Chapter II (1)

It was a wild March night. The wind blew loud and cold, though there was in the air a faint breath of spring, and the brooks were coming down with fuller currents every hour to swell the Susquehanna. There had been heavy rains for the last few days, and the roads were deeply gullied, and somewhat dangerous by night.

The wild, white moon, nearly at the full, was plunging swiftly through heavy masses of gray cloud, that at times quite obscured her light, and the solid shapes of hill and wood, and the sweeping, changing shadows were so mingled that it was hard to distinguish what was real earth and what was but the effect of cloud and wind-blown moonshine. All the twilight world seemed sound and motion.

Phœbe, as well as her rider, perhaps, felt some of the influences of the time; for she snorted and turned her head homeward, as if minded to return to her warm stable; but she gave way to Fayette’s voice and hand, and, striking into a steady pace, picked her way down the steep and deeply-furrowed road as soberly as an old cart-horse.

The Ford farm-house lay half way up the side of a high hill, and the farm extended into the valley below in pasture and meadow land. Here, for a space, was a hard gravel road; and Fayette, yielding to the spur of the moment, let Phœbe canter, which she was only too willing to do, and was relieved to find how easily she kept her seat, and how gentle was the motion.

In a few minutes the bounds of the farm were passed, and Fayette’s heart sank low as they drew near the roaring, sounding woods through which the road lay. The trees stood up like a black wall, with one blacker archway, into which the path ran, and was lost in the darkness beyond.

People who have never been allowed to hear the word “ghost,” who know nothing of popular superstitions, who are strangers to ballad lore and to Walter Scott, will, nevertheless, be often awed and sometimes panic-struck by night, and darkness, and wind, and that power of the unseen which laughs Mr. Gradgrind himself to scorn.

Fayette, however, had not been properly brought up, according to Mr. Gradgrind’s system. She had read all sorts of wild tales, and listened to them from the lips of a Scotch nurse. She knew many a ballad, and many a bit of folk lore, and old paganism,--pleasant enough puppets for imagination to play with under the sunshine, but which now rose up in a grim life-likeness quite too real.

The owls began to call from the shadows, and once and again came a long, wild scream, which, in the darkness and wind, had an awful sound.

Fayette knew perfectly well that it was only a coon calling, but for all that it frightened her. There came over her that horrible feeling which most people have experienced once in their lives at least--the sense that some unseen pursuer is coming up behind. In a sudden spasm of terror, she very nearly gave way to the impulse that urged her to rush blindly on anywhere to escape the dread follower. Nerves and imagination were running wild; but Fayette, from her earliest years, had been trained to self-control and duty. She checked the panic that urged her to cry and scream for help. She used her reason, and forced herself to look back and assure her senses that, so far as she could see the dim track, she and Phœbe were the only living creatures there.

“I am doing what is right,” she said to herself. “God is here as much as in my room at home. It is folly to fear things that are not real, and as for living beings, not even a wolf could catch me on Phœbe.”

Resolutely rousing her will, she grew more used to her situation, and, more able to control her terrors, she sternly refused to give rein to her frightened fancy. She drew a long breath, however, when once the wood was passed and the road began to climb the opposing hill, behind which, and across the creek, lay Springville. She thought of William of Deloraine and his ride to Melrose, and smiled at the remembrance of that matter-of-fact hero.

“It’s a good thing, Phœbe, dear, that you and I have no deadly feud with any one,” she said; and then she patted the mare and praised her, and Phœbe, quickening her pace, broke into a gallop, and took the hill road with long, sweeping strides that soon brought them to the summit.

Fayette began to enjoy the swift motion and a sense of independence and safety in Phœbe’s gentle compliance with her will; but at the hill-top she checked the pace, fearing a stumble down the deeply gullied hill, which was still sending rivulets to the creek. The amiable Phœbe chose to obey, and picked her way, careful both for herself and her rider.

Now rose a new voice on the wind. It was the sound of angry waters, a long roar rising louder from time to time.

“How high the creek must be!” thought Fayette; and as the roar increased, she began to have a sort of fear of the bridge, which she knew must be crossed; but she classed the feeling with her ghostly terrors, and soon found herself drawing near the bridge, the noise of the water almost drowning that of the wind.

As she came to the bank, a heavy cloud came over the moon, involving the whole landscape in sudden and dense blackness; and at that instant Phœbe planted her feet like a rock, and refused to stir an inch.

In vain Fayette coaxed and urged, for she dared not strike, even if she had had a whip. Phœbe was immovable as a horse of bronze; but at last she began to pull at the bridle, as though she meant to turn homeward.

Just then the moon came out, and Fayette, looking eagerly forward, saw, to her horror, that the bridge was gone. A post and rail only remained, and beyond was a chasm where the furious waters had not even left a wreck behind.

Had Phœbe’s senses not been more acute than her own, two steps more would have plunged horse and rider into the flood.

Fayette turned sick, and felt as if she should fall from the saddle. She rallied, however, for she knew she must. Her senses came back in thankfulness to God, and she confessed humbly enough to Phœbe that she had known best; and Phœbe, looking over her shoulder, said, “I told you so,” as plainly as a horse could.

