Chapter X: Front Matter (10)

The torches flared upon the tree; the people in the rear of the crowd stood on tiptoe and craned their necks to see the milk-white bloom.

But the tree was silent and bare!

King George could not be right.

The next day aunt Katherine came out of the room where she was putting her bed linen away in the lavender-scented press.

“The church-bells have done ringing,” she said. “Run, children, and see if any one has gone.”

Off flew Phœbe with Roger after her, and when she reached the church-yard, the only person she saw was Marian Leesh, a neighbor’s child, looking over the wall at the minister and the clerk who were standing by the door. When the clergyman saw Phœbe he came toward her.

“Child,” he said, “what is the meaning of this? Is it possible that the people refuse to keep the Christmas-day? Where is your family?”

“We do not belong here,” said Phœbe; “we came to see the Blooming. We are at aunt Katherine’s, and she is looking over her linen press.”

The minister frowned.

“And the rest of the people?”

“They are all at work,” cried Roger, coming up; “the cooper has his shop open, and the mercer is selling, and they have all put away the cakes and the mistletoe, and there is to be no Christmas until the true day comes.”

“Nonsense!” cried the minister. “Jacob, bring me my hat!” and without taking off his gown he strode down into the village.

But it was all in vain; the minister talked and scolded, but the people went on with their work. They would not go to church; they would not sing their carols nor hang holly and mistletoe boughs.

“This New Way might do for lords and ladies,” they said, “but as for them the Christmas kept by their fathers, and marked by the blooming of the Thorn, was their Christmas,” and so the sexton closed the church, and the discomfited minister went home; and he was the only person in Quainton who that day ate a Christmas dinner.

When the news came to London and to the court of how these people, and others in different villages, refused to adopt the New Style, the little fat king and his lords and ladies laughed; but they soon found it was a serious matter, and so it was ordered that the churches should be opened also on “old Christmas” and sermons preached on that day wherever the people wished them. And thus it was that our sixth of January, known as “Twelfth Night,” “little,” or “old Christmas,” came to be a holiday.

But Roger and Phœbe spent one year of their lives without a Christmas. They returned home upon the twenty-sixth, and found that there the New Christmas had been kept; and as they could not go back to Quainton when the Old Christmas came, they missed it altogether.

As for the Thorn-tree! Who can tell whether it still blooms? In the chronicles which tell of the Glastonbury bush, and of the Quainton excitement, there is no mention made of its after blooming; and the chances are Phœbe’s mother was a true prophet when she said it was possible that between the Old Style and the New Style the Thorn would become confused and bloom no more for any Christmas-day.

MIDGET’S BABY.

BY MARY D. BRINE.

“O my sakes!” It was early in the morning when Midget stood on tiptoe, peeping behind a large ash-barrel, and, with wide-open eyes, uttered this exclamation. So early that only a few enterprising milkmen and extra smart market-men were about the street, and nobody but Midget had heard the feeble cry which startled her and led to an inquisitive peep behind the barrel.

It was in an alley-way where piles of rubbish, all sorts of odds and ends, and much that was impure and disagreeable, had it all their own way from dawn till night, that Midget was standing this chilly morning. And “O my sakes!” escaped her lips once again before she ventured to stop staring and begin work. No wonder she stared, for on the ground, surrounded by bits of broken crockery and discarded ale-bottles, half-choked with the dust of ashes, and carelessly wrapped in a dilapidated old shawl, a baby was lying, stretching little thin arms helplessly into the narrow space between the high brick wall and the barrel, and testifying by feeble wails its need of timely assistance. Midget was so shocked and surprised at first that she could only give vent to her favorite exclamation as above, but presently her small shoulder was pressed against the barrel, and after much tugging and some hard breathing it was shoved aside, and Midget had her arms around the forlorn and neglected baby in a moment.

It was just at that part of the fall season when early mornings and evenings are chilly and suggestive of shivers, and baby, who might have been all night on the ground, was blue with cold and quite savage with hunger. Midget’s shawl, ragged almost as that which was wrapped about the baby, was made to do double duty, as she folded the little waif in her arms, and realized the important fact that she was holding a real, live baby.

It was not possible to carry a bundle of wood and baby at the same time, so the bundle which was to help grandma get her cup of tea was unceremoniously dropped, and the little girl hurried home with her new-found treasure.

While she is hastening over the pavements, her blue eyes dancing with joy and excitement, we may learn something concerning her and her rather uncomfortable home.

Midget lived with her grandmother, who was both father and mother to the little thing who had never known the care or love of either parent. Her father had never, in his best days, been much of a man, and when, soon after his wife’s death, _he_ was accidentally killed in the factory where he worked, poor little Midget was left totally unprovided for, and quite dependent, in her babyhood, upon grandma, who at least was able to pay the small monthly rent of the cellar home to which Midget was taken. The child, because of her small size, had earned from neighbors the nickname “Midget,” and had reached the age of eight years, still answering to the title, and almost forgetting her real name was Maggie. A wild, wilful, and not far from naughty little girl she was, but her heart was kindly disposed, and held a world of good intentions and affectionate thoughts, that somehow nobody, not even grandma, could often get a sight of. She didn’t understand why there was not a little sister with whom she might play all day, instead of having to go out early in the morning to pick up sticks and chips for the fire which cooked their scanty meals.

