Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

“‘While the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.’”

So on the evening of the Fourth the people of Tomstown were somewhat astonished to see the young Centennial Guards march down the principal street, pass the green, where extensive preparations for festivities had been made, and keep on up the hill until, beginning to descend on the other side, they were lost to sight.

At the head marched Frank with his drum. Caddy came directly behind him with a bunch of brilliant flowers. The others carried flags, Chinese lanterns, and boxes of fire-works, while Captain Tom flew here and there and everywhere, trying to keep--an almost hopeless task--the mischievous company in something like order.

“Where away?” shouted Uncle Al--an old sailor home for the holiday--as the guards passed his door.

“To Aunt Patience--our own special Centennial,” Frank shouted back with a tremendous roll of the drum.

Uncle Al, always ready for fun, pipe in mouth, fell in line, waving his tarpaulin on the end of a stick, and Ex, his yellow dog, and Ander, his black one, followed after, grinning and wagging their tails.

Then the butcher’s boy, and his chum the baker’s boy, who were going by, turned and joined the procession, and away they all went, hurrahing, laughing and drumming, to the door of the very small cottage.

“Bless my heart!” said Aunt Patience, who was sitting in a wooden arm-chair on the stoop, and who, hearing faintly, poor, dear, deaf old soul, the noise of the approaching “guards,” had been thinking the frogs croaked much louder than usual, “what’s this?”

And bare-footed, brown-eyed Faith came out with wonder written all over her pretty face.

“Three cheers for our special Centennial!” shouted the boys; and they gave three with a will, as Caddy placed her flowers in the old woman’s hand.

“Now for the pyr-o-tech-nic display!” commanded Captain Tom; and for nearly an hour Roman candles fizzed, blue-lights popped, torpedoes cracked, pin-wheels whizzed, and fire-crackers banged.

Old Patience said it was worth living a hundred years to see.

And as the last fire-work went up a rocket and came down a stick, the gallant company formed in single file, and, marching past Aunt Patience, each member bade her “good-night,” and dropped some money in her lap.

As for Uncle Al--that generous, jolly, warm-hearted old sailor, his gift was three old-fashioned silver dollars; one for himself, one for Ex, and one for Ander.

“No one should think,” he said, “that _his_ dogs were mean dogs.”

Then away they all went again, hurrahing, shouting, and drumming like mad!

LITTLE CHUB AND THE SKY WINDOW.

BY MARY D. BRINE.

Little Chub sat on the curb-stone, dipping small brown toes into the not very pure water which flowed along the gutter, and watching with his large, blue eyes the fleecy clouds which far up above the narrow court in which he dwelt with granny sailed lazily across the patch of blue sky just visible between two tall buildings opposite.

Chub’s real name was Tommy Brown, but, on account of his roly-poly figure and little round face, he was nick-named “Chub,” and even granny called him so, till the boy forgot he had another name.

There had been a funeral that morning near Chub’s house, and all the boys gathered about the spot, listening open-eared and open-eyed to the service which told the mourners of that “happy land, far, far away,” and was intended to comfort them.

But Chub was too little to understand much of all he heard, and could only feel very sorry for the poor little girl who cried for her dear mamma, and clung to her father’s hand terrified because that mamma would not even open her eyes nor look at her. Then the carriages moved slowly down the street, and Chub went home to granny and teased her with questions.

“Granny, what’s up there?”

Mrs. Brown, at her wash-tub, half-enveloped in steam, scrubbed away and answered:

“The other wurrld, honey dear,” reverentially raising her eyes to the blue patch of sky to which Chub’s fat finger pointed.

“_What_ other world, granny?”

“The good place where yer mammy and daddy have gone, to be sure.”

“How did they get there?” from Chub, his little brow full of puzzled knots.

“Arrah thin, ye ax too many questions, honey. Some good angel flew down and lifted them up, of course, and--and--flew away wid ’em agin. Run now to the corner and fetch me a bar of soap, there’s a dear.”

Chub went for the soap, and, returning, seated himself on the curb-stone as we first found him, and calculating the length of time it might possibly take an angel to fly heavenward with little Jennie’s mother, watched the blue patch and fleecy clouds to see the final entrance of the two into that other world granny talked about. Presently two bootblacks strolled along, jingling pennies in their pockets, and swinging their blacking-boxes independently.

“Hi, Chub,” they shouted, “want a penny?”

Chub held out his hand nothing loth.

“Who giv it ter yer?” he asked, delightedly, for so much wealth had not been his since he could remember.

“Earned it shinin’ boots, ov course. _We’re_ rich men, Chub, don’t ye know that?” passing on with a chuckle.

An idea seized our small boy. He withdrew his toes from the gutter, forgot all about the flying angel and patch of sky, and startled granny, who was bending over her wash-tub, with:

“Granny, I’m goin’ inter business, like other men.”

“Bless the boy! what does he mean?”

“Two fellers giv me a cent just now, and they earned it a-shinin’ boots, and I’m goin’ to ’sist you and grow rich, granny.”

Granny stopped punching her clothes, came out of the steam, and sat down to laugh at the new man of business.

Chub’s round face glowed with honest determination, and his roly-poly figure straighted as well as it could.

“Yes, _ma’am_! I’m a-goin fur a bootblack, and I’m goin’ to buy an orange as soon as I earn a cent.”

“Where you goin’ ter git yer box and brushes, hey, Chub?” asked Granny, renewing her attack upon the wash-boiler and its contents.

