Chapter VII: Front Matter (7)

“What’s all this?” asked mamma, coming down the walk.

Hearing the story, she went outside, and bared the beaten arm. There was a frightful lump on the soft, black baby flesh. She looked up at her little soldier ruefully, and he ran off.

She took the child in, and bathed the bruise with camphor, picked him a gorgeous bouquet, and sent him home with various admonitions and tendernesses. Then she waited for Dorr to come.

By and by he came. He was still without his sword. He rushed to her, as she turned at the sound of the little footstep, and tumbled into her arms head first.

“Mamma,” he said, “I have martial-courted myself! I runned after him, but he wouldn’t strike me. Then I thought what you said ’bout ‘kisses for blows,’ but he wouldn’t kiss me; but I know’d there should be a kiss somewheres, ’cause ’twas your kind of a battle, not papa’s; so I gave him my sword, and asked him to come to play--and--well, mamma, I haven’t got any sword no more!”

The little heart heaved; but mamma hugged him close, and shed a glad tear to think her teaching had had its effect as well as papa’s.

“My kind of battles are very hard, much harder to be fought than papa’s,” she said, “and Dorr is braver than if he had killed a hundred men.”

TIM’S PARTNER.

BY AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.

“Ain’t got nothin’, Miss May, to set up a chap in housekeepin’--have you?”

“Housekeeping!” the young lady cried in surprise. “Why, surely, Tim, you are not thinking of--” and she paused, suddenly eying the figure before her from head to foot.

A strange, misshapen creature it was. He was barely eighteen, but he might have been twice that from the looks of his face, which was thin and sharp, and wrinkled about the eyes and forehead, surmounted by a shock of sandy brown hair, and thatched with an old gray felt hat going to tatters. A short, humpbacked figure, with a body out of all proportion to the pinched, slender legs. The arms were long, and finished by hands twice too large. A poor, pitiful object; yet there was something wistful and touching in the great brown eyes.

“Of gettin’ married? Was you goin’ to say that, Miss May? He! he! A gal would want a husband mighty bad, wouldn’t she, when she picked up such a crooked stick? The good Lord knows why he made me this way, I s’pose,” falling for a moment into a reflective mood. “But ’tain’t that, Miss May. I’ve got a room of old Mother Budd, and a stove, and a mattress, and now I’ve taken a pardner--Jerry; but you don’t know nothin’ ’bout him. He’s a little chap what’s had a drunken father all his life, and has to get about on two crutches--worse’n me, a good sight,” looking down with pride on his thin legs and substantial feet. “And now his father’s sent up to the Island, ’nd he had no place to go to. So we’ve set up together. He’s smart in some ways, is Jerry--kin sew like a gal, and cook, and we’ll get along just jolly. Only if we had some dishes and things. You see we have to pay a dollar a week in advance, for old Mother Budd’s sharp at a bargain, lookin’ out for tricks. Then I bought some coal an’ wood, an’ that took about all my spare capital.” He gave a sort of humorous grin, as he said “capital.”

He had shoveled off the snow and cleaned out the gutter to perfection. Miss May had paid him thirty cents. After a moment she said,--

“Come down in the basement, Tim. I should not wonder if we could find you an outfit. Two boys housekeeping! It’s rather funny!”

Tim scraped and wiped his feet, stood his shovel in the corner of the area, and followed the young lady within. All winter he had been on hand to clean the sidewalk and put in coal. Besides his wages she had given him a few old garments, and his gratitude had touched her. Now she felt rather amused.

Bridget gave him a somewhat unfriendly stare as he entered the kitchen. She never could understand why a lady like Miss May should take fancies “to beggars and that sort of trash.” Dr. May looked rather serious about it, and wished her mother had lived, or that aunt Helen knew how to interest her in other people. He saw quite enough of the misery and wretchedness of the world without having his pretty young daughter breaking her heart over it.

“Come and warm yourself, Tim. Bridget, where are those cracked and checked dishes and old tins I picked out the other day? And there are some chairs down cellar. O, and those old comfortables I laid away.”

“Sure, miss, I was goin’ to ask you if I mightn’t give the dishes to my cousin, Ann Flynn, who is to be married on Sunday night. They’d be a godsend to her.”

“We’ll divide them;” and Miss May smiled.

Bridget very unwillingly opened the closet door. The idea of giving china dishes to a beggar! She grudged everything that could go to a “cousin.”

Miss May picked out two cups and saucers, four plates, two bowls, and several miscellaneous articles, including a block-tin tea-pot and two or three dilapidated tin pails.

“O, Miss May! Why, we’ll feel as grand as kings!” and the eyes were lustrous with gratitude.

“Here’s a basket to pack them in. Bridget, give him a little tea and sugar, and some of the cold meat left yesterday. I’ll run up stairs and find some bed-clothes.”

She came back laden. Tim’s face glowed to its utmost capacity, which was large, seeing that he had been out in the cold all the morning.

“There, I haven’t any table, but all these will help. You are sure your partner, as you call him, is a trusty fellow?”

“He’s good as gold, though he hain’t no legs worth speakin’ of. He used to sell papers on the cars, but he stumbled one day, ’nd had one cut off, and t’other hurt. His father used to keep him round beggin’, but he’s bound to have nice times now along o’ me. If you could hear him sing, Miss May--it’s like a bird hangin’ out a winder. When the weather comes warm he kin sell apples and flowers, and sich. I’ll have a little spare capital bimeby to start him with. An’ it’ll be next to havin’ folks of one’s very own. I never had any, you see. Not that I’d want a father like Jerry’s. Poor little chap, he’s had rough times, what with the beatin’ and the starvin’.”