Fayette was at a loss. A mile further up the stream was another and much better bridge than the rickety old plank structure that was missing; but to reach it she must turn back and make a long detour, that would nearly double her journey, while every minute lessened the chances of the sufferer at home.

She knew that just below the bridge was a ford easily passable in summer, and she remembered hearing her uncle say that once, when the bridge was down, he had crossed this ford on horseback. It might be that even now she and Phœbe could make their way across.

A wagon track led down to the water’s edge, and Phœbe did not refuse to follow this path to the stream’s edge, where Fayette checked her, afraid to face the passage.

The creek was coming down ruffled before the wind into waves “crested with tawny foam,” and the “wan water” looked eerie and threatening.

Fayette refused to think of the water kelpie, who just then obtruded himself on her mind. She bent from the saddle and scanned the road.

Judging from the traces on the gravel, she thought that a wagon must have passed not many hours before. Her courage rose, and she set her will to the task before her.

“If Phœbe thinks it safe, I’ll try it,” she said; and as the rein hung loose, Phœbe stepped cautiously in. She seemed doubtful at first, but she went on, and the water rose and rose.

The moon cast an uncertain, wavering light on the dancing stream; the roar filled Fayette’s ears like a threatening voice; the waves, as they plunged toward her, seemed hands raised to pull her down; and still Phœbe stepped steadily on, and the stream came higher and higher. Fayette drew up her feet as far as she could, and glanced back to the shore, half minded to turn; but it was now as far to one bank as to the other. The water touched her feet; it flowed over them.

The next instant she scarcely checked the shriek that rose to her lips, for she felt that the mare no longer touched bottom, but was swimming for her life and her rider’s.

At the real danger her ghostly terrors fled. With a sense of wonder she felt her mind grow calm, her courage rise, her senses wake to their work.

To her relief she saw that Phœbe had not lost her wits, but was keeping straight across the creek. She let the mare take her own way, only helping her as far as she could by keeping her head in the way she wished to go. She thought of nothing but the minute’s need; and of all the possibilities before her, the only fear that shaped itself in her mind was one for her horse.

The current was strong, but so was Phœbe, and her blood was up. She snorted fiercely, as if angry with the force that crossed her will, and putting out her strength, she breasted the storm gallantly.

It was but a minute, though it seemed an hour to Fayette, before she touched bottom.

The water sank rapidly, and she reached the shore but a little below the usual landing. The bank came down to the stream with a somewhat steep incline; but mountain-bred Phœbe planted her fore feet firmly, scrambled cat-like up the incline, shook the clinging water from hide and mane, and with a joyous whinny, rushed like an arrow on the track.

The way was plain before her, and in a minute or two more Fayette, with some trouble, checked Phœbe’s gallop at Dr. Ward’s gate. A light was burning over the office door.

Fayette slipped from the saddle, but before she turned to the house, she put her arms round Phœbe’s neck, and kissed the white star on her forehead. As she ran up the walk, she felt, for the first time, that she was wet nearly to her knees, and the wind made her shiver.

She rang the bell sharply, and to her relief the door was opened directly by Dr. Ward himself, who had just come in.

Hurriedly, but clearly, Fayette told her story.

“Yes, I understand,” said Dr. Ward. “But, dear me,” he added, as the light fell on her more clearly, “where have you been to get so wet?”

“In the water,” said Fayette. “The creek is so high, and the bridge is down.”

“Child! You did not ride that ford to-night?”

“Not all the way, sir. Phœbe swam.”

“Phœbe, indeed! A pretty pair are you and Phœbe to race round the country at midnight. Go to Mrs. Ward and get some dry clothes, while my man gets out the gig.”

“O, sir, please be quick.”

“Yes, yes; only get off those wet things. Let Phœbe stay here till to-morrow, for my old gig can’t swim the creek, whatever you and the mare can do. We must go by the upper bridge.”

Mrs. Ward, called out of bed, supplied Fayette with dry things, and Phœbe was consigned to the doctor’s admiring colored man, to be well cared for before she took possession of her bed in the warm stable.

The doctor kept a trotter for emergencies, and in an hour and a half from the time she had left home Fayette came back.

Sue came to meet them, white and scared; and, as she came, Fayette heard a cry of anguish, which she knew that nothing but the direst extremity could have wrung from her strong, self-controlled aunt.

The doctor took out his ether flask and sponge, and hurried to the bedside.

Before long the ministering spirit did its good office. The tortured nerves relaxed, and the patient slept.

Fayette put on her wrapper, and curled herself up on the sofa, leaving Sue and the doctor watching by the fire.

When she woke it was broad daylight. All seemed quiet about the house. She stole across the floor, and looked into her aunt’s room. Mrs. Ford was awake, and held out her hand.

“Is the pain gone, aunt?” asked Fayette, kissing her, and feeling a new love rising in her heart.

“Yes, child; but I am very weak.”

“It was the ether saved your life, I really think,” said Fayette, to whom the past night seemed like a dream.

“No, my dear,” said Mrs. Ford. “It was you.”

FANNY.

BY CLARA DOTY BATES.

What do the wistful eyes discover,
Full of their baby dignity?
Lips, I know, are as red as clover,
Cheeks like the bloom that flushes over
Peaches, sun-ripe on the tree.

Let but a merry play-thought brighten
Over the little pensive face,
Then how the sober shades will lighten,
Then how the dimples deep will frighten
Every grave line from its place.

