
a queen!"
"What makes you cry then, Granny?" asked Charlie.
"But oh! wasn't it funny? And if it only had runners
it would make a sleigh. Look at the red toe."
They kissed dozens of times, and inspected each other's gifts. Florence
had made each of the boys two dainty little neckties, having begged
the silk from Miss Brown. Charlie and Kit had a pair of new mittens,
Joe and Hal a new shirt with a real plaited bosom, and a host of small
articles devised by love, with a scarce purse. But I doubt if there was
a happier household in richer homes.
It was a long while before they had tried every thing,
[Illustration]
tasted of all their "goodies," and expressed sufficient delight and
surprise. Dot was taken up and dressed, and Kit found that she fitted
into the shoe exact. Her tiny stocking was not empty. They all laughed
and talked; and it was nine o'clock before their simple breakfast was
ready.
Joe had to take a turn out to see some of the boys; Florence made the
beds, and put the room in order; and Hal kept a roaring fire to warm
it up, so that they might have a parlor. Kit and Charlie were deeply
interested in the shoe; and Granny had to break out every now and then
in surprise and thankfulness.
"A shawl and hood and gloves and a dress! Why, I never had so many
things at once, I believe; and how hard you must all have worked! I
don't see how you could save so much money!"
"It's better than living with Mrs. Van Wyck," returned Florence with
pardonable pride. "Embroidering is real pretty work, and it pays well.
Mrs. Howard has asked me to do some for a friend of hers."
"You're a wonder, Florence, to be sure. I can't see how you do 'em all
so nice. But my fingers are old and clumsy."
"They know how to make pies and doughnuts," said Kit, as if that was
the main thing, after all.
They went to work at the dinner. It was to be a grand feast. Joe kept
the fire brisk; while Hal waited upon Granny, and remembered the
ingredients that went to make "tip-top" dressing.
"It is a pity you were not a Frenchman," said Florence. "You would
make such a handy cook."
Hal laughed, his cheeks as red as roses.
"I couldn't keep house without him," appended Granny.
There was a savory smell of roasting goose, the flavor of thyme and
onions, which the children loved dearly. Charlie and Kit went out to
have a good run, and came back hungry as bears, they declared. Joe went
off to see some of the boys, and compare gifts. Though more than one
new sled or nice warm overcoat gave his heart a little twinge, he was
too gay and happy to feel sad very long; and, when he had a royal ride
down hill on the bright sleds that flashed along like reindeers, he
returned very well content.
Florence sighed a little as she arranged the table. Three kinds of
dishes, and some of them showing their age considerably. If they were
all white it wouldn't be so bad. She did so love beauty!
But when the goose, browned in the most delicious manner, graced the
middle dish, the golden squash and snowy mound of potatoes, and the
deep wine color of the cranberries lent their contrast, it was quite
a picture, after all. And when the host of eager faces had clustered
round it, one would hardly have noticed any lack. They were all in the
gayest possible mood.
Hal did the carving. The goose was young and tender, and he disappeared
with marvellous celerity.
Wings, drumsticks, great juicy slices with crisp skin, dressing in
abundance; and how they did eat! For a second helping they had to
demolish the rack; and Charlie wasn't sure but picking bones was the
most fun of all.
"Hal, you had better go into the poultry business," said Joe, stopping
in the midst of a spoonful of cranberry.
"I've been thinking of it," was the reply.
"I should think he was in it," said Charlie slyly.
Joe laughed.
"Good for you, Charlie. They must feed you on knives at your house,
you're so sharp. But I have heard of people being too smart to live
long, so take warning."
Charlie gave her head a toss.
"Why wouldn't it be good?" pursued Joe. "People do make money by it;
and I suppose, before very long, we must begin to think about money."
"Don't to-day" said Granny.
"No, we will not worry ourselves," rejoined Hal.
One after another drew long breaths, as if their appetites were
diminishing. Dot sat back in her high chair, her hands and face showing
signs of the vigorous contest, but wonderfully content.
"Now the pie!" exclaimed Joe.
Florence gathered up the bones and the plates, giving Tabby, who sat in
the corner washing her face, a nice feast. Then came on the Christmas
pie, which was pronounced as great a success as the goose.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Joe. "One unfortunate thing about eating is, that it
takes away your appetite."
"It is high time!" added Florence.
They wouldn't allow Granny to wash a dish, but made her sit in state
while they brought about order and cleanliness once more. A laughable
time they had; for Joe wiped some dishes, and Charlie scoured one knife.
Afterward they had a game at blind-man's-buff. Such scampering and such
screams would have half frightened any passer-by. They coaxed Granny to
get up and join; and at last, to please Hal, she consented.
If Joe fancied he could catch her easily, he was much mistaken. She had
played blind-man's-buff too many times in her young days. Such turning
and doubling and slipping away was fine to see; and Charlie laughed so,
that Joe, much chagrined, took her prisoner instead.
"Granny, you beat every thing!" he said. "Now, Charlie."
Charlie made a dive at the cupboard, and then started for the window,
spinning round in such a fashion that they all had to run; but even she
was not fleet enough.
After that, Kit and Florence essayed; and Joe, manoeuvring in their
behalf, fell into the trap himself, at which they all set up a shout.
"I'm bound to have Granny this time," he declared.
Sure enough, though he confessed afterwards that he peeped a little;
but Granny was tired with so much running: and, as the short afternoon
drew to a close, they gathered round the fire, and cracked nuts,
washing them down with apples, as they had no cider.
"It's been a splendid Christmas!" said Charlie, with such a yawn that
she nearly made the top of her head an island.
"I wonder if we'll all be here next year?" said Joe, rather more
solemnly than his wont.
"I hope so," responded Granny, glancing over the clustering faces. Dot
sat on Hal's knee, looking bright as a new penny. She, too, had enjoyed
herself amazingly.
But presently the spirit of fun seemed to die out, and they began to
sing some hymns and carols. The tears came into Granny's eyes, as the
sweet, untrained voices blended so musically. Ah, if they could always
stay children! Foolish wish; and yet Granny would have toiled for them
to her latest breath.
"Here's long life and happiness!" exclaimed Joe, with a flourish of the
old cocoanut dipper. "A merry Christmas next year, and may we all be
there to see!"
Ah, Joe, it will be many a Christmas before you are all there again.
CHAPTER V.
GOOD LUCK FOR JOE.
"Hooray!" said Joe, swinging the molasses jug over his head as if it
had been a feather, or the stars and stripes on Fourth of July morning.
"O Joe!"
"Flossy, my darling, you are a poet sure; only poetry, like an
alligator, must have feet, or it will lose its reputation. Here's your
'lasses, Granny; and what do you think? Something has actually happened
to me! Oh, my! do guess quick!"
"You've been taken with the 'lirium"--and there Charlie paused, having
been wrecked on a big word.
"Delirium tremen_jous_. Remember to say it right hereafter, Charlie."
Charlie looked very uncertain.
"Maybe it's the small-pox," said Kit, glancing up in amazement.
"Good for you!" and Joe applauded with two rather blue thumb-nails.
"But it's a fact. Guess, Granny. I'm on the high road to fortune.
Hooray!"
With that, Joe executed his usual double-shuffle, and a revolution on
his axis hardly laid down in the planetary system. He would have said
that it was because he was not a heavenly body.
"O Joe, if you were like any other boy!"
"Jim Fisher, for instance,--red-headed, squint-eyed, and freckled."
"He can't help it," said Hal mildly. "He is real nice too."
"You're not going"--began Granny with a gasp.
"Yes, I'm going"--was the solemn rejoinder.
"Not to sea!" and there came a quick blur in Hal's eyes.
"Oh, bother, no! You're all splendid at guessing, and ought to have
a prize leather medal. It's in Mr. Terry's store; and I shall have a
dollar and a half a week! Good by, Mr. Fielder. Adieu, beloved grammar;
and farewell, most fragrant extract of cube-root, as well as birch-oil.
O Granny! I'm happy as a big sunflower. On the high road to fame and
fortune,--think of it!"
"Is it really true?" asked Florence.
"Then, I won't need to go for any thing," appended Charlie.
"No; but you'll have to draw water, and split kindlings, and hunt up
Mrs. Green's cows."
"In Mr. Terry's store! What wonderful luck, Joe!"
Granny's delight was overwhelming. All along she had experienced a sad
misgiving, lest Joe should take a fancy to the sea in real earnest.
"Yes. It's just splendid. Steve Anthony's going to the city to learn
a trade. He had a letter from his uncle to-day, saying that he might
start right away. I thought a minute: then said I, 'Steve, who's coming
here?' 'I don't know,' said he. 'Mr. Terry'll have to look round.' 'I'm
your boy,' said I, 'and no mistake.' And with that I rushed in to Mr.
Terry, and asked him. He gave me some columns of figures to add up,
and questioned me a little, and finally told me that I might come on
Monday, and we'd try for a week."
"There's Joe's fortune," said Hal, "and a good one too. You will not
need to go to sea."
There was an odd and knowing twinkle in Joe's merry hazel eye, which
showed to an observing person that he was not quite sound on the
question.
"Tate Dotty;" and two little hands were outstretched.
"O Dot! you're a fraud, and more trouble to me than all my money."
With that, Joe sat her up on his shoulder, and she laughed gleefully.
Granny lighted a candle, and began to prepare for supper. While Charlie
set the table, Granny brought out the griddle, and commenced frying
some Indian cakes in a most tempting manner. Joe dropped on an old
stool, and delighted Dot with a vigorous ride to Banbury Cross.
Kit stood beside him, inhaling the fragrance of the cakes, and
wondering at the dexterity with which Granny turned them on a slender
knife.
"I don't see how you do it. Suppose you should let 'em fall?"
"Ho!" said Charlie, with a sniff of disdain. "Women always know how."
"But they can't come up to the miners," suggested Joe. "They keep house
for themselves; and their flapjacks are turned,--as big as Granny's
griddle here."
"One cake?"
"Yes. That's where the art comes in."
"They must take a shovel," said Charlie.
"No, nor a knife, nor any thing."
With that Joe shook his head mysteriously.
"With their fingers," announced Kit triumphantly.
"My mother used to bake them in a frying-pan," said Granny. "Then she'd
twirl it round and round, and suddenly throw the cake over."
"There!"
Kit gave a nod as much as to say, "Beat that if you can."
"That isn't a circumstance," was Joe's solemn comment.
"But how then?" asked Charlie, who was wound up to a pitch of
curiosity.
"Why, _they_ bake them in a pan too, and twirl it round and round, and
then throw it up and run out of doors. The cake goes up chimney, and
comes down on the raw side, all right, you see, and drops into the pan
before you can count six black beans."
"Oh, I don't believe it!" declared Charlie. "Do you, Granny?"
"They'd have to be pretty quick," was the response.
"You see, a woman never could do it, Charlie," Joe continued in a
tormenting manner.
"But, Charlie, a miner's cabin is not very high; and the chimney is
just a great hole in the roof," explained Hal.
"'Tory, 'tory," said Dot, who was not interested in the culinary art.
"O Dotty! you'll have a piece worn off the end of my tongue, some day.
It's high time you were storing your mind with useful facts; so, if you
please, we will have a little English history."
"What nonsense, Joe! As if she could understand;" and Florence looked
up from her pretty worsted crocheting.
"To be sure she can. Dot comes of a smart family. Now, Midget;" and
with that he perched her up on his knee.
Charlie and Kit began to listen.
"'When good King Arthur ruled the land,
He was a goodly king:
He stole three pecks of barley-meal
To make a bag pudding.'"
"I don't believe it," burst out Charlie. "I was reading about King
Arthur"--
"And he was a splendid cook. Hear his experience,--
'A bag pudding the king did make,
And stuffed it well with plums;
And in it put great lumps of fat,
As big as my two thumbs.'"
Dot thought the laugh came in here, and threw back her head, showing
her little white teeth.
"It really wasn't King Arthur," persisted Charlie.
"It is a fact handed down to posterity. No wonder England became great
under so wise and economical a rule; for listen--
'The king and queen did eat thereof,
And noblemen beside;
And what they could not eat that night,
The queen next morning fried,'--
as we do sometimes. Isn't it wonderful?"
"Hunnerful," ejaculated Dot, wide-eyed.
"I hope you'll take a lesson, and"--
"Come to supper," said Granny.
Irrepressible Charlie giggled at the ending.
They did not need a second invitation, but clustered around eagerly.
"I'm afraid there won't be any left to fry up in the morning," said Joe
solemnly.
After the youngsters were off to bed that evening, Joe began to talk
about his good fortune again.
"And a dollar and a half a week, regularly, is a good deal," he said.
"Why, I can get a spick and span new suit of clothes for twelve
dollars,--two months, that would be; and made at a tailor's too."
"The two months?" asked Florence.
"Oh! you know what I mean."
"You will get into worse habits than ever," she said with a wise
elder-sister air.
"I don't ever expect to be a grand gentleman."
"But you _might_ be a little careful."
"Flo acts as if she thought we were to have a great fortune left us by
and by, and wouldn't be polished enough to live in state."
"The only fortune we shall ever have will come from five-finger land,"
laughed Hal good-naturedly.
"And I'm going to make a beginning. I do think it was a streak of luck.
I am old enough to do something for myself."
"I wish I could find such a chance," said Hal, with a soft sigh.
"Your turn will come presently," Granny answered, smiling tenderly.
Joe went on with his air-castles. The sum of money looked so large in
his eyes. He bought out half of Mr. Terry's store, and they were to
live like princes,--all on a dollar and a half a week.
Granny smiled, and felt proud enough of him. If he would only keep to
business, and not go off to sea.
So on Friday Joe piled up his books, and turned a somerset over them,
and took a farewell race with the boys. They were all sorry enough to
lose him. Mr. Fielder wished him good luck.
"You will find that work is not play," he said by way of caution.
Early Monday morning Joe presented himself bright as a new button.
He had insisted upon wearing his best suit,--didn't he mean to have
another soon? for the school clothes were all patches. He had given his
hair a Sunday combing, which meant that he used a comb instead of his
fingers. Mr. Terry was much pleased with his promptness.