The boy’s countenance fell, and visions of oranges faded slowly and reluctantly from his eyes. Suddenly, however, he remembered his friend Sim Hardy, who frequently gave him the uneaten end of a banana, and now and then part of a stick of licorice, for which favors Chub had yielded in return a large share of his warm little heart.

“Sim’ll get me a box, ’thout it’s costin’ anythin’. Maybe he’ll hook one fur a little chap like me.”

Granny rested from her labors and turned a stern face upon the boy.

“Thomas Brown, never dare you lift a finger of yourn to touch what’s been stole. Remember who’s watchin’ ye all the time, and don’t go fur to sile the family name of Brown. If yer do, I’ll trounce yer well for it, there, now!”

It was probably the last awful threat that awed Chub into obedience, for he gave no more thought to Sim’s way of getting a machine for him, but tried to think of another plan.

It wasn’t long, however, before his friends among the bootblacks raised a sum between them and presented Chub with the necessary capital with which to begin business in earnest. And to granny’s delight her boy started off one fine morning regularly equipped for his first battle for daily bread--and an orange.

For a long time the little, six-years-old bootblack sat on the Astor House steps awaiting custom. But big boys somehow grabbed all the jobs, and nobody noticed little Chub, nor heard his weak cry, “Shine yer up fur ten cents! Want a shine, sir?”

So when night came, the little fellow shouldered his box and went home, minus his orange, and with pockets as empty as when he started from home. He cried a little, to be sure, and granny comforted him with kisses, and put him to bed tenderly. For nearly a week things worked very badly for Chub. Business didn’t prosper, and sitting all day in the hot sun made the little fellow sick of trying to be a man and do business. He couldn’t somehow make the thing work, and Sim Hardy, the friend who would have taught him, was busy on another route, and so Chub sat swinging his little bare feet all day, with nothing to do but watch the sky and wish he could fly up to “that other world” where he didn’t believe the “angels would let him go so long without a job.”

One night he went home with two ten cent stamps in his pocket, and a prouder boy never lived. But granny’s anxious eyes saw an unusual flush on the boy’s cheeks, and the little hands felt dry and hot. And that night the boy was restless and talked in his sleep.

It had been a fearfully hot day, and granny feared the child was suffering from sunstroke. So she kept ice on his head, and with part of the newly-earned money bought some medicine which quieted Chub and gave him an hour’s sweet sleep just before sunrise.

Then he opened his blue eyes and told granny about a dream in which he had seen a beautiful angel peep out of a little window in the sky and look all about as if searching for something. And presently Chub heard a voice say, “Oh, there’s little Chub! I’ve found him.” Then, as he looked up to see who had called his name from the clouds, the window opened wide, and the angel spread beautiful white wings, as white as snow, and fluttered gently down with arms opened lovingly towards Chub, who dreamed he was sitting with his box all that time on the Astor House steps. But just before she reached him he woke up, and, lo and behold, all the angel his waking eyes saw was dear old granny, who stood with a cooling drink beside the bed, and fanned away the tormenting flies.

So Chub told his dream. Granny wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and hugged her boy closer.

“The angels can’t have ye yet, Tommy,” she said. “Yer granny’s boy, and this wurrld is good enuff fur ye this long while yet.”

Chub felt better the next day, and went out to his day’s business with a stout little heart, and eyes full of sunbeams. Some of the sunshine of the day crept out of the little room with him when he left granny alone over her wash-tubs, but she knew when he returned at night he would bring it all back again. So she scrubbed and rubbed and boiled and punched her clothes, until the room resembled cloud-land, and the white clothes hanging on lines shone out of the mist like the white wings Chub had talked about.

* * * * *

“Oh, dear! Them big fellers don’t give a little chap a chance at all, at all.”

A big sigh shook Chub’s breast as he muttered this, wiping the perspiration from his face, and settling the torn hat more comfortably on his curly head. He slid down from his seat, and stood on the edge of the sidewalk a minute, waiting a chance to cross.

Hark! what a swift galloping of hoofs on the cobble-stones! Down the street, the closely-crowded street, dashed a runaway horse, dragging the light buggy, whose owner had just vacated it. Everybody scampered right and left in the first moment of terror, but a wee child, frightened from its nurse’s hand, stands directly in the path of the swift-coming animal.

Impulsively Chub, the boy of six years, the brave little business man, flings his blacking-box directly at the head of the runaway horse, and as fast as his short legs can carry him he rushes for the child whose life is in peril. In one instant the horse, startled by the well-aimed blow, turns aside, and then plunges on despite the efforts of strong arms to stop him.

That instant spared the little girl, but Chub’s box had opened the sky-window for him--poor little fellow--for over his brave little figure, crushing the life from his braver heart, passed the animal which had jumped on one side when the box struck him, and directly in Chub’s line.

They lifted him tenderly, and laid him on the broad step which had been the only business office Chub had owned. But only once the blue eyes opened, and then they sought the blue sky above, and even strong men felt tears in their eyes when faintly and gaspingly the dying boy cried, “Oh, angel! angel! here’s little Chub a-waitin’ fur yer; don’t ye see him?”

Then upward reached the small, brown arms, and downward fluttered the white lids, which were raised never on earth again, not even when granny’s tears covered the round, white face, and her arms clasped close the little roly-poly figure which had suddenly grown so stiff and helpless.