Well, I know there is mischief sleeping,
Plenty of it, behind this guise;
Little brain has a way of keeping
Back the smiles; but still they are peeping
Out from the brow, the mouth, and eyes.

LITTLE MARY’S SECRET.

BY MRS. L. C. WHITON.

O larks! sing out to the thrushes,
And thrushes, sing to the sky;
Sing from your nests in the bushes,
And sing wherever you fly;
For I’m sure that never another
Such secret was told unto you--
I’ve just got a baby brother!
And I wish that the whole world knew.

I have told the buttercups, truly,
And the clover that grows by the way;
And it pleases me each time, newly,
When I think of it during the day.
And I say to myself: “Little Mary,
You ought to be good as you can,
For the sake of the beautiful fairy
That brought you the wee little man.”

I’m five years old in the summer,
And I’m getting quite large and tall;
But I thought, till I saw the new-comer,
When I looked in the glass, I was small;

And I rise in the morning quite early,
To be sure that the baby is here,
For his hair is _so_ soft and curly,
And his hands _so_ tiny and dear!

I stop in the midst of my pleasure--
I’m so happy I cannot play--
And keep peeping in at my treasure,
To see how much he gains in a day.
But he doesn’t look _much_ like growing,
Yet I think that he _will_ in a year,
And I wish that the days would be going,
And the time when he walks would be here!

O larks! sing out to the thrushes,
And thrushes, sing as you soar;
For I think, when another spring blushes,
I can tell you a great deal more:
I shall look from one to the other,
And say: “Guess, who I’m bringing to you?”
And you’ll look--and see--he’s my brother!
And you’ll sing, “Little Mary was true.”

HOW PATTY CURTIS LEARNED TO SWEEP.

BY MRS. M. L. EVANS.

Nowadays nearly every school-room is furnished with a waste-paper basket, dust-pan and brush, with which the pupils are expected to keep the room tidy. But in the days when Patty Curtis went to school in the old brick school-house in Sagetown, such luxuries were unheard of, and the school-room during the greater part of the day was a haven for dirt--rather clean dirt it was, but it answered the definition which says, “Dirt is matter out of place.”

Certainly the school-room floor was no place for the scraps of paper over which Patty industriously scribbled with her stubby lead-pencil, but it was there she dropped them without thought of wrong-doing or idea of further responsibility for her manuscript fragments. Cores of haws and crab-apples, and shells of “pig-nuts” found the same resting place, and soiled slate-rags were in such abundance as would have delighted the heart of any “old rag man;” during flower season, too, a desk proudly adorned with fresh flowers in the morning meant a floor sadly strewed with wilted, trodden fragments in the afternoon, and over all this litter was plentifully sprinkled the dust of the earth. Of this we are all supposed to be made, and it needs but little faith to believe that children are made of it, when one sees, in a school-room, the quantity of it they can kick off their feet, and shake out of their jackets and skirts.

The services of a janitor were as unknown to the old school-house as were the basket, dust-pan and brush; the teacher was expected to do the sweeping herself. This, Miss Kelsey, Patty’s new teacher one spring term, found no pleasant ending to a hard day’s work. The desks and seats were awkwardly constructed, and placed very close together; if Miss Kelsey tried to sweep without looking under them, she found she left more dirt than she swept out, and if she thrust both head and broom under the seat, in order to see what she was doing, she was sure to bump her head, and “jab” herself with the broom-handle, and in either case she came out of the school-room tired and hot, and choked with dust.

It is not strange, then, that she had not done the sweeping many days before she came to the conclusion:

“It is the children who make all this labor necessary, and it is but right that they should do it themselves; they are little and active and could sweep under these troublesome seats more easily than I can; besides the girls will soon have such work to do at home, and their mothers will be glad to have them learn to do it here.”

So one evening when both hands on the little round clock pointed to IV., and thirty-six boys and girls were waiting the tap at the bell that should dismiss them, Miss Kelsey spoke:

“I have decided to ask you children to do the sweeping for me hereafter, and I will choose two each evening from your names, as they stand on my register, to do the work. To-night Sarah Adams and Aggie Bentley may sweep. There are two brooms, one girl can take the boys’ side and the other the girls’ side of the room, and you will soon finish the sweeping.”

For a moment each pupil eyed the dirty floor, and tried to decide whether or not sweeping was a desirable piece of work. Sarah Adams very soon decided to her satisfaction that it was not, and she raised her hand.

“Well, Sarah?” said Miss Kelsey.

“Please, Miss Kelsey, mother’s at a quiltin’ at Deacon Smith’s, and she told me to come home as soon as school was out, and help Nancy get supper for the men.”

Sarah was the oldest girl in school, and Miss Kelsey knew that in whatever she led the other children were sure to follow, but she did not want to offend Mrs. Adams by refusing to allow Sarah to go home when school was dismissed, so she reluctantly said:

“Well, then, I suppose I will have to excuse you. Hattie Bitner may take your place to-night, and you can sweep to-morrow night.”

Up went Hattie’s hand as if worked by a spring. “Miss Kelsey, mother’s making soap, and she told me to come home right away as soon as school was out to tend the baby.”

It was natural, though perhaps not wise, for Miss Kelsey to lose patience at this point.

