Chapter XIV: Part II (2)

Teach me, please, papa;
Keep my chin up ... so!
Not a bit of use--
Down I’m sure to go!

Don’t I kick out right
While my arms are spread?
O, I really think
That I’m made of lead!

Floundering here, I feel
Like so sad a dunce!
It’s as though you tried
Twenty things at once!

While you make your strokes
Regular and neat,
You must also tend
To your legs and feet!

I don’t even float
As well as some old log!
O, how _can_ you swim
Unless you’re born a frog!

SWEETHEART’S SURPRISE.

BY MARY E. C. WYETH.

I.

Rosebud! Goldilocks! Busy Bee!
Sweetest of all sweethearts to me!
Where art thou hiding? “_Tum an’ see!_”
Ah, those rippling child-tones,
Sweet with baby glee,
Lure my feet to lightness
When they summon me.

II.

Where away, darling? Where hast thou fled?
Shine out and show me thy sunny-ringed head.
Ho! hiding there in my white lily bed!
“Ha, ha! pitty mamma!
Finks you’se foun’ me out?
Dess you tant imazhin
What dis dirl’s about.”

III.

“Huwwy up--fas’ you tan--shut ’oo eyes,
Sweetheart’s dot such a lovely s’prise!
_Peep now_, twick, mamma, _’fore he flies!_”
Ope her waxen fingers
On a jewel rare:
Lo! a gleaming humming-bird,
Darting through the air!

IV.

“Flied yite into my hands--dess so.
Wasn’t it tunnin’ to see him go?
Wasn’t it _lovely_ to _s’prise_ you, though?”
Oh, thou wee, wise baby,
Early to divine,
’Tis the _sweet surprise_ that makes
Simplest joys to shine.

THE CROSS-PATCH.

BY MRS. EMILY SHAW FARMAN.

I know a little black-eyed boy, with tight curls all over his head. He is very sweet and pleasant when things go right; but he has days when everything seems to go wrong, and then he is called Cross-Patch. His other name is Frank. When these days come round, everybody wishes it was night.

Cross-Patch comes down to breakfast with a red nose and a snuffle, and drags his feet along as if they were flat-irons.

Papa hears him coming, and says, “Falling barometer, heavy showers, and, possibly, storms.” Papa says this as if he were reading the newspaper, but he is really reading Frank.

As Cross-Patch comes into the room and bangs the door, Tom, his big brother, exclaims, “Indicative mood!” and Susie, who goes to the High School, laughs and says, “Objective case, and _dis_-agrees with everybody in the first person singular!”

“I don’t care! I ain’t! and you shan’t laugh at me!” roars Frank.

“Croth-pash!” lisps little Lucy.

“Come here, Frank,” says mamma, very gently, “and tell mamma what is the matter.”

“Phebe got soap in my eyes, and she washed my face hard in the middle, just as if I didn’t have any nose at all, and the comb stuck in my hair every time, and hurt, and--”

“And you got out at the foot of the bed!” says provoking Tom.

“No, I didn’t. I got out at the side; and ’tisn’t fair!” cries Frank.

“No,” says papa, with a sigh, “I see it isn’t; it is very cloudy and threatening.”

Then they all laugh, and Cross-Patch gets worse and worse. He sits down at the table, and takes a baked potato; it is hot, and burns his fingers; so he pushes his plate away very hard, and upsets a glass of milk, and has to be sent up stairs. He puts an apple in his pocket, and goes off to school without any breakfast. On the way a big bad boy takes the apple away from him, just as he is going to take his first bite.

At school things are no better. The hardest word in the spelling lesson is t-h-r-o-u-g-h, _through_, and of course the teacher gives him that word to spell, and he sticks in the middle of it, and can’t get _through_.

Then comes the multiplication table, and the teacher asks him “nine times four,” and he answers, “sixty-three.” The crosswise has got into his brain, and he keeps on saying “sixty-three” till he thinks it is right; and then he is very cross when he is told to learn his lesson, and stay after school to recite it.

As he goes home he wishes he could meet the man that made the spelling book, and the other man that made the multiplication table, so that he might knock them both down, and jump on them with all his might a long time; but, as he doesn’t see them anywhere, he thinks he will play ball.

He plays that the front gate is the spelling-book man, and that the lantern post is the man that made the multiplication table, and he sends the ball, first at one, and then at the other, with great fury. At last, in a very wild throw, Cross-Patch hits the multiplication man--I mean the lantern post--on the head. The pieces come rattling down on the sidewalk, and this dreadful noise frightens away all the crossness. Frank runs into the house to his mamma, and tells her how sorry he is, and begs her to tell papa all about it, and gives her all the money in his little savings bank to pay for the broken lantern. Then mamma asks him if he is sure that Cross-Patch has gone away entirely, and he cries a great shower of tears, and says, “Yes, mamma, every inch of him!” and mamma gives Frank some supper, and puts him to bed, and tells him to pray to the good angels to drive Cross-Patch very far off, in the night, so that he can’t get back for a great many days.

THE PROUD BANTAM.

BY CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM.