Up to “that other world,” through the “sky-window,” the white-winged angel had borne little Chub; and all that had puzzled him on earth was, maybe, in his angel-mother’s arms, made clear to him at last.

LITTLE BOY BLUE

BY C. A. GOODENOW.

Not the identical one that slept under the haystack, while the cows trampled the corn; no, indeed, he was quite too wide awake for that! Our little Boy Blue had another name; but he was seldom called by it, and did not much like it when he was. For when he heard people say “John Allison Ware!” he knew that he was in mischief, and justice was about to be meted unto him.

Why was he called little Boy Blue? Because, when he was a tiny baby, his eyes were so very blue--“real ultramarine,” Aunt Sue said; but baby only wrinkled his nose at the long word, and mamma smiled.

However, the eyes kept their wonderful color as the baby grew up, so the name was kept, too.

Boy Blue had four sisters: three older, one younger, than himself. He used, sometimes, to wish for a brother, but mostly he was too busy to worry over trifles. He had so much to do the days were not long enough.

He had to work in his garden; it was about as large as a pocket-handkerchief, but it required a great deal of care. He had to feed the kitty, help shell the peas for dinner, ride on the saw-horse, and be an ice-man, a strawberry-seller, a coal-heaver and a fish-monger, all with only the aid of his wheelbarrow.

Above all, he had to help Jotham.

What Jotham would have done without his help I cannot tell. With it, he kept the garden in order, mended the broken tools, made sleds, swings, skipping-ropes, carts and baby-houses for the five little Wares.

If Jotham could not have got along without Boy Blue, I am sure the little Wares would have sadly missed Jotham.

One day Jotham was making a sled for Elsie. It was June, and people do not usually wish to slide on the daisies and clover; but Jotham liked to get things finished early. I suppose he knew, too, that when Elsie’s sled was done he would have to make one a-piece for Lill, for Dora, for Boy Blue, and for little Tot; so, perhaps, he thought from June to December was not too long time for so much work.

The sled was ready to be painted; and blue paint, in a nice little bucket, with a small brush in it, was waiting for the sled. Boy Blue stood by helping.

Just then somebody called Jotham into the house.

“I might paint a little until he comes back,” thought Boy Blue. “Don’t fink I’d better, maybe. Elsie said blue stripes; ’haps I shouldn’t get them even. H’m!”

The blue eyes twinkled, and the funny little mouth was puckered in a round, rosy button as their owner considered the matter.

“I might practice, first,” said Boy Blue.

So he tugged the paint-bucket down from the bench; he slopped a little over, too. It did not fall on his trowsers; they were short, and fastened at the knee with three buttons; the blue splashes were on the white stockings below the trowsers, and Boy Blue saw them.

“But _they_ will wash,” said he to himself.

Then Boy Blue and the paint-bucket walked off behind the tool-house; that was a good place to practice, because the clapboards were so smooth, and of a nice gray color, on which the blue paint showed beautifully.

“I’ll make five stripes, ’cause I’m most five years old,” thought Boy Blue.

The first were crooked, and he had to make five more; they-were too long, so he made some shorter ones. Soon all the side of the tool-house, as high as his short arm could reach, was painted in blue stripes.

“If I only had a ladder!” mused Boy Blue. “Fink I’d better get one.”

He trudged into the shed, still carrying the paint-bucket; it was not so full now as when Jotham left it, and did not slop much.

There was no ladder in the shed, so he went on into the barn.

“Ouf! ouf!” grunted Piggy White, hearing steps, and expecting dinner.

“I’m busy now, Piggy White,” said Boy Blue, looking over the side of the pen. “I’m painting. Oh my! Piggy White, you’d look just beautiful if you only had some blue stripes!”

Piggy White was a young pig, quite clean and pretty; the little Wares made a pet of him. He had a fresh straw bed every night, and Jotham took a deal of care to keep his house tidy. He was so accustomed to visits from the children he only gently grunted in reply to Boy Blue’s remark.

The next thing seen of that small lad he had climbed over and was as busy over Piggy White as he had been on the tool-house. Piggy liked to have his back rubbed, and was very quiet while Boy Blue painted a long stripe down his spine and shorter ones across his sides.

“Piggy White, _if_ you wig your tail so I fink I’ll scold. I want to paint the end of it.”

By this time there was not much paint in the bucket, but there was a great deal on Boy Blue’s hands, on his stockings, on the short trowsers, and on the front of his little blouse.

“H’m!” said Boy Blue, suddenly looking up. “I fink--Jotham--I fink I’ve got frough.”

“The land of liberty!” said Jotham, looking down. “You’re _blue_, sure enough.”

Then he picked up the little workman and carried him into the house.

When mamma had been out and looked at the tool-house and Piggy White, and had come in and looked at Boy Blue, she said what she had said about five hundred times:

“I don’t know what I _shall_ do with you!”

But she did. For she told Nurse Norah to give him a bath.

When he had been scrubbed and rubbed and dried, and stood very red and warm to have his hair brushed, he sobbed:

“Somebody didn’t ought to look after me better!”

“Sure, ’twould take a paycock’s eyes, and more, to look after sich a stirabout! Now run, see the organ-man with your sisters, and be good,” said Norah.

The organ-man carried a monkey, and the monkey carried a tambourine, with which he played such pranks the little Wares fell off the steps one after another in fits of laughter, and Boy Blue decided at once to buy that monkey if he could. So when the organ-man went away Boy Blue followed. Only Tot saw him go, for the others were running back to the nursery to see if the dolls were awake. And Tot could not make people understand what her little, lisping tongue meant to say.