Miss May winked a tear out of her blue eyes. How ready these street Arabs were to stand by one another! Would anybody in her “set” take in a poor brother unhesitatingly?

Tim was grateful from the very depths of his soul, and it was no mean one. He bundled the articles in a great pack, and shouldered them, chairs and all, and drew his rough sleeve across his eyes, while his good-bye had a very husky sound.

If Miss May could have heard the rejoicing!

And yet it was a miserable little room, up three flights of stairs, with only one window looking into a rear house. Their bedstead had been made of dry goods boxes, and when they covered it with her clean chintz comfortable, and arrayed their closet shelves with the dishes, leaving the door open so they could feast their eyes on their new possessions, they could not resist giving three cheers; and Tim was actually coaxed into dancing a breakdown, while Jerry clapped “Finnegan’s Wake” with his thin hands on the one good knee he had left. It was a blustering March day, but they two had a delightfully warm room and a feast. What amused them most of all was beautiful Miss May’s idea that Tim was going to be married.

“Tim,” said Jerry solemnly, when their laugh had ended, “I don’t know how girls feel about such poor cripples as you and me, but my opinion is that my mammy would have been glad enough to had a husband with the great, tender heart you’ve got. Poor mammy! I’m glad she’s in heaven along of the angels, and I’m glad she don’t know about my legs. God wouldn’t tell her when she was so happy--would He, Tim?”

“No, He wouldn’t,” said Tim over a great lump in his throat.

There never were such happy days in the life of either as those that followed. Jerry cooked, kept accounts, washed, ironed, and mended, and as the days grew warmer began to do quite a thriving business in button-hole bouquets, standing on the corner as the men went up town. Now and then he sold popular photographs on commission, or a lot of choice bananas.

Tim was brisk and active, and caught up all manner of odd jobs. Now and then he saw Miss May. Once he sent Jerry with a bouquet of flowers.

“I wanted you to see him, Miss May,” he said afterward, hanging around until he caught sight of her. “He don’t look pale and peaked, as he did when we first set up. It’s good livin’, you see, and no beatin’s. And we have just the jolliest times you ever heard of. He don’t want me to call him anything but pardner. I do believe that ere little chap would give his life for me.”

“O, Tim, how good you are!” she cried. “You shame richer and wiser people. It is very noble to take that poor little boy by the hand and love and protect him.”

“Noble!” echoed Tim, pulling his forelock and coloring through the tan and grime. “Why, Miss May, he’s a sight of help and comfort to me; better’n any wife would be, ’cause, you see, no woman who’d take me ever’d be half so good.”

“Tim,” she said, opening her dainty Russia leather pocket-book, “I want to add a little mite to your happiness. I am going to the country soon, for the whole summer. I want you to take this, and spend it just as I tell you. You and Jerry must go on some nice excursion; there will be plenty of them presently. Get a good dinner, and take all the delight you can, and remember to tell me all about it afterward.”

“O, Miss May, you are too good for anybody’s folks! Indeed, I’ll tell you every word. And can I come again next winter to shovel snow and do chores?”

“Yes, indeed. I shall be glad to have you. God bless you and your partner, poor, brave little soul. I shall think of you often.”

“I never see an angel ’xcept the ones in the picters with wings, but I know Miss May is one,” said Tim to himself.

Tim and his partner counted their money that night. Business had been flourishing of late.

“There’s twenty-one dollars that we’ve saved up free and clear, and the lady’s five. Tim, you had better put it in the bank;” and Jerry’s eyes sparkled feverishly.

“I’d have to hide the bank book then;” and Tim chuckled. “Think of havin’ a bank account! Why, we’d feel a’most like Astor, or the old Commodore.”

“But I wish you would, Tim. I’m afraid to have so much in the house. It will be something against winter when business is dull. Now we’re making plenty to live on. Won’t you, Tim?”

“To be sure I will--to-morrow. And we’ll hide the book in that same chink in the floor. No one would think of looking there. And we’ll have a rousin’ time on some ’xcursion. We’ll choose one with a brass band, and have a little dance in one corner by ourselves. There isn’t the beat of Miss May in this whole world.”

“She’s good, but then she’s rich, you know. Five dollars doesn’t look so large to her as it does to you and me. But, Tim, I love you better than a hundred Miss Mays.”

Tim chuckled and winked hard, but said never a word.

He was off early in the morning, as he had an important job on hand. Jerry would have dinner all ready at noon, and he would put on his “store clothes” and go down to the bank like any other swell. My eyes! Weren’t they in clover?

Tim could not get home until three; but he had earned two dollars since morning. They each had a key to the door, and finding it locked, Tim drew out his. Jerry had gone to business; afternoons were his time. There was no dinner set out on the table and covered with a napkin. A curious chill of something like neglect went to Tim’s warm heart; but he whistled it away, found a bite of cold meat and some oatmeal. Then he decided he would run over on Broadway and tell Jerry of his good luck. It was too late to think of going to the bank.

No little chap sat on the well-known corner. Tim walked up a block, down again, and studied the cross street sharply. Had he sold out and gone home? Or may be he had taken the money to the bank! Tim ran home again. Yes, that was it. The money was gone.

He waited and waited. Somehow he did not feel a bit jolly; but he boiled the kettle and laid the supper. No Jerry yet. What had become of him? Had he put on his best suit?