There lived a Bantam rooster on a farm not far away,
So haughty and puffed up, as I have heard the neighbors say,
That from morning until evening he would strut the country round,
And crow aloud self-praises as he stepped along the ground:
“I’m Chanticleer Grandissimo, my pedigree is fine,
Oh, who can show as yellow claws or such a comb as mine?
Where some have one tail feather, I am proudly waving two,
And I have an extra doodle to my Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

The other roosters in the barn-yard talked the matter o’er,
The little upstart really was becoming quite a bore.
At last a handsome game-cock volunteered to take the case;
“It’s time,” he said, “the creature should be taught to know his
place;
It goes against the grain, my friends, to whip a thing so small,
But since it’s for our peace of mind, why--duty first of all!”
And hardly had these sentiments escaped the noble bird
Than up came little Bantie with his haughty, scornful word.

The handsome game-cock’s feathers glistened golden in the light;
Loud cried the tiny rooster in his coat of snowy white,
“Just step aside and let your betters pass, I’ll thank you, sirs!”
“We’ve all a right here,” mild replied the owner of the spurs.
Oh, then the Bantam tiptoed round: “What’s that I heard you say?
I’m Chanticleer Grandissimo!”--ah! in the dust he lay.
Above him stood the game-cock like a giant in his might,
And round him all the other fowls rejoicing in his fright.

And while he still lay, giddy, with his dainty claws in air,
He was forced to hear a lecture from the other, then and there;
And, greatly to the credit of the silly little bird,
He changed his manner afterward and heeded every word.
“My name is Cock-a-doodle Small,” he meekly learned to say,
He minded his own business, nor got in others’ way.
So in our world we sometimes find Grandissimos, and all
Would do well to recall the fate of Cock-a-doodle Small.

There is a young man with a cane,
Whose thoughts are not fixed upon gain;
For he says, “Don’t you see,
It’s enough, just to be
_Such_ a young man with a cane!”

THE TRUE STORY OF SIMPLE SIMON.

BY HARRIETTE R. SHATTUCK.

Once there was a boy named “Simple Simon.”

He wasn’t a pretty boy, for his nose turned up at every thing, and the corners of his mouth turned down, and he was always crying for something he didn’t possess. He had a tooth come once, but instead of being glad that he had something to eat with, he cried all the time till he got two more teeth; and even then he wasn’t satisfied and he had to have twenty more; such a simple boy as he was!

He had nice little white dresses, but he didn’t like them and cried for pants and a jacket; and when he got those he wasn’t contented, but wanted some pockets! Just think what an unreasonable boy! They used to put him to bed at six o’clock, but a boy down town didn’t go to bed till eight, so he cried to sit up till eight; and when they had let him do so, was he content? Oh, no! he fussed until they had to allow him to go to bed only when the rest of the folks went. Only see what a silly boy!

They always gave him bread and milk for his supper, and sometimes strawberries and jelly; but he saw that his aunt had sponge cake and his uncle warmed-up potatoes, and he thought he must have them too, so he cried into his mug and daubed his chin with jelly until they had to give _him_ cake and potatoes too. What a greedy boy!

His father gave him a pretty boat with white sails, and a flag on top, and he used to pump the sink full of water and sail the boat in it, but once he saw a pond, and then he cried to go and sail his boat on that, and when they took him there the pond wasn’t big enough! What could they do with that boy? He had a rocking-horse at Christmas and he rode on it as much as a week without complaining, but one day he discovered that his horse wouldn’t go ahead any--only up and down--and he got mad at it and pulled out its tail, and then cried for a real horse that would kick and go. But they couldn’t keep on giving him all he wanted, this funny boy!

He used to read out of a picture-book about “Jane and John,” and “the five pond lilies,” until he found a big book in the library that had long words in it which he couldn’t understand, and he teased and teased until he got somebody to tell him all about it. What an absurd boy he was getting to be!

Once a little lady gave him a daisy to wear in his button-hole, but he pulled it in pieces instead, and they had to tell him what every part was named. His father took him to an Art Exhibition, and he saw a big picture of horses and men, but he couldn’t admire it quietly, but had to feel of it and find out how it was done; and before he would consent to go home his father was obliged to buy him a paint pot and a brush; and he spent a whole week trying to paint a horse on one of the barn doors--and what a horse! and what a boy! Well, finally he was too big to learn at home, (as he already knew more than anyone else in the house) and they sent him away to the academy where he studied, like the rest of the boys--but when he found out that there were some books that the other boys didn’t study, then he insisted on learning _those_ lessons, and he studied Turkish and Chinese and the Wealth of Nations, this wise boy who was no longer contented with doing only what others could do!

He never played base ball or cricket, or rowed on the river; these things were too common for him--other boys might do so, but he preferred to walk in the woods and pull bugs to pieces, write letters for the newspapers and talk in debating societies. Thus he was different from other boys, and that suited him--but still he didn’t feel satisfied yet, this restless boy! and he never did get satisfied in all his life, because it was impossible for him to be, though he became rich and was sent to Congress and even ran for the Presidency, with six or eight other boys. And I suppose if he had been chosen Emperor of Russia, he would still have wanted something better, he was such an ambitious boy!