Midget much preferred a game of “ring around a rosy” with the other children, properly called “Les Miserables,” who swarmed about the side street where she had lived so long, than to work for her daily bread and blue milk, according to granny’s directions. And poor old granny herself, possessing not much of the virtue called patience, was called upon by her idea of training a child the way she should go, to give little Midget many a “cuff on the ear,” and a shaking which roused all that was naughty in the lassie’s heart, and made the blue eyes snap very angrily. As for school, Midget had no time for education, but in some way, she, with several other children, had learned their letters, and could spell cat and dog as well as any school girl. During the day she earned a little by selling papers on the street, and yet I’m sorry to say most of her pennies went in sticks of candy down her little throat, unknown to granny. “If I only had a little sister,” she would think, excusing herself, “if granny would only buy babies, as other women do, why I’d be as good as anything, and help her take care of it! I would!”

But granny _didn’t_ buy babies, and Midget still hated work, and sometimes there were clouds and sometimes sunshine, and on this very morning when Midget found the baby she had been saucy to grandma, and grandma had boxed the little ears, and so it had begun a _very_ cloudy day indeed.

But we must return to Midget, who, ere this, has reached home.

How glad she was, and at the same time how frightened, poor little Midget! What should she do with the baby, that was the question; and when at last the cellar was reached, and Midget laid her burden in grandma’s lap, she asked the question over again.

“Eh! what’s this?” asked the old woman, lifting her hands and brows together, while baby, who, in all its life of eighteen months had never beheld such a queer thing as granny’s broad-frilled cap, opened its mouth and screamed a terrified answer.

“’Tain’t only a baby, granny,” exclaimed Midget, patting the wee stranger’s hands, and trembling lest her grandmother should rise and drop it. “Only nothin’ but just a baby, and I’m so glad I found it, ain’t you, granny? ’Cause you see it’s a kind of sister, you know, and you won’t have to buy one.”

“Glad?” repeated the old woman, “that I ain’t!” But the rather snappish answer was quite out of keeping with the impulsive kiss laid on the little one’s velvety cheek. Midget brightened when she saw granny do that.

“I say, do you think it’s got any mamma, granny?” she asked.

“_Did_ have, most likely, but reckon her ma wa’n’t good for much,” was the reply, while the baby, amused by Midget, began to laugh.

“I shouldn’t have thought any mother would chuck her baby behind a barrel,” said Midget, thoughtfully. Then she began to plead with her grandmother that it might be allowed to stay with them, promising such wonderful things, and such care of it, that granny, who loved babies, and didn’t really know but what a reward might be offered for the child, at last yielded, and promised to keep it at least a few days. And Midget, delighted beyond measure, seemed to feel two years older as she rocked the little stranger to sleep, and laid it in her own little straw bed. “I was a stranger and ye took me in,” kept somehow repeating itself in granny’s mind all that day. She had read it in her Bible long ago, and had heard it from the pulpit once, but never before had it come back so forcibly as to-day. “Well! well! The Lord will provide, I dare say. And goodness knows, if he don’t, the child will starve along with Midget and her old granny.”

No advertisement appeared in reference to the lost baby, and at the end of a week the little one had grown so dear to the two who had taken her in, that granny decided to keep her “a _little_ longer.”

But what had come over Midget? The frowsy head began to look smooth as the clustering curls would permit, the little, active body, always bent upon mischief, had busied itself in new ways, and began to look tidy and neat as the unavoidable rags would allow. Hands and face were clean as soap and water could make them, and Midget actually kept her boots laced since baby’s advent into the family. Granny also noticed that Midget grumbled less at having to go out in the early dawn for sticks,--in fact, the grumbling in course of time ceased altogether; for Midget was bent upon fattening the baby and making it grow. And how could a baby grow fat unless she kept it nice and warm, and gave it plenty of food? Granny’s cup of tea would not do for baby, but Midget drank cold water most of the time, and baby had the blue milk all to her hungry, healthy little self.

By-and-by, after the little one had been in her new home about three weeks, and all the children had kissed it and admired it to their hearts’ content, and all the old crones of the neighborhood had speculated as to how granny would be able to provide for it, Midget found pleasant work to do in selling cut flowers on the street for a florist near by. Such an important little Midget had never before been heard of in that neighborhood, and it was wonderful how long it had been since granny had found it necessary to punish her. No more saucy words, or frowns on the child-face, because there was baby always watching her little Midget-mamma with wide eyes, and once, just once, Midget saw the baby kick out its tiny foot just as she had naughtily kicked a little playmate who ventured to provoke her anger. And as Midget was determined _her_ baby should excel all others, of course she was careful of her influence. Then, too, she continued to be neat and tidy, lest the baby might turn her sweet face away when a kiss was wanted, and that would almost have broken Midget’s heart.

The mornings were daily growing colder, and our little girl’s shawl grew no thicker or warmer, sad to say, as she started early each day for the flower-stand on Broadway. But Midget kept up a brave heart, and was glad for the little custom she found. How closely she stuck to business, and how patiently she looked forward to the hour when, released from duty, she would scamper home for a frolic with baby, we have neither time nor space to describe minutely, but we may say that with this new happiness in her heart, and with the importance of taking good care of her baby constantly in her mind, no wonder our little Midget grew gentle and good, and found the sunshine oftener than she used to.