“Then,” said she, “you may go immediately, and mind you run every step of the way. Well, Patty Curtis, what is your mother doing that you cannot stay to sweep?”

Now, Patty had been trying during all of the previous dialogue to think if there was not something that her mother might possibly want her to do after school, by which she might escape the sweeping, but all in vain, for Patty’s mother was one of the women who “never want children bothering around about the work,” and as Patty was too conscientious to invent an excuse, as some children would have done, she had no answer for Miss Kelsey’s question except a rather sulky, “Nothing that I know of, ma’am.”

“Then you and Aggie Bentley take the brooms when the others are gone,” said Miss Kelsey, as she tapped the bell.

Aggie Bentley was one of the pleasantest little girls in the world; when appointed to sweep she did not think of trying to evade the duty, it was enough for her that her teacher had asked her to do it, and she took the broom so cheerfully and went to work with such a vim that Patty was shamed out of her unwillingness, and soon was swinging the broom as briskly and as awkwardly as was Aggie. Still it was not a pleasant task, and when she came out of the school-room, coughing, sneezing, and wiping the dust out of her eyes, she found words for her disgust:

“Ugh! Nasty work! I’m glad there’s thirty-four more to sweep before it comes our turn again. Let’s see, thirty-four, two at a time, that’s seventeen days. Nearly a month before we’ll have to sweep again, Aggie!”

But Patty was doomed to disappointment, for at the moment she was making this clearly expressed calculation, Miss Kelsey was also giving the sweeping question serious thought.

“It is going to be a hard matter to persuade these children to do the sweeping,” thought she. “I suppose most of the mothers can find something for them to do, and the little rogues who have always loitered and played half an hour or more on their way home, will come to-morrow with a fine assortment of excuses, all to the effect that they must be at home immediately after school. I think I had better change the plan and make the sweeping a punishment for whispering. They will not care to tell their parents that they are detained for misdemeanors, and it will put a check on the whispering too.”

So the next morning as soon as school opened she told the pupils she should appoint to the sweeping, that night, the first two that she should see whispering.

“O, my goodness gracious!” said thoughtless Flindy Jenkins to herself in a loud whisper, “I’ll get caught sure.” And sure enough she did, for down went her name in Miss Kelsey’s “black book.”

Whispering was Patty’s besetting sin, and on hearing Miss Kelsey’s decision she buttoned up her mouth very tightly indeed, and resolved not to open it again until some one else was caught, and she would no doubt have kept this politic resolution had she not soon after spied little Biddy Maginnis in the act of whisking out of a knot-hole in the desk a bunch of violets that Patty had, a short time before, fastened there. They were the first violets of the season and Biddy wanted to smell of them, but Patty did not like to have her treasures so roughly handled and in the excitement of a moment forgot everything else.

“Give those back here,” she said, fiercely, and almost aloud.

“Patty Curtis,” said Miss Kelsey, as she wrote her name under that of Flindy Jenkins, “I am sorry to say that you will have to sweep again to-night.” And Patty with a gasp of shame and surprise, sank back into her seat with her rescued flowers.

“It’s too bad,” she said to herself as she heard the children around her giggle, and in spite of her efforts the tears chased each other down her cheeks, giving the pretty violets a salt bath. The tears stopped after a while, but Patty did not recover from her vexation: she sulked all day, and was sulky still when she took the broom in hand after school. She would show Miss Kelsey, she thought in her naughty little heart, that the school-room would look but precious little better for her being kept to sweep it.

Flindy Jenkins was a poor companion for a little girl in such a frame of mind, and she really fell in with Patty’s suggestion that they sweep so the school-room should “look like Biddy Maginnises’ house in the Hollow;” and when Miss Kelsey came to school early the next morning she found the room looking worse, if possible, than if it had not been swept at all.

That afternoon Miss Kelsey sat at her desk thinking so intently about the sweeping, that she did not see Aggie Bentley standing beside her until the little girl spoke timidly:

“Please, Miss Kelsey, may Patty Curtis and I go out and play a little while? we have got all our lessons.”

Miss Kelsey glanced over to Patty and saw an eager face shadowed by a very doubting expression, for the little girl knew she deserved no play-time after her conduct of the night before. So she was surprised to see Miss Kelsey’s face brighten, and to hear her give a cordial consent. The truth was that Miss Kelsey had suddenly solved the problem that had been troubling her for several days. Offer as reward to the two that would sweep, a half hour’s extra recess when lessons were learned! Why had she not thought of it before? for if there was anything more coveted than “reward cards,” it was these “half hours.” Before school closed she made a simple statement of her new plan, and was amused to see what an electrifying effect it had upon the children; and when they were dismissed what a scramble there was for the brooms! if there had been thirty-six of these, thirty-six children would soon have been sweeping away at the floor of the little school-room; as there were but two, great was the pulling and twisting they received, and loud the uproar among those who wanted to use them. The trouble was soon settled by Miss Kelsey, who took possession of the brooms and said the two should sweep who came first in the morning.

Patty Curtis was now in luck, for the fact that her mother had nothing for her to do at home, which had been such a draw-back to her before, would be the greatest help now; she could come to the school-house as early as she liked while other little girls had to wash dishes, or rock cradles, and the boys had wood to split and cows to drive to pasture.