A regular country store, with groceries on one side and dry goods on
the other, a little sashed cubby for a post-office, and a corner for
garden and farm implements. There was no liquor kept on the premises;
for the mild ginger and root beer sold in summer could hardly be placed
in that category.
Joe was pretty quick, and by noon had mastered many of the intricacies.
Old Mr. Terry was in the store part of the time,--"father" as everybody
called him. He was growing rather childish and careless, so his son
instructed Joe to keep a little watch over him. Then he showed him how
to harness the horse, and drove off with some bulky groceries that he
was to take home.
"All things work together for good, sonny," said Father Terry with a
sleepy nod, as he sat down by the stove.
"What things?"
"All things," with a sagacious shake of the head.
This was Father Terry's favorite quotation, and he used it in season
and out of season.
The door opened, and Mrs. Van Wyck entered. She gave Joe a sharp look.
"So _you're_ here?" with a kind of indignant sniff.
"Yes. What will you have?"
There was a twinkle in Joe's eye, and an odd little pucker to his lips,
as if he were remembering something.
"You needn't be so impudent."
"I?" and Joe flushed in surprise.
"Yes. You're a saucy lot, the whole of you."
With that Mrs. Van Wyck began to saunter round.
"What's the price of these cranberries?"
"Eighteen cents," in his most respectful tone.
"They're dear, dreadful dear. Over to Windsor you can get as many as
you can carry for a shillin' a quart."
Joe was silent.
"Say sixteen."
"I couldn't," replied Joe. "If Mr. Terry were here"--
"There's Father Terry." She raised her voice a little. "Father Terry,
come and look at these cranberries. They're a poor lot, and you'll do
well to get a shillin' a quart."
Joe ran his fingers through them. Plump and crimson, very nice he
thought for so late in the season.
"I don't s'pose I'd get more'n two good quarts out of three. They'll
spile on your hands. Come now, be reasonable."
Father Terry looked undecided. Joe watched him, thinking in his heart
that he ought not fall a penny.
"Say a shillin'."
The old man shook his head.
"Well, fifteen cents. I want three quarts, and I won't give a penny
more."
The old gentleman studied Joe's face, which was full of perplexity.
"Well," he said with some reluctance.
Joe measured them. Mrs. Van Wyck gave each quart a "settle" by shaking
it pretty hard, and Joe had to put in another large handful.
"Now I want some cheese."
The pound weighed two ounces over.
"You can throw that in. Mr. Terry always does."
"How much?"
"Twenty-three cents."
"No: you can't fool me, youngster. I never pay more than twenty cents."
"I'm sure Mr. Terry told me that it was twenty-three."
Father was appealed to again, and of course went over to the
domineering enemy.
Then two pounds of butter passed through the same process of
cheapening. Joe began to lose his temper. Afterward a broom, some tape
and cotton, and finally a calico dress.
"Now, here's three dozen eggs for part pay. They're twenty-four cents a
dozen."
"Why, that's what we sell them for," said astonished Joe, mentally
calculating profit and loss.
"Oh! they've gone up. Hetty Collins was paid twenty-five over to
Windsor. I'd gone there myself if I'd had a little more time."
"I wish you had," ejaculated Joe inwardly.
She haggled until she got her price, and the settlement was made.
"She's a regular old screwer," said Joe rather crossly. "I don't
believe it was right to let her have those things in that fashion."
"All things work together for good."
"For _her_ good, it seems."
Father Terry went back to his post by the stove. Joe breathed a little
thanksgiving that Flossy was not Mrs. Van Wyck's maid-of-all-work.
Joe's next customer was Dave Downs, as the boys called him. He shuffled
up to the counter.
"Got any _reel_ good cheese?"
"Yes," said Joe briskly.
"Let's see."
Joe raised the cover. Dave took up the knife, and helped himself to a
bountiful slice.
"Got any crackers?"
"Yes," wondering what Dave meant.
"Nice and fresh?"
"I guess so."
"I'll take three or four."
"That will be a penny's worth."
When Dave had the crackers in his hand he said, raising his shaggy
brows in a careless manner,--
"Oh! you needn't be so perticelar."
Then he took a seat beside Father Terry, and munched crackers and
cheese. "Cool enough," thought Joe.
Old Mrs. Skittles came next. She was very deaf, and talked in a high,
shrill key, as if she thought all the world in the same affliction.
She looked at every thing, priced it, beat down a cent or two, and
then concluded she'd rather wait until Mr. Terry came in. At last she
purchased a penny's worth of snuff, and begged Joe to give her good
measure.
After that two customers and the mail. Father Terry bestirred himself,
and waited upon a little girl with a jug.
Joe was rather glad to see Mr. Terry enter, for he had an uncomfortable
sense of responsibility.
"Trade been pretty good, Joe?" with a smile.
"I've put it all down on the slate, as you told me."
"Hillo! What's this!"
A slow stream of something dark was running over the floor back of the
lower counter.
"Oh, molasses!" and with a spring Joe shut off the current, but there
was an ominous pool.
"I did not get that: it was"--and Joe turned crimson.
"Father. We never let him go for molasses, vinegar, oil, or burning
fluid. He is sure to deluge us. Run round in the kitchen, and get a
pail and a mop."
"It's my opinion that this doesn't work together for good," said Joe to
himself as he was cleaning up the mess.
"So you had Mrs. Skittles?" exclaimed Mr. Terry with a laugh. "And Mrs.
Van Wyck. Why, Joe!"
"She beat down awfully!" said Joe; "and she wanted every thing thrown
in. Mr. Terry"--
"She called on father, I'll be bound. But she has taken off all the
profits; and then to make you pay twenty-four cents for the eggs."
"I'd just like to have had my own way. If you'll give me leave"--
"You will have to look out a little for father. He's getting old, you
know; and these sharp customers are rather too much for him."
"I'll never fall a penny again;" and Joe shook his head defiantly.
"You will learn by degrees. But it is never necessary to indulge such
people. There's the dinner-bell."
Dave Downs had finished his crackers and cheese, and now settled
himself to a comfortable nap. Joe busied himself by clearing up
a little, giving out mail, and once weighing some flour. Then he
discovered that he had scattered it over his trousers, and that with
the molasses dabs it made a not very delightful mixture. So he took
a seat on a barrel-head and began to scrub it off; but he found it
something like Aunt Jemima's plaster.
"Run in and get some dinner, Joe," said Mr. Terry after his return to
the store.
"But I was going home," replied Joe bashfully.
"Oh! never mind. We will throw in the dinner."
So Joe ran around, but hesitated at the door of Mrs. Terry's clean
kitchen. She was motherly and cordial, however, and gave him a bright
smile.
"I told Mr. Terry that you might as well come in here for your dinner.
It is quite a long run home."
"You are very kind," stammered Joe, feeling that he must say something,
in spite of his usual readiness of speech deserting him.
"You ought to have an apron, Joe, or a pair of overalls," she said
kindly. "You will find grocery business rather dirty work sometimes."
"And my best clothes!" thought Joe with a sigh.
But the coffee was so delightful, and the cold roast beef tender as a
chicken. And Joe began to think it was possible for a few things to
work together for good, if they were only the right kind of things.
Altogether he went home at night in very good spirits.
"But my trousers will have to go in the wash-tub, Granny," he
exclaimed. "I believe I wasn't cut out for a gentleman, after all."
"O Joe, what a sight! How could you?"
"It was all easy enough. If you'd had molasses to scrub up, and flour
to get before it was dry, you would have found the sticking process not
at all difficult. And oh! Mrs. Van Wyck came in."
Florence flushed a little at this.
"Yes, wait till I show you." With that, Joe sprang up, and wrapped
Granny's old shawl about him, and began in his most comical fashion. In
a moment or two the children were in roars of laughter.
"I don't know as it is quite right, Joe dear," interposed Granny
mildly, "to make fun of any one."
"My conscience don't trouble me a bit;" for now he was in a high glee.
"I owe her a grudge for making me pay twenty-four cents for eggs. And,
Granny, when you come to the store, don't beat me down a penny on any
thing; nor ask me to throw in a spool of cotton nor a piece of tape,
nor squeeze down the measure. I wonder how people can be so mean!"
"Rich people too," added Florence in an injured tone of voice, still
thinking of Mrs. Van Wyck's overture.
"There's lots of funny folks in the world," said Joe with a grave air.
"But I like Mr. Terry, and I mean to do my very best."
"That's right;" and Granny smiled tenderly over the boy's resolve.
"And I'll put on my old clothes to-morrow. Who knows but I may fall
into the mackerel-barrel before to-morrow night?"
Kit laughed at this. "They'll have to fish you out with a harpoon,
then."
"Oh! I might swim ashore."
The next day Joe improved rapidly. To be sure, he met with a mishap or
two; but Mr. Terry excused him, and only charged him to be more careful
in future. And Father Terry administered his unfailing consolation on
every occasion.
But on Saturday night Joe came home in triumph.
"There's the beginning of my fortune," he said, displaying his dollar
and a half all in hard cash. For that was a long while ago, when the
eagle, emblem of freedom, used to perch on silver half-dollars.
CHAPTER VI.
FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES.
"I think I'll go into business," said Hal one evening, as he and Granny
and Florence sat together.
They missed Joe so much! He seldom came home until eight o'clock; and
there was no one to stir up the children, and keep the house in a
racket.
"What?" asked Granny.
"I am trying to decide. I wonder how chickens would do?"
"It takes a good deal to feed 'em," said Granny.
"But they could run about, you know. And buckwheat is such a splendid
thing for them. Then we can raise ever so much corn."
"But where would you get your buckwheat?" asked Florence.
"I was thinking. Mr. Peters never does any thing with his lot down
here, and the old apple-trees in it are not worth much. If he'd let me
have it ploughed up! And then we'd plant all of our ground in corn,
except the little garden that we want."
"What a master hand you are to plan, Hal!"
Granny's face was one immense beam of admiration.
"I want to do something. It's too hard, Granny, that you should have to
go out washing, and all that."
Hal's soft brown eyes were full of tender pity.
"Oh! I don't mind. I'm good for a many day's work yet, Hal."
"I hope some of us will get rich at last."
Florence sighed softly.
"I thought you were going to have a green-house," she said.
"I'm afraid I can't manage the green-house now, though I mean to try
some day. And I noticed old Speckly clucking this morning."
"But we haven't any eggs," said Granny.
"I could get some."
"How many chickens would you raise?" asked Florence.
"Well, if we should set the five hens,--out of say sixty-four eggs we
ought to raise fifty chickens; oughtn't we, Granny?"
"With good luck; but so many things happen to 'em."
"And if I could clear thirty dollars. Then there's quite a good deal of
work to do in the summer."
"I shall soon be a fine lady, and ride in my carriage," Granny
commented with a cheerful chirrup of a laugh.
"Mrs. Kinsey's chickens are splendid," said Florence.
"Yes. Shall I get some eggs, and set Speckly?"
"It's rather airly to begin."
"But I'll make a nice coop. And eggs are not twenty-four cents a dozen."
Hal finished off with a quiet smile at the thought of Mrs. Van Wyck.
So he went to Mrs. Kinsey's the next morning, and asked her for a dozen
of eggs, promising to come over the first Saturday there was any thing
to do, and work it out.
"I'll give you the eggs," she said; "but we will be glad to have you
some Saturday, all the same."
So old Speckly was allowed to indulge her motherly inclinations to
her great satisfaction. Hal watched her with the utmost solicitude.
In the course of time a tiny bill pecked against white prison walls;
and one morning Hal found the cunningest ball of soft, yellow down,
trying to balance itself on two slender legs, but finding that the
point of gravity as often centred in its head. But the little fellow
winked oddly, as much as to say, "I know what I'm about. I'll soon find
whether it is the fashion to stand on your head or your feet in this
queer world."
One by one the rest came out. Hal had a nice coop prepared, and set
Mrs. Speckly up at housekeeping. Dot caught one little "birdie," as she
called it, and, in running to show Granny, fell down. And although Dot
wasn't very heavy, it was an avalanche on poor "birdie." He gave two
or three slow kicks with his yellow legs, and then was stiff for all
time.
"Hal's boofer birdie," said Dot. "See, Danny!"
"O Dot! what have you done?"
"Him 'oont 'alk;" and Dot stood him down on the doorstep, only to see
him tumble over.
"Oh, you've killed Hal's birdie! What will he say?"
"I 'ell down. Why 'oont him run, Danny?"
What could Granny do? Scolding Dot was out of the question. And just
then Hal came flying up the road.
Granny had seen the fall, and explained the matter.
"But she mustn't catch them! You're a naughty little Dot!"
Dot began to cry.
"Poor little girl!" said Hal, taking her in his arms. "It is wrong to
catch them. See, now, the little fellow is dead, and can never run
about any more. Isn't Dot sorry? She won't ever touch Hal's birdies
again, will she?"
So Dot promised, and Hal kissed her. But she carried the dead birdie
about, petting it with softest touches, and insisting upon taking it to
bed with her.
One more of the brood met with a mishap, but the other ten throve and
grew rapidly. By the time the next hen wanted to set, Hal had a dozen
eggs saved.
He asked Farmer Peters about the lot. It was just below their house,
between that and the creek, a strip of an acre and a half perhaps.
The old trees were not worth much, to be sure; and Mr. Peters never
troubled himself to cultivate the plot, as it was accounted very poor.
"Yes, you may have it in welcome; but you won't git enough off of it to
pay for the ploughin'?"
"I'm going to raise chickens; and I thought it would be nice to sow
buckwheat, and let them run in it."
"Turnin' farmer, hey? 'Pears to me you're makin' an airly beginnin'."
Hal smiled pleasantly.
"You'll find chickens an awful sight o' bother."
"I thought I'd try them."
"Goin' to garden any?"
"A little."
"Hens and gardens are about like fox an' geese. One's death on the
other. But you kin have the lot."
So Hal asked Abel Kinsey to come over and plough. In return he helped
plant potatoes and drop corn for two Saturdays. By this time there was
a third hen setting.
House-cleaning had come on, and Granny was pretty busy. But she and
Hal were up early in the morning garden-making. The plot belonging to
the cottage was about two acres. Hal removed his chicken-coops to the
lot, and covered his young vegetables with brush to protect them from
incursions,--pease, beans, lettuce, beets, and sweet-corn; and the
rest was given over to the chickens.