And all this time the wee stranger grew pretty and strong, and granny began to fear lest somebody should claim this bright treasure, which made the old cellar so happy a place, despite its scanty furniture and lack of home comfort. But nobody came for it, and finally the winter had slipped by and spring made its appearance.

Midget had laid up a few dollars--think of it, children who read this, a few dollars! probably the sum that some of you spend in candy and toys during one day and think nothing of--for a new dress for baby and some trifles for granny and herself. She was eight years old, old enough to feel very grand and important when planning her shopping expedition; and indeed, the little girl sadly needed something to wear, if she would still make herself bright and attractive to baby.

When the days grew warm she used to take her baby to the flower-stand, and people passing paused often, as well to admire this bright little nurse and her charge as to purchase the dainty blossoms offered for sale. Then in an hour or so granny would come for the baby, and, taking her home, leave the small flower vender free to attend to business.

Didn’t Midget get tired of selling her flowers all day on the street? O yes, very tired; but the day’s hard work only made her evenings merrier; and the bed-time frolics with baby made Midget grow fat from laughing, if the old adage is true, “Laugh and grow fat.” There had been so many bright days, in Midget’s opinion, since baby came; that the little girl quite forgot that there were such thing as clouds. And so one day, when she went home, it gave her a dreadful shock to find poor old granny faint and ill upon the low bed, and two of the neighbors watching beside her.

Midget looked around. Where was her baby? There was granny, so white, and grown so suddenly older than Midget had ever noticed before, but baby was crying in the arms of a girl-neighbor, who had volunteered to “kape the spalpeen quiet” till Midget’s return.

It didn’t take our little mother a minute to secure within her own tender arms the frightened baby, and then Midget sat patiently down beside granny, who neither stirred nor opened her dim eyes until midnight. If I had time I could tell you how, after days of watching and sadness, grandma made Midget understand that her sickness could not be cured on earth. But the end came, after all, too suddenly for little Midget’s comprehension, and when the kind neighbors had laid the old woman away, to rest forever from labor, our little heroine had only her laughing, crowing baby to comfort and cheer her.

She went to live with a kind woman who had known granny for years, and was but little better off in worldly goods than the old grandmother had been. Still, Midget could not starve; and she and her baby were made welcome in the new home. And after that she took the little one with her to the flower-stand, and brought her home at noon herself each day for two weeks.

And then another thing happened, which, for a brief time, almost broke the child’s heart.

It was a beautiful day late in the summer, and baby, a big, fat girl, was crowing and laughing in Midget’s lap, when a gentleman paused to buy flowers. While Midget was giving him change baby reached out her hand to touch the gentleman’s cane, and he looked at the baby face first with indifference, then more earnestly, and finally with a startled look on his own face which puzzled Midget.

Then he questioned her about the child, and asked if it had, under the soft golden curls, on the back of the neck, a small red mark.

Midget innocently replied: “O, I’ve seen it whenever I’ve dressed my baby; why, sir?”

Poor little Midget! Little she knew that with her own lips she was giving away her baby, for the gentleman, raising the curls that fell about the fat little neck, saw himself the mark which gave him back his own lost child.

It would be too long a story to relate how, just as he and his wife, so long ago, were going on board a European steamer, followed by nurse and baby, the nurse, carrying out a well-laid plot, slipped behind and sold for a large sum (promised) her little charge to an accomplice, who hoped to claim the reward which he thought would be offered, when, too late, the child’s loss was discovered; and, from that day until now, both parents had mourned for their baby. The nurse, failing to receive her promised share of money, worried and frightened the accomplice until he deserted the baby, and when the nurse would have sought it, Midget had taken her treasure home. The reward was offered, but, as it happened, granny had not seen it, and thus the child of aristocratic birth became indebted for life to Midget’s care.

All this the gentleman explained afterwards to Midget, after he had bidden her return to the florist her flowers and come with him. And then, in the presence of baby May’s mother Midget told her story, with many sobs and tears.

But the sunshine was coming to our heroine again,--the clouds were only for a little while. And when Mr. and Mrs. ---- engaged at a good price the services of faithful Midget, as nurse for the baby she loved, and took both baby and Midget away to the beautiful country-house, where were birds and flowers and hanging leaves and grasses, which made the fall so cheery a season as it never had been for Midget before--why, then, the little girl wondered if it were not all a dream, and if the beautiful house and charming meadows would not suddenly change into dismal streets and old cellars and she a poor little flower-merchant again.

Little Midget is still nurse to baby May, still a bright, tidy, well-shod little girl, and best of all, baby still calls her “sissy Mid’it” and loves her as dearly as when, in the old times, Midget fed her on blue milk and crackers.

A NOCTURNAL LUNCH, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

BY LILY J. CHUTE.

There was one pet, secret fault which was the delight of Tot Sheldon’s heart, and that was the eating, at night, after going to bed of such goodies as she could previously lay her mischievous little hands on.