It grew late and later; it was almost dark. Boy Blue did not come home. They began to wonder; they began to be anxious; they began to look for him. They called his name everywhere. They shouted, “Little Boy Blue! Boy Blu-u-u-e! Blu-u-u-ue!”

He did not come. They thought what if he should never come back!

Mamma cried.

“Somebody has stolen him!” said Norah.

“He is drowned!”

“He is run over!”

“He is--”

“_Here_ he is!”

So he was! They had looked everywhere and inquired of everybody, and given up in despair. Papa and Jotham had gone to get help in searching for him. Mamma was in distress. And there little Boy Blue came walking into the house himself!

“Where have you been?” cried the sisters.

He had followed the monkey until he was tired, had come back unseen, had climbed into the hammock in the orchard, and had been asleep there ever since.

“And we just crazed about ye, ye bad boy!” said Norah, while mamma hugged him.

“You needn’t fink _I’d_ get lost,” said Boy Blue, proudly. “_I_ don’t do such fings. I want my supper!”

He had it. But at our house we still keep asking this question:

“What _shall_ we do
With little Boy Blue?”

GHOSTS AND WATER-MELONS.

BY J. H. WOODBURY.

Bobby Tatman was a little Yankee fellow, but he looked like an Italian boy, with his tangly brown hair, and his soft, simple dark eyes. He was very fond of water-melons; but he was very much afraid of ghosts; and in his simple heart he believed everything that was told him, and thereby hangs a tale.

There was a man, whom all the neighbors knew as Uncle Ben, who had some very fine water-melons--which Bobby knew all about--for they were only about a mile from Bobby’s father’s house.

These were the nearest water-melons that Bobby knew of, and he used to go over occasionally, with his friend James Scott, to look at them, and see how they were coming on. Both Bobby and his friend grew much interested in the melons, as they were ripening, and Bobby wondered why his father did not raise water-melons, too. This was not a large patch, and it was in a sunny nook of Uncle Ben’s farm, out of sight from his house.

“It wouldn’t be stealing to take water-melons,” remarked Bobby’s friend one day, as the two were sitting on the fence alongside the little patch. “It wouldn’t be any more stealing than picking off corn to roast, when we go a-fishing, would be stealing, as I can see.”

“I don’t know as it would be,” Bobby admitted, musingly. “I _should_ like that old big fellow! Uncle Ben says that’s a _mountain-sweet_. But it would _almost_ be stealing to take that one, sure! and Uncle Ben would miss it the first thing, too.”

“I s’pose he would,” said James, “and then there’d be a row. It won’t do to take that one. I tell you what, Bobby, we won’t take any of ’em now, but we’ll come to-night, after dark, and then there won’t be any danger of anybody’s seeing us. Of course it won’t be stealing; but Uncle Ben’s just mean enough to make a row about it, I s’pose, if he should happen to find it out.”

“I guess he would,” said Bobby. “I shouldn’t want to have him see us, anyhow.”

And so, not to run any risk, they concluded to wait.

When it was night they came again, and sat together upon the same fence, listening for a time for sounds of any others who might be approaching, before they got down to select their melons. All was still, and, feeling secure from detection, they got down and began to search among the vines. They could tell by rapping upon the melons which the ripe ones were, and it was not long till they had made their selection, and were scudding away, each with a melon almost as large as he could carry, along the fence towards Uncle Ben’s corn-field, which was still farther from his house.

When they got to the corn-field they felt safe, and, as the melons were heavy, they concluded to eat one before going further. So they sat down in a nook of the fence--a Virginia rail-fence, as we used to call that kind--and Bobby took out a knife that he thought a great deal of--because his Aunt Hannah had given it him, and it had his initials on a little silver plate set in the handle--and in a moment more they were eating and praising the delicious melon.

“Of course ’tain’t stealing,” said James Scott, as Bobby again brought up that question. “Uncle Ben always does have better water-melons than anybody else, and he can’t expect to have ’em _all_ to himself. What’s the use of living in a free country, if you can’t have a water-melon once in a while? Help yourself. Bobby--but don’t eat too near the rind.”

Bobby helped himself,--though he could not help thinking all the time that it was to Uncle Ben’s water-melon,--and the boys filled up, gradually, till they could hold no more. Then each had a great shell that would have almost floated him, had he felt like going to sea in it, and the question was, what to do with them.

“Let’s tuck ’em under the bottom rail,” said James; “they won’t be noticed there.”

So they tucked them under the lower rail--a broad, flat rail that seemed to have been made on purpose to cover them--and then they both got straight up on their feet to stretch themselves. In the same instant they both started suddenly, and took to their heels.

They ran till they were out of breath; and James Scott got a long way ahead of his friend Bobby. But Bobby came up with James before he started again, and asked, as soon as he could get breath enough, “_Was it Uncle Ben?_”

“It must have been him, or his ghost,” was the reply. “Did you see his legs, Bobby?”

“No. Did you?”

“It didn’t look as if he had any. He was a queer-looking chap, anyhow.”

“I wonder if he’s coming?” And Bobby seemed almost ready to start again. “Do you s’pose he knew us?”

“Shouldn’t wonder if he did. But, if ’twas Uncle Ben, he’d know he couldn’t catch us. He must have been there all the time. I say, Bobby, I’m afraid we’ll hear about this.”