The next morning Patty was the first one at the school-house, and she had nearly finished half the sweeping when Sarah Adams came, so she and Sarah had the half hour play together. Sarah was two years older than Patty, and a very quarrelsome girl, and she and Patty succeeded in quarelling so over the play-house they were building that neither little girl got much enjoyment from the reward of her labor.

As Patty intended to sweep the next morning, and did not want Sarah for a playmate, she lingered after school was dismissed to make arrangements with Aggie Bentley to assist her. They agreed that Aggie was to prevail upon her indulgent mother to allow her to start for school as soon as she ate her breakfast. Patty was to go at the same time, and they would have the sweeping done before Sarah, or any one else, should arrive.

But when the two little girls went into the entry to get their sunbonnets they noticed that the brooms were gone from the corner where they always stood.

“Perhaps they have been carried out of doors,” said Patty, and she looked out on the steps and in various possible and impossible places, but in vain; then she went into the house and told Miss Kelsey that the brooms were gone, and Miss Kelsey helped the little girls search. At last they all gave up. Then the teacher spoke:

“I suspect, Patty, some of the pupils think you have done enough sweeping for a while, and want to give you a rest, so have hidden the brooms. Never mind, you will have many more chances to do the sweeping, and besides you ought not to want all the half hours for yourself.”

But this did not comfort Patty very much; you will see she was rather a selfish little girl, and she did want all the half hours, as well as all other obtainable good things, for herself.

“It is that Sarah Adams who has hid them brooms,” she said to Aggie as they walked home together, “and she has just done it for spite. I wish I could think of some way to get ahead of her, but I can’t.”

“Well, we won’t have to go to school so early,” said Aggie; “you come over to my house and we will have a nice play before the bell rings.”

Before dark, however, Patty had thought of a way to “get ahead” of Sarah Adams. This was simply, to take a broom with her when she went to school the next morning. But a lion in the form of Patty’s mother stood in the way of her getting a broom; Patty knew she would never allow one to be taken away from home; if Patty took one she must take it without permission. Now there were but two brooms in the house; one stood in the kitchen and was in such constant use that Patty knew it would be missed long before she could return it; the other was kept in the hall closet and was used once a week, in sweeping the parlor and “spare room,” and the day before had been the regular sweeping day. This she must take if she took either, altho’ she knew she should not, but she did not allow herself time enough to think about it to be persuaded out of the notion; she took the broom from the closet, and in the gathering darkness carried it to a hiding place between the wood shed and the pig-pen, and then went to bed to be tormented all night with visions of her mother’s best broom:--an old beggar woman stole it away; a black witch mounted it, and rode to the moon, never to return; and lastly, Sarah Adams found it, and knowing Patty intended sweeping with it burned it up before her very eyes. Patty was glad when morning came, and she hurried out to assure herself of the safety of the broom, as soon as she was dressed. When she had eaten her breakfast she started to school with the broom, and stopped for Aggie Bentley. Aggie found an old broom which her mother said she might take. They swept and dusted the room in high glee, and Patty had perched herself upon one of the front desks, and sat kicking her heels in triumph, when Sarah Adams and Hattie Bitner entered with the hidden brooms.

“Needn’t mind sweeping this morning, girls,” said Patty; “and the next time you hide brooms you’d better hide all in Sagetown.”

“I’ll pay you up, miss,” said Sarah, when she had recovered from her astonishment, and she and Hattie threw down their brooms and left the room in high wrath.

Some way Patty did not enjoy her half hour play that morning; she was fearful that she might not be able to get her mother’s broom back into the house without being discovered, and Sarah’s threat troubled her; what means Sarah would take to get her into trouble she could not imagine.

That evening as Patty sat at home, swinging back and forth in her little rocking-chair, who should come to make her a visit but Sarah; that hypocritical young woman was as smiling and as amiable as possible, but she declined all of Patty’s invitations to “go out and play;” this made Patty uneasy, she wished Sarah would go home. Pretty soon Patty’s mother came in and sat down, and Sarah immediately began talking about school and Miss Kelsey’s plans for the sweeping. Patty grew still more uneasy and made another effort to get Sarah out of doors, but when Sarah said--

“My mother said she thought it was so queer that Mrs. Curtis should let Patty take a new broom from home to sweep that dirty school-house with,”--then Patty resigned herself to her fate.

“Patty Curtis! you don’t mean to say that you took my best broom to the school-house,” said Mrs. Curtis, dropping her knitting in her astonishment.

“Yes I did,” said Patty; “but I wouldn’t, if that mean thing there hadn’t hid the brooms.”

“And I,” said Sarah, “wouldn’t have hid ’em, if you hadn’t been so stingy as to want all the play-times yourself.”

“There, that will do for you both,” said Mrs. Curtis. “Patty, you may get yourself a bowl of bread and milk for your supper, and go to bed immediately.”

This, Mrs. Curtis considered a very light punishment; it would have been much heavier if her motherly indignation had not been a little stirred against Sarah for playing informer; but to Patty it was hard enough, for she had intended going out on the common with the girls, late in the evening, for a game of “black man” by the light of the rising moon; and as she eat her bread and milk, crying quietly to herself, she heard Sarah’s taunting voice under the window:

“Don’t you wish you’d let me sweep, so you could play ‘black man’ to-night?”

