Chapter VIII: Front Matter (8)

“I was in hopes she’d be asleep,” muttered Anne with an uncomfortable feeling at the heart as she saw the joyfully significant nod with which her little sister greeted her, and hastily bestowing a generous handful of the delicious fruit upon her, she said, with an effort to appear natural and at ease:

“See what a lot of nice, ripe blackberries I brought you!”

The little girl smiled, but she shook her head with an air of happy importance.

“I’ll put ’em away for my breakfast,” she whispered. “I must save my appetite for _to-night_, you know.”

Anne could have cried with a relish.

“Oh, Ef May,” she began penitently, “I’m afraid I’ve done wrong in telling you--”