"I am going to keep an account of all that is spent for them," he said;
"and we will see if we can make it pay."
When Joe had saved three dollars, he teased Granny to let him order his
clothes.
"I don't like running in debt, Joe," she said with a grave shake of the
head.
"But this is very sure. Mr. Terry likes me, and I shall go on staying.
There will be four dollars and a half to pay down by the time they are
done, and in five weeks I can earn the rest."
"How nice it seems!" said Hal. "You and Flo earn a deal of money."
Flo gave a small sniff. She wanted some new clothes also. And Kit and
Charlie were going to shreds and patches. Charlie, indeed, was shooting
up like Jack's bean-stalk, Joe declared, being nearly as tall as Hal.
She was wild as a colt, climbed trees, jumped fences, and wouldn't be
dared by any of the boys.
"I'm sure I don't know what you'll come to," Granny would say with a
sigh.
Joe carried his point, and ordered his clothes; for he insisted that
he could not think of going to Sunday school until he had them. It was
quite an era in his life to have real store clothes. He felt very grand
one day when he went to Mr. Briggs the tailor, and selected the cloth.
There were several different patterns and colors; but he had made up
his mind that it should be gray, just like Archie Palmer's.
He was so dreadfully afraid of being disappointed, that he dropped in
on Friday to see if they were progressing. There was the jacket in the
highest state of perfection.
"But the pants?" he questioned.
"Never you mind. Them pants'll be done as sure as my name's Peter
Briggs."
"All right," said Joe; and he ran on his way whistling.
"Kit," he announced that evening, "I've just found out a good business
for you."
"What?" and Kit roused himself.
"You shall be a tailor. I was thinking to-day how you would look on the
board, with your scalp-lock nodding to every stitch."
"I won't," said Kit stoutly; and he gave a kick towards Joe's leg.
"It's a good business. You will always have plenty of cabbage."
"You better stop!" declared Kit.
"It will be handy to have him in the house, Granny. He can do the
ironing by odd spells. And on the subject of mending old clothes he
will be lovely."
With that Kit made another dive.
Granny gave a sudden spring, and rescued the earthen jar that held the
cakes she had just mixed and set upon the stove-hearth.
"O Kit! Those precious pancakes! We are not anxious to have them
flavored with extract of old shoes."
"Nor to go wandering over the floor."
Kit looked sober and but half-awake.
"Never mind," said Granny cheerily. "You mustn't tease him so much,
Joe."
"Why, I was only setting before him the peculiar advantages of this
romantic and delightful employment;" and with that, Joe executed a
superior double-shuffle quickstep, accompanied by slapping a tune on
his knee.
"You'd do for a minstrel," said Kit.
Joe cleared his voice with a flourish, and sang out,--
"I'd be a tailor,
Jolly and free,
With plenty of cabbage,
And a goose on my knee.
Monday would be blue,
Tuesday would be shady,
Wednesday I'd set out
To find a pretty lady."
"Much work you would do in that case," commented Florence.
"It's time to go to bed, children," said Granny.
"Yes," Joe went on gravely. "For a rising young man, who must take
time by the fore-lock, or scalp-lock, and who longs to distinguish
himself by some great and wonderful discovery, there's nothing like,--
'Early to bed, and early to rise,
To make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.'"
With that Joe was up stairs with a bound.
"Joe!" Charlie called in great earnest.
"Well?"
"You better take a mouthful of Granny's rising before you go."
"Good for you, Charlie; but smart children always die young. Granny,
won't you put a stone on Charlie's head for fear?"
Hal said his good-night in a tenderer manner.
They were all wonderfully interested in Joe's clothes; and, though it
was always later on Saturday night when he reached home, they begged to
sit up, but Kit took a nap by the chimney-corner with Tabby. Granny sat
nodding when they heard the gay whistle without.
"Hurrah! The country's safe!" exclaimed Joe. "Get out your spectacles,
all hands."
"You act as if you never had any thing before, Joe," said Florence,
with an air of extreme dignity.
"But these are real 'boughten' clothes," said Joe, "and gilt buttons
down the jacket. I shall feel like a soldier-boy. Just look now."
The bundle came open with a flourish of the jack-knife. All the heads
crowded round, though the one candle gave a rather dim light.
Such exclamations as sounded through the little room, from every voice,
and in almost every key.
"But where are the trousers?" asked Hal.
"The trousers?--why"--
Granny held up the beautiful jacket. There was nothing else in the
paper.
"Why--he's made a mistake. He never put them in, I am sure."
"You couldn't have lost 'em?" asked Granny mildly.
"Lost them--and the bundle tied with this strong twine! Now, that's
mean! I'll have to run right back."
Off went Joe like a flash. He hardly drew a breath until his hand was
on Mr. Brigg's door-knob.
"Well, what now, Joe?" asked the astonished Mr. Briggs.
"You didn't put in the trousers!"
"Didn't? Dan done 'em up. Dan!"
Dan emerged from a pile of rags under the counter, where he was taking
a snooze.
"You didn't put in Joe's trousers."
"Yes I did."
"No you didn't," said Joe, with more promptness than politeness.
Dan began to search. A sleepy-looking, red-headed boy, to whom
Saturday night was an abomination, because his father was always in the
drag, and cross.
"I'm sure I put 'em in. Every thing's gone, and they ain't here."
"Look sharp, you young rascal!"
"He has lost 'em out."
"Lost your grandmother!" said Joe contemptuously; "or the liberty pole
out on the square! Why, the bundle was not untied until after I was in
the house."
"Dan, if you don't find them trousers, I'll larrup you!"
Poor Dan. Fairly wide awake now, he went tumbling over every thing
piled on the counter, searched the shelves, and every available nook.
"Somebody's stole 'em."
Dan made this announcement with a very blank face.
"I know better!" said his father.
"You are sure you made them, Mr. Briggs," asked Joe.
"Sure!" in a tone that almost annihilated both boys.
"If you don't find 'em!" shaking his fist at Dan.
Dan began to blubber.
Joe couldn't help laughing. "Let me help you look," he said.
Down went a box of odd buttons, scattering far and wide.
"You Dan!" shouted his father, with some buttons in his mouth, that
rendered his voice rather thick. "Just wait till I get at you. I have
only six buttons to sew on."
"They're not here, Mr. Briggs," exclaimed Joe.
"Well, I declare! If that ain't the strangest thing! Dan, you've taken
them trousers to the wrong place!"
A new and overwhelming light burst in upon Dan's benighted brain.
"That's it," said Joe. "Now, where have you taken them?"
"I swow!" ejaculated the youth, rubbing his eyes.
"None o' your swearin' in this place!" interrupted his father sternly.
"I'm a strictly moral man, and don't allow such talk in my family."
"Tain't swearin'," mumbled Dan.
Mr. Briggs jumped briskly down from the board, with a pair of
pantaloons in one hand, and a needle and thread in the other. Dan
dodged round behind Joe.
"You took 'em over to Squire Powell's, I'll be bound!"
Another light was thrown in upon Dan's mental vision.
"There! I'll bet I did."
"Of course you did, you numskull! Start this minute and see how quick
you can be gone."
"I will go with him," said Joe.
So the two boys started; and a run of ten minutes--a rather reluctant
performance on Dan's part, it must be confessed--brought them to Squire
Powell's. There was no light in the kitchen; but Joe beat a double
tattoo on the door in the most scientific manner.
"Who's there?" asked a voice from the second story window.
"Dan Briggs!" shouted Joe.
"Guess not," said the squire. The sound was so unlike Dan's sleepy,
mumbling tone.
"There was a mistake made in some clothes," began Joe, nothing daunted.
"Oh, that's it! I will be down in a minute."
Pretty soon the kitchen-door was unlocked, and the boys stepped inside.
"I didn't know but you sent these over for one of my girls," said the
squire laughingly. "They were a _leetle_ too small for me. So they
belong to you, Joe?"
"Yes, sir," said Joe emphatically, laying hold of his precious trousers.
"Look sharper next time, Dan," was the squire's good advice.
"I wish you'd go home with me, Joe," said Dan, after they had taken a
few steps. "Father'll larrup me, sure!"
"Maybe that will brighten your wits," was Joe's consoling answer.
"But, Joe--I'm sure I didn't mean to--and"--
"I'm off like a shot," appended Joe, suiting the action to the word;
and poor Dan was left alone in the middle of the road.
"Why, what _has_ happened, Joe?" said Granny as he bounced in the
kitchen-door.
"Such a time as I've had to find 'them trousers,' as Mr. Briggs calls
them! Dan had packed them off to Squire Powell's!"
"That Dan Briggs is too stupid for any thing," commented Florence.
"There's time to try them on yet," Joe exclaimed. "Just you wait a bit."
Joe made a rush into the other room.
"Don't wake up Dot," said Hal.
"Oh! I'll go as softly as a blind mouse."
"There, Granny, what do you think of that?"
"You want a collar and a necktie, and your hair brushed a little," said
Florence with critical eyes.
"But aren't they stunners!"
Granny looked at him, turned him round and looked again, and her
wrinkled face was all one bright smile. For he was so tall and manly
in this long jacket, with its narrow standing collar, and the trousers
that fitted to a charm.
"Oh," said Hal with a long breath, "it's splendid!"
"You bet! When I get 'em paid for, Hal, I'll help you out."
Florence sighed.
"O Flo! I can't help being slangy. It comes natural to boys. And then
hearing them all talk in the store."
"Wa-a!" said a small voice. "Wa-a-a Danny!"
"There!" exclaimed Hal; and he ran in to comfort Dot.
But Dot insisted upon being taken up, and brought out to candle-light.
The buttons on Joe's jacket pleased her fancy at once, and soothed her
sorrow.
"I must say, Dot, you are a young woman of some taste," laughed Joe.
"Granny," said Kit, after sitting in deep thought, and taking a good
chew out of his thumb, "when Joe wears 'em out, can you cut 'em over
for me?"
"O Kit! Prudent and economical youth! To you shall be willed the last
remaining shreds of my darling gray trousers, jacket, buttons and all."
They had a grand time admiring Joe. Charlie felt so sorry that she
wasn't a boy; and Flo declared that "he looked as nice as anybody, if
only he wouldn't"--
"No, I won't," said Joe solemnly.
Granny felt proud enough of him the next day when he went to church.
Florence was quite satisfied to walk beside him.
"I wish there was something nice for you, Hal," said Granny in a tone
of tender regret.
"My turn will come by and by," was the cheerful answer.
For Hal took the odds and ends of every thing, and was content.
"They're a nice lot of children, if I do say it myself," was Granny's
comment to Dot. "And I'm glad I never let any of them go to the
poor-house or be bound out, or any thing. We'll all get along somehow."
Dot shook her head sagely, as if that was her opinion also.
The story of Joe's Saturday night adventure leaked out; and poor Dan
Briggs was tormented a good deal, the boys giving him the nickname of
Trousers, much to his discomfort.
Joe discovered, like a good many other people, that whereas getting in
debt was very easy, getting out of debt was very hard. He went along
bravely for several weeks, and then he began to find so many wants.
A new straw hat he _must_ have, for the weather was coming warm, and
they had such beauties at the store for a dollar; and then his boots
grew too rusty, so a pair of shoes were substituted. He bought Dot a
pretty Shaker, which she insisted upon calling her "Sunny cool Shaker."
She was growing very cunning indeed, though her tongue was exceedingly
crooked. Hal laughed over her droll baby words; and Kit's endeavor to
make her say tea-kettle was always crowned with shouts of laughter.
Joe succeeded pretty well at the store, but occasionally all things
did not work together for good. His margin of fun was so wide that it
sometimes brought him into trouble. One day he inadvertently sold old
Mrs. Cummings some ground pepper, instead of allspice. That afternoon
the old lady flew back in a rage.
"I'll never buy a cent's wuth of this good-for nothin', car'less boy!"
she ejaculated. "He does nothin' but jig around the store, and sing
songs. An' now he's gone and spiled my whole batch of pies."
"Spoiled your pies?" said Mr. Terry in astonishment.
"Yes, spiled 'em! Four as good pies as anybody in Madison makes. Green
apple too!"
"Why, I never saw your pies!" declared Joe.
"I'd like to make you eat 'em all,--to the last smitch!" and she shook
her fist.
"But what did he do?" questioned Mr. Terry.
"That's what I'm tryin' to tell you. I run in this mornin' and bought
two ounces of allspice; for I hadn't a speck in the house. Seth's so
fond of it in apple-pies. Well, I was hurryin' round; an' I lost my
smell years ago, when I had the influenzy, so I put in the allspice;
an' sez I at dinner, 'Seth, here's the fust green-apple pies. I don't
believe a soul in Madison has made 'em yet! They're nice an' hot.'
With that he tasted. 'Hot!' sez he, 'hot! I guess they air, and the've
somethin' more'n fire in 'em too!' 'What's in 'em?' sez I; and sez he,
'Jest you taste!' an' so I did, an' it nigh about burnt my tongue off.
'Why,' sez I, 'it's pepper;' an' Seth sez, 'Well, if you ain't smart!'
That made me kinder huffy like; an' then I knew right away it was this
car'less fellow that's always singin' an' dancin' and a standin' on his
head!"
Mrs. Cummings had to stop because she was out of breath. Joe ducked
under the counter, experiencing a strong tendency to fly to fragments.
"I am very sorry," returned Mr. Terry. "It must have been a mistake;"
and he tried to steady the corners of his mouth to a becoming sense of
gravity.
"No mistake at all!" and she gave her head a violent jerk. "Some of his
smart tricks he thought he'd play on me. Didn't I see him a treatin'
Dave Downs to loaf-sugar one day; an' bime by he gave him a great lump
of salt!"
Mr. Terry had heard the story of the salt, and rather enjoyed it; for
Dave was always hanging round in the way.
"And he jest did it a purpose, I know. As soon as ever I tasted that
pepper, I knew 'twas one of his tricks. And my whole batch of pies
spil't!"
"No," said Joe, in his manly fashion: "I didn't do it purposely, Mrs.
Cummings. I must have misunderstood you."