Anything whatever to eat between the five o’clock P. M. supper and the seven o’clock A. M. breakfast was a forbidden luxury to the Sheldon children, for their good parents considered it altogether an unwholesome habit for little ones to give their stomachs work for the night. It was only adults, in their opinion, who might indulge themselves in rosy-cheeked apples, tempting nuts, or other dainties, in the long winter evenings, with impunity. To be sure, these little treats, seeming doubly delicious to the watering mouths of the children because forbidden them, were only brought forth after the clock had struck eight--the bed-hour of the youthful Sheldons, but, by some mysterious instinct which children often possess, they knew well enough the night custom of their elders, and were ambitious to grow up, that they, too, might not go to bed hungry.

For it was not seldom the case that they were, notwithstanding their hearty suppers of bread and milk, and such other food as was supposed to be harmless to the youthful digestion, really hungry before they fell to sleep.

Little Tot, however, had a special antipathy to hunger, either real or imaginary, and a similar love, as has been said, for secret nocturnal feasts. The other children being boys, Tot had a cunning little bed-room all to herself, and so could indulge her eccentric appetite without much fear of disturbance. To be sure, she often felt certain guilty qualms of conscience, when her mother would look into her room to kiss her good-night, and she feigned sleep, while clutching tightly her prize beneath her pillow. Crumbs of gingerbread or cracker would have betrayed her the next day, but Tot had been brought up to take care of her own mite of a room.

She wasn’t afraid of nightmares. Not Tot! She had eaten too many stolen suppers, and passed through the ordeal unharmed, to be afraid of any such bugbears, as she termed them. Neither of illness, for she considered her little stomach to be quite equal to that of any feather-bearing ostrich that ever stalked.

Sometimes it was a rosy baldwin or a brown russet apple, a juicy pear, or bit of cake, or even a “cent’s worth” of candy, that found its way to Tot’s chamber. But one night it was a whole pint of roasted chestnuts which her uncle Harry had given her as he met her coming from school, and which she had hoarded away, beneath the snowy sheets of her bed, till night.

For once Tot Sheldon was not unwilling to go to bed, a most remarkable occurrence. She said her good-nights with such cheerfulness, and started off with such alacrity that, unmindful of the many bed-times when the contrary had been true of her behavior, Mr. Sheldon said something, in a satisfied tone, about “the good effect of early training,” etc.

Chestnuts were Tot’s special delight,--and _roasted_ chestnuts!

How she longed to get at them, that she might release the mealy meat, white and fine almost as flour, from the bursting brown shells, and revel in the peculiar, delicious flavor which she knew and loved so well!

Having undressed and ensconced herself in her cosey little bed, she waited with impatience for her mother’s nightly visit. She daren’t eat any of the nuts before, for fear something of the nutty aroma might be in her breath.

But she forgot that roasted chestnuts have a fragrance of their own, even while yet in their shells, and she trembled with fear least she should lose her treasures, when her mother, after kissing her, said kindly:

“You haven’t been eating chestnuts, have you, Tot? It seems as though I smelled them.”

“No, marm,” replied naughty, trembling Tot.

“That’s right, for you’d be sure to have dreadful nightmares,” said Mrs. Sheldon, as she bade her child good-night, and closed the door, distrusting the evidence of her own keen sense of smell.

“Well, anyway,” said Tot to herself, as her mother’s footsteps died away, “I hadn’t eaten any, so I didn’t tell a lie.”

She thought the matter over a moment, thinking of the nightmares of which she had been so often told, and half resolving to be so good a girl as not to eat any of the nuts; but in the midst of her resolution her hand strayed beneath her pillow, and into a paper-bag, and came out with a splendid great chestnut, which she had no sooner tasted than she sat up in bed, and with the bag in her lap began a feast.

The room was not very dark, for the light from the hall burner streamed through the transom over her door; and, if it had been pitch dark, Tot had no fear of it, for she had never been frightened with any of the silly, wicked stories often told to children.

So she crunched away on the delicious nuts until they were about half gone, and then stopped suddenly with a sense of fear lest she had eaten too many, rolled the bag carefully about the rest, put them under her pillow, and soon dozed off to sleep.

But she didn’t sleep as soundly as usual, and woke up sometime in the night, when the hall-light had been put out, and it was perfectly dark. Her hand was tightly grasping the bag of nuts, and as she didn’t go at once to sleep, she thought she would try just one more,--which resulted in her again sitting up in bed, and finishing the pint of roasted chestnuts in the dark.

That was a fearful infliction for Tot’s little stomach, strong as it was naturally, and although she didn’t have any nightmares--that she could remember, at least--she woke reluctantly in the morning, to a sense that Bridget was knocking loudly on her door, and telling her that breakfast was over, and it was very late.

At first she felt obstinate, and declared that she wouldn’t get up, but would go to sleep again; then a sudden guilty consciousness of the paper-bag full of the husks of a pint of chestnuts came to her mind; and the fear least somebody should come into the room and discover them made her turn hastily out of bed and begin to dress.

But, as the old saying goes, she got out “the wrong side of the bed” that morning, and everything was troublesome. Never had Tot experienced so much trouble with every article of clothing, with her ablutions, with her hair; and at last she nearly left the room without her bag of shells, which she had laid on a chair while making the bed, which she dared not leave unmade, although there was no time, this morning, for it to air first.