So you can see why he was called “Simple Simon.” They might have called him a more disagreeable name still if he had been a girl, and acted so.

IN THE TUNNEL OF MOUNT CENIS.

BY MRS. ALFRED MACY.

Leaving Turin, the whole country is mountainous, the tributaries of the Po frequently relieving the sameness. The engine now shoots into this tunnel, now into that, either of which, from its length, the inexperienced traveller might mistake for “the grand.” When, however, the approach of the latter was near, there was no misjudging the signs. The lights overhead were newly arranged; there was a general quick-step on the top of the car; and, too late to draw back, we were, willing or unwilling, propelled into “chaos.”

Entering these depths a seriousness takes possession of one similar to that which affects a passenger for the first time crossing the Suspension Bridge at Niagara Falls. The air seems stupefying, and were it not “that the lamp holds out to burn,” you would not believe there were any oxygen in the atmosphere.

Subterranean apartments were occasionally seen at the right and left. In one instance several persons, perhaps the mountain kings, though by no means, in royal robes, appeared to be lunching. The glare of their lights was dismal. These rooms, or dens, were invariably near the lamp-posts, as though between these points life could not be endurable.

Pastime is out of the question in this Great Tunnel.

As everything seems to be rushing to destruction, reflections are a natural consequence during this ride of nearly a half hour. It takes but very few minutes to “retrospect” (any word is right in a tunnel) one’s whole life. It is surprising too, how thick and fast the short-comings present themselves, especially those of childhood. Indeed I did not get beyond the first dozen years of my youth, yet they were countless. One of these transgressions out of which in later years I had had much enjoyment on the review, came to me very significantly in the tunnel and I grew very sober over it. Now that I am safely at Modane and know that I will _never_ take the route through the “Alpine Bore” again, I transcribe a confession of the above in the form of the

STORY OF THE CLOCK.

My real name was so short that I was called Nancy, “for long.” I was the fourth child in a very large family. The three elder were a brother and two sisters. The first, very quick at books and figures, finished his education at an early age, and seemed to me about as old and dignified as my father. My sisters, Sarah and Mary, were exemplary in school and out. The former, at eight, read Virgil; painted “Our Mother’s Grave” at eleven--’twas an imaginary grave judging from the happy children standing by; wrote rhymes for all the albums, printed verses on card-board and kept on living. Mary read every book she could find; had a prize at six years of age for digesting “Rollins’ Ancient History;” had great mathematical talent, and though she sighed in her fourteenth year that she had grown old, yet continues to add to her age, being one of the oldest professors in a flourishing college.

With such precedences, it is not strange that my parents were astonished when their fourth child developed other and less exaggerated traits, with no inclination to be moulded. Within ten months of my eighth year, my teacher, who had previously dealt with Sarah and Mary with great success, made the following remark to me: “If thou wilt learn to answer all those questions in astronomy,” passing her pencil lightly over two pages in _Wilkin’s Elements_, “before next seventh day, I’ll give thee two cents and a nice note to thy parents” (my father was a scientific man, and my mother a prime mover in our education).

“Two cents” did seem quite a temptation, but the lesson I concluded not to get. “I worked wiser than I knew.” I may have wanted a “two cents” many a time since, but I never was sorry about that. Spelling, arithmetic, grammar, geography, history and reading, though they were the Peter-Parley edition, seemed about enough food for a child that was hungering and thirsting for a doll like Judith Collin’s, and for capacity to outrun the neighboring boys. To be sure the recitation in concert, where the names of the asteroids, only four in number (instead of a million and four) were brought out by some of us, as “vesper,” “pallid,” “you know,” and “serious” showed that we did not confine ourselves too closely to the book.

Seventh-day afternoon was a holiday, and on one of these occasions I was sent to stay with my grandmother, as my mother and my maiden aunt (the latter lived with my grandmother) were going to Polpis to a corn-pudding party. I was too troublesome to be left at home, therefore, two birds were to be killed with one stone.

Now I had for a long time desired to be left alone with my lame and deaf grandmother and the Tall Clock, especially the Tall Clock. I went, therefore, to her old house on Plover street in a calm and lovely frame of mind and helped get my aunt ready for the ride.

’Twas a cold day though September; and after she took her seat in the flag-chair tied into the cart, I conceived the notion to add my grandmother’s best “heppy” to the wraps which they had already put into the calash. I always had wanted a chance at that camphor-trunk; and the above cloak, too nice to be worn, lay in the bottom underneath a mighty weight of neatly-folded articles of winter raiment. It came out with a “long pull” and many a “strong pull” and I got to the door with the head of it, while the whole length of this precious bright coating was dragging on the floor. But the cart had started, and when my aunt looked back, I was flourishing this “heppy” to see the wind fill it.

I returned to the room, restored the article to the chest quite snugly, leaving one corner hanging out and that I stuffed in afterwards and jumped upon the cover of the trunk so that it shut. Very demurely I sat down before the open fire by my grandmother’s easy chair, rocking furiously, watching my own face in the bright andirons, whose convex surfaces reflected first a “small Nancy” far off, then as I rocked forward, a large and distorted figure. My rapid motions made such rapid caricatures that I remained absorbed and attentive. My grandmother, not seeing the cause of my content, decided (as she told my mother afterwards), “that the child was sick, or becoming regenerated.” Happy illusion!