They had made a clothes-press out of a dry goods box, and Tim went to inspect it. Why--Jerry’s shelf was entirely empty. Shirts, stockings, yes, everything, even to his old every-day suit, gone. Tim dropped on the floor, and hid his face in his hands. Had Jerry--

It was funny, but Tim squared off and gave the box a thump that bruised his knuckles. It seemed to him that the box had breathed a suspicion that Jerry had stolen the money and run away. Then he kicked it, and sat down and cried as if his heart would break. His pardner, little Jerry, a thief! No, he would never, never believe it.

He sat up till midnight, and it seemed to him there had never been such loneliness since the world began. Then the next morning he made some inquiries. Their two nearest neighbors were washerwomen. Both had been out all day. No one had seen Jerry.

If Jerry’s father were not in prison--but he had been sent up in February for a year, and here it was only the last of June. Or if there had been any evil companions hanging around; but Jerry and every scrap of his belongings, as well as the money, had surely disappeared.

There was no gay excursion for Tim. He brooded over his desertion, and grew morose, began to save his money again, and shut himself up like a hermit. The poor, crippled boy that he had taken to his heart, that he had warmed and fed! Ah! it was very bitter. Perhaps not even his beautiful Miss May would care to remember him.

So he did not go near her. Autumn came on apace. One dreary November day, when he could find nothing to do, he turned homeward, weary and heart-sick. Ah, if there was only a cheery voice to welcome him!

Some one stood by his door, a lady in dainty attire. Some one caught his arm, and cried,--

“O, Tim, I’m so glad you have come! I have been waiting almost an hour. Tim, I’ve found little Jerry, and he is dying; but he asks for you constantly. Come right away. Don’t lose a moment.”

“Jerry!” in a sort of dazed way, as if he but half understood. “Little Jerry--my pardner? O, Miss May--no, you can’t mean it--dying?”

“Yes. Hurry, Tim. I’ve waited so long already!”

They walked down the stairs, scudded through the streets to a horse car. It seemed to Tim as if they rode an hour. Then they alighted, and a short walk brought them to a decent looking tenement house. Up one flight of stairs, and the door opened.

“Is it Tim?” asked a weak voice.

Tim threw himself on his knees by the bedside, and kissed the sweet, wan face with the tenderness of a mother. For some minutes only sobs were heard.

“You told him, Miss May?”

“No, Jerry. We hurried so there was no chance. But I will tell him every word.”

“O, Tim, you didn’t think I was a thief? It broke my heart to go. It was father. He got out some way, and had been watching us. He came that night when we were so happy counting our money, but he didn’t dare offer to take me away then. The next morning he walked in with a paper, which he said was a warrant for me, and that if I dared to say a word he’d send me to the Refuge. I picked up my things--I was so afraid of him--and then he wanted the money, and swore if I didn’t get it he’d murder me. I told him I wouldn’t; so he tied my hands and bound my mouth, lest I should scream, and then he hunted everywhere; and O, Tim, he found it! He took me right out of the city with him to a vile den, where they wanted to make a thief of me.”

“O, Jerry, dear, don’t talk; it takes away all your strength. God knows I never could have a hard thought of you now;” and Tim broke down.

“Just a little. I couldn’t get back to you. They watched me, and beat me until I was sore and stiff; and there I staid until only a fortnight ago, when one night I gave them the slip. I wanted to come back and tell you how it was, but the way was so far, and I was so tired, so tired! Then I fell down in the street, and a good woman picked me up and brought me in here, where it’s so nice and clean, Tim, and such a quiet place to die in! And then I don’t seem to remember much until yesterday, when Miss May came in, and this morning, when she brought her father. And then I wanted to see you, to tell you--Tim, if I could live and earn the money--you were so good to me--so good. Tim, if you could hold me in your arms again! Miss May said I would find mammy in heaven; that God cared for poor little boys. Does He, Tim? I like you to tell me. And will you come and let me be your pardner again? Is it very far? Kiss me, Tim. You know now I wasn’t a thief. Miss May sang something yesterday about opening the starry gates--”

“At the portals Jesus waits;
All the heavenly host, begin;
Open wide the starry gates,
Let the little traveller in,”

sang the sweet voice over a tremulous sob.

Closer clung the thin arms, and the cool cheek was pressed against Tim’s, hot with burning tears. The little hands that had kept their house tidy, and prepared the simple meals, lay limp and useless. The eyes could not see any more, but the lips smiled and murmured a few incoherent words, soft, sweet, and then an awesome silence. The little waif Jerry had gone over the river.

“O, Miss May,” cried Tim, “they _will_ take him in--won’t they? For, you see, the poor little chap didn’t have a square chance in this world! He’s been kicked and cuffed about, and had to go on crutches, an’ been half starved many a time, but he wouldn’t lie nor steal for all that. He ought to be happy somewheres. O, Jerry! Jerry! I loved you so! And you was true to the last!”

“They will take him in,” Miss May says, with solemn tenderness. And presently she unclasps the arms that are wound around Jerry’s neck, lays the poor hands straight, and leads Tim over by the window. He looks at her with dumb, questioning eyes, as if he would fain have her fathom the mystery that he knows so little about. She brushes away some tears; but O, what can she say to comfort him? For Jerry was all he had.

Presently Tim comes back and kisses the cold lips and stares at the strange beauty overspreading the wan face.

“O, Miss May,” he cries, “do you suppose I could ever earn enough to pay for his being buried in some country place, where there’d be a few flowers and a tree growing over him? I’d work all my life long. For he’d like it so. I can’t bear to think of having him carried away--”

“No,” she says, with a shiver. “I will see about it, Tim.” Then she gives a few orders to the woman, and goes away, leaving Tim with his “pardner.”