“Don’t care,” answered Patty; “I had a play when you didn’t, and I’ll have another to-morrow.”

So she did, and though Miss Kelsey interfered to prevent Patty from having a monopoly of the sweeping, still she did it so often that before the term closed she became a famous sweeper, and her mother actually allowed her to take charge of the sweeping of the sitting-room at home, and was not at all sorry that Miss Kelsey had proved such a skillful tactician.

A BIRD STORY.

BY M. E. B.

It’s strange how little boys’ mothers
Can find it all out as they do,
If a fellow does anything naughty,
Or says anything that’s not true!
They’ll look at you just a moment
Till your heart in your bosom swells,
And then they know all about it--
For a little bird tells!

Now where the little bird comes from,
Or where the little bird goes,
If he’s covered with beautiful plumage,
Or black as the king of the crows,
If his voice is as hoarse as a raven
Or clear as the ringing of bells,
I know not--but this I am sure of--
A little bird tells!

The moment you think a thing wicked,
The moment you do a thing bad,
Are angry or sullen or hateful,
Get ugly or stupid or mad,
Or tease a dear brother or sister--
That instant your sentence he knells
And the whole to mamma in a minute
That little bird tells.

You may be in the depths of a closet
Where nobody sees but a mouse,
You may be all alone in the cellar,
You may be on the top of the house,
You may be in the dark and the silence,
Or out in the woods and the dells--
No matter! Wherever it happens
The little bird tells!

And the only contrivance to stop him,
Is just to be sure what you say--
Sure of your facts and your fancies,
Sure of your work and your play;
Be honest, be brave, and be kindly,
Be gentle and loving as well,
And then--you can laugh at the stories
The little bird tells!

A NEW LAWN GAME.

BY G. B. BARTLETT.

A completely new lawn game has just been imported from Germany, which must soon become a very popular and amusing pastime for old and young, for the appliances are very simple and any one can play it, while with practice great skill will be developed. At present there is only one set of this game in America; but the readers of the WIDE AWAKE will need to try it but once to appreciate and enjoy it.

BOGGIA.

The game of Boggia requires one black ball, nine white balls, and nine colored balls. Croquet balls will answer; but those of hard wood are better, since they are heavier; still if made of light wood, melted lead can be poured into holes made with a gimlet until they weigh about one-half pound each.

Any even number can play, from two to eighteen persons.

The players are divided into two equal sides. The colored balls are divided among the players of one side, and the white balls among the players of the other side.

At first the players choose by lot which shall have the first roll; but in all future games the side that wins has the first roll. To make this choice, the leader of one side holds behind him a colored in one hand, and a white ball in the other; and the leader of the other side guesses, right or left. If he guesses the hand which holds the color of his own side he gains the right to begin the game; if not, the other side begins. The leader first rolls the black ball on the lawn to such a distance as he chooses, from a starting-line. Upon this starting-line every player must place his right foot when he rolls; this line extends across the lawn at least twenty feet, and the player can roll from any part of it, as it is often desirable to roll from different angles.

The leader then rolls a white ball, trying to have it stop as close as possible to the black ball.

The leader of the other side then rolls a colored ball; his object being to come in closer, or to knock away either the black ball or the white ball.

The players of each side play alternately--a white and a color--and the luck constantly changes; for as, at the close of the game, all balls of one side count which are nearer to the black than any ball of the other side, a lucky roll may change the whole result by coming in closer, or by knocking away either black, white, or colored balls.

Great skill can be used, as, if the ball is too swift, it goes beyond all the balls unless it hits and scatters them; if too light, it fails to come in near the black. Great excitement always attends the last roll, as a good player who knows the ground can often change the whole aspect of the game for the advantage of his own side, and a careless one often throws the game into the hands of the opposite by knocking away the balls belonging to his own side.

The side which first scores ten wins the game.

The pussy cat’s licking her paws:
I wonder what can be the cause!
Naughty cat, have you eaten a dear little bird?
But the big maltese beauty says never a word.
Now Kit, tell the truth while you live in this house--
What have you been eating? And Pussy says, “_Maowse!_”

HOW PHILIP SULLIVAN DID AN ERRAND.

BY MARY DENSEL.

Bang, _bang_, _bang!_ went Philip Sullivan’s hammer, as he pounded on his sled “Chain Lightning.” “Chain Lightning” had needed mending ever since last winter, but Phil had concluded not to touch it till “just before the snow came.”

“Never do to-day what you can put off until to-morrow.”

The consequence was that the north wind suddenly puffed up a midnight storm, and Master Phil was awakened one morning by the shouts of the six Dyke boys, who were coasting merrily down “Sullivan Hill.”

Phil was out of bed in a twinkling. Ten o’clock found him still working fiercely on “Chain Lightning,” his glue-pot simmering before the fire in company with his father’s best chisel and his mother’s machine oil-can.

The shouts of the Dyke boys still resounded; and not only their jubilation but that of forty more coasters drove Phil nearly frantic.

With all his might Phil worked on, and “Chain Lightning” was beginning to look as if it might hold its own even among newer sleds, when the door leading into the library opened softly, and fair-haired Rosabel, Phil’s sister, appeared on the threshold. At the same moment an opposite door flew open with a jerk, and there stood Rosabel “done in sepia,” as it were; little brown Kate, Rosabel’s twin-sister.