At last, my grandmother got to nodding and I sprang to my long-contemplated work.

Putting a cricket into one of the best rush-bottom chairs, I climbed to the Clock; took off the frame, glass and all, from its head, placing it noiselessly on the floor; opened the tall door in the body of the clock; drew out and unhung the pendulum--the striking weight, whose string was broken, was made all right and put for the time being on the table. Then the “moon and stars” which had been fixed for a quarter of a century, were made to spin; the “days of the month” refused to pass in review without a squeak that must be remedied, so I flew into the closet to get some sweet oil which was goose-grease; but shutting the closet-door I roused my grandmother.

I quietly went at the old rocking again, the bottle of goose-grease in my pocket, which I feared might melt and I should lose the material--the bottle was already low.

Fortunately my grandmother began napping again, and I resumed my task. Applying the oil with a bird’s wing was lavish process--the wheels moved easily; the hands became quite slippy; the moon “rose and set” to order; the days of the month glided thirty times a minute, and I was just using a pin to prove the material of the dial when my grandmother turned her head, at the same time reaching for her cane (the emergency had been foreseen and special care had I taken that the cane should not be forthcoming). “Nancy! Nancy! is thee crazy?”

Thinking to strengthen this idea, I jumped into the clock and held the door fast; but finally thinking ’twas cowardly not to face it I jumped out again, up into the chair, saying, “I am mending this old clock;” and notwithstanding her remonstrances, continued my work putting back the various pieces. When I was afraid of “giving out and giving up,” I decided I would just answer her back once and say “I wont.” The wickedness would certainly discourage her beyond a hope, and then I could finish.

So I put the moon on, staring full; in putting on the hands I got, I thought, sufficiently worked up to venture my prepared reply to her repeated “get down!”

I accordingly approached my grandmother, stopping some feet from her; bent my body half-over, my long red hair covering my eyes, and my head suiting its action to my earnestness, and in a decided rebellious tone, I spelled, “I W-O-N-T;” but accidently giving myself a turn on my heel I fell to the floor, with the pronunciation still unexpressed.

I quickly rose, though I saw stars without any “two cents,” and returned to, and finished my work. I had just put the last touch on when I heard the wheels. How I dreaded my aunt’s appearance! As she entered the door I was found “demurely rocking” to the pictures in the andirons.

My aunt thought I did not seem natural, and kissed me as being “too good, perhaps, to be well.” My grandmother tried to speak, but I interrupted:

“I must go home without my tea. I am not afraid of the dark, and I better go.”

This was another proof of indisposition to the aunt. I left the house, kissing as I thought, my grandmother into silence; but as I looked back I saw she could not utter a word without laughing at the aunt’s anxiety, and so had to put off the narration till after my departure.

I went home about as fast as possible; desired to go to bed immediately--never went before without being sent, and then not in a very good mood. My mother followed me with a talk of “herb tea,” and as I thought I must have some “end to the farce,” I agreed that a little might do me good. My mother consequently brought me, I do believe, a “Scripture measure” pint of bitter tea, which I hurriedly drank, as I knew my sisters had already started for my grandmother’s, to see how I had been through the afternoon. When they returned, though I heard the laughing and talking in the sitting-room below, I was, to all intents and purposes, sound asleep and snoring.

No allusion was ever made to my demeanor. I went to school as usual, and told the school-girls that I had had such a good time at my aunt’s the day before that I would never go there again “as long as I lived.”

My grandmother and aunt died long ago. For years I had no reason to believe that my afternoon’s tragedy was known to any one. But once, not long since, speaking of that clock, I said, “I’m glad it did not descend to me;” when a friend replied, with a very knowing look, “So is your grandmother!”

A RIDE ON A CENTAUR.

BY HAMILTON W. MABIE.

Sid’s mother had a way of telling him stories just before he went to bed, and Sid loved bed-time more than any other hour in the day. I couldn’t begin to tell you all he had learned in this way nor all the places he had been to. When people travel in strange countries they have to have a guide who knows the fine roads and wonderful places to be seen in that part of the world. Now Sid was a little traveller just setting out on a very long journey and it was a very fortunate thing for him that he had his mother as a guide.

When night was coming on and it was getting dark out of doors, the open wood fire was lighted in the back parlor; and then in the glow which made everything in the room look so queer, with his hand in hers, Sid’s mother took him off to other lands and even to the Moon.

One night, not long ago, as Sid sat looking into the fire with his head against his mother’s knee, she said:

“Come, Sid, let’s go to Greece and take a ride on a Centaur.”

Nothing could have pleased Sid more. He hadn’t the slightest idea what a Centaur was, but he loved to ride, and it made very little difference to him what he rode on.

Besides he was tired to-night and didn’t feel like walking; so, with his eyes half shut, and feeling very, very comfortable, Sid waited for the Centaur to take him off.