Dr. May shook his head at his daughter at first, and said it was folly; but two days after he had him buried in a pretty rural cemetery, with a white marble slab above his head containing two words--“Tim’s Partner.” And Tim, who takes care of the doctor’s horse now, and does odd chores, pauses occasionally and says to Miss May, “There never can be anybody quite like Jerry to me again. Over in the other country we’ll be pardners forever.”

“UNTO BABES.”

BY HELEN KENDRICK JOHNSON.

“’Et, ittie oottie, I dettie ut ’en it det e ittie iter;” which, being interpreted, means, “Yes, little rooster, I’ll get up when it gets a little lighter.”

The same was uttered by a pair of cherry lips, opening below a pair of laughing eyes, which were parted from the cherry lips by a cherry nose. The nose was cherry because it stuck out from the face so round and plump that the sun, which had been around painting cherries just this time of the year, threw a glance at it and said, “There’s another!” and gave it a good strong stroke with his brush. This little accident made the whole face look funny; for, like most people who do their work in a hurry, the sun had dipped up so much paint, and dashed it at the nose so carelessly, that it had hit ever so many other places--a spot on the chin, a daub on the cheeks, and a streak on the forehead.

Now there is some excuse for the sun; for while everybody knows that boys never will stand still long enough to have their faces properly attended to, everybody, little and big, and not only that, but every tree and flower and blade of grass, keeps dancing and whirling about, while the sun is trying to fix it.

The result is just what you would expect--apples with one red cheek and one white one, blackberries with three colors on the same stem, so that the boys can always quote the old riddle, “blackberries are red when they’re green,” and cherries that make half your pail-full, “not fit to eat,” according to your mother, and speckled little fellows, just like this one.

On this particular morning there was great excitement in the towzley head that popped up to make the lucid remark above quoted. His big sister did not dream that little Wide Awake took it all literally when she said, “Don’t get up the first time the rooster crows.”

She forgot that childhood’s sweetest trait is trust, and she was startled to remember it when she heard the precious little fellow’s sweet voice twitter out in the faint dawn:

“Et, ittie ootie, I dettie ut ’en it det e ittie iter.”

Long before the sun had fairly got his paints mixed for another dash at the fruit and the children, Strut crowed again.

Was Wide Awake asleep? Asleep, indeed! Up went the head again, and this time two flying heels followed, and the bright voice sang again:

“’E ootie c’ows, an’ _a’aw_ ’e do’s.”

He meant to say:

“The rooster crows, and away he goes,” meaning his little self.

“Little brother, it isn’t time to get up for an hour. Hop into bed again,” called out Sister Laura.

“’Ou ed e _’econ’_ tine,” said a sorrowful, drooping little voice.

“Go to sleep--that’s a good boy!” was the answer, and Laura set the copy for him by going off instantly herself.

But Wide Awake had not won his name without deserving it, and he passed a long and lonesome hour trying to amuse himself with nothing.

Finally, dressing-time came. When he reached the kitchen, all was as busy as a coming picnic could make it. Dinah was flying from cellar to pantry, and from pantry to oven. As soon as he got to the back stairs door-way, Wide Awake spied something wrong high up on Dinah’s back.

“Attieilly on ou olly,” he cried out.

“Keep still, Allie; don’t boffer me screaming,” said Dinah.

“_Attieilly on ou olly_,” said he, coming close to her, and pointing, and pulling her dress.

“Go ’long, I tell you!” said she. “I’ll tell your sister, and you won’t get no cake.”

Allie reluctantly stepped back a little; but he spoke volumes of anxiety, had any one been looking.

No one was.

“Oh! what’s dat on my neck?” screamed out Dinah, in a minute. “Oh-h-h!”

“Allie _tole_ Dine attieilly on ou olly,” said Allie, as Dinah’s cries brought Laura, who picked off from Dinah’s neck an immense caterpillar, which the patient little fellow had been compelled to watch in its upward journey from the shoulder where he first espied it.

At length the preparations were fairly finished, the horses were at the door, Allie’s eyes were dancing almost out of his head with joy, the refreshments were all packed in, and, almost in the midst of the baskets a stool was set for Allie, and his happy little self deposited upon it. The rest were finally seated, and the picnickers move off for Dudley’s woods.

Everybody talked and laughed together; and Allie sang to himself, with no fear of being heard. Presently he seized an end of his sister’s shawl, and shouted with all his might:

“Doos, Laula, doos!”

“Yes, dear, Laula knows.”

“_My_ doos, Laula! my _doos_ ober dare.”

“Yes, dear, never mind,” was the answer.

“Ve’er min’ _doos_, Laula?” said the voice, anxiously.

“No, never mind, we’ll see another.”

“Where is the feather on your hat, child?” asked Laura, when they had ridden two miles farther.

“Doos _dawn_, Laula; ’ou ed no min’ my doos.”

“Dear me! that was what he called his feather,--his goose,” said she. “I might have remembered.”

“Laula, Allie’s feets feel ’et.”

“Wet, child? I guess not,” said Laura, and chatted on.

They were nearing the woods as she spoke, and soon the loaded carriages turned into a wood so uninviting and full of underbrush that you looked again all over the party to see if they appeared crazy from anything but gay spirits.

No, they were sane, no doubt; and there must be an explanation for such a choice. The explanation was, that it was not choice at all, it was circumstance which guided them. Twenty-five years ago that very day, a party of four young married people, with their older children, had come to this wood to pick blackberries, which grew in great abundance upon its borders. It was half a frolic; but still it was no accident that sent them home with forty shining black quarts to enjoy by their firesides. The next year they went again, and the next, and the next; and every year the company grew larger. But, strange to say, as it grew larger the quarts grew smaller, and finally, somehow or other, “the blackberries are not worth picking this year;” or “the blackberries are all dried up this year,” became the continual complaint when the excursionists returned home with emptier and emptier baskets.