“I don’t see how he happened to be right there! Oh, dear! I left my knife, too!”

“I guess if t’was Uncle Ben he’ll take care of that. Of course he’ll know who it belongs to. If he gets that knife, he hadn’t oughter say anything about the water-melon. It’s worth more’n both on ’em.”

“I know it. Don’t you suppose it _was_ Uncle Ben’s _ghost_, after all? I wish it was!”

“It couldn’t have been, unless he’s died since noon, you know. He looked well enough then. Do you s’pose it would be of any use to go back, Bobby?”

“No, indeed! I’d rather go home. I wish I had my knife, though. I wonder why he didn’t speak?”

“That’s what _I_ don’t understand. I should have thought he would just said something, before we got out of hearing.”

“Like as not it wasn’t him, after all.”

“Like as not it wasn’t, Bobby. S’posing we go back.”

“I’m going home,” was Bobby’s reply. “I don’t believe it pays to steal water-melons, anyway.”

“’Twasn’t stealing, Bobby!--no such thing! Of course anybody’s a right to take a water-melon. Uncle Ben had no business to raise ’em, if folks had got to steal ’em before they could eat ’em!”

“That’s so,” groaned Bobby. “I shouldn’t have thought he’d have planted them.”

And so, groaning in spirit, Bobby went home. He had lost his knife, and everybody would know next day that he had been stealing water-melons. He couldn’t help thinking that the folks would call it _stealing_, after all.

What to do he didn’t know; but he must go home at all events. He was never out very late, and when he went in his mother asked him where he had been. He said he had been over to James Scott’s.

“I don’t like to have you over there so much, Bobby,” said his mother. “I am afraid James Scott is not a very good boy.”

Bobby’s face was flushed, and he seemed very tired, so his mother told him he had better go to bed. He was glad enough to go, but he lay a long time thinking of his knife and the water-melons, and of Uncle Ben standing there by the fence, before he went to sleep.

Bobby slept in the attic, up under the roof. There was another bed in the same attic for the hired man. There were also a great many things for which there was no room anywhere else,--large chests, piles of bedding, and things that had got past use.

Bobby got to sleep at last; but he awoke in the night--something unusual for him--after the moon had risen, and was giving just light enough to show things in the room very dimly. He opened his eyes, and almost the first object he saw caused his heart to beat very quickly. Somebody was sitting upon one of those large chests. It was a dim and indistinct form, but it looked ghostly white in the moonlight, and Bobby could not help feeling afraid. He had never seen a ghost, fairly, but he began to think now that he had one in his room.

Bobby lay and watched that ghost, feeling warm and cold by turns, till at last he was sure it was beginning to look like Uncle Ben. The wind had begun to blow, and to move the branches of the old elm outside, thus causing the moonlight to flicker fitfully in the room. It seemed as if it must be Uncle Ben! Bobby could see him laugh, though he could not hear a sound except the sighing wind and the swaying branches of the old elm, mingling dolefully with the snoring of the hired man.

The ghost laughed and shook his head by turns, and pointed his finger at Bobby, as if to say, “_I’ve marked you!_”

Bobby began to imagine that Uncle Ben had been run over by a cart, or killed in some way that very afternoon, and that his ghost was really there. He was almost glad it was so, for he could endure the ghost, disagreeable as he felt his presence to be, much better than meet Uncle Ben alive, with that knife in his possession.

So he shivered, and sweat, and reasoned himself more firmly into the belief that it was Uncle Ben’s ghost that was sitting on the chest. He was glad of it, for now he could go in the morning and find his knife, and hide that other water-melon before anyone else should pass that way. Still the presence of the ghost was very disagreeable to him; and at last he ventured to go and get into the other bed with the hired man, rather than lie longer alone.

The hired man stopped snoring, turned over, woke up, and asked Bobby what was the matter.

“There’s somebody up here,” said Bobby, ashamed to own that it was a ghost.

“Who? where?” and the hired man sat up and looked around.

“On that chest,” said Bobby. “Don’t you see him?”

“Ye--yes; I see him.” And, as if afraid to speak again, the hired man watched the blinking countenance of the stranger closely.

After a moment he got out of bed carefully, saying in a whisper as he did so:

“How long has he been there, Bobby?”

“Ever so long,” was Bobby’s reply. “Ain’t it a ghost?”

“I guess so. I’ll find out, at all events,” and the bold fellow moved carefully towards it.

He approached on tiptoe till he could almost touch it, and then he stopped.

“It’s a ghost, Bobby,” said he, “sure enough; but I’ll fix him!”

He just drew back one arm, and planted a prodigious blow right in the ghost’s stomach; and you ought to have seen that ghost jump!

It went almost out of the window at one leap; but fell short, on the floor, and lay as if dead. The hired man went boldly back and got into bed, remarking:

“That’s one of the ghosts we read about, Bobby; I guess he won’t trouble _us_ any more!”

Bobby did not quite understand it. He began to think that Uncle Ben might be still living; but he went to sleep again, at last, and the next time he awoke it was morning. It was daylight, and the hired, man had gone down-stairs. He looked for the ghost. There he lay, sure enough, very quiet on the floor, but, after all, it was only a bag of feathers!