But cramming the shells into her pocket, together with her pocket-handkerchief, Tot started down-stairs, regardless of such faults in her toilet, as that her petticoat was wrong side out, her dress buttoned “up garret and down cellar,” her hair parted almost as much on the side as a boy’s, while her curls, usually so pretty, were mere stringlets.

When she reached the sitting-room, the clock pointed to quarter before nine, and as there was no time for her to eat the breakfast which had been saved for her, she threw on her sack and hat, seized her books, and started for school.

The rule of the school was that each pupil must be in his or her seat at five minutes before nine, and as Tot was one of the best scholars, and very ambitious, she was disgusted to find that all kinds of street obstructions concurred to belate her.

She came within a hair’s breadth of being run over by one desperate driver, and was only rescued by a brave policeman who pulled her from the tangle of horses and teams, but he hurt her arm severely by his grasp. Indeed, poor Tot afterward found it was black and blue.

Then she fell down in the mud and made a sorry looking spectacle of both herself and her books.

So that when she arrived at school, only to find the doors closed for the morning prayer, she was about as thoroughly cross as could well be imagined.

A reproof from her teacher, who was vexed that his best pupil should set such an example of tardiness, exasperated Tot into an ugly obstinate resolve to say nothing of the accidents by which she was belated. So she took her seat without a word, and looked for her French grammar, to study the lesson which was soon to be called for.

But she couldn’t find it, and then she remembered laying it apart from the other books, the previous evening, and that it was thus left at home.

Too angry still with the teacher, whom she had always before liked, to tell him of the blunder, Tot turned to her desk-mate and broke another rule, by asking the loan of the French grammar which the latter was not using.

But the master’s eye was on her.

“Miss Sheldon, you were whispering! Take a misdemeanor!”

Tot did not answer, and choked down the rising sobs. A “misdemeanor” was the blackest of black marks, and never before had she received one.

Some of her friends among the pupils looked at her sympathizingly, but there were those who, always envious of the more studious and obedient of their number, showed their spiteful delight at her fall.

Of course she failed in her French, and lost her high place in the class, and finally, when a stinging and almost unjust rebuke came from the teacher, poor Tot could stand it no longer, and bursting into tears she hastily pulled her handkerchief from her pocket, when, with it, out flew the forgotten chestnut-shells all over the room!

Into the master’s very face and eyes they went, and he, half blinded, and not fully realizing how it happened, told Tot that she needn’t stay at school any longer unless she could behave better.

Out of temper from the beginning, angered beyond measure at what she considered injustice, and maddened still more by the shout of laughter that went up from the school at the episode of the nut-shells, Tot defiantly replied:

“Then I’ll go home, and never enter this hateful old place again as long as I live--_never_!”

“Miss Sheldon, you will repent this. Miss Mayfair will accompany you to your mother at once, and will take with her your discharge from this school. Go to the dressing-room. Your books will be sent to you to-night.”

With flushed face and quickly beating heart, Tot left the school-room, put on her things, and started for home.

Had not her companion been with her, it is possible that she would have made some truant attempt to avoid meeting her parents’ eyes.

It was a little strange that Nettie Mayfair, her own particular friend, should have been selected as her companion. But so it was, and, as soon as they were out of the building, Nettie exclaimed in friendly but annoyed tones:

“Why, Tot Sheldon, how _could_ you!”

“_I!_” repeated Tot, her anger rising toward the very one to whom she had meant to pour out all her griefs, “how could _I_? Why, I didn’t do anything--it was all that mean old Mr. Stimpson! I never saw such an abominable man in my life!”

“Oh, Tot!” began Nettie indignantly, “you know he has always been as good as--”

“No, he hasn’t either, Net Mayfair--and if you stand up for him, you’re just as bad as he, a mean hateful girl--_so_!”

“I should think you’d be ashamed of yourself, you spiteful girl,” cried Nettie, “I don’t see how I ever came to like you.”

“And _I_ never did like _you_” retorted Tot, “though I was fool enough to think I did! I’ll never speak to you again!”

“Nor I to you, so long as I live!” was Nettie’s reply.

Arrived at home at last, the message and accompanying discharge from Mr. Stimpson was read by Mrs. Sheldon, who, full of sorrow and almost in tears, told her daughter to go to her chamber and remain till her father should come home, and they could decide what should be done with her.

The key was turned that made Tot a prisoner in her own little bed-room, and here she remained through the long hours of the day without hearing a word or a step near her door. No voice came to her longing ears from parent or brother; no food to eat, and no books to read,--nothing to do but to think.

What a condition was she in indeed! Discharged in disgrace from the school she loved; under the lasting ban of the displeasure of the master she had always so much respected; the friendship with her own Nettie utterly broken; and a prisoner in her room, utterly uncertain what the future might be to which her parents would consign her.

The twilight darkened, and night came on. The hall gas was not lit, and still no sound came to her. All was silent as the grave.

At last, fearing and trembling, poor little Tot undressed and crept into bed, where she lay for a long time unable to go to sleep, the bed seeming as if lined with thorns.

But at last she slept so soundly, that she was only awakened by her mother’s voice, close to her face, saying in its kindest and sweetest tones:

“Why, Tot, my darling, what is the matter? Why are you so flushed and restless?”