"Pepper an' allspice sound so much alike!" she said wrathfully.
"Well, we will give you a quarter of allspice," Mr. Terry returned
soothingly.
"That won't make up for the apples, an' the flour, an' the lard, an'
all my hard work!"
"We might throw in a few apples."
"If you're goin' to keep that boy, you'll ruin your trade, I can tell
you!"
Still she took the allspice and the apples, though they had plenty at
home.
"You must be careful, Joe," said Mr. Terry afterward. "It will not do
to have the ill-will of all the old ladies."
Joe told the story at home with embellishments; and Hal enjoyed it
wonderfully, in his quiet way.
CHAPTER VII.
THE OLD TUMBLER, AFTER ALL.
Hal's chickens prospered remarkably. Five motherly hens clucked to
families of black-eyed chicks; and, out of fifty-eight eggs, he only
lost seven. So there were fifty-one left. They made some incursions in
his garden, to be sure; but presently every thing grew so large that it
was out of danger.
There was plenty of work to do on Saturdays. Picking cherries and
currants for the neighbors, and the unfailing gardening. It seemed to
Hal that weeds had a hundred lives at least, even if you did pull them
up by the roots. Sometimes he managed to get a little work out of Kit
and Charlie, but they invariably ended by a rough-and-tumble frolic.
Florence succeeded admirably with her embroidering. She managed to earn
some pretty dresses for herself, and added enough to Hal's store to
enable him to purchase a suit of clothes, though they were not as grand
as Joe's.
Hal and Granny took a wonderful sight of comfort sitting on the
doorstep through the summer evenings, and talking over old times.
Granny would tell how they did when his father, her own dear Joe, was
alive, and how pretty his mother had been.
"Flo's a good deal like her," she would always say; "only Flo's
wonderful with her fingers. She can do any thing with a needle."
"Flo's a born genius," Hal would reply admiringly.
"But I'm afraid Charlie'll never learn to sew."
"I can sew better myself," was Hal's usual comment.
And it was true. Hal had a bedquilt nearly pieced, which he had done on
rainy days and by odd spells. I expect you think he was something of a
girl-boy. But then he was very sweet and nice.
Florence stood by the gate one afternoon, looking extremely lovely in
her blue and white gingham, and her curls tied back with a bit of blue
ribbon. Dot had been in the mud-pie business; and, if it had proved
profitable, she would no doubt have made a fortune for the family.
"Go in the house this minute, and get washed," commanded Florence.
"What a naughty, dirty child you are!"
Then a carriage passed by very slowly. A young man was driving, and two
ladies sat on the back seat. They looked as if they were going to halt.
Florence's heart was in her mouth. She drew herself up in her most
stately attitude.
The young man turned; and the lady nearer her beckoned.
Florence stepped out slowly. She thought, with some pride, that, if
they wanted a drink, she _had_ a goblet to offer them.
"My little girl," said the lady, in a soft, clear voice, "can you
direct us to a blacksmith's?"
"There is one on this road, rather more than a quarter of a mile
farther."
"Thank you."
The other lady leaned over, and studied Florence. She had a worn,
faded, and fretful look; but some new expression lighted up her sallow
face.
"Oh," she sighed, "what a beautiful girl! Now, if I had a daughter like
that! I wonder if she lives in that forlorn old rookery?"
"A princess in disguise;" and the young man laughed.
"She was unusually lovely. At her age I had just such hair. But ah, how
one fades!"
The straggling auburn hair, very thin on the top, hardly looked as if
it had once been "like fine spun gold."
"The trial of my life has been _not_ having a daughter."
Mrs. Duncan had heard this plaint very often from her half-sister,
who had married a widower nearly three times her age. He had made a
very liberal provision for her during her life, but at her death the
fortune reverted to his family again. She had always bewailed the fact
of having no children; but boys were her abomination. Mrs. Duncan's
house was too noisy, with its four rollicking boys; but now that George
was growing to manhood he became rather more endurable.
"I do not believe the child could have belonged there," she commenced
again.
"Because she was so pretty?" asked George.
"She doesn't look like a country girl."
"But some country girls are very handsome," said Mrs. Duncan.
"They do not possess this air of refinement generally. And did you
observe that she answered in a correct and ladylike manner?"
"Aunt Sophie is captivated. A clear case of love at first sight. Why
not adopt _her_?"
"It would be a charity to take her out of that hovel, if it is her
home."
"I shouldn't think of such a thing now, Sophie, with your poor health,"
said her sister.
There are some natures on which the least contradiction or opposition
acts instantly, rousing them to a spirit of defiance. For several
years Mrs. Duncan had urged her sister to adopt a child; but she had
never found one that answered her requirements. She was not fond
of the trouble of small children. Now that Mrs. Duncan had advised
contrarywise, Mrs. Osgood was seized with a perverse fit.
"I am sure I need a companion," she returned with martyr-like air.
"Take a young woman then, who can be a companion."
"Here is the blacksmith's," announced George. "I suppose you will have
to find some place of refuge;" and he laughed again gayly.
"Where can we go?"
George held a short conversation with the smith.
"My house is just opposite, and the ladies will be welcome," the latter
said. "It will take me about half an hour to repair your mishap."
George conducted them thither. The good woman would fain have invited
them in; but they preferred sitting on the vine-covered porch. Mrs.
Osgood asked for a glass of water. O Florence! if you had been there!
It happened after a while, that George and his mother walked down the
garden. Mrs. Green felt bound to entertain this stranger cast upon her
care, as she considered it.
Mrs. Osgood made some inquiries presently about the house they had
passed, with a small stream of water just below it.
"Why, that's Granny Kenneth's," said Mrs. Green.
"And who is the child,--almost a young lady?"
"Why, that must be Florence. Did she have long yeller curls? If she was
my gal she should braid 'em up decently. I wouldn't have 'em flyin'
about."
"And who is Florence?"
Mrs. Osgood's curiosity must have been very great to induce her to
listen to the faulty grammar and country pronunciations. But she
listened to the story from beginning to end,--Joe, and Joe's wife, and
all the children, figuring largely in it.
"And if Granny Kenneth'd had any sense, she would a bundled 'em all off
to the poor-house. One of the neighbors here did want to take Florence;
but law! what a time they made! She's a peart, stuck-up thing!"
If Florence had heard this verdict against all her small industries
and neatnesses and ladylike habits, her heart would have been almost
broken. But there are a great many narrow-minded people in this world,
who can see no good except in their own way.
Mrs. Osgood made no comments. Presently the carriage was repaired,
and the accidental guests departed. They had a long ride yet to take.
George asked if there was any nearer way of getting to Seabury.
"There's a narrer road just below Granny Kenneth's,--the little shanty
by the crick. It's ruther hard trav'lin', but it cuts off nigh on ter
three miles."
"I think we had better take it," said George. "Even that will give us a
five-miles drive."
So they passed the cottage again. This time Hal was feeding the
chickens; Kit and Charlie swinging upon an old dilapidated apple-tree;
and Florence sat by the open window, sewing.
"There's your princess!" exclaimed George with a laugh.
Florence colored a little at beholding the party again.
Mrs. Duncan had come to Seabury, a rather mountainous place, remarkable
for its pure air, for the sake of her youngest son, Arthur, who had
been ill with a fever. Mrs. Osgood took an odd fancy to accompany her.
The seven years of her widowhood had not been happy years, though she
had a house like a palace. When she first laid off mourning, she tried
Newport and Saratoga; but somehow she did not succeed in making a belle
of herself, and that rather mortified her.
Then she sank into invalidism; which tried everybody's patience sorely.
Leaning back in the carriage now, she thought to herself, "Yes, if I
only _had_ some one of my own! Sister Duncan never did understand me,
or appreciate the delicacy of my constitution. Her nerves have been
blunted by those great rude boys. And that girl looks so refined and
graceful,--she would make a pleasant companion I am sure. But I should
want to take her away from her family: I never could consent to any
intimacy with them."
She ventured to broach her subject to Mrs. Duncan the next day. Perhaps
Mrs. Duncan had grown rather impatient with her sister's whims and
fancies; and she discouraged the plan on some very sensible grounds.
Mrs. Osgood felt like a martyr.
Yet the opposition roused her to attempt it. One day, a week afterward
perhaps, she hired a carriage, and was driven over to Madison. George
had gone back to the city, so there was no question of having him for
escort.
Granny Kenneth was much surprised at the appearance of so fine a lady.
She seized Dot, and scrubbed her face, her usual employment upon the
entrance of any one.
Mrs. Osgood held up her ruffled skirts as if afraid of contamination.
"Is your granddaughter at home?" was asked in the most languid of
voices.
"Flo, you mean? No: she hasn't come from school yet. Do walk in
and wait--that is--I mean--if you please," said Granny a good deal
flustered, while the little gray curls kept bobbing up and down.
"Here's a clean cheer;" and she gave one a whiff with her apron.
Poor Flossy. She had tried so hard to correct Granny's old-fashioned
words and pronunciations.
"Thank you. Miss Florence embroiders, I believe."
"Yes, she works baby-petticoats, and does 'em splendid."
And then Granny wondered if she, the fine lady, had any work for
Florence.
"How glad Flo'll be, and vacation coming so soon," she thought in the
depth of her tender old soul.
"And she's a genius at crochetin'! The laces and shawls and hoods she's
knit are a real wonder. They didn't do any thing of the kind in my
young days."
"You must find it pretty hard to get along," condescended Mrs. Osgood.
"Yes; but the Lord allers provides some way. Joe's gone in a
store,--Mr. Terry's. He's next to Florence," went on Granny in sublime
disregard of her pronoun.
Mrs. Osgood took an inventory of the little room, and waited rather
impatiently. Then she asked for a glass of water.
O Granny! how could you have been so forgetful! To take that old,
thick, greenish glass tumbler when Flossy's choice goblet stood on the
shelf above! And then to fill it in the pail, and let the water dribble!
Granny wondered whether it would be polite to entertain her or not. But
just then there was a crash and a splash; and Dot and the water-pail
were in the middle of the floor.
"Here's a chance!" exclaimed Kit, pausing in the doorway. "Give us a
hook and line, Granny: Dot's mouth is just at an angle of ten degrees,
good for a bite."
"A wail, sure enough!" said Charlie. "Wring her out, and hang her up to
dry."
"Oh, dear!" and Granny, much disconcerted, sat Dot wrong side up on a
chair, and the result was a fresh tumble.
It was Hal who picked her up tenderly,--poor wet baby, with a big red
lump on her forehead, and dismal cries issuing from the mouth that
seemed to run all round her head.
"Stay out there till I wipe up," said Granny to the others. "Then I'll
get Dot a dry dress. I never did see such an onlucky child--and company
too. What _will_ Flo say!"
For Florence came tripping up the path, knitting her delicate brows in
consternation.
"Never you mind. There's a lady in the parlor who's been waitin'. Oh,
my! what did I do with that floor-cloth?"
"A lady?"
"Yes: run right along."
Luckily the door was shut between. Florence gave her curls a twist and
a smoothing with her fingers, took off her soiled white apron, pulled
her dress out here and there, stepped over the pools of water, and
entered.
Mrs. Osgood admired her self-possession, and pitied the poor child
profoundly. The flush and partial embarrassment were very becoming to
her.
That lady did not mean to rush headlong into her proposal. She broke
the ground delicately by inquiring about the embroidering; and
Florence brought some to show her.
"Who taught you?" she asked in surprise.
"No one;" and Florence colored a little. "I did not do the first as
neatly, but it is quite easy after one is fairly started."
"I really do not see how you find time, with going to school;" and this
persevering industry did touch Mrs. Osgood's heart.
"I cannot do very much," answered Florence with a sigh. "But it will
soon be vacation."
"How old are you?"
"I shall be fifteen the last of this month."
"What a family your grandmother has on her hands!"
"Yes. If my father had lived, it would have been very different."
A touching expression overspread Florence's face, and made her lovelier
than ever in Mrs. Osgood's eyes.
"She certainly _is_ very pretty," that lady thought; "and how
attractive such a daughter would be in my house! I should live my young
life over again in her."
For Mrs. Osgood had found that the days for charming young men were
over, and prosy middle-aged people were little to her taste. No woman
ever clung to youth with a greater longing.
"What do you study at school?" she asked.
"Only the English branches. I have been thinking of--of becoming a
teacher," said Florence hesitatingly.
"You would have a poor opportunity in this little town."
"I might go away;" and Florence sighed again.
"You have never studied music, I suppose."
"No: I have had no opportunity," returned Florence honestly enough.
"Do you sing?"
"Yes. And I love music so very, very much! I do mean to learn by and
by, if it is possible."
"I wish you would sing something for me,--a little school-song, or any
thing you are familiar with."
Florence glanced up in amazement; and for a few moments was awkwardly
silent.
"I should like to hear your voice. It is very pleasant in talking, and
ought to be musical in singing."
Florence was a good deal flattered; and then she had the consciousness
that she was one of the best singers in school. So she ran over the
songs in her own mind, and selected "Natalie, the Maid of the Mill,"
which she was very familiar with.
She sang it beautifully. Florence was one of the children who are
always good in an emergency. She was seldom "flustered," as Granny
expressed it, and always seemed to know how to make the best of
herself. And, as she saw the pleasure in Mrs. Osgood's face, her own
heart beat with satisfaction.
"That is really charming. A little cultivation would make your voice
very fine indeed. What a pity that you should be buried in this little
town!"
"Do you think--that I could--do any thing with it?" asked Florence in a
tremor of delight.
"I suppose your grandmother would not stand in the way of your
advancement?" questioned Mrs. Osgood.
"Oh, no! And then if I _could_ do something"--
Florence felt that she ought to add, "for the others," but somehow
she did not. She wondered if Mrs. Osgood was a music-teacher, or a
professional singer. But she did not like to ask.
"There is my carriage," said Mrs. Osgood, as a man drove slowly round.
"I am spending a few weeks at some distance from here, and wished to
have you do a little flannel embroidery for me. When will your vacation
commence?"
"In about ten days,--the first of July."
"I wish to see you when we can have a longer interview. I will come
over again then."