So Bobby felt sure he would have to meet Uncle Ben, and that everybody would know all about it; and he felt very miserable all day, waiting for him to come. He did not go near James Scott, for he felt that it was largely owing to him that he had got into trouble. It wasn’t at all likely that he could or would help him out of it. He wanted dreadfully to go and look for his knife, but would no more have done that than he would have gone and drowned himself. Indeed, he did think rather seriously of doing the last; but, being a good swimmer, he supposed the probabilities would be against his sinking; and besides, he still had a regard for the feelings of his mother.

It was a miserably long day, but after all Uncle Ben did not come. What could it mean? Bobby did not know, but he went to bed and slept better the next night. And the next day his fears began to wear away. It was night again, and still Uncle Ben had not come.

The third morning Bobby was almost himself again. He was resolved, now, to go and look for his knife. It must be that Uncle Ben had not found it. If he had, he would certainly have made it known before this. He was quite sure, too, that Uncle Ben could not have known who those two boys were. So he went, with a lightened heart, early in the day, to look for his knife.

Of course he took a roundabout way, that he might keep as far from Uncle Ben’s house as possible. Judge of his surprise and relief when he saw, on coming in sight of the spot, not Uncle Ben, but a dilapidated _scarecrow_. It stood leaning against the fence, where, having served its time, Uncle Ben had probably left it, neglected and forgotten. Being arrayed in one of Uncle Ben’s old coats, it did have a strange resemblance to the old man himself.

“It’s all right, after all,” thought Bobby, and he hurried confidently forward to pick up his knife. But imagine now the surprise and fright that came into Bobby’s soft eyes when he found that his knife was not there! Neither the knife, the water-melon, _nor the water-melon rinds_! All were gone.

Without stopping long, Bobby turned to retrace his steps. But as he did so some one called to him. It was Uncle Ben; and he stopped again and stood mute.

“I’ve been waiting to see ye, Bobby,” said the old man, coming up. “I reckoned you’d come for your knife, and I thought you’d rather see me here than have me bring it home to ye. Of course I knew you’d been here, when I found this, but it wasn’t likely you’d come alone. I’m sorry you’ve been in bad company, Bobby. Your father and mother think you’re a good boy, and I don’t want them to think any other way. Of course _you_ don’t want them to think any other way, either, do you, Bobby?” And the old man looked kindly down into the soft eyes.

Bobby made out to say that he did not.

“That’s the reason, Bobby, why I didn’t bring the knife home. I thought I’d better give it to ye here. Now take it, and don’t for the world ever say a word to anybody how you lost it. And I want ye to come down to the melon-patch with me, for I’m going to send a nice mountain-sweet over to your mother.”

Bobby took his knife, and followed Uncle Ben, unable to utter a word. As they went along, the old man talked to him of his corn and his pumpkins, just as if there was no reason in the world why he and Bobby should not be on the best of terms. He seemed to have quite forgotten that Bobby had ever stolen anything from him. Arrived at the patch he picked off one of the finest melons, as large as the boy could carry, and, after a little more talk, sent him with it to his mother.

And so, after all, Bobby’s heart never felt lighter than it did that morning, after he had left Uncle Ben. He had at last found words to thank him, and to say that he was very sorry for what he had done, but scarce more. But that was all Uncle Ben wanted; and, so long as he lived, after that, he had no truer friend among the neighbor’s boys than Bobby Tatman.

FUNNY LITTLE ALICE.

BY MRS. FANNY BARROW (“AUNT FANNY”).

Once on a time, not long ago, four little girls lived together in a large farm-house. It was quite by itself--on the top of a hill with thick woods all around it--but as it was full of people from the city, thirty miles away, and as these people were always polite to each other, and it was warm, sweet summer-time, they were very happy together.

Daisy and May were sisters; Katie had another father and mother, and funny little Alice was the only child of a lady whose husband was dead, so Alice had no father. Poor little thing!

But as she was only two and a half years old, she was too young to feel very sorry for herself, especially as all the ladies in the house loved and petted her; every gentleman rode her to “Banbury Cross” on his foot, and “jumped her” almost as high as the ceiling; and Daisy, May and Kate, who were each seven years old, let her come in to all their plays--which I hope _you_ also do, my little reader, with your baby sisters and brothers.

One day Alice was walking in the road with her nurse. She had seen one of the ladies pick a checkerberry leaf out of the grass and eat it, so she pulled up a handful of leaves and crammed them into her mouth.

“Oh, take them out, take them out! Do, Alice!” cried the nurse. “They may be poison! If you swallow them you will die, and have to lie in the cold grave, and the worms will eat you up!”

But the nurse had to pull her mouth open, and dig out the leaves, for Alice had never before heard of the cold grave, and she did not care a button about it.

That night her mamma, with whom the little girl slept, was awakened by a feeling as if some one were choking her, and found Alice sleeping with her curly head buried in her mother’s neck, and the rest of her little fat body spread across her breast. She lifted the child gently, and put her back on her own pillow. But the next instant Alice flung herself again on her mother.

“Don’t, dear,” she said; “you _must_ lie on your own side. It hurts me to have your head on my throat.”

“Well,” said the sleepy little thing, “if you don’t let me I shall die, and have to lie in the _told drave_, and the _wullims_ will eat me up.”

Her mother was perfectly astonished at this speech. She could not imagine where Alice had heard it; but _we_ know, don’t we?

The farmer had a poor old fiddle-headed white horse, whose stiff old legs couldn’t run away if the rest of him wanted to, and the young ladies used to drive him by themselves in a buggy. The morning after Alice’s speech two young ladies took her driving with them. She sat on a little bench at their feet, and went off in high glee.