Phil glanced up, and then became more than ever absorbed in his work. There was a peculiar expression on the twins’ faces. Phil instantly recognized it. “The _errand_ cast of features,” he grimly called it.

“Phil, dear,” began Rosabel.

“Phil, dear,” echoed Kate.

Phil handled a screw-driver dextrously.

“Phil, dear, will you please run over to the station and see if my new skates have come by the twelve-o’clock train? Go when the cars are due, won’t you?”

“And Phil, dear,” chimed in Kate, “can’t you manage to go into the city to-day and call for a roll of music which is to be left for me at Hale and McPherson’s?”

Now could anything be more trying to the temper of the average youth than requests like these, made under the existing circumstances? Perhaps some of us may find it in our hearts to forgive Phil for answering with a certain touch of asperity:

“Don’t ‘Phil dear’ me! I’m not going to the station, and I’m not going to the city, and--”

_Bang, bang, bang!_ the hammer expressed the rest of his sentiments.

Rosabel arched her eyebrows, and mildly withdrew.

Kate tarried to wheedle the enemy a bit, and, that failing, gave it as her opinion that boys ought never to have been created. Departing she closed the door with more force than was strictly needful, and left Phil alone.

That individual worked on in an injured and gloomy frame of mind.

“Mean enough in them to be forever nagging me. Mean enough in me not to get their skates and music.”

It was hard for Phil to decide which was the greater wretch, himself or Kate. Rosabel, he concluded, could never be a “blot on the earth,” whatever she did. It was Rosabel who had helped him write his composition on “Spring;” it was Rosabel who knit his mittens; it was Rosabel who never shirked her share of the stirring when they made molasses candy.

The remembrance of Rosabel’s virtues haunted Phil even after “Chain Lightning” was in order, and he was shooting down “Sullivan Hill,” lying prone on his sled, with his legs waving in the air.

Perhaps that was the reason that when his elder brother Will came hastily up the hill and offered him five cents if he would carry a bundle to a store next the railway station (you see that Phil was regarded as the family errand boy), he condescended to saunter in that direction. Not that he cared for the pennies, although he accepted them as a token of brotherly esteem.

He even quickened his pace as a shrill whistle sounded in the distance, and ended by racing up to the depot just as the twelve-o’clock train stopped.

No one seemed to know about Rosabel’s skates.

“Ask the man in the express office--perhaps they came on an earlier train,” suggested Fred Rodman, who was standing on the platform. “I’ll keep your sled for you. Or, see here, just slip the rope through this iron ring on the rear car.”

Phil did as he was bidden, and leaving his sharp-shooter tied with a slip-knot, went into the express office.

The man in the express office had never heard the proverb concerning “a place for everything;” or, if he had, knowing it was not among the Ten Commandments, felt under no obligation to heed it. He remarked that “somebody had said something about some skates being somewhere,” and went fumbling among boxes and bundles, exclaiming alternately, “Hi! here they be,” and “Ho! no they ain’t.”

At last, just as he laid his hand on a queer-looking package, and was next to sure that here were the skates, the engine bell rang, there was a slight scurry outside, and the train began to move.

Phil was out of the depot in a flash.

“Stop!” he cried; but the locomotive paid no heed.

Slowly past the platform glided the cars, pulling “Chain Lightning” behind.

Almost before he knew what he was doing, Phil had thrown himself on the sled and grasped its rope. To his horror the slip-knot suddenly tightened, and “Chain Lightning” was firmly fastened. Every moment the train quickened its speed.

I should not dare to tell the rest of this story, were it not true. I am not “making it up.” It really happened.

The sled hung on the car. Phil Sullivan clung to the sled. Do you suppose he would lose “Chain Lightning?” Not he.

Faster and faster--faster and faster still--dashed on the train. Over the sleepers bounded “Chain Lightning.” To this side, to that, it swayed madly. Phil’s grasp never slackened. On they rushed. Phil dared not roll off the sled now lest he should be killed. It seemed no less certain death to stay on.

The engine gave short panting breaths, as if it were frightened, itself, at the trick it was playing the boy.

A kindly tree stretched out a limb, but tried in vain to rescue Phil. The sled bounded far less now as the train whizzed along. The runners were half an inch from the ground. Held by its strong rope, the sharp-shooter was like a small tail to a big kite. Cinders flew--the cars flew--“Chain Lightning” flew--Phil flew. (I am telling you the truth.)

It seemed to our friend as if he had been rushing through space ever since he was born. It seemed as if he had come millions of miles. Would this awful ride never end? Phil’s fingers were numb, so tightly did they clasp “Chain Lightning’s” edge. He saw stars before him.

And now _thump! bump! bump! thump!_ “Chain Lightning” was knocking the sleepers once more. It might have occurred to Phil that he could hardly bear this sort of travelling much longer had not his brain been too dizzy to do much thinking.

Presently, after another small eternity, with a final shriek the locomotive drew up in the city depot.

* * * * *

An hour later Philip Sullivan entered the paternal mansion. Never a word did he say in regard to the black-and-blue spots which dotted him from head to foot, not yet did he feel it necessary to mention that every bone in his body had an especial and separate ache.