In utter delight at the dear sound of her mother’s voice so gentle and kind, Tot sprang out of bed when her mother exclaimed, half laughing and halt in amazement:

“Bless the child! I don’t wonder you were restless! Why, you’ve been sleeping on a bed of chestnut-shells! But, oh! you naughty girl, you told me last night you hadn’t been eating chestnuts!”

The laugh had left her mother’s voice, and it was sad but yet tender, when Tot exclaimed in surprise:

“Last night! wasn’t it night before last? What day is this, mamma?”

“Tuesday, of course,--what do you mean?”

“I thought it was Wednesday, and oh! such dreadful things happened yesterday!” and Tot threw herself on her mother’s bosom, and burst into sobs.

“Oh--I see, my dear,” said Mrs. Sheldon, tenderly stroking her child’s tumbled curls, “_you’ve had your nightmare!_ But don’t cry, for nothing really dreadful has happened, except that I’m afraid my little girl told her mother a wrong story last night.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t, mamma--or, at least I thought I didn’t; for I hadn’t eaten a single nut when you asked me, but ate them afterwards;--but, oh! I’ll never do it again in the world, if you’ll forgive me.”

The forgiveness was freely granted, when the story of a day’s troubles which had been crowded into an hour’s disturbed slumber, had been related, and Tot in the neatest of toilets and with the freshest curls, ate her breakfast, and, without forgetting to take her French grammar, went off to school. She could hardly get it out of her head all day long, that she was in disgrace, but her lessons went off well, Mr. Stimpson was as kind as ever, and Nettie Mayfair was as loving as a bosom-friend could possibly be.

Tot’s strong digestive organs had done the heavy work assigned them by their reckless little mistress, but they had given her a foretaste of what might happen in reality, were she to grow dyspeptic and miserable, through abusing them. In her unrest, she had turned over her pillow to find a cool spot for her head, and spilt the shells from their bag into the bed.

One good lesson was taught by the nightmare, however, to the mother as well as the child, for thereafter, some light refreshment, as a slice of light plain cake and a glass of milk, was allowed each child of the Sheldon family, an hour before he or she went to bed, and thus the temptation to recur to her old habit never overcame Tot’s resolution to eat no more private lunches.

LULU’S PETS.

BY MARY STANDISH ROBINSON.

First, there was Tom Doddles; and he was a bother. Grandma said so, when she found him snugly curled up in her favorite arm-chair, grandpa stumbled over him in the doorway, and sister Caroline declared that “the little plague _shouldn’t_ go with her when she went to take her music lessons.” Don’t imagine that Tom Doddles cared for music; O, not at all; he plainly said so when he heard any, by a series of howls, and little, jerky barks.

But he liked to drive out in the phaeton, and stand up with his fore-paws on the dash-board, and look at the horse, with the most solemn air imaginable.

That is, he would do so for a short distance, until thinking, doubtless, that the wise traveler should improve all opportunities, he would dash down and away for a nearer inspection of bird or butterfly. And once he had too much curiosity about a bee; after that, he thought bees were rather disagreeable, and quite ignored their society.

And you see, scrambling through sand-heaps, and splashing through mud-puddles, was apt to disarrange his toilet. And he didn’t care in the least, but would jump back again in a social manner, that was very distressing to Caroline.

She did not like to have her clean frocks “mussed” and disfigured by mud, and ever so many little black and white hairs.

But what could she do? What would you do, if you lived in the country, and your little sister had a little pet dog that wanted to go to town whenever you did? Would you let him go? And if he stood up on his hind legs, as straight as a soldier, and begged, “jess as hard,” as his little mistress said, while she kissed and coaxed for him, could you refuse?

Caroline could not, for a long time; but one day she drove off, leaving Lulu and Tom Doddles wailing together, while she flourished the whip to keep him at a distance.

His non-attendance was such a relief and comfort generally, that she decided to leave him at home in future; and for several weeks poor Tommy supplicated in vain.

At last, when the phaeton and little gray pony came around to the door, Tom was invisible.

Cad laughed as she took the reins.

“Why, Tom has given it up,” she said, “poor little fellow! How he did enjoy going; but he was a nuisance, and I’m glad if he’s learned better.”

“Come, Fannie,” to the friend who was going with her, and away they went, as gayly as if there were no little dogs breaking their hearts at home.

However, that day, _the_ little dog was otherwise engaged. You’ll laugh to hear that when they were about two miles from home, the merry chatter of the girls was broken by a tiny, smothered bow-wow, very much like a suppressed sneeze in church.

“O!”

“What is that?” chorused the girls.

Then Cad jumped, and almost let the gray pony have his own way.

For something under the seat was tickling her; and before she could look for the cause, out popped the head of Thomas Doddles, Esq., who proceeded to look serenely about him, as if conscious of a success that no one could dispute.

“The cunning darling!” said Fannie, laughing so that she could not sit up straight.

“O you scamp!” cried Cad. “I’d throw him away if ’twere not for Luly.”

“Now sir!” said she, addressing him with great severity, “_don’t you dare_ to jump out of this carriage to-day.”

But you’ll not be surprised to learn that he did so the very next moment. How could he help it, when a chipmunk chattered a challenge for a race to the nearest tree?

Tom lost, and nearly dislocated his neck by looking up so much, and barking at the same time.