But the “Blackberry Party” grew as thick as its namesake fruit had been of old, and now, for twenty-five years, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, grandchildren and neighbors, gathered to the time-honored festival. To be sure, every year more of the elders stayed behind, because they missed one and another who were there “last year,” and life’s merriment was checked for them forever until they should follow.

But new ones had come to take the lead, and the merry scenes went on in the gnarled old forest. It was a strange fact that in all these years the day on which the picnic occurred had never been stormy. A glorious succession of bright days had spanned the quarter of a century, and it was taken as a sign that heaven smiled peculiarly upon the innocent joy which the day was sure to bring.

This was the quarter centennial, and the procession had picked up little Allie, as “big enough to go this year.” And so little Allie was very happy, although, in spite of Sister Laura’s assurance, he _did_ think that his feet were “’et.”

Laura thought so too, in a minute; for she lifted a can that had once held six quarts from the “morning’s milking,” and found “only a stingy little pint or so,” left.

“Allie’s feet _us_ ’et, Laula,” said the voice, which did not dream that it sounded like the silver trumpet of an unheeded angel.

“Fisk an’ Tarlo ginkin auty, Laula,” said Allie once more.

“Carlo naughty! drive him away. But he won’t bite Allie.”

“No, _’e bite auty_, ’pring auty.”

“Never mind,--he won’t hurt you. Carlo is a good doggie.”

“Go ’way, there! What are you doing, you scamps! I declare! Frisk and Carlo have been drinking half that spring water!”

“Allie tole Laula.”

But Laula was bemoaning the loss; for the spring was almost a mile away, and this wood was provided with no modern conveniences.

The cask of ice-water was too precious to be used for cooking purposes, and away trudged the youths for another bucket-full.

This weakened the effective force of the dinner getters materially; for, under the pretense of picking the traditional blackberries, nearly all the party, in couples or in groups, had strayed off to parts unseen. The remaining ones were lighting a lively fire, and going through various manœuvres before it, and a certain odor therefrom said plainly, “You don’t often get better coffee than I come from.”

Allie, meantime, was roaming about unnoticed. He gained an immense amount of information in this leisure hour.

Presently Laura called out, “I have got the lemons ready; bring me that box of sugar.”

The box was brought, a ten-pound one, and full to the brim.

“Laula, don’ pu’ dat! Dat au ’alt, Laula!”

“Allie doesn’t like to see his pet sugar thrown away in such a big hole,” said she, gayly, as she emptied the box into the oaken cask. “Run for the ice-water, I hear them coming from all directions.”

Great white lumps of ice, pure cold water,--in they went, and Laura stirred violently with her monstrous ladle.

“Allie shall have the first taste,” said she, “to show him that his dear sugar is not wasted.”

“Allie don’ wan’! Allie know e au ’alt.”

“All spoilt? No, dear, just see how nice it is!”

“Laula pu’ in ’_alt_,” said he, again. “Laula ta’!”

Laula did “ta’,” then; and she dropped the cup with a scream of horror. For, besides the fact that ten pounds of salt in any combination do not help to make either a refreshing or a thirst-allaying drink, here were five dozen fine lemons, and many quarts of ice-water, a hopeless loss.

“How could that stupid Dinah bring the salt instead of the sugar?” she muttered, as soon as vexation would allow her to speak at all.

One by one the party dropped in, and the first cry was for lemonade, “Laura’s famous manufacture.” More famous than it ever had been it became immediately, and, amid the general din of exclamations no one heard Allie say:

“Allie knew. Allie _tole_ Laula ’bout _’alt_!”

Then was felt, with greater cruelty, the absence of milk for the fragrant coffee; and the delicious cake, and sandwiches, and ham, and turkey, and tarts, and pastry, were but half enjoyed.

It was with a heavy heart that poor Laura packed up the dishes, and laid away more untouched food, than usual.

A row of lemon and berry pies had been set upon one of the benches; and somebody, to keep the insects out, had thrown a table-cloth upon them. Along came two lovers, whose visions were only fairy-like, and who were in that state of mind when it made no difference where they rested or went, so that they rested or went together. With their eyes entirely occupied in gazing at one another, they wandered up to the temporary cupboard.

A little voice close by fairly screamed out:

“Don’ ’it on ’e bys! Don’t ’it on ’e bys!”

A vague smile into his earnest face was all the reply he received, and down sat the pair, too full of a fond trust in themselves to remember to doubt anything created.

“Oh! oh! oh! oh!” resounded all about them, and an instant later their own “oh” mingled in the chorus, as the groan of broken crockery rose on the air, and table-cloth and drapery were pronounced a ruin.

“’Ou ’at wite on ’e bys,” said a voice which was not needed to confirm the fact.

At length the light of the twenty-fifth glorious day began to steal in long darting lines among the foliage that had been a shelter from its rays all day. As the company assembled, it was found to have been an unusually bad year for blackberries, though why it should have been the most imaginative did not venture to suggest.

As they started homeward Laura said:

“Now sit right still, Allie, for fear you should fall out, for we shall go very fast indeed.”

There was little need for the warning, as Allie was well wedged down in front, and well wrapped up in an extra shawl of Laura’s, because she forgot to bring his little overcoat.

But by-and-by the whip worked quietly out of its broken holder, and no eyes but the two bright, observant eyes in the littlest head saw that in a minute it must fall.

The little fellow tried to dart forward, but the great shawl held him too securely.

“Sit still, Allie,” said Laura.