Mrs. Osgood rose, and shook out her elegant grenadine dress, much
trimmed and ruffled. On her wrists were beautiful bracelets, and her
watch-chain glittered with every movement. Then she really smiled very
sweetly upon the young girl; and Florence was charmed.
Some dim recollection passed over her mind.
"Oh!" she said, "were you not in a carriage that stopped here some days
ago. Another lady and a young gentleman"--
"Yes," answered Mrs. Osgood, pleased at being remembered. "And, my
dear, I took a great fancy to you that day. You are so different from
the majority of country girls, that it is a pity you should have no
better chance."
The longing and eloquent eyes of Florence said more than words.
"Yes. I will see you again; and I may, perhaps, think of something to
your advantage."
There was a mode of egress through this "best-room," though Granny had
brought her guest in by the kitchen way. Florence opened the door now.
"What a lovely, graceful child!" thought Mrs. Osgood; and she
scrutinized her from head to feet.
Florence watched the carriage out of sight in a half-dream. How long
she would have stood in a brown study is uncertain; but Granny came in
to get some dry clothes for Dot.
"What _did_ she want of you?" exclaimed Charlie, all curiosity. "And
what were you singing for? Oh, my! wasn't she splendid?"
"You sang like a bird," said Hal in wide-eyed wonder as well. "Did she
ask you?"
"Of course. You don't suppose I would offer to sing for a stranger,--a
lady too?"
"Did she like it?"
"Yes. She thought I might--that is, if I had any opportunity--oh, I
wish we _were_ a little richer!" and Florence burst into a flood of
hysterical tears.
"I wish we were;" and Hal gave her hand a soft squeeze. "If you could
learn to play on the melodeon at church, and give music-lessons"--
The vision called up a heaven of delight to poor Flossy.
"But what _did_ she want?" asked Granny in a great puzzle, putting
Dot's foot through the sleeve of her dress, and tying the neck-string
in garter fashion.
"I do believe she is a singer herself. Maybe she belongs to a company
who give concerts; but then she was dressed so elegantly."
"They make lots of money," said Kit with a sagacious nod of the head.
"It's what I'm going to be, only I shall have a fiddle."
"And a scalp-lock."
Charlie pulled this ornamentation to its fullest height, which was
considerable, as Kit's hair needed cutting.
"Oh! suppose she was," said Hal. "And suppose she wanted to take
Flossy, and teach her music,--why, it's like your plan, you know, only
it isn't an old gentleman; and I don't believe she has any little
girls,--I mean a little girl who died. Did she ask for a drink, Granny?"
"Yes; and then Dot pulled over the water-pail. Oh, my! if I haven't
put this dress on upside down, and the string's in a hard knot.
Whatever shall I do? And, Flossy, I forgot all about the gobler. I took
the first thing that came to hand."
"Not that old tumbler with a nick in the edge? And it is _goblet_. I
do wish you'd learn to call things by their right names!" exclaimed
Florence in vexation.
"It's the very same, isn't it?" began Charlie, "only, as Hal said, it
isn't an old gentleman. Oh, suppose it _should_ come true! And if Kit
_should_ have a fiddle like black Jake."
"And if you _should_ run away," laughed Hal. "I don't believe you can
find a better time than this present moment. Kit, you had better go
after the cows."
Charlie started too, upon Hal's suggestion. Florence gave a little
sniff, and betook herself to the next room.
Oh, dear! How poor and mean and tumbled about their house always was!
No, not _always_, but if any one ever came. Dot chose just that moment
to be unfortunate; and then that Granny should have used that forlorn
old tumbler. She doubted very much if the lady would ever come again.
So Flossy had a good cry from wounded vanity, and then felt better. Hal
took Dot out with him to feed the chickens, and Granny prepared the
table.
Still Florence's lady was the theme of comment and wonder for several
days, although the child insisted that she only came to get some
embroidering done. All further speculations seemed too wild for sober
brains.
"But it is so odd that she asked you to sing," said Hal. "And I do
believe something will come of it."
Florence gave a little despairing sniff.
CHAPTER VIII.
FLORENCE IN STATE.
Mrs. Osgood leaned back in the carriage,--it was the very best that
Seabury afforded,--and, looking out on the pleasant sunshine and waving
trees, considered the subject before her. _If_ she took Florence, she
would have a governess in the house, and go on as rapidly as possible
with the finishing process. Music should be the first thing: the child
_did_ have a lovely voice, and such fair, slender hands! In a year she
would be quite presentable. How vexed all the Osgood nieces would be!
They were continually hinting at visits, and would be delighted at
having Aunt Osgood take them up. But somehow she had a grudge against
her husband's relatives, because the property reverted to them in the
end.
And then she fancied herself riding out with this beautiful daughter
by her side, or stopping at hotels where every one would wonder "who
that lovely girl could be!" And Florence would certainly be most
grateful for the change. It was a deed of charity to rescue the poor
child from the life before her, with no better prospect than that of a
school-teacher. She certainly had some ideas and ambitions beyond her
sphere.
School closed presently, and the children were wild with delight. They
had a great time on examination day, and Florence acquitted herself
finely. Mr. Fielder was very proud of her.
"If you can go to school another year, and improve as much," he said,
"I can almost promise you a very good situation."
Flossy's dream in respect to her elegant lady was fading, and she came
back to humbler prospects quite thankfully.
What Granny was to do with the children through vacation she hardly
knew.
"Oh, you needn't worry!" said Charlie consolingly. "Kit and me are
going out in the woods; and we'll build a stunning log-hut, or make a
cave"--
"O Charlie, if you would be a little more careful! Kit and I."
"I can't be always bothering! Mr. Fielder almost wears me out, so you
might let me have a little rest in vacation.
'For spelling is vexation,
And writing is bad:
Geography it puzzles me,
And grammar makes me mad.'"
With that Charlie perched herself on the gate-post, and began to
whistle.
"If Charlie only _had_ been a boy!" groaned Florence.
On Monday of the first week they washed. Florence assisted; but she
hurried to get herself dressed in the afternoon, for fear some one
_might_ come. And then she wondered a little what she ought to do.
Embroidering and fancy work appeared to be dull just now; and she would
have two months in which she _might_ earn considerable money, if it
only came. For, with all her small vanities and particular ways, she
was not indolent.
On Tuesday they began their ironing at an early hour. There were
Florence's pretty dresses and aprons, nothing very costly, but a dainty
ruffle here and there added to the general grace. These same ruffles
were a great trouble to some of the old ladies in Madison, "who didn't
see how Granny Kenneth could let Florence waste her time in such
nonsense while _she_ slaved herself to death!"
Florence had twisted her hair in a knot, and her dress was rather the
worse for wear; but she worked away cheerfully. Her pile of clothes was
decreasing very fast.
Suddenly a sound of carriage-wheels startled her; and, glancing up, she
uttered a frightened exclamation.
"O Granny! it's the lady again, and I look like a fright! What shall I
do? Won't you go and ask her in? and you look dreadful too! Put on your
other sacque. There! I'll run and tidy up a bit."
She made a snatch at the brush and comb, and hurried up in the boys'
room.
"Oh, dear! How red I am in the face! It's too bad;" and she felt
tempted to cry, but she knew that would only make matters worse. So
she let down her shining hair, brushed it out, and wound it round her
fingers in curls. Then Granny came plodding up stairs.
"I told her you were busy, but that you'd be ready in a few minutes,"
she explained.
"Why didn't you think to bring up one of my clean dresses?"
"To be sure! which one?"
"The pink calico, I guess. Oh! and the braided white apron."
Down went Granny. Ah! many a step had she taken for these children,
weary ones, and yet cheerfully done. Would they ever think of it?
Florence was not long in making herself neat and presentable, but the
flushed face still troubled her. She viewed herself critically in the
cracked glass, and then ran down, pausing to fan a few moments with the
cape of an old sun-bonnet, the nearest thing at hand.
"_Do_ I look decent, Granny?" she said apprehensively.
"To be sure you do, and nice too."
Granny's eyes expressed her admiration.
Florence ventured in timidly, and the lady inclined her head.
"I am sorry that I have kept you waiting so long, but it was
unavoidable;" and the child made a little halt to wonder if her long
word sounded well.
"I suppose I took you somewhat by surprise. Are you very busy to-day?"
"Not very," answered Florence at random, her heart beating violently.
"And quite well? but I hardly need ask the question."
"I am always well, thank you," with a touch of grace.
"How fortunate! Now, I have such wretched health, and my nerves are
weak beyond description."
Florence gave a glance of quick sympathy, not unmixed with admiration.
There was something very romantic about the languid lady.
"If you are quite at liberty," Mrs. Osgood began, "I should like to
have you drive out with me. I have a great deal to say to you, and we
shall not be interrupted."
Florence could hardly credit her hearing. To be asked to ride with so
grand a lady!
"Oh!" and then she paused and colored.
"Would you like to go?"
"Very, very much indeed;" and the young face was full of pleasure.
"Well, get yourself ready; and, if you will send your grandmother to
me, I will explain."
Florence felt as if she were in a dream. Then she wondered what she
ought to wear. She had a pretty light gray dress and sacque for "Sunday
best," and a new white dress; but her visitor's dress was gray, and
that decided her. So she took the articles out of the old-fashioned
wardrobe, and summoned Granny.
Granny was dazed. "Where is she going to take you?" she asked in
helpless astonishment.
"I don't know. She will tell you, I suppose."
"But, Flo, I have _heerd_ of girls being kidnapped or something;" and
Granny's face turned pale with fear.
"Nonsense!" returned Flossy with a toss of the curls. She could not
even trouble herself about Granny's mispronunciation just then.
"You don't know"--
"I guess she won't eat me up. Any how, I am going."
Florence uttered this with a touch of imperiousness. Granny felt that
she would have little influence over her, so she entered the room where
the guest was seated.
"Mrs. Kenneth," the lady began in her most impressive and gracious
manner, "when I was here a few days ago, I took a great fancy to your
granddaughter. My name is Osgood; and I am staying at Seabury with my
sister, Mrs. Duncan. And although you may hesitate to trust Florence
with a stranger, she will be quite safe, I assure you; and if you are
willing, therefore, I should like to take her out for a few hours. I
have some plans that may be greatly to the child's advantage, I think."
"You'll be sure to bring her back," asked Granny in a spasm of anxious
terror, which showed in her eyes.
"Why, certainly! My poor woman, I cannot blame you for this
carefulness;" for the worn face with its eagerness touched Mrs. Osgood.
"My brother-in-law, Mr. Duncan, is a well-known merchant in New York;
and I think you will confess when I return Florence this afternoon,
that the ride has been no injury to her."
Granny could make no further objections, and yet she did not feel quite
at ease. But Florence entered looking so bright and expectant, that she
had not the heart to disappoint her, so she kept her fears to herself.
"You must not feel troubled," Mrs. Osgood deigned to say, as she rose
rather haughtily. "You will find my promises perfectly reliable."
"You needn't finish my pieces," Florence whispered softly to Granny at
the door. "I shall be back time enough; and if the fire is out I'll
wait till to-morrow They are my ruffled aprons, and"--
Mrs. Osgood beckoned her with a smile and an inclination of the head.
Florence felt as if she were being bewitched.
Granny watched her as she stepped into the carriage.
[Illustration]
"If she'd been born a lady she couldn't act more like one. It's a great
pity"--
A few tears finished Granny's sentence. All the others were more
content with their poverty than Florence.
So she went back to her ironing with a heart into which had crept some
strange misgiving. Hal was out; Joe never came home to dinner; so
Granny gave the children a piece of bread all round, and kept going
steadily on until the last ruffled apron had been taken out of the pile.
Very long indeed the hours seemed. Oh, if any harm should befall her
beautiful, darling Flossy! Poor Joe, in his grave, had loved her so
well!
Flossy meanwhile was having a most delightful time.
"I am going to take you to Salem," Mrs. Osgood said, after Florence had
begun to feel quite at home with her. "We will have our dinner at the
hotel."
Salem was the county town,--quite a pretentious place, with some broad,
straight streets, several banks, and, indeed, a thriving business
locality. Florence had been there twice with Mrs. Kinsey.
Mrs. Osgood began to question the child about herself. Florence told
over her past life, making the best, it must be confessed, of the
poverty and discomforts. And yet she seemed to take rather hardly the
fact of such a lot having fallen upon her. Mrs. Osgood was secretly
pleased with her dissatisfaction.
"I wonder how you would like to live with me?" she questioned. "I think
I should enjoy having some one that I could make a companion of--as one
never can of a servant."
Flossy's heart beat with a sudden delight, and for the first moment she
could hardly speak.
"I live a short distance from New York, on the banks of the Hudson:
at least, my house is there, but I travel a great deal. It would be
very pleasant to have a--a friend of one's own,"--Mrs. Osgood was not
_quite_ sure that it was best or wisest to say child.
"Oh, it would be very delightful! If I could"--and the child's eyes
were aglow with delight.
"There are so many of you at home, that your grandmother would not miss
one. Besides, I could do a great many nice things for you."
"It is like a dream!" and Flossy thought of her wild day-dream. "And I
could sew as well as embroider; and oh! I _would_ try to make myself
useful," she said eagerly.
Mrs. Osgood smiled. She had taken a strange fancy to this child, and
enjoyed her look of adoration.
They talked it over at some length, and Flossy listened with delight to
the description of the beautiful house. This was altogether different
from Mrs. Van Wyck's affair.
Presently they arrived at the hotel. Mrs. Osgood ordered the horses to
be cared for, and then entered the parlor.
"Can we have a private room?" she asked with an air that Florence
thought extremely elegant. "And then our dinner"--
"Will you have it brought up to your room?"
"Oh, no! Perhaps I had better give my order now," and there was a
languid indifference in her tone.
"Yes, it would be better," replied the brisk waitress.
"Well, we will have some broiled chicken, I think--are you fond of
that, Florence? and vegetables--with some lobster salad and relishes."
Florence had a wonderful deal of adaptiveness, and she almost
insensibly copied Mrs. Osgood. They went up to the room, and refreshed
themselves with a small ablution, for the riding had been rather dusty.
Florence shook out her beautiful curls, and passed her damp fingers
over them.