As for the chipmunk, not a walnut cared he; and what he chippered back might mean:

“You’re smart, Mr. Dog, but, smart as you are you can’t catch me!”

Well, Tom Doddles was a bother! But he was a cunning one, and between the scoldings and the pettings that he received he was as spoiled as a doggie could be.

But we all felt bad when a careless man shot him by mistake.

And Lulu mourned so much that Aunt Sarah, after talking with mamma and grandma, went away one afternoon, and returned at night with a large box, about which she was as mysterious as a fairy godmother.

Lulu knew from experience that Aunt Sarah’s mysteries always meant something delightful; and after a little teasing about what _was_ in the big wooden box, she put two kisses on auntie’s cheek, and said she would go to bed, and “find it all out in a dream.”

But she didn’t, after all. She was awakened the next morning by a smart little tap that was _not_ a kiss, on her own round, pinkie-pearly cheek.

And there was such a queer little munchy noise going on!

The blue eyes opened; languidly at first, but they were wide and bright in an instant, for there was something curious for them to see. First, a heap of walnuts lying on her bed. Where did _they_ come from? Then, sitting up in the midst of them, and working away like a complete little nut-cracker, was the most charming gray squirrel that anybody ever saw.

“O!” exclaimed Lulu. “Why!! Where _did_ you come from, Beauty?”

For all answer, Gray-Coat tossed her an empty walnut-shell, and cracked an uncommonly large one on the spot, just to show her how well he could do it.

Lulu picked up a piece of shell from the pillow. “That’s what struck me on the cheek,” she said, jumping up. “I know now! he was in Aunt Saty’s box, and I guess he’s all mine. Where’s auntie? Where _is_ mamma?

“O! O! O! What is this here? A little silver house, true’s I live.”

By this time the little girl was dancing around the room, as if she were practising for a ballet performance. Grandma, mamma and Aunt Sarah appeared in the door-way, and grandpa peeped in, too.

“What’s going on here?” asked he.

“O, I never!” said Lulu, hugging first one and then the other. “I know all ’bout it, auntie. _You_ did it, an’ I think he’s lovely, an’ what’s his name, an’ he’s mine for always, ain’t he?”

“His name is Dick,” said auntie.

“Dickon Gray,” suggested mamma, “and I hope that Pussy will not eat him.”

“We must watch him,” said grandma.

And they did, very carefully at first. But surely, that squirrel and cat were predestined friends; for they would frolic and play together like two kittens.

And when puss was in extra good humor she would treat Dickon to a ride on her back.

“Arrah,” said Robert, the hired man, “an’ did ye iver say the loike o’ that, now? It bates the li-in an’ the lamb, I’m thinkin’.”

Yes, and puss evidently had much respect for Dick’s judgment; because, upon her return from market she often brought a tender mouse-steak for his inspection.

I suppose you would like to know if Dickon lived in his little house? It was of tin, and so new and bright that it did look like silver. He had a nice bed made of cotton wool, in the upper story. But did he sleep in it? Well--sometimes. One morning he was not there; and after much vain searching Lulu was sure that he was dead--had run away--been stolen--the cat had eaten him.

And she was dolefully sobbing for each separate fate, when Robert opened the kitchen door and said, “Ah, come ’ere now, Miss Luly! an’ ye’ll laugh a laugh as big as Tim Toole’s.”

Robert was a favorite with Lulu, and she followed him up-stairs into the grain-chamber, sobbing and sighing as she went.

He swung her up in his strong arms, over the great oat-bin, with, “An’ only say there, now, Miss Luly!”

And then, how she _did_ laugh! for there was the darling, eating his way out of the oats, as if his very life depended upon it.

Didn’t she hug him, though! He was so tame that she could handle and fondle him without fear of being bitten; but this time her joy made her squeeze him _so_ close that he suddenly darted up, and sliced a tiny bit of skin from the tip of her saucy little nose.

“Euh!” cried Lulu, “mamma! Dick’s bit my nose! I ’fraid he’s all spoiled it! What _shall_ I do?”

Mamma was frightened, I assure you, and ran to examine her little girl.

Dick repented the moment he did this naughty thing; and tucked his head under Lulu’s arm while he trembled violently.

“It’s nothing serious, but he must be whipped,” said mamma.

“O no! please don’t whip him,” said Lulu. “His little heart beats so fas’ now I’m ’fraid ’twill break.”

“’Twas only a love-pat,” said grandpa, “I guess he didn’t mean to.”

“He’ll bite harder next time if he is not properly punished,” said mamma, firmly, and she shut him in his cage, and gave him three or four strokes with a small switch. Then he was left alone in disgrace.

But it was not long before Lulu stole in, and gave him a lump of sugar that she had coaxed from grandma.

“Don’t you mind it, Dicky,” said she, kissing him through the prison-bars. “I love you just as much’s ever, and to-morrow you shall come out again.”

Dick nibbled part of the sugar, and slyly tucked away the rest in a corner. I dare say he was thinking of next winter; just as housekeepers are when they put up the sweetmeats that we all like so well.

Then he remembered that he had a carriage at command, and bowled away in his wheel at a rapid pace; only he never arrived anywhere, you know, and that must have puzzled him sorely.

So Lulu went on loving him more and more every day, until Tom Doddles was almost forgotten.