Poor Allie seemed to think he might as well, too. His warnings had saved nothing, yet; but still from his huge roll of woolen he said:

“’E ’ip dop, Laula.”

Presently the horses lagged a little, and the driver, leaning forward for his whip, discovered its loss.

The long procession halted, wondering what had happened to the first carriage. The whip was found, “’way back,” and, as two carriages had passed over it, it was a handsome whip no more.

“What a shame!” said the driver, as he tried to crack the broken lash.

“Allie tole ’ou. Allie’s patint am keen wown ou’!” fell from the cherry lips.

Now came home and bed for the little child who had begun to be joyous in anticipation at four o’clock in the morning. No wonder that in such a long series of discouragements his “patience was clear wore out.”

His sleep that night was broken by a kind of baby-boy, Cassandra-like murmur, which would have touched to its depths the heart of any tender soul that heard it.

“Laula,” it said, plaintively, “Allie tole ’ou!”

But Laula was fast asleep.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BABY.

BY MAGARET EYTINGE.

The Tutchy children were all mad.

I don’t mean they had lost their senses and required strait-jackets, but they certainly did need something to smooth the frowns from their brows and the pouts from their lips.

The Tutchy children were pretty children--when they weren’t mad--with bright blue eyes, much the color of some of their grandmother’s centennial dinner-plates, and auburn hair that looked as though it would, on the slightest provocation, turn red.

There were nine of them, Susie, Willie, Robbie, Lizzie, Nellie, Annie, Sallie, Maud and Baby.

Quite enough for such a little woman as Mrs. Tutchy to look after.

Captain Tutchy was away--he was away about half the time with his ship “The Treasure”--named, he said, after his wife--and Mrs. Tutchy had just received a letter from him saying he could not be home for the Christmas holidays, and so the children must wait for their presents and their party until he came, “and you may expect me, my dear,” the letter ended, “the second day of the New Year.”

And this is why the Tutchy children were mad.

They said nothing until mamma, hearing baby cry, went out of the room. Then they began:

“What will Christmas be without papa?” said Lizzie. “Who’s to laugh, I’d like to know? Papa does most of the laughing.”

“I shan’t, for one!” said Willie.

“Nor I,” said Robbie.

“There won’t be a bit of fun getting up early on Christmas morning,” said Nellie. “No boxes to open, and no stockings to empty!”

“_I’ll_ not hang up my stocking, and I’ll not get up early, either--so there now!” said Annie.

“Why? won’t Santa Claus come at all?” asked Sallie and Maud, in one breath.

“Yes, I s’pose he’ll come,” answered Annie, “but he won’t bring such nice things as he does when papa’s home. He’s a very, very old friend of papa’s.”

“No party! Just think of it!” said Susie. “’Twon’t seem like Christmas.”

“And the captain,” said Robbie, who was fond of giving the captain his title, “isn’t coming back till the day school begins. He never did such a thing before, and _I_ think it’s real mean!”

“Great old holidays!” said Lizzie.

“_I’m_ mad!” said Susie, who, by-the-by, was the eldest of them all.

“So are we all of us!” said the others in chorus.

Just then Mrs. Tutchy came into the room with Baby in her arms, and in Baby’s arms was a funny, broken-nosed doll.

Baby was the sweetest, dearest little thing that ever played “patty-cake” or said “goo.”

Her eyes were so blue that you thought of violets, blue-bells, and summer skies, the moment you saw them, and then gave it up, for there was nothing quite as blue as they were, and her silken hair lay all over her pretty, round head in tiny rings just the size and color of mamma’s wedding-ring.

Mrs. Tutchy looked both surprised and sad when she saw eight frowns and pouts--perhaps I should say seven, as wee Maud’s almost disappeared when she looked up at her mother--instead of eight smiles.

But she pretended not to notice the sixteen unlovely things, and said, in a pleasant voice, “Baby is ready for a ride. I have wrapped her up warmly. Get her hood, Susie, and, Willie and Robbie, fasten her little wagon on your new sled. You may all go for a walk--I don’t remember such a fine 24th of December for years--but I shall expect you home in an hour, and whatever you do, take good care of Baby.”

Now if the Tutchy children had not been mad they would have jumped up and down and shouted and half-smothered Baby with hugs and kisses; but being mad, they went silently about--their silence, to tell the truth, would have been considered noise by a small, quiet family--preparing for their walk.

And when they were ready, if Maud had not set them the example, they would have actually forgotten to kiss mamma “good-by.” Dear me! how mad they were!

Off they started in a funereal manner, Susie and Maud ahead, the other girls following two by two, and the boys dragging Baby, still holding the broken-nosed doll, in her little wagon on the sled, bringing up the rear.

Baby crowed and cooed and prattled to her dollie--there never was a jollier baby in the whole world--but still Will and Bobbie frowned and pouted.

“I wish we didn’t have to lug Baby everywhere,” at last said Willie.

“So do I,” said Robbie.

They had never thought, much less said such a thing before, but then they had never been quite as mad before.

Suddenly the sound of a drum was heard, then the shrill blasts of horns and the ear-piercing strains of a fife, and they could see a crowd gathering in the distance.

“Hurry up!” called Susie, who had remarkably sharp eyes, “there’s some men on horseback dressed awful funny!” and away she ran, dragging Maud by the hand, and away went Nellie, Lizzie, Annie and Sallie after her as fast as they could go.

“We can’t run with Baby,” said Willie, “and we’ll miss all the fun!”

“Too bad!” said Robbie, with two frowns rolled into one. “But I say, Will, let’s go anyhow.”

“Pshaw! there won’t be anything to see by the time _we_ get there,” said Will.