"What lovely hair!" exclaimed Mrs. Osgood with a sigh: it was a habit
of hers, as if every thing called up some past regret. "When I was a
young girl, mine was the admiration of everybody. You would hardly
think it now."
"Were you ill?" asked Florence, feeling that she was expected to say
something sympathizing.
"My health has been wretched for years. Mr. Osgood was sick a long
while, and I had so much trouble! His people were not very kind to me:
they tried to make him leave the property away from me, and then they
attempted to break the will. There's so much selfishness in this world,
my dear!"
Florence experienced a profound sympathy for Mrs. Osgood, and was quite
ready to espouse her cause against any one. Already she felt in some
way constituted her champion.
But, as Mr. Osgood left no children, he thought it quite just that his
property should go back to his own family after Mrs. Osgood's death.
And, to confess the truth, he had not found his wife quite perfection.
There were not many people in the dining-room when they entered. They
had one end of the long table, and the colored waiter was most polite
and solicitous. One by one their little dishes came on, and the broiled
chicken had a most appetizing flavor.
Florence acquitted herself very creditably. She was not awkward with
her silver fork, and allowed herself to be waited upon with great
complacency. Mrs. Osgood was wonderfully pleased, for she was watching
every action. How had the child acquired so many pretty ways?
By the time they reached home again it was agreed, if grandmother made
no objection, that Florence should spend a month at Seabury with Mrs.
Osgood. This was the better arrangement the lady thought; for, if she
changed her mind, in that case she could draw back gracefully.
Granny was much relieved to see them return. Mrs. Osgood deigned to
enter the cottage again, and explained the matter to old Mrs. Kenneth.
Florence seconded the plan so earnestly, that it was quite impossible
to refuse. And somehow Granny felt very much bewildered.
"Can you be ready next week?" asked Mrs. Osgood.
Florence questioned Granny mutely with her eyes; but, seeing that her
senses were going astray, answered for herself.
"Monday, then, I will come over for you. And now, my child, good-by. I
hope you have had a pleasant day."
Florence thanked her again and again. Mrs. Osgood's heart was really
touched.
"What does she want you to do?" asked Granny, absently trying to thread
the point of her darning-needle.
"Why,--I'm sure I don't know;" and Flossy fell into a brown study. "To
wait upon her, I suppose, and sew a little, and--I like her so much! We
had an elegant dinner at Salem, and ice-cream for dessert. O Granny, if
one only _could_ be rich!"
"Yes," rejoined Granny with a sigh.
"Tell us all about it," said open-mouthed Charlie. "Mrs. Green saw you
riding by; and maybe she didn't make a time! She said you put on more
airs than all Madison."
"It is nothing to her," bridled Flossy.
"But what _did_ you have? Lots of goodies?"
"Yes, indeed. Silver forks and damask napkins and finger-bowls."
"Finger-bowls?"
That grandeur was altogether above Charlie's capacity.
"You need not look so amazed."
"What do you do with 'em."
"Why, there's a piece of lemon floating round on the top; and you dip
in the ends of your fingers, and wipe them on the napkin."
"But can't you eat the lemon? That's what I'd do."
"It would be very ill-bred."
"Hum!" and Charlie's nose was elevated. "As if I'd care!"
"You would if you were out with refined people."
"Oh, my! How aristocrockery you are getting!" and Charlie gave a
prolonged whistle, and stood on one foot.
Flossy sighed a little over the supper-table. How nice it would be to
live at a hotel, and have a servant to wait upon one! But every thing
here was so dreadfully common and poor. And, though Flossy would have
scorned the idea of living out as a servant, she fancied a position of
companion or ladies' maid would be rather agreeable than otherwise.
Hal was very much interested in her day's adventure. He seemed to
understand it better than any of the others, and she could talk to him
without the fear of being laughed at. They still sat in the moonlight,
when suddenly a sharp click was heard, and a report that made them all
scream.
Joe, the good-for-nothing, laughed.
"Wasn't that gay? Hurrah for Fourth of July!"
"Is it you?" asked Granny, who had thrown her apron over her head to
keep her from being shot. "And is it a musket, or a cannon?"
"Why don't you frighten us all to death?" said Florence indignantly.
"Oh, it's a pistol!" exclaimed Hal.
"O Joe! and you'll be shot all to pieces before to-morrow night,"
bewailed Granny. "I'm so afraid of guns and fire-crackers! I once knew
a little boy who had his hand shot off."
"If he could only have had it shot on again. I mean to try that way,
like the man who jumped into the bramble-bush. Or wouldn't it do to
shoot the pistol off instead of my fingers."
"Is it yours for good, Joe?" and Charlie's head was thrust over Hal's
shoulders. "A real pistol! Let me see it."
"Yes, it's mine. I bought it to keep Fourth of July with."
"Why, I forgot all about Fourth of July," said Charlie in an aggrieved
tone. "And I haven't a cent!"
"Bad for you, Charlie."
"Won't you let me fire off the pistol?"
"Oh, don't!" implored Granny.
"Just once more. It was splendid! I was fast asleep on the floor, and
it woke me up."
"Good for the pistol," said Joe. "I'll try it in the morning when you
are asleep."
They all had to handle the pistol, and express their opinions. Joe had
bought it of Johnny Hall, for a dollar, as Johnny, in turn, wanted to
buy a cannon. And the remaining half-dollar of his week's wages had
been invested in fireworks.
Granny sighed. But boys would be boys, and Fourth of July only came
once a year.
"There's to be an oration on the green, and the soldiers will be out,
and it'll be just jolly! Hurray! And a holiday in the middle of the
week! Mr. Terry said I needn't come to the store at all."
"There'll be some music, won't there?" asked Kit.
"A drum and a bass-viol, I guess. But it would be royal to go over to
Salem, and hear the brass band."
"What's a brass band?" was Kit's rather puzzled inquiry.
"What a goose! Why, a brass band is--horns and things."
"What kind of horns?" for Joe's explanation lacked lucidity.
"Oh, bother! Kit, you'll burn up the ocean some day with your
brightness."
"Cornets," said Hal; "and something like a flute, and cymbals, and ever
so many instruments."
"Did you ever see 'em?"
"No, but I've read about them."
Kit chewed his thumb. It was one of his old baby habits.
"Now I am going to load her again," said Joe, in a peculiarly
affectionate tone. "It's as light as day out here."
"But, Joe, if you _should_ shoot some one, or your fingers, or put your
eyes out!"
"Never you mind, Granny. Boys go ahead of cats for lives."
Granny put her apron over her head again, and then ran in to Dot.
"Bang!"
"Nobody wounded," laughed Joe, "and only two or three slightly killed.
The country is safe, Granny, this great and _gelorious_ country, over
which the eagle waves his plumes, and flaps his wings, and would crow
if he could. My soul is filled with enthusiasm,--I feel as if I should
_bust_, and fly all round! There's that miserable Dot lifting up her
voice."
The racket had broken her slumbers, and then the children were implored
to be quiet. Joe went to bed, in order to be able to get up good and
early. Charlie thought she should sleep with her clothes on, so as
to save the trouble of dressing. Kit sat in the moonlight chewing his
thumb, and wondering if he could manage to get over to Salem to-morrow.
If he could only hear that music!
CHAPTER IX.
FOURTH OF JULY.
The children were up at the peep of dawn. Granny was awakened by
something that seemed not unlike the shock of an earthquake; but
Flossy, rubbing her eyes, said with a sigh,--
"Oh, dear! Joe has begun with his pistol the first thing! What does
possess boys to be so noisy!"
Charlie, perched astride the gate-post, her clothes considerably
tumbled, and her hair unkempt, thought it splendid. "If Joe would only
let her fire _once!_ Just as soon as she had a dollar she meant to buy
a pistol of her own. It would always be good to keep away robbers!"
Joe laughed uproariously.
"Robbers indeed! There's nothing to steal here, unless it's some of the
youngsters. You'd be sure to go first, Charlie!"
"I shall be thankful when Fourth of July is over," said Granny in a
troubled voice, while Joe was singing,--
"But children are not pigs, you know,
And cannot pay the rint;"
but at that remark so derogatory to patriotism, he bridled up at once.
"Fourth of July's as good as Saint Patrick, or any other man. Who
would be so base and ignoble of soul, and stingy of powder, as not to
celebrate his birthday! when the country stretches from the north pole
to the south, and is kept from bursting only by the centrifugal forces
of the equator"--
Hal's rooster finished the speech by his longest and loudest crow.
"Good for you! You've some patriotism, I see. You are not craven of
soul, if powder doesn't come in your way. Granny, when can we have
breakfast? I'm about famished with all my speech-making."
Hal fed his crowd of chickens, and amused Dot, who did not quite enjoy
being deprived of her morning nap. Presently they were summoned to
their meal.
"I'm going over to the store," announced Joe. "I want to see the
Declaration of Independence read by the American eagle, and the salute
fired by the Stars and Stripes, while the militia climb up their
muskets and give three cheers."
"Are they going to do that?" asked Charlie. "Granny, can't I go too?"
"You must put on a clean dress."
"Oh, dear! when I slept in mine too, so as to be ready," Charlie
exclaimed, broken-hearted. "Won't you wait, Joe?"
"I can't bother with girls," returned Joe.
Charlie lamented her hard fate, but emerged from the hands of Florence
quite a respectable looking child. Kit spent some time in adorning
himself, and trying to smooth his refractory scalp-lock. He had been
very quiet all the morning.
"Now that they are off we can have a little peace," said Florence.
Granny sighed. They were a great bother and torment, to be sure; but,
after all, it was good to have the merry, noisy crew, safe and sound,
and she should be glad when they returned.
Hal's tastes inclined neither to fire-crackers nor sky-rockets. So he
went into the garden, and began to look after his rather neglected
vegetables. The chickens made bad work, it must be confessed, though
the attractions of their buckwheat field were pretty strong, and Hal
ingeniously repaired the fence with brush; but now and then there would
be a raid. The Lima beans were doing beautifully, the corn looked
promising; and, altogether, he thought the prospect was fair. Then he
met with a delightful surprise.
"O Granny!" and he rushed into the house. "Just think,--three of my
grape-vines have beautiful long shoots on them. I haven't looked in
ever so long, for I thought they didn't mean to grow. Come and see."
There they were, sure enough. Hal had set out some cuttings from the
neighbors, but he had been almost discouraged with their slow progress.
"That's a Concord, and that's a Hartford Prolific. Don't they look
lovely in their soft, pinkish green! Why, I feel as if I could give
them all a hug. I'll have to put a lattice round, for fear of the
chickens."
So he went to work. Dot wanted to help, and brought him useless sticks,
while she carried off his hammer and lost his nails. But when she
looked up at him with the sweetest little face in the world, and said,
"Ain't Dotty 'mart? Dotty help 'ou," he could not scold her.
The dinner was rather quiet. None of the stray youngsters made their
appearance. Afterward Florence dressed herself, and went to see Netty
Bigelow, her dearest school-friend, and imparted to her that she was
going to Seabury next Monday, to stay a month with a very elegant lady,
and that she would live at a hotel. Then she described her ride to
Salem, and the dinner.
"Oh, how nice it must have been!" said Netty. "You are the luckiest
girl I ever did know, Florence Kenneth."
"I just wish I was as rich as Mrs. Osgood. It seems to me that poor
people cannot be very happy."
"I don't know," Netty returned thoughtfully. "The Graysons do not seem
_very_ happy."
"But I never saw such mean, disagreeable girls; and they are not
dressed a bit pretty. If there's any thing in school they always want
their share, but they never treat."
"And we are poor," continued Netty; "but I'm sure we are happy."
Florence felt that her friend could hardly understand the degree of
happiness that she meant. She was rather out-growing her youthful
companions.
About mid-afternoon Hal took a walk over to the store. The old rusty
cannon of Revolutionary memory had been fired on the green, the
speeches made, and the small crowd dispersed. Nearly everybody had gone
to Salem; but a few old stagers still congregated at the store, it
being general head-quarters.
Hal picked Charlie out of a group of children, in a very dilapidated
condition. Her once clean dress was soiled, torn, and burned; her
hands gave the strongest evidence that dust entered largely into
the composition of small people; and her face was variegated by
perspiration and dabs from these same unlucky hands.
"O Charlie! you look like a little vagabond!" exclaimed Hal in despair.
"I'm ashamed of you!"
"But I've had such fun, and cakes and candies and fire-crackers and
torpedoes! I wish Fourth of July would keep right straight along. I
burned one of my fingers, but I didn't mind," declared the patriotic
girl.
"Where's Kit?"
"I don't know. Joe was round this morning, but I guess he went to
Salem."
"You must come home with me now."
"O Hal! we haven't found all the 'cissers' yet. They're almost as good
as fire-crackers."
Several of the children were burrowing in the grass and sand for
"fusees,"--crackers that had failed to explode to the full extent of
their powder. They broke them in two and relighted them.
Hal was inexorable; so Charlie cried a little, and then bade her dirty
companions a sad farewell.
"Oh!" exclaimed Granny, as they came marching up the path, "what a
sight! And your Sunday best dress, Charlie!"
"Well," sniffed Charlie with a crooked face, though there were no tears
to give it effect, "I'm sure I didn't want to put it on. I hate to be
dressed up! Something always happens to your Sunday clothes. I couldn't
help tearing it, and Jimmy Earl set off a cracker right in my lap"--
"Well, I'm glad it wasn't your eyes," said Granny thankfully. And then
she took the forlorn pyramid of dirt and disorder up stairs, where she
had a good scrubbing, and was re-arrayed in a more decent fashion.
Anybody else would have scolded, but Granny was so glad to have her
back safe and sound.
Her heart was sorely anxious about Kit and Joe. She let the supper
stand on the table, and they all sat on the doorstep in the moonlight;
for Dot had taken a nap in the afternoon, and was bright as a new penny.
And she fancied, as many mothers and grandmothers have before now, that
shocking accidents had happened, and maybe they would be maimed and
crippled for life.
Presently they came straggling along, and Granny uttered a cry of
relief.
"Oh!" she said, "are you all here? Haven't you lost your hands, nor
your fingers, nor"--
"Nor our noses, and not even our tongues," laughed Joe. "Here we are,
pistol and all."
"O Kit! where have you been? I was a most worried to death; and you
look tuckered out."