Dolls were neglected, and sometimes abused; for was not Miss Patty Primrose (who only a year ago had been “the beautifulest darling”), found lying on the hard, cold floor, with her clothing in wild disorder?

Lulu well knew that Miss Patty had been snugly tucked up in a cradle-bed, and put by on a high shelf. How came she down there in this plight?

Lulu looked up at the cradle, and saw a pair of very bright, sprite-y eyes peering out of it. Behold! Master Dick had turned out poor dolly, and was lying flat on his stomach in the little bed, using his own silver-gray tail for a blanket.

It grieves me; but as a faithful historian I must relate that a sad day finally came, when dear Dickon was missing; and alas! this time, he could not be found.

There was no clue to his fate.

Perhaps the voices of the woods had called him back to his early home. Perhaps he had been enticed away.

No one knew, but in a few days they realized that he had gone “for always,” as Lulu said, and they spoke of getting another one for her.

But she did not want it.

“I would rather ’member my own p’ecious Dicky,” she said, “than to have fifty ‘other ones,’ They could never be the same, and would only make me think that p’r’aps he was mis’able somewhere while they was havin’ a good time.”

DAYS OF THE WEEK.

SUNDAY.--Day of the Sun.

MONDAY.--Day of the Moon.

TUESDAY.--Day of Tuisco, the Scandinavian god of war.

WEDNESDAY.--Day of the Scandinavian god Wodin, or Odin.

THURSDAY.--Day of the Scandinavian god Thor, the god of thunder.

FRIDAY.--Day of the Anglo-Saxon goddess Freya.

SATURDAY.--Day of the Norse god Sæter.

WHAT JANET DID WITH HER CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

BY L. J. L.

When Janet awoke on Christmas morning and saw her stocking, which had been placed most invitingly beside the chimney the night before, hanging as limp and apparently as empty as at the moment of leaving it there, she was not a little astonished as well as grieved at the thought that Santa Claus had passed her by.

This was not strange, for such a thing had never happened before; but after rubbing her eyes to make sure of being awake, she looked again and was so positive it had occurred now, notwithstanding there was no reason to expect it, that when she arose to prepare for breakfast she did not take the pains to so much as peep into her stocking to verify her surmises.

And there is no telling when she would have done so had not her pride whispered, as she was about to leave the room, that it would be well to put the empty stocking out of sight, and thus hide from others the evidence of her disappointment.

But the moment she laid her hand upon it for this purpose she discovered that she had been laboring under a great mistake. It was not empty. Concealed in a fold of the upper part was a sealed envelope directed to Miss Janet Dunstan, and beside it a neat package wrapped in tissue-paper which, when unrolled, she found to contain five ten-dollar bills!

What could it mean? Could so much money be really hers?

For a little while Janet was too much bewildered to think of the note in her hand as a probable explanation, but presently she caught sight of it, and with a little laugh at her own stupidity she opened it and found in Grandpa’s hand-writing the quaintest, queerest epistle it had ever been hers to receive.

It began with “Respected Granddaughter,” and then with a profusion of big words and complimentary phrases, went on to relate how a number of her worshipful friends, consisting of father, mother, uncle Tim, grandma and himself had gathered themselves together at an appointed place to deliberate upon the matter of Christmas gifts; and being thus in “solemn conclave assembled” that which should be done for her had received due attention, and it had been the unanimous decision in view of the fact of her having attained the dignity of fifteen years, that it was time to cease filling her stockings with toys and confections; and, as it proved somewhat difficult to decide what other offerings might be most acceptable, they had finally come to the conclusion to act upon a suggestion made by uncle Tim, which was to give nothing but money, with which she could procure such things as would best suit her taste: therefore, in the accompanying package she would please find fifty dollars--ten dollars from each; and hoping this would prove entirely satisfactory, he had the honor to subscribe himself her humble servant, etc., etc., etc.

Janet laughed. Knowing well grandpa’s propensity for joking she saw the sly fun with which all these stilted phrases had been indited; but when she again looked upon the money in her hand, her eyes filled with tears at the thought of the confidence in her, on the part of her relatives, which so generous a gift signified.

For none of them were wealthy, although in fairly comfortable circumstances, and she knew so large an amount of money would never have been placed at her disposal had they not been tolerably sure that it would not be foolishly expended. And, then and there, she resolved they should see that their confidence had not been misplaced. Not one dollar would she use until there had been discovered some good purpose to which the whole could be devoted.

But the discovering of such a purpose proved more difficult than was anticipated; partly, because she knew without being told, that it was not expected the money would be used for clothing or for any of those necessary things such as her parents had been in the habit of providing; and she labored under a great disinclination to ask advice in the matter, having an instinctive feeling that the money was given her as a sort of test, which stimulated her to be equal to the emergency alone.

A week elapsed, and the opening day of the winter term of school arrived with the question no nearer a settlement than on Christmas morning, except that she had come to the determination to find, if possible, some method of investing her money, by which, while serving some useful purpose to others as well as herself, it should be made to yield something of interest in return.

This denoted both a benevolent and practical turn of mind; and as if only waiting such a conclusion, a plan whereby this possibly might all be accomplished was that day suggested to her in a remark made by one of her school-mates which she chanced to overhear.