“Well,” said his mother, in a voice that was always very sweet to him; “there’s a little country in Greece called Thessaly, and it’s full of caves, and beautiful valleys as well. In one of the caves lived a Centaur named Chiron. He had the body of a horse, but instead of a horse’s neck and head he had the head and shoulders and body of a man down to the waist. He was a very old and wise Centaur and although he lived in a cave he loved the open air on the high mountains.”

How much longer Sid’s mother talked I don’t know. Although she did not notice it, Sid was gone. He had been carried off by a Centaur. While he was looking into the fire and wondering what made the coals take such queer shapes he heard a strange noise outside. It wasn’t exactly the neighing of a horse and it was not exactly the voice of a man, but it was something between the two.

“That’s very funny,” said Sid to himself; “wonder what it is!”

In a moment or two he heard it again and it sounded a great deal nearer than before. Then there was a sharp canter down the road and the clatter of hoofs past the windows. Sid’s mother did not seem to pay any attention to the noise, but she had stopped talking--at least Sid thought she had, and he got up very quietly, stepped out into the hall and went to the side door. There wasn’t any moon but the stars were shining brightly and there, going round and round the circle of grass under the apple trees, Sid saw a splendid black horse. As it came round again to the place where he stood Sid saw that it was not a horse after all, for above its forelegs it had the head and body of a man.

It was a Centaur. Sid had never seen one before and he was sure nobody in that neighborhood owned one. Where it had come from he hadn’t the slightest idea, and if it hadn’t been for the apple trees and the great, dark church beyond he would have believed he was dreaming.

The Centaur cantered around two or three trees more and then, without saying a word, as he passed Sid, stretched out his arms, caught the boy, put him on his back and was off like a racer. No boy ever had such a ride before and I don’t know that any one ever will again.

No sooner had the Centaur struck the road than he broke into a gallop and went thundering along through the night as if a thousand witches or some other horrible creatures were chasing him. His hoofs rang on the hard ground and struck sparks of fire out of the stones along the way. On and on they flew, past houses and orchards and ponds over which a white mist lay like a soft night dress. They leaped the tall gates without so much as dropping a penny for the keeper who was fast asleep in the little house, and they rushed over bridges as if there were no notices about fast driving posted up at either end. Faster and faster they flew along until fences and trees and barns were all mixed up together and Sid couldn’t tell one from the other. He thought the Centaur couldn’t go any faster, but he was mistaken, for he broke into a dead run and then such going! It took Sid’s breath away. Every thing vanished and there wasn’t any thing left in the world but himself and the Centaur and the wind that was trying its best to blow him off. There wasn’t any noise either. It was just one tremendous rush. It was like the flight of an arrow that goes straight through the air from the moment it leaves the bow till the moment it strikes the mark and there’s hardly a breath between.

How long the ride was I don’t know for Sid never could tell, but after a time the Centaur began to slacken speed, broke into a gallop, then into a gentle trot and finally stopped short. His broad flanks were steaming and he was wet from hoof to hoof, but he did not seem to mind it.

Sid had been a little frightened at first, and you must admit that it was rather alarming to be picked up and carried off like the wind by a Centaur--but he was a brave boy and soon forgot every thing but the splendid ride he was taking. As soon as the Centaur stopped he slipped down and stood on the ground.

Although it was night the air was so soft and pure and the stars shone so brightly through it that he could see it was a strange country. There were hills every where but they were green and although it was wild it looked beautiful as far as he could see.

The Centaur stretched himself on the ground and Sid saw that although his face was very queer it was quite intelligent. He seemed to be waiting to rest himself. Sid wanted very much to talk with him but he wasn’t sure that he ought to and he didn’t know exactly what to say. There was so much of the horse about the Centaur that Sid couldn’t make up his mind whether he really was a horse or a man.

The Centaur paid no attention to the boy for a long time but finally he turned to him and said:

“Well, how did you like it?”

The voice was queer, there was no doubt about that. It made him think of a horse, but the words were human. The Centaur could speak good English, there was no doubt about that either.

“It was just splendid,” Sid answered. “What made you come for me?”

“Why,” replied the Centaur, speaking slowly as if it were not easy for him to talk; “I knew you could ride and I was sent for you.”

Sid couldn’t understand why he could ride easier than any other boy. “Can’t everybody ride?” he asked in a quick way he has when he is interested in anything.

“Oh, bless you, no,” said the Centaur; “very few indeed; it all depends on your mind. Most boys wouldn’t have seen me, much less kept on my back.”

Sid thought that was very queer, but he asked no more questions about it. He didn’t feel very well acquainted yet.

“Who sent you for me?” he continued at last.

“Chiron sent me,” answered the Centaur getting on his legs, “and we must be off.”

He put Sid on his back as before and started on a gentle canter. They were on the side of a mountain with here and there olive trees and pines.

“Where are we?” asked Sid after a moment.

“Is this Thes--Thes--?”

“Yes,” said the Centaur; “it’s Thessaly.”

“Where am I going?”

“You are going to school,” replied the Centaur.