“I thought I might as well go into town,” he remarked carelessly. “Here’s your music, Kate. Your skates will probably come to-morrow, Rosabel.”

“Well, you are a dear,” began Kate, looking up from her crocheting. But before she could finish there came a loud ring at the door-bell, and in rushed Fred Rodman. As he caught sight of Phil, his eyes and mouth opened wide, and he stared for a full minute.

At last, “Aren’t you dead?” he gasped.

“Pho!” said Phil loftily. “I’ve as much right to be living as you, sir.”

“Well, I never!” said Fred. “I was over to the post-office when the whistle blew, and came out just in time to see you off, and I raced most of the way to the city after you, and then I turned round and raced back to tell your folks!”

“Pho!” said Phil again.

We will pass over any family discussion of the incident; but within an hour one half of the boys in town were relating to the other half the story of Phil Sullivan’s ride. To be sure the versions differed, and to this day some of the lads a little out of Phil’s own circle are convinced he went to town on the cow-catcher, and other some believe that he rode all the way under a car, sitting on a brace between the wheels.

But that evening, Phil much bruised and battered, yet whole in every limb, told to a select few the full particulars of his journey; and the facts of the case are as I have here narrated them.

WINTER WITH THE POETS.

BY THE EDITOR.

Our prose writers have many winter scenes worthy of reading and remembrance (notably such as are found in the writings of Charles Dickens and Nathaniel Hawthorne) which might almost be called prose poems; but to-day we will wander together through the flower gardens of the real poets, whose eyes were made clearer to see the beauties of the world around them, by the loving attention they gave to common things.

There is a rabbinical fable to the effect that Jesus was once passing along a crowded city street, and that he came to a place where lay, unsightly, ragged and bruised, a dead dog. The disciples said, “What does this carrion here? throw it out of the Master’s way.” But the Master said, “Look what beautiful teeth--they are white as pearls!”

So the poet finds “nothing common or unclean” in anything that God has made, and man has not marred; and even, as in the case of the poor, ill-used animal, finds something left to admire in the wreck and ruin of former beauty. And though winter wrecks the beauty of the summer, it has a beauty of its own.

For a country winter in New England there is no better description than Whittier’s “Snow-Bound” and for the same season in Old England parts of Cowper’s “Winter Evening,” “Winter Morning Walk” and “Winter Walk at Noon.” Longfellow has a description of winter in “Hiawatha” and a winter storm at sea in the “Wreck of the Hesperus.”

Shakespeare has scattered references to winter throughout his plays; but he is rather the poet of human life and society than of inanimate nature.

James Thomson, who wrote “The Seasons,” has a fine description of Winter; and every one should know by heart the first twenty lines of his “Hymn on the Seasons.”

Percy Bysshe Shelley has some beautiful lines on a winter’s night; and Tennyson has many fine lines, “The Death of the Old Year,” and parts of “In Memoriam” being the finest.

Would it not be interesting to each one of the readers of the GRAMMAR SCHOOL to gather together all the references to winter thoughts and scenery to be found in the writings of their favorite poet? Try and see!

BESSIE’S STORY.

BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.

What my own--my true own name may be or may have been, I do not know. I have a fancy like a dream, that perhaps it has been Adélê. And yet I cannot say why. My father, the captain, whose daughter I am by adoption, gave to me the name of Bessie, for his wife, and Luna, for the moon. Thus within the log-book it is written Bessie Luna Wray.

Girls that have upon the shore their home can tell to an exactness what age they have and when their birthdays shall be. But for myself who have only a home upon the sea, I may know but this--that I have nearly fifteen years of age, “or thereabouts,” as the captain says. I have never known of the birthday--only an anniversary. And when I have forgotten myself of the day of the month on which _that_ happens, I obtain the “Petrel’s” log-book for the year of eighteen hundred and sixty-four, where I find this of record:

“Journal of hemaphrodite brig ‘Petrel,’ Wray, master, from San Francisco to Honolulu, Dec. 25, 1864.

“This day begins with clearing weather and light airs from S. E. Middle part of day wind light and baffling. At 3 P. M. passed a quantity of floating wreck stuff. Moon fulls at 11. P. M. At 11.30 P. M., Lat. by obs. 30° 15´, hove to, and picked up a boat of French build with ‘Toulon’ written in pencil on the seat, and a female child about one year old wrapped in a capote such as is worn by the pilots of Dieppe. Got under way at 12 M., course W. b. N. Call the child Bessie Luna Wray. So ends this twenty-four hours.”

Such is all I know of my beginning of life. Excepting that only for the uncommon brightness of the moon, the lookout had not seen the drifting boat. It is said in all the books I have read, of the babe who is discovered, that it smiles sweetly in the face of its benefactor. But the captain tells me often that I rent the air with crying till I was black in the face, until, arriving on the deck of the “Petrel,” old Candace, the negress, took me in her embrace. She it was who was stewardess, with her husband Jim (also of color) as cook.

The captain would at once have had me fed with Port wines, condensed milk, canned soups, and like nourishment. But Candace said “no,” and gave me of food in small quantities. “Dat ’ar little stummick mus’n be filled to depletion,” is that which the captain repeats as her words to him.