It was cloudy, and, for fear it might rain, they took a big waterproof cloak. Before they got back it was pouring down, so all were buttoned up in the cloak, with Alice’s little round rosy face just peeping out in front. The old white horse jogged on not a bit faster than usual, though Miss Lizzie, who was driving, slapped his back with the reins the whole time. At last he whisked up his tail, and twisted it in the reins.

“Oh, now, just look at that horrid old tail!” said Miss Lizzie. “How am I ever to get rid of it?”

“It is not a horrid old tail!” cried Alice, her sweet hazel eyes flashing. “It’s a nice white tail! He’s a booful horse, with a nice white tail.”

“Well, so he is,” said Miss Lizzie, laughing. “So hurra for the booful horse!”

This reminded the funny little thing of one of her songs, which she immediately set up at the top of her voice, and as they reached the house in the pouring rain, the ladies inside heard Alice singing with all her little might:

“Woar, boys, fevver!
Woar, boys, woar!
Down with the tritty!
Up with the ’tar!
We’ll rally round the f’ag, boys,
Rally round ’gain,
Shoutin’ the batter crider _fee_-dom!”[3]

[3] These are the words little Alice meant, as I suppose you all know:

“Hurra, boys, forever!
Hurra, boys, hurra!
Down with the traitor!
Up with the star!
We’ll rally round the flag, boys,
Rally round again,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!”

That afternoon, when it had cleared up, Daisy said:

“Come, May, come, Katie, let’s take our dolls and have a picnic.”

“I want to picnic, too,” cried Alice.

“So you shall, you little darling,” said all the girls, running to her and kissing her, “and you can bring Nancy with you.”

Nancy was a knit worsted doll, with two jet beads for eyes. She slept with Alice, who loved her dearly, and who now ran off to get her, in a great state of delight.

The children took a lunch, of course; for who ever heard of a picnic without it? A stick of peppermint candy was broken in four pieces, which, with four ginger-cakes and four huge apples, begged from the farmer’s wife, were packed in a little basket, and then they set off, all running, for no girl or boy can walk when they are so happy; at least, I never knew of any--have you?

The warm, bright sun had dried up all the drops on the grass long before. They ran merrily through the meadow at the back of the house, and soon got to the entrance to the wood. There they found a nice, mossy place, and, sitting down on the old roots of the trees, they spread their lunch on a large, flat stone that was near, and commenced to “tell stories.”

“Last night,” began Daisy, “I woke up, and I thought I would get out of bed, and look out of the window; and what _do_ you think I saw?”

“Oh! what?” cried the rest, with their mouths wide open.

“Why, I saw ten thousand diamonds dancing and sparkling in the dark.”

“Oh, oh! I wish I had seen them!” cried May and Katie.

This was the first time that Daisy had seen the fire-flies flashing their soft, bright lights. She did not mean to tell a falsehood; she really thought that they were diamonds.

“My mamma went to a party last winter, and what _do_ you think she ate?” asked Katie.

“What?” inquired May and Daisy.

“Frogs!” said Katie.

“Oh! oh! how awful!” cried May and Daisy--but all this time little Alice had said nothing.

“Once I saw an elephant,” said May in her turn. “It was in the menagerie. A little boy stuck a pin in his trunk, and he caught the boy up by his jacket, and shook him right out of it, and hurt him so! and he screamed like everything!”

“Oh, oh! how dreadful!” exclaimed Katie and Daisy, but little Alice said nothing--because _she was not there_! While the others had been lost in wonder over the stories, she had trotted off farther into the woods, clasping her dear Nancy in her arms, and softly singing this queer little song:

“By-lo-by, my darlin’ baby,
Baby,
Taby,
Faby,
Maby,
Darlin’ baby.”

“There, now, she’s fas’ as’eep,” said Alice. “Sh! sh!” She laid Nancy softly down among the mossy roots of a hollow tree, and, sitting close beside her, she heaved a funny little sigh, and said: “Oh, my! that child will wear me out!” which was a speech her nurse had very often made to her.

Soon there was a rustling sound. The hollow tree was full of dry, dead leaves, and out of these a huge black snake came crawling. It slowly curled itself round Nancy, and then lay quite still.

Alice looked curiously at a creature she had never before seen, or even heard of. Then she put out one little fat hand, and gently patted the snake on its head.

“Did you want to see my Nancy?” she asked. “Well, so you s’all, poor sing!” Then she smoothed the snake’s head, who appeared to like it very much, for it shut its eyes and seemed to sleep.

And the sweet little tender-hearted child, never dreaming of any danger from the loathsome reptile, looked up and smiled at the birds piping over her head, and kept on softly smoothing the head of her plaything.

And this was how “Mitter ’Trong,” as she called the gentleman who rode her oftenest to “Banbury Cross,” found Alice, as he was walking through the wood that summer afternoon. No wonder that he screamed, and rushed to her, and caught her up and kissed her, and almost cried, and then went at the snake with his stick.

But it was as frightened as he was, and May, Daisy and Kate came running up, just as it was squirming back into the hollow tree. Then there were three more screams, and their six bright eyes grew perfectly wild with terror--while little Alice looked on very much surprised, but not a bit frightened.

The children had missed their dear little playmate at last, and, very much alarmed and ashamed of their carelessness, were searching for her.