“I don’t mean to take Baby,” said Robbie. “We’ll leave her by the door of this empty house. Nothing can happen to her before we come back.”

“That’s so,” said Will, “we won’t be gone a minute;” and they lifted the sled, wagon and all, up the two steps that led to the door, and, before Baby knew what they were about, they were off.

The other children were already two blocks away, but the boys soon overtook them, and another block brought them to the spot where the crowd was gathered.

The frowns and pouts, for the time being, disappeared, and the Tutchys laughed long and loud at the antics of the queer-looking figures who were parading about with a patch-work banner inscribed, “Old Original Santa Claus Guards,” when suddenly Susie turned around, and with frightened eyes cried out:

“Why Will,--Robbie, where’s Baby?”

Will hung his head, but Robbie, assuming a careless air, replied:

“The captain’s youngest daughter? O! she’s safe. We couldn’t bring her and run after you too, and so we left her.”

But Susie waited to hear no more. “Show me where!” she said, and they all started back again on a much faster run than that with which they had followed “The Old Original Santa Claus Guards.”

The “house to let” was quickly reached.

No sled--no wagon--no broken-nosed doll--no BABY was there!

And now indeed the frowns and pouts took flight, and tears and sobs came in their stead.

“O dear! O dear!” cried the Tutchy children, “what shall we do?”

Then they ran hither and thither, asking every one they met:

“Have you seen a baby in a little wagon on a sled?”

“A beautiful baby, with blue eyes?”

“A broken-nosed baby--O, no, no, no! a _lovely_ baby with a broken-nosed doll?”

“A sweet baby, with golden curls?”

“A baby named ‘Snow-drop’ and ‘Diamond’ and ‘Bird’ and ‘Plum’?”

No one had seen her, and sadly the procession took up the line of march for home.

How they told their mamma they never knew, but when the tale was done she gave one great gasp, and tore out of the house like a wild woman, with no hat on her head, and nothing but a small shawl about her.

“I must go too,” said Susie, and she flew after the poor distracted mother, while the seven other children sat down on the floor and cried.

“O! how wicked we have been,” said Lizzie, “to say that to-morrow wouldn’t be a merry Christmas, when we had such a darling, beautiful baby!”

“And dear papa coming home in a few days!” sobbed Nellie.

“And mamma so good and sweet!” said Sallie.

“And all of us such very nice chilluns!” said Maud.

Willie and Robbie said nothing, but buried their faces in their hands, and wept softly.

The sun went down, and back came mamma and Susie, hollow-eyed and pale, but no Baby.

Not one of the children thought of stockings, or presents, or parties, or Christmas itself, that wretched Christmas Eve, but they clustered in silence, real silence this time, about their mother, until one by one they fell asleep.

But Mrs. Tutchy sat with dry, wide-opened eyes, listening--listening all night long, until the joyous morning chimes rang out upon the clear, frosty air.

As they ceased, the sharp ringing of the street door-bell echoed through the quiet house.

Dropping wee Maud from her lap, where she had slept for several hours, the poor little woman, her heart beating loud and fast, hastened with trembling steps to the door and flung it open.

There stood a tall, straight negro woman, with a gaudy turban on her head, a small boy, much darker than herself, clinging to her skirts with one hand, and yes--O, thanks to the good God--holding the rope of the boys’ sled with the other, baby in her arms!

Almost as wild with joy as she had been with sorrow, the mother snatched her darling, and covered her with kisses.

“Come in, come in,” she cried, in her old, pleasant voice, the tired gone out of her face, and her eyes shining bright with happiness.

Up jumped the Tutchy children from all corners of the room, and such a hurrahing and shouting of “Merry Christmas,” and kissing of Baby never was known, even in _that_ house before.

“An’ now, yo’ Abraham Ulysses, yo’ jess tell the lady yo’ information,” said the woman to the grinning boy, pulling her dress out of his hand, and pushing him forward.

“Needn’t push so,” said Abraham Ulysses, rolling his eyes about in the most wonderful manner for a moment, and then fixing them solemnly on Mrs. Tutchy’s face.

“I war a-goin’ along, an’ da’ war a drum down da’--I’s goin’ to have a drum--”

“I’ll _drum_ ye,” interrupted his mother, giving him a smart slap on the cheek. “Perceed on yo’ story widout no prelimnaries.”

“Yo’ jess stop dat now, Mary Ann Johnson. I ain’t tellin’ no story. I’s tellin’ the truff, ebery word of it, an’ yo’d better mine yo’ brack bisness, Mary Ann Johnson, and dat’s de fac’!”

“Lissen at dat ar sassy young nigger!” said Mary Ann Johnson, raising her hands and eyes. “Go on, I tell yo.”

Abraham Ulysses went on.

“Da war a drum an’ sojers--I’s goin’ to be a sojer, a sword sojer--and all de wite folks dey runned to see ’em, an’ I runned, too, but ’pears, tho’, I couldn’t git da’, an’ I see dis yere baby a-settin’ on a sled, an’ I sez to myself, ‘Bressed nippers! Abra’m ’Lysses, dat ar’s one of dem angel babies dat done come done from hebben Chrismasses, an’ dat ar’ sled she’s a-settin on, Santy Close’s goin’ to giv’ to yo’ sho’s yo’ bohn!’ an’ I took hole dat ar rope, an’ drug dat ar’ sled--”

“To our premises,” interrupted his mother, “an’ he cum a-runnin’ in, an’ a-shoutin’ ‘Hi! mam, here’s a little angel fer yo’! take her out de waggin quick, an’ giv’ de sled to me.’”