That rather surprised Sid and didn’t entirely please him. He thought he had enough of school by daylight without going at night too, but he said nothing, thinking it certainly must be a new kind of school if they had to send so far for scholars, and wondering whether his father, who was a minister, would be able to pay the bills.

The road which the Centaur took led them around the mountain and presently they came out into a little level space in the side of the mountain and in front of a cave. In the middle of this grassy place a Centaur was lying on his side, and around him were ten or more young men stretched full length on the ground and leaning on their elbows, in a half circle.

Sid slid down to the ground and slipped into the little group without being noticed. The Centaur in the middle was very old, so old that he looked as if he had been alive for centuries; and he had a very wise and beautiful face.

The young men were the most splendid fellows Sid had ever seen. They had beautiful forms and noble heads and fine, bright faces, and they had magnificent arms and chests. They looked like heroes, and I think most of them were.

This was the school and a very queer school it certainly was. Sid was eight years old and went to a Kindergarten where he had books and blocks and all kinds of things and here they hadn’t so much as a scrap of paper. He was inclined to think it must be a poor affair, but he thought he would wait until he had heard some of the recitations before he made up his mind. That was the queerest thing of all--there weren’t any recitations. No books, no desks, no black-boards, no recitations! well, it certainly was a funny school. There wasn’t even a roll called. If there had been Sid would have heard some strange names. That great splendid fellow at the end of the line, with his curly hair all in confusion about his noble head, was called Hercules, and the next was Achilles and the next Theseus and then came Castor and Pollux, and Ulysses and Meleager and Æsculapius and others whose names I have forgotten.

While Sid was thinking about these things the old Centaur began to talk. His voice was very low and very sweet and somehow it made Sid feel that the teacher had seen everything there was to be seen in the world and knew everything there was to be known. School was evidently going to begin.

“I have told you,” said the Centaur, very slowly, “about the Gods and the old times when the world was young. I have told of heroes and of the great things they did. I have taught you music which the Gods love, and medicine which is useful for men. I have told you how to be strong and high-minded and noble. I have taught you to be brave and true that you may do great things for yourself and the world. By day I have made your bodies firm and sinewy, and at night I made you think of the Gods who live beyond the stars. What shall I tell you now?”

Nobody spoke for a minute and then Ulysses, who had a very wise face for one so young, said: “Tell us of yourself, oh, Chiron.”

This seemed to please everybody and all the scholars repeated the words:

“Tell us of yourself, oh, Chiron.”

“The Centaurs,” began Chiron after a little while, “were born long before men came into the world. It was a rough place then and needed somebody stronger than men to live in it. So the Gods made us with the strength and swiftness of the animals and yet with some of the thoughts and feelings of men. And we lived in caves and ran through the valleys, and leaped across the rushing streams and climbed the mountains. And we learned many things about the world and made it easier for men when they came. I think we were sent to do what animals couldn’t do and that now you are come and grown strong to conquer even the animals, our work is done and we must soon die.”

Just then a little bell rang. At first Sid thought school must be out, but the bell sounded very familiar to him. In fact it was the cuckoo clock in the front parlor striking nine.

“Bless me, Sid,” said his mother; “you ought to have been in bed an hour ago.”

Effie had been playing with her dolls one cold December morning, and Lill had been reading, until both were tired. But it stormed too hard to go out, and, as Mrs. Pelerine had said they need not do anything for two hours, their little jaws might have been dislocated by yawning before they would as much as pick up a pin. Presently Lill said, “Effie, shall I tell you a story.”

“O yes! do!” said Effie, and she climbed up by Lill in the large rocking-chair in front of the grate. She kept very still, for she knew Lill’s stories were not to be interrupted by a sound, or even a motion. The first thing Lill did was to fix her eyes on the fire, and rock backward and forward quite hard for a little while, and then she said, “Now I am going to tell you about my _thought travels_, and they are apt to be a little queerer, but O! ever so much nicer, than the other kind!”

As Lill’s stories usually had a formal introduction she began: “Once upon a time, when I was taking a walk through the great field beyond the orchard, I went way on, ’round where the path turns behind the hill. And after I had walked a little way, I came to a high wall--built right up into the sky. At first I thought I had discovered the ‘ends of the earth,’ or perhaps I had somehow come to the great wall of China. But after walking a long way I came to a large gate, and over it was printed in beautiful gold letters, ‘SANTA CLAUS LAND,’ and the letters were large enough for a baby to read!”

How large that might be Lill did not stop to explain.

“But the gate was shut tight,” she continued, “and though I knocked and knocked and knocked, as hard as I could, nobody came to open it. I was dreadfully disappointed, because I felt as if Santa Claus must live here all of the year except when he went out to pay Christmas visits, and it would be so lovely to see him in his own home, you know. But what was I to do? The gate was entirely too high to climb over, and there wasn’t even a crack to peek through!”

Here Lill paused, and Effie drew a long breath, and looked greatly disappointed. Then Lill went on:

“But you see, as I was poking about, I pressed a bell-spring, and in a moment--jingle, jingle, jingle, the bells went ringing far and near, with such a merry sound as was never heard before. While they were still ringing the gate slowly opened and I walked in. I didn’t even stop to inquire if Santa Claus was at home, for I forgot all about myself and my manners, it was so lovely. First there was a small paved square like a court; it was surrounded by rows and rows of dark green trees, with several avenues opening between them.