Mr. Strong carried little Alice home in triumph on his shoulder, where she was kissed and cried over again, and Mr. Strong was thanked for saving her.

The black snake might not have bitten her, but it might have squeezed such a little thing to death, so Mr. Strong and another gentleman went back, and poked the snake out of the hollow tree, and killed it; and, finding Nancy patiently waiting for some one to come for her, they brought her back to the arms of her cunning little mother. And after this, funny little Alice never went out without her nurse.

We must bid her good-bye now, because this story is long enough; but some day I will tell you more about her.

“PRETTY,” AND HER VIOLIN.

BY HOLME MAXWELL.

Felice was a servant. She was just twenty years old, but she was like a child in our land. She talked a little, soft, broken English; our words were very, very hard for her fine, pretty Italian lips to manage. She was tall, and extremely refined and delicate; every one admits this now, but her little girl-mistress saw it at a glance, as Felice came in behind papa, pausing, tall and slender, with her exquisite brown hair and brown eyes, to be addressed.

“Here is your mistress,” said the papa to Felice, indicating the young girl dressed in white. “She is the little woman of the house, and will tell you about your duties.”

Felice bowed like a tall lily, as the “mistress,” so much younger and so much smaller than herself, came forward, slowly and with irregular steps, leaning upon a fairy sort of cane. “You are pretty, pretty, pretty--pretty as I could ask for,” said the young girl.

Felice was not accustomed to be taken by her mistresses with two tender, white hands, and called “Pretty, pretty, pretty.” A soft color came into her pale, clear cheeks, and her eyes grew liquid as she bent over the little girl without speaking. But when the little girl turned away, looking so quaint in her stylish white dress, as she leaned upon her little cane, Felice instinctively followed her. She placed the velvet hassock under her feet as she sat down, and slipped the cane into the “rest” attached to the small lounging-chair.

“Can you make a bed nicely, Pretty?” said the little girl.

“Yes, mees,” answered Felice.

“Can you put the room nicely, Pretty?”

“Yes, mees.”

“And do birds and flowers and gold-fish prosper with you, Pretty?”

“I cannot tell you, mees.”

“Can you sew nicely?”

“Mees say _nicely_--no, alas! I work not with the needle, none, in four year.”

“Well, then, can you read,--our English books? you know,--and a long while at a time? Pray, don’t say no.”

“Alas, mees, I know not to read the Ingleese, none. Ah, mees, I think now to my heart this is one meestake. You wish not me. You wish not one chambermaid.”

“You cannot know what I wish, my Pretty.” But the little mistress’s face was downcast and clouded. From under her sunny eyelashes she studied the long, slender, folded hands of poor “Pretty.” They were browned and hardened with rougher labors than hair-dressing, and embroidering, the mending of laces, or the tending of flowers.

She pointed at last to a door across the hall. “Your room, Pretty. Have your things brought up.”

“_Felice_,” corrected the soft Italian lips.

“No, _Pretty_,” persisted the little mistress, with a lovely smile.

This little girl of fourteen--Lulu Redfern--was mistress of many things: of a brown-stone mansion, of her papa, and of his immense wealth. She was almost like a fairy in her willfulness and in her power. Why might she not change her servant’s name if she chose?

While “Pretty” was gone, Mr. Redfern came back. “Papa,” said the mistress, “of what were you thinking? Pretty does not sew, does not understand flowers and pets, does not read, does not even dress hair!”

“Don’t she?” said papa, crestfallen. “Why, she looks as if she did.”

“Papa, did you ask at all?”

“No,” confessed papa, “I did not. I supposed, of course, she could; else why did she apply. Can’t she be of any use, my birdie?”

“I don’t see how, papa.”

“Well, then, we shall have to send her away, I suppose. I fancied she would be quite the person you would like to have about you--she is so different from that fluttering, nervous French Adele. But you certainly do not need another mere chambermaid.”

“Yet, papa, I cannot have her go, now that she has come. Can’t I keep her, papa, to look at? She won’t cost so much as a Sevres vase.”

Felice, with her droopy face and soft steps, was passing. She had a small satchel in one hand, and in the other--what do you suppose?

A violin-case, little, black, old.

“Whew!” said papa to himself. “That’s queer luggage.” But Miss Redfern did not see the queer luggage.

So “Pretty” staid, on the footing of a Sevres vase; and drooped over and about her little mistress like a beautiful lily wherever she went, and that was nearly all she could do for many days.

Now, this little girl, who could have everything almost, could not have everything quite. She loved music beyond all things else; but on account of her little lame feet she could not play. The grand piano was for the guests. Rare players used to come and play for her; and none of the music ever seemed to depart from the house, so that all the rooms were haunted by divine harmonies. When Lulu lay awake at night, kept awake by pain, the wondrous strains played themselves again at her ear, and the sweet, pure young soul took wings to itself, and swept away and away among lovely scenes, until lameness and pain and a thwarted life were quite forgotten.

It was one night, about a week after Felice came. She had lifted her mistress into bed, and had said, “I wish you a most lofely good night, Mees Looloo,” and had gone. It was not a “most lofely” night. “Mees Looloo’s” little feet were throbbing with pain worse than ever before; but about midnight she was growing hushed and serene. There were wafts and breathings of Mendelssohn, and Wagner, and Mozart, and Beethoven all about her; and she was falling asleep, when, suddenly, a fine, sweet, joyous, living strain pierced through the dreamy songs and harmonies.