For Kit was pale to ghostliness as he stood there in the moonlight.
"Where do you think I found him,--the small snipe? Way over to Salem!"
"O Kit! did you see the fireworks and the soldiers?" exclaimed Charlie
breathlessly.
Kit sank down on the doorstep.
"Walked all the way over there, and hadn't a penny!"
"How could you Kit, without saying a word?" exclaimed Granny in a tone
of mild reproach.
"I could have given you a little money," said Hal tenderly.
"And it's a mercy that you didn't get run over, or shot to pieces, or
trampled to death in the crowd"--
"O Granny! don't harrow up our feelings," said Joe.
"I was afraid you wouldn't let me go," began Kit, at the first
available opportunity for slipping in a word. "And I didn't walk quite
all the way there,--a man came along, and gave me a ride. I wanted to
hear the music so much! The soldiers were splendid, Charlie; some of
'em with great white feathers in their hats and swords and beautiful
horses and coats all over gold"--
"Wonderful hats," suggested Joe with a twinkle; for Kit had gone on
with small regard to commas or accent.
"They all know what I mean!" said Kit rather testily.
"Don't plague him," interposed Hal. "About the music, Kit?"
"Oh! I can't half tell you;" and Kit gave a long sigh. "There were
drums and fifes, and those clappers--I don't remember what you called
'em, but I liked it best when the men were horning with their horns"--
Joe gave a loud outburst, and went over on his head.
"Well," said Kit much aggrieved, "what are you laughing about?"
"Horning! That is good! You had better write a new dictionary, Kit.
It is a decided improvement upon 'toot,' and must commend itself to
Flossy's attention for superior elegance. There, my dear, give me a
vote of thanks;" and Joe twitched Flossy's long curls.
"I don't know what you call it, then," said Kit rather sulkily.
"They blew on the horns," Hal rejoined in his soothing tone, that
was always a comfort in times of disturbance; "and the cornets,
wind-instruments, I believe, though I don't know the names of them all.
It must have been delightful."
"Oh, it was! I shut my eyes, and it seemed as if I was floating on a
sea, and there were all the waves beating up and down, and then a long
soft sound like the wind blowing in and shaking it all to echoes. I was
so sorry when they stopped. They all went into the hotel, I guess it
was. By and by I wandered off a little ways, and sat on a stoop; and
some one was playing on a piano. That was beautiful too. I'd like to
crawl inside of something, as the fairies do, and just live there and
listen forever."
"And then I found him, hungry and tired, and bought him some cake,"
interrupted Joe. "We waited to see the fireworks, and rode home in Mr.
Terry's wagon. But for that I guess he'd been sitting on the stoop yet."
"And you haven't tasted a mouthful of supper!" exclaimed Granny; "and I
a listenin' here, and never thinkin' of it."
"I'm not much hungry," said Joe. "I was treated a time or two by the
boys."
But he thought he wouldn't tell that he had taken up his week's wages
in advance, and spent it all. Fourth of July did not come but once a
year, and a body ought to have a good time.
Poor Joe had discovered, much to his chagrin, that a dollar and a half
would not work wonders. It seemed to him at first that he never could
get his suit of clothes paid for; then it was a hat, a pair of shoes,
some cheap summer garments; and he never had a penny for Hal or any one
else. In fact, he began to think that he would make more money working
round for the farmers. But then the store was steady employment.
He gave Charlie a glowing account of the fireworks, while Kit was
eating a bowl of bread and milk; then they were glad to tumble into bed.
"I'm thankful it's all over, and their arms and legs are safe, and
their eyes not blown out," said Granny with fervent gratitude.
Kit was pretty tired the next day, and Joe found it rather hard to
make all things work together for good. Granny shed a few tears over
Charlie's "best dress," and wondered how she could patch it so as to
look decent.
Florence, in the mean while, was much occupied with her own plans. She
could hardly wait for Monday to come, and proposed to do the usual
washing on Saturday, so there wouldn't be any "muss" around when Mrs.
Osgood called.
She was neat as a new pin as she sat awaiting her visitor. Her clothes
had been looked over, and the best selected. There was nothing to
pack them in, however, except a small, moth-eaten hair trunk, or a
dilapidated bandbox; and the latter was Florence's detestation.
"I can do them up in a paper," she said; and Charlie was sent to scour
the neighborhood for the required article.
Mrs. Osgood and Mrs. Duncan came together. The latter lady had laughed
a little at her sister's plan at first; but, when she found it was
really serious, thought it would be as well for her to try it a month.
Mrs. Duncan was rather exclusive, and had a horror of crowds of poor
people's children.
"It would be so much better to take some one who had no relatives," she
said.
"I shall not adopt the whole family, you may be sure," was the response.
Some of Mrs. Duncan's prejudices were surmounted by the general order
and tidiness to which Florence had reduced matters; and she was
wonderfully well-bred, considering her disadvantages.
"I shall keep her for a month, while I remain at Seabury; and, if
I should want her afterward, we can make some new arrangements,"
Mrs. Osgood explained. "I shall see, of course, that she has ample
remuneration."
Florence colored. Living with such a grand lady seemed enough, without
any pay.
"What are you crying for, Granny?" she asked as she followed her into
the kitchen. "How ridiculous! Why, it is just as if I were going away
upon a visit; and you wouldn't be sorry then."
"It isn't because I'm sorry;--but--none of you have ever been away
afore"--
Florence knitted her brows. How foolish to make such a fuss!
"There are so many of us, that we're like bees in a hive. You ought to
be glad to have me go. And I dare say I shall ride over some day"--
"To be sure. But every one is missed."
Florence kissed the children all round, and was much mortified at the
bundle tied up in a newspaper.
"If I get any money, I mean to buy a travelling-bag," she commented
internally.
"Tate me too," exclaimed Dot, clinging to Florence's dress: luckily her
hands were clean.
"Oh! you can't go, Dotty: Charlie will show you the beautiful chickens."
Dot set up a fearful cry, and wriggled herself out of Charlie's arms,
and Granny took her. Florence hurried through her good-bys, and was
glad to leave the confusion behind.
Granny indulged in a little cry afterward, and then went to her
ironing. Of course they must all flit from the old hive some time.
She could hardly persuade herself that Florence was fifteen,--almost a
young lady.
Joe and Hal wanted to hear all the particulars that evening. Charlie
dilated grandly on the magnificence of the ladies.
"It's real odd," said Joe. "Flossy always wanted to be a lady; and
maybe this is a step towards it. I wonder if I shall ever get to sea!"
"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Granny in a pitiful voice.
When Mrs. Green heard the news, she had to come over.
"I don't suppose they'd ever thought on't, if it hadn't been for me,"
she exclaimed. "They stopped to my house while their wagon was bein'
mended, and the sickly lookin' one seemed to be terribly interested in
your folks; so, thinks I, if I can do a good turn for a neighbor it's
all right; and I spoke a word, now and then, for Florence,--though it's
a pity her name hadn't been Mary Jane. I never did approve of such
romantic names for children. And I hope Florence will be a good girl,
and suit; for the Lord knows that you have your hands full!"
Charlie ran wild, as usual, through vacation. In one of her long
rambles in the woods she found a hollow tree with a rock beside it,
and her fertile imagination at once suggested a cave. She worked very
industriously to get it in order; brought a great pile of leaves for
a bed, and armsful of brush to cook with, and then besought Kit to run
away and live in the woods.
Kit tried it for one day. They had some apples and berries, and a
piece of bread taken from the pantry when Granny wasn't around. They
undertook to fish, but could not catch any thing; though Charlie was
quite sure, that, if Joe would lend her his pistol, she could shoot a
bird.
"Anyhow, we'll have a fire, and roast our apples," said Charlie,
undaunted.
"But it's awful lonesome, I think. S'pose we don't stay all night:
Granny'll be worried."
"Pooh!" returned Charlie with supreme disdain.
So she lighted her fire. The twigs crackled and blazed, and the flame
ran along on the ground.
"Isn't it splendid!" she exclaimed, "Why, it's almost like fireworks!
Oh, see, Kit! that dead tree has caught. We'll have a gay old time now."
Alas! Charlie's "gay old time" came to an ignoble end. Some one rushed
through the woods shouting,--
"Hillo! What the mischief are you at? Don't you know any better than to
be setting the woods on fire?"
It was Mr. Trumbull, looking angry enough. He bent the burning tree
over, and stamped out the blaze; then poked the fire apart, and crushed
the burning fragments into the soft ground. A dense smoke filled the
little nook.
"Whose work is this? You youngsters deserve a good thrashing, and I've
half a mind to take your hide off."
With that he caught Kit by the arm.
"He didn't do it," spoke up courageous Charlie. "He never brought a
leaf nor a stick; and you sha'n't thrash him!"
"What's he here for, then?"
"I brought him."
"And did you kindle the fire?"
"Yes," said Charlie, hanging her head a little.
"What for? Didn't you know that you might burn the woods down, in such
a dry time? Why, I could shut you up in jail for it."
That frightened Charlie a good deal.
"I didn't mean to--do any harm: we thought--we'd have a little
fun"--came out Charlie's answer by jerks.
"Fine fun! Why, you're Granny Kenneth's youngsters! I guess I'll have
to march you off to jail."
"Oh, let Kit go home!" cried Charlie with a great lump in her throat.
"It wasn't his fault. He didn't even want to come."
Something in the child's air and frankness touched Mr. Trumbull's
heart, and caused him to smile. He had a houseful of children at home,
every one of whom possessed a wonderful faculty for mischief; but this
little girl's bravery disarmed his anger.
"I want to explain to you that a fire like this might burn down a
handsome piece of woodlands worth thousands of dollars. All these large
trees are sent to the sawmill, and made into boards and shingles and
various things. So it would be a great loss."
"I'm very sorry," returned Charlie. "I didn't know it would do any
harm."
"If I don't take you to jail this time, will you promise never to do it
again?"
Charlie shivered a little at her narrow escape.
"I surely wouldn't," she said very soberly.
By this time Mr. Trumbull had the fire pretty well out.
"Well, don't ever let me catch you at it again, or you will not get off
so easily. Now trot home as fast as you can."
Charlie paused a moment, tugging at the cape of her sun-bonnet.
"I'm glad you told me about burning up the woods," she said. "I didn't
think of that."
Mr. Trumbull laughed pleasantly.
So the two walked homeward, Charlie in a more serious frame of mind
than usual.
"I tell you, Kit," she began at length, "out West is the place to have
a cave, and fires, and all that Hal had a book about it. Sometimes
children are kidnapped by Indians, and live in their tents, and learn
how to make bead-bags and moccasins"--
"I don't want to go;" and Kit gave his slender shoulders a shrug. "They
scalp you too."
"But they wouldn't me. I should marry one of the chiefs." Then, after a
rather reflective pause, "I'm glad we didn't burn down Mr. Trumbull's
woods: only I guess he wasn't in earnest when he said he would put me
in jail."
But for all that she begged Kit not to relate their adventure to
Granny, and perplexed her youthful brain for a more feasible method of
running away.
The house seemed very odd without Florence. The children's small errors
passed unrebuked; and they revelled in dirt to their utmost content.
For what with working out a day now and then, getting meals, patching
old clothes, and sundry odd jobs, Granny had her poor old hands quite
full. But she never complained.
CHAPTER X.
WHICH SHOULD SHE CHOOSE?
The reality at Seabury far exceeded Florence Kenneth's expectations.
The hotel was really finer than that at Salem. And then, instead
of being maid, she found here a woman who waited upon Mrs. Osgood,
arranged her hair, kept her dresses in order, and did the small
errands. What was she to do, then?
Not very much, it seemed. She read aloud, and Florence was an
undeniably good reader; she embroidered a little, went every day for a
ride, and absolutely sat in the parlor. It was rather embarrassing at
first.
"I have decided," Mrs. Osgood said to her sister, a few days afterward.
"The child has a very sweet temper, and a most affectionate nature;
and then she is so lovely. A perfect blonde beauty! In two years she
will be able to enter society. Mrs. Deering declared yesterday that her
voice was remarkable."
"I hope you will not spoil her completely. She has a good share of
vanity, I perceive."
"It is only proper pride: the child is well-born. I know her mother
must have been a lady, and Kenneth is not a common name."
"I am sure I hope your _protégée_ will prove a comfort."
Then Mrs. Osgood announced her plans to Florence, who was literally
overwhelmed. To be adopted by so rich a lady, to have an elegant home,
and become skilled in all accomplishments--was it not a dream,--her
wild, improbable dream?
To Florence Mrs. Osgood was an angel. True, she had seen her rather
pettish, and sometimes she scolded Martha, and gave way to hysterical
spasms; but these were minor faults. She drew the child to her with the
sweet and not-forgotten arts of her faded girlhood, and was pleased
with the sincere homage that had in it so much of wonder. Florence
would love her like a daughter.
"I cannot promise to leave you a fortune," she said, "but while I live
you shall have every thing. I was treated very unjustly by Mr. Osgood's
will; though I know he was influenced by his relatives, who grudge me
every penny. They would be very glad to have some of their children
live at Roselawn: I christened the place myself on account of the
roses."
"How beautiful it must be!" exclaimed Florence, enchanted.
"It _is_ a handsome place. You would have a governess, and be taught
music and French and drawing, and be introduced everywhere as my
daughter. If I had one, I fancy she would look something like you, for
I was called very pretty in my younger days;" and Mrs. Osgood sighed.
"I can never be grateful enough," said Florence.
"I shall want you to love me a great deal,--just as if I were your own
mother. And when you are grown you must make me your confidant. You
will marry brilliantly, of course; but you must promise that it will
not be without my consent."
"I shall never want to leave you!" declared Florence impulsively,
kissing the thin hands.
"It will be such a luxury to have your affection. My life has always
been so lonely. Very few people can understand my sensitive nature, but
I trust you will be able to."
There was some other points not so congenial. When they came to these,
Florence's heart shrank a little.
For, if she chose Mrs. Osgood, the group at home must drop out of her
life completely. There could be no visiting, no corresponding.
Poor Florence! This was a cloud upon her bright visions.
"I shall write to your grandmother occasionally to let her know that
you are well; but, as my daughter, you will be in such an entirely
different sphere, that the slightest intimacy would be unwise."