“In the centre of the court was a beautiful marble fountain, with streams of sugar plums and bon-bons tumbling out of it. Funny-looking little men were filling cornucopias at the fountain, and pretty little barefoot children, with chubby hands and dimpled shoulders, took them as soon as they were filled, and ran off with them. They were all too much occupied to speak to me, but as I came up to the fountain one of the funny little fellows gave me a cornucopia, and I marched on with the babies.

“We went down one of the avenues, which would have been very dark only it was splendidly lighted up with Christmas candles. I saw the babies were slyly eating a candy or two, so I tasted mine, and they were delicious--the real Christmas kind. After we had gone a little way, the trees were smaller and not so close together, and here there were other funny little fellows who were climbing up on ladders and tying toys and bon-bons to the trees. The children stopped and delivered their packages, but I walked on, for there was something in the distance that I was curious to see. I could see that it was a large garden, that looked as if it might be well cared for, and had many things growing in it. But even in the distance it didn’t look natural, and when I reached it I found it was a very uncommon kind of a garden indeed. I could scarcely believe my eyes, but there were dolls and donkeys and drays and cars and croquet coming up in long, straight rows, and ever so many other things beside. In one place the wooden dolls had only just started; their funny little heads were just above ground, and I thought they looked very much surprised at their surroundings. Farther on were china dolls, that looked quite grown up, and I suppose were ready to pull; and a gardener was hoeing a row of soldiers that didn’t look in a very healthy condition, or as if they had done very well.

“The gardener looked familiar, I thought, and as I approached him he stopped work and, leaning on his hoe he said, ‘How do you do, Lilian? I am very glad to see you.’

“The moment he raised his face I knew it was Santa Claus, for he looked exactly like the portrait we have of him. You can easily believe I was glad then! I ran and put both of my hands in his, fairly shouting that I was so glad to find him.

“He laughed and said:

“‘Why, I am generally to be found here or hereabouts, for I work in the grounds every day.’

“And I laughed too, because his laugh sounded so funny; like the brook going over stones, and the wind up in the trees. Two or three times, when I thought he had done he would burst out again, laughing the vowels in this way: ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha! He, he, he, he, he! Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi! Ho, ho, ho, h-o-oo!’”

Lill did it very well, and Effie laughed till the tears came to her eyes; and she could quite believe Lill when she said, “It grew to be so funny that I couldn’t stand, but fell over into one of the little chairs that were growing in a bed just beyond the soldiers.

“When Santa Claus saw that he stopped suddenly, saying:

“‘There, that will do. I take a hearty laugh every day, for the sake of digestion.’

“Then he added, in a whisper, ‘That is the reason I live so long and don’t grow old. I’ve been the same age ever since the chroniclers began to take notes, and those who are best able to judge think I’ll continue to be this way for about one thousand eight hundred and seventy-six years longer,--they probably took a new observation at the Centennial, and they know exactly.’

“I was greatly delighted to hear this, and I told him so. He nodded and winked and said it was ‘all right,’ and then asked if I’d like to see the place. I said I would, so he threw down the hoe with a sigh, saying, ‘I don’t believe I shall have more than half a crop of soldiers this season. They came up well, but the arms and legs seem to be weak. When I get to town I’ll have to send out some girls with glue pots, to stick them fast.’

“The town was at some distance, and our path took us by flower-beds where some exquisite little toys were growing, and a hot-bed where new varieties were being prop--_propagated_. Pretty soon we came to a plantation of young trees, with rattles, and rubber balls, and ivory rings growing on the branches, and as we went past they rang and bounded about in the merriest sort of a way.

“‘There’s a nice growth,’ said Santa Claus, and it _was_ a nice growth for babies; but just beyond I saw something so perfectly splendid that I didn’t care about the plantation.”

“Well,” said Lill impressively, seeing that Effie was sufficiently expectant, “it was a lovely grove. The trees were large, with long drooping branches, and the branches were just loaded with dolls’ clothes. There were elegant silk dresses, with lovely sashes of every color--”

Just here Effie couldn’t help saying “O!” for she had a weakness for sashes. Lill looked stern, and put a warning hand over her mouth, and went on.

“There was everything that the most fashionable doll could want, growing in the greatest profusion. Some of the clothes had fallen, and there were funny-looking girls picking them up, and packing them in trunks and boxes. ‘These are all ripe,’ said Santa Claus, stopping to shake a tree, and the clothes came tumbling down so fast that the workers were busier than ever. The grove was on a hill, so that we had a beautiful view of the country. First there was a park filled with reindeer, and beyond that was the town, and at one side a large farm-yard filled with animals of all sorts.”

“But as Santa Claus seemed in a hurry I did not stop long to look. Our path led through the park, and we stopped to call ‘Prancer’ and ‘Dancer’ and ‘Donder’ and ‘Blitzen,’ and Santa Claus fed them with lumps of sugar from his pocket. He pointed out ‘Comet’ and ‘Cupid’ in a distant part of the park; ‘Dasher’ and ‘Vixen’ were nowhere to be seen.