“But bress yo’ heart, honey, I knowed dat ar’ baby was mislaid de minute dese eyes beheld her, an’ I took de sweet thing in my arms an’ mollified her tears, an’ giv’ her some milk an’ soon she fell asleep.

“An’ I set up dis yere bressed night wid dat ar’ bressed chile, ’spectin’ ebery minute somebody’d come and require for her, an’ sho’ ’nuff, a perliceman makes his appearment early dis yere bressed mornin’ an’ tole me--how he foun’ out war de chile was de Lord ony knows--to fetch de pooty lammie here, an’ I done come tho’ Mr. Johnson is a-waitin fer his breakfis’, an’ de pork a-sizzlin’ in de pan dis yere bressed minute.”

“Thank you a million times!” said Mrs. Tutchy; and in the twinkling of an eye Mary Ann Johnson was several dollars richer than when she entered the room.

“Thank you a million of times!” repeated the children; and Will, after whispering a moment with Robbie, went up to Abraham Ulysses, and placed the rope of the sled, which he had dropped while telling his story, in his funny little black hand. “The ‘Two-Forty’ is yours,” he said.

“Hi, mam! look a-yere, yo’ Mary Ann Johnson, wot I done tole yo’? Santy Close _did_ send it to me,” screamed Abraham Ulysses, cutting a queer caper, “an’ sho’s yo’s bohn dat ar’ baby _is_ an angel, too, ain’t she?” turning to Mrs. Tutchy.

“Yes, my boy,” said the happy little woman, “the angel of _this_ house.”

MRS. WHITE’S PARTY.

BY MRS. H. G. ROWE.

“Now, Ef May, you go right straight back home! Lotty an’ I want a little time to ourselves without a little snip like you taggin’ after, an’ listenin’ to every word we say; so you go right straight back this minute!”

Little Effie Maylie Marsh (called “Ef May” for short) turned her round blue eyes for a moment full upon her sister, and then, without word or sign, trotted composedly along in that sister’s wake, serenely oblivious of the fact that she was the one too many in the little party that had started, joyful at the prospect of a whole afternoon’s confidential chat, for the blackberry patch over the hill, when poor Ef May as usual intruded her roly-poly presence just when she was least wanted.

“Did Mother know that you came?”

Sister Anne looked and spoke with all the dignity that her twelve years was capable of, but the intruder never flinched.

“Yes, she did. _I_ said lemme go pick blackberry with the other girls, an’ _she_ said”--

“What?”

“Yes, if they don’t pro_ject_.”

Both girls laughed, for Ef May was famous for her conversational blunders, and good-natured Lotty whispered under the shelter of her sunbonnet:

“Let her go, she won’t do any harm.”

“Yes she will. She’ll hear every single word we say and tell Gus of it just as quick as she gets home. _I_ know her, of old.”

Poor Anne had had bitter experiences of her little sister’s quickness of hearing and equal quickness in repeating whatever she had heard, and she was far too shrewd to trust her on this occasion. But how to get rid of the dear little nuisance--ah, that was the rub!

“May,” she whispered mysteriously, and Ef May pricked up her ears and looked curious. “If you’ll go home now, like a good girl, you shall (put your ear closer, so Lotty won’t hear) go to _Mrs. White’s party_, to-night.”

Ef May had often heard older people talk about parties, and in her inquisitive little soul she had longed many a time, to know more about them, and especially to see with her own eyes what they were like; and now she stood with her great blue eyes wide open like a pair of very early morning glories, and a little flush of excitement deepened the roses on her plump cheeks, as Anne continued in her most seductive tones:

“Now, run right along, there’s a darling! and I’ll get you ready, my own self, and see that you have a”--

“Rockaway?” suggested Lotty, in a voice that sounded suspiciously hoarse, to which Anne replied, with an air of lofty disdain that,--

“Ef May had outgrown such babyish ways long ago, and would go to the party as other folks did.”

Ef May was a very old bird for one of her age, and this “chaff” between the two girls did strike her as a little suspicious. Perhaps there was some hidden flaw in this magnificent offer, and jerking her little yellow curly head one side like a shrewd canary, she fixed one round, bright eye full upon her sister’s face as she asked solemnly:

“Now, Anne Marsh,--‘honest an’ true, black an’ blue,’ can I go to Mrs. White’s party, this very night?”

“Yes, you shall, if I have to go with you myself.”

Ef May was satisfied; even Lotty’s half suppressed giggle passed unobserved, and her face shone with happy anticipation as turning her chubby feet homeward she smiled her parting salutation:

“Good-by,--I’ll go home an’ _’repair_ myself for the party.”

The girls laughed, but Lotty said rather regretfully:

“It was kinder too bad to _fool_ the little thing so. What will you say to her when night comes?”

“Oh, I’ll coax her up, somehow--make her doll a new hat, maybe.”

And thus dismissing poor Ef May and her forthcoming disappointment from their minds the two girls walked gaily on, laughing and chatting in their pleasant school-girl fashion, as they gathered the rich purple berries, heedless of scratched hands and stained finger tips, while they listened to the partridge drumming in the cedars overhead, or the social chatter of that provident little householder the squirrel, who, perched upon some convenient bough out of possible reach of their longing fingers, discoursed in the choicest squirrel language of his way of preserving acorns and beechnuts by a receipt handed down from squirrel forefathers as far back as the days of Noah--a receipt that never had failed and never would.

It was after sunset when, with full baskets and tired steps, they walked up the lane that led to Anne’s home, both starting guiltily as they caught sight of Ef May’s little figure seated in the doorway with her bowl of bread and milk and her blue eyes turned wistfully upon them as they came slowly up the clover-bordered path.