What should she do? Would Granny think her cruel and ungrateful?
Mrs. Osgood proposed to take her back to Madison to spend a few days in
which to decide. As for her, it hardly appeared possible to her that
the child could hesitate. And now that she had enjoyed this little
taste of luxury, poverty would seem all the more repulsive.
They drove over one morning. Luckily, Granny was in very tolerable
order; but, oh the difference! She was so glad to see Florence, that
she kissed and cried over her a little.
"I want to have a talk with your grandmother," Mrs. Osgood said; and
Florence betook herself to the kitchen. How dreadfully poor and mean
every thing looked!
Mrs. Osgood went straight about the business in hand. She described
her offer in the most glowing terms, and held out all its advantages.
It would relieve Mrs. Kenneth from much care and anxiety, give her one
less to struggle for; and then Florence would have the position for
which Nature had fitted her. Not one thing was forgotten.
Granny listened like one in a dream. Flossy to be a rich lady's
daughter,--to ride in a carriage, to have a piano, and be dressed in
silk! Could it be true?
"But oh! I can't give her up," moaned Granny. "She was poor Joe's
first-born, and such a sweet, pretty baby! There never was one on 'em
that I could spare."
"I wish you would take counsel with some friend. I think this
opportunity for Florence is too good to be thrown away."
"I don't know, I'm sure. You are very kind and generous. But to part
with my poor darling."
The lady rose at length.
"I shall leave Florence here for three days," she said. "In the mean
while consider the subject well, and do not stand in the way of the
child's welfare."
Florence was very sorry to part with Mrs. Osgood. She walked out to the
gate, and lingered there, clinging to the slender hand, and at last
being kissed tenderly.
"Think earnestly of my proposal. On Saturday I shall come for my
answer," said Mrs. Osgood.
The lady had not much fear. She knew that money was all-potent in this
world; and it was quite absurd to suppose that a pretty girl would
prefer toil and poverty in this hovel, to luxury and ease with handsome
surroundings.
"Oh dear!" and Granny's arms were around Flossy's neck. "I can't let
you go away forever. And I am sure you don't want to," scanning the
fair face with her fond and eager eyes.
"Granny, I don't know what to say. I should so like to have an
education, and to be--oh! don't cry so. If every one thinks I ought not
to go,"--and Flossy's lip quivered.
"I am a foolish old body," sobbed Granny. "I'm not worth minding, my
dear."
"Fossy tum home. What 'ou ky?" said Dot, tugging at Granny's dress.
"If we could see you once in a while."
Florence felt the last to be an impossibility. She had a keen
perception of the difference in station, and the nameless something
that Granny could not be brought to see.
"You would hear about me," she said softly.
Granny went back to her ironing. Florence offered to help, and arranged
her own light table. But it was uncomfortable this hot summer day, and
her tender hand felt as if it was blistered. She consoled herself by
relating the experiences of the past month, and inwardly sighing for
the luxurious life. Granny was not so stupid but that she could see the
direction of the child's desires.
"I don't wonder that you liked it; and she couldn't help loving you,
even if I do say it. Why, a queen might be proud of you! If we knew
some one to ask."
"There is Mr. Howard," Florence suggested.
"Sure enough. He would see all sides of it. We'll go over after the
work is done;" and Granny tried to smile a little lightness into her
sad face.
Charlie had gone to pull weeds for a neighbor, Hal was out also, so
there was only Kit to dinner. After that was out of the way, and Dot
had her nap, they made themselves ready for their call.
Florence tried her best to make a lady out of Granny. A queer little
old woman she was, and would be to the end of the chapter. Her bonnet
was dreadfully old-fashioned, and her gingham dress too short for
modern requirements. Her wrinkled hands were as brown as berries, and
she never _would_ wear gloves in the summer. Then, after she was all
ready, she surreptitiously tied on her black alpaca apron; at which
Flossy gave a sigh of despair.
The parsonage was a pretty little nest, half-covered with vines, and
shaded by a great sycamore. Dolly and Fred Howard were playing on the
grass, and Dot started for the small group instantly.
"O Mrs. Kenneth! how do you do? What a stranger you are! And here is
Florence, fresh as a rose! I heard that you had run away, my child.
Come and sit in the shade here: it is cooler than within doors. Mary,
here are some visitors."
Mrs. Howard gave them a cordial welcome, and insisted that Granny
should lay aside her bonnet. She inquired if Florence had enjoyed her
month at Seabury, and if she was not glad to get back again.
Granny twisted her apron-strings, and glanced at the young girl
uneasily. Of course she must begin somehow, but there was a great
sinking at her heart.
"Flossy's had a chance," she began; and then the strings were untied.
"We thought we'd come and ask a little advice. It's hard tellin' what's
for the best;" and Granny looked as if she might break down into a cry.
"A chance for an education?" asked Mrs. Howard.
"No: it's--to go for good. Flossy, you tell. I am not much of a hand at
getting things straight," murmured Granny.
Florence told the story in a very ladylike fashion, giving it the air
of a romance.
"Why, Florence, that is quite an adventure. And she wants to adopt
you?" Mrs. Howard exclaimed, much interested.
"Do you know any thing about this Mrs. Osgood?" asked Mr. Howard.
Florence used her limited knowledge to its fullest extent.
"Oh! I believe I know something about Mrs. Duncan. Dr. Carew was
attending the boy. I have heard him speak of them all. Isn't Mrs.
Osgood something of an invalid,--rather full of whims?"
"She is not very strong," Florence admitted.
"But it is a remarkable offer," rejoined Mrs. Howard. "And to have one
of the family so well provided for, seems like an especial providence."
"But to have her go away," said Granny. "To give her up, and never see
her again!"
"That does seem unkind. Perhaps it would not be quite as bad as that."
Mr. Howard studied Florence attentively for a few moments. He had
always considered her rather above her station.
"It certainly is a generous proposal, granting every thing to be as
represented. Florence will receive a superior education, and be raised
above the care and drudgery of life. Yet she may have to devote many
of her best years to Mrs. Osgood; and ministering to an invalid is
wearisome work. It is taking her entirely away from her family, to be
sure; but, putting aside love, she might never be able to help along
much. Women are not extravagantly remunerated; and, if she went away to
teach school, she could not do much more than take care of herself. And
there would be a partial separation."
Florence gave Mr. Howard a look of relief and thankfulness.
"I don't want to keep her from doing whatever will be best," said
Granny tremulously.
"There are Joe and Hal to help along,--smart boys both. And though
your strong and tender arms have kept the little flock together these
many years, they will wear out by and by. And, if any accident befell
you, it would be well to have some of them provided for. The important
question seems to be whether what Florence can do at home will
compensate for what she must relinquish. The entire separation appears
to me rather unjust. You said that Mrs. Osgood proposed that you should
take counsel of some one: suppose I should go to Seabury, and talk the
matter over with her?"
"Oh, if you would!" said Florence beseechingly. She felt that Mr.
Howard was on her side, though she did not quite understand why.
"Yes," rejoined Granny, catching at a straw. "You could tell her how it
is,--poor Joe's children, every one on 'em so precious to me. I never
had much learnin'; but I love 'em for father and mother both, and I
can't bear to think of their going away. Ah, well! it's a world full of
trouble, though they've always been good to me, poor dears."
Mrs. Howard turned away her face to hide her tears, and presently left
them to get a slice of nice fresh cake and a glass of milk for her
guests. Her heart really ached for Granny.
So it was settled that Mr. Howard would go over to Seabury, and learn
all the particulars of the offer. Granny was very thankful indeed. Soon
after, they picked up Dot, and started homeward.
"You rather approve of it," Mrs. Howard said to her husband, watching
the retreating figures, and smiling at Dot, who pulled at every wayside
daisy-head.
"Florence has her heart set upon it, that is plain to see."
"And yet it seems ungrateful in her."
"It would be nobler for her to stay with Granny, and help rear the
others. Yet that is more than one can reasonably expect of pretty young
girlhood."
"She is industrious, and has many excellent points but she is a good
deal ashamed of the poverty."
"I wonder whether she would be any real assistance? She has a good deal
of vanity, and love of dress; and no doubt she would spend most of her
money upon herself. Then, in some mood of dissatisfaction, she might
marry unwisely, and perhaps be more trouble than comfort to Granny. If
Mrs. Osgood is in earnest, Florence would at least receive an education
that might fit her for a nice position in case Mrs. Osgood tired of
her."
"And the life at home is not a great delight to her," said Mr. Howard
with a smile. "But whether I would like to give up my brothers and
sisters"--
"Florence is peculiar. Ten years from this time she may love them
better than she does now."
There was a noisy time in the "Old Shoe" that night. They were all
so glad to have Flossy back again. Kit played on imaginary fiddles;
Charlie climbed on her chair, and once came tumbling over into her lap;
Hal watched her with delight, and thought her prettier than ever; Joe
whistled and sang, and told her all that had occurred in the store,
pointing his stories with an occasional somerset, or standing on his
head to Dot's great satisfaction.
"Well, that is really margaret-nificent," declared Joe, flourishing
Granny's old apron on the broomstick. "Flossy, you are in luck! It is
all due to your winning ways and curly hair."
"If I go"--with a sad little sigh.
"Go? why, of course you will! She'd be a great goose; would she not,
Granny?
'Washing and ironing I daily have to do;
Baking and brewing I must remember too;
Three small children to maintain:
Oh, how I wish I was single again!'"
sang Joe with irresistible drollery.
Granny laughed; but she winked her eyes hard, and something suspicious
shone in them.
"It would be splendid, and no mistake! To think of having a piano, and
learning French, and riding in a carriage--'A coach and four and a gold
galore!' And then pretty Peggy we should"--
Joe made a great pause, for something stuck in his throat.
"But couldn't we ever see you?" asked Charlie.
An awesome silence fell over the little group.
"If you could come and see us once in a while," said Hal softly. "We
would not so much mind not going _there_"--
"I'd run away and visit her," announced daring Charlie. "I'd hide about
in the woods until I saw her some day, and then"--
"They'd set the dog on you."
"Hum! As if I was afraid of a dog, Joe Kenneth! I'd snap my fingers in
his face, and ask him what he had for breakfast. Then I'd come back
home and tell you all about it."
"The breakfast, or the dog?"
"Joseph, I am afraid you are getting in your dotage," said Charlie with
a shake of the head. "But, if I started to, I know I'd find Florence."
"It is rather cruel," said Joe sturdily. "I don't see why she should
want to take you entirely away from us."
"We cannot look at it just as the lady does," said Hal's mild voice. "I
suppose she thinks, if she does so much for Flossy, that she ought to
have a good deal of love in return."
"She is ashamed of us because we are poor. But maybe if we managed to
get along, and grow up nicely--she wouldn't feel so--so particular
about it."
"I don't believe she would," exclaimed Florence. "You see, people
are so different; and--I'm sure I've always wanted you to have nice
manners."
"So you have, Flossy," declared Joe. "And you were meant for a lady."
Hal and Granny sat on the doorstep after the rest had gone to bed,
crying a little, and yet finding some comfort.
"It would be so nice for Florence!" Hal said in his pleading tone.
"She would always have to work here, and not learn music and all those
lovely things. And she has such a beautiful voice, you know, and such
pretty hands, and nice, dainty ways"--
"But never to see her again!" groaned Granny.
"I think we shall see her,--some time. Perhaps Mrs. Osgood might die:
she is not very well, and Flossy might come back to us. Oh, yes,
Granny, I do believe we shall see her again!"
"I've loved you all so much!"
"And we should always love you, even if we went to Japan. Then, if
Flossy should have to work hard, and be unhappy, we might be sorry that
we kept her out of any thing so nice."
"I do believe you are right, Hal; only it's so hard to think of not
seeing her again."
"I'll try to make it up, dear. You will always have me."
The soft young lips kissed those that quivered so piteously, and
smoothed the wet, wrinkled cheek.
"We'll pray about it, Granny. Somehow it seems as if God made these
things plain after a while; and it is in his hands. He hears the ravens
cry, poor, hungry little birdies; and he must care for us. He will
watch over Florence."
"O Hal, you talk like a minister! Maybe you will be one some day. And
it is so sweet to have you, dear boy!"
"I shall never be half good enough," he said solemnly.
He crept up to his room, but laid awake a long while, watching the
stars, and thinking.
Florence resolved the next day that she would not go, and braced
herself to martyr-like endurance. But oh, how mean and poor every thing
appeared by contrast! Charlie in rags,--you never could keep Charlie
in whole clothes; Dot playing in the dirt, for, though you washed
her twenty times an hour, she would not stay clean; the shabby, old
fashioned, tumble-down cottage,--no, Mrs. Osgood never would want any
of these wild Arabs visiting her.
So she shed many quiet tears. Perhaps it would be best to make the
sacrifice, hard as it was.
Granny saw it all. Her old eyes were not blind, and her heart smote her
for something akin to selfishness. Poor, aching heart.
"Flossy," she said, over her heart-break, "if Mr. Howard is satisfied,
I think you had better go."
"I have about decided to give it up. Perhaps it is my _duty_ to stay."
Granny scanned the face eagerly, but found there no cheerful and sweet
self-denial.
"I've been thinking it over"--her voice broken and quavering. "Perhaps
it will be best. Though I don't like to part with you, for your poor
father"--and Granny's inconsequent speech ended in tears.
"I'll stay home then, and do what I can; only it seems as if there
were so many of us,--and the place so little, and I can't help being
different, and liking music and education, and a nice orderly house"--
"No, you can't help it. Poor Joe--your father I mean--liked 'em all
too. I've sometimes thought that maybe, if he'd gone away, he might
have been a gentleman. He'd a master voice to sing. And God will watch
over you there, and not let you come to harm. Oh, dear!"
Granny covered her face with her apron, and cried softly.
Mr. Howard called that evening. He had been quite favorably impressed
with Mrs. Osgood's proposal.
"Her connections are all reputable people," he said; "and I think
she means to treat Florence like a daughter. She can give her many
advantages, and she is strongly attached to her already. But she _is_
exclusive and aristocratic. She wants Florence all to herself. Still,
she has made one concession:
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