“Here I found most of the houses were Swiss cottages, but there were some fine churches and public buildings, all of beautifully illustrated building blocks, and we stopped for a moment at a long depot, in which a locomotive was just _smashing up_.

“Santa Claus’ house stood in the middle of the town. It was an old-fashioned looking house, very broad and low, with an enormous chimney. There was a wide step in front of the door, shaded by a fig-tree and grape-vine, and morning-glories and scarlet beans clambered by the side of the latticed windows; and there were great round rose-bushes, with great, round roses, on either side of the walk leading to the door.”

“O! it must have smelled like a party,” said Effie, and then subsided, as she remembered that she was interrupting.

“Inside, the house was just cozy and comfortable, a real grandfatherly sort of a place. A big chair was drawn up in front of the window, and a big book was open on a table in front of the chair. A great pack half made up was on the floor, and Santa Claus stopped to add a few things from his pocket. Then he went to the kitchen, and brought me a lunch of milk and strawberries and cookies, for he said I must be tired after my long walk.

“After I had rested a little while, he said if I liked I might go with him to the observatory. But just as we were starting a funny little fellow stopped at the door with a wheelbarrow full of boxes of dishes. After Santa Claus had taken the boxes out and put them in the pack he said slowly,--

“‘Let me see!’

“He laid his finger beside his nose as he said it, and looked at me attentively, as if I were a sum in addition, and he was adding me up. I guess I must have come out right, for he looked satisfied, and said I’d better go to the mine first, and then join him in the observatory. Now I am afraid he was not exactly polite not to go with me himself,” added Lill, gravely, “but then he apologized by saying he had some work to do. So I followed the little fellow with the wheelbarrow, and we soon came to what looked like the entrance of a cave, but I suppose it was the mine. I followed my guide to the interior without stopping to look at the boxes and piles of dishes outside. Here I found other funny little people, busily at work with picks and shovels, taking out wooden dishes from the bottom of the cave, and china and glass from the top and sides, for the dishes hung down just like stalactites in Mammoth Cave.”

Here Lill opened the book she had been reading, and showed Effie a picture of the stalactites.

“It was so curious and so pretty that I should have remained longer,” said Lill, “only I remembered the observatory and Santa Claus.

“When I went outside I heard his voice calling out, ‘Lilian! Lilian!’ It sounded a great way off, and yet somehow it seemed to fill the air just as the wind does. I only had to look for a moment, for very near by was a high tower. I wonder I did not see it before; but in these queer countries you are sure to see something new every time you look about. Santa Claus was standing up at a window near the top, and I ran to the entrance and commenced climbing the stairs. It was a long journey, and I was quite out of breath when I came to the end of it. But here there was such a cozy, luxurious little room, full of stuffed chairs and lounges, bird cages and flowers in the windows, and pictures on the wall, that it was delightful to rest. There was a lady sitting by a golden desk, writing in a large book, and Santa Claus was looking through a great telescope, and every once in a while he stopped and put his ear to a large speaking-tube. While I was resting he went on with his observations.”

“Presently he said to the lady, ‘Put down a good mark for Sarah Buttermilk. I see she is trying to conquer her quick temper.’

“‘Two bad ones for Isaac Clappertongue; he’ll drive his mother to the insane asylum yet.’

“‘Bad ones all around for the Crossley children,--they quarrel too much.’

“‘A good one for Harry and Alice Pleasure, they are quick to mind.’

“‘And give Ruth Olive ten, for she is a peace-maker’”

Just then he happened to look at me and saw I was rested, so he politely asked what I thought of the country. I said it was magnificent. He said he was sorry I didn’t stop in the green-house, where he had wax dolls and other delicate things growing. I was very sorry about that, and then I said I thought he must be very happy to own so many delightful things.

“‘Of course I’m happy,’ said Santa Claus, and then he sighed. ‘But it is an awful responsibility to reward so many children according to their deserts. For I take these observations every day, and I know who is good and who is bad.’

“I was glad he told me about this, and now, if he would only tell me what time of day he took the observations, I would have obtained really valuable information. So I stood up and made my best courtesy and said,--

“‘Please, sir, would you tell me what time of day you usually look?’

“‘O,’ he answered, carelessly, ‘any time from seven in the morning till ten at night. I am not a bit particular about time. I often go without my own meals in order to make a record of table manners. For instance: last evening I saw you turn your spoon over in your mouth, and that’s very unmannerly for a girl nearly fourteen.’

“‘O, I didn’t know _you_ were looking,’ said I, very much ashamed; ‘and I’ll never do it again,’ I promised.

“Then he said I might look through the telescope, and I looked right down into our house. There was mother very busy and very tired, and all of the children teasing. It was queer, for I was there, too, and the _bad-est_ of any. Pretty soon I ran to a quiet corner with a book, and in a few minutes mamma had to leave her work and call, ‘Lilian, Lilian, it’s time for you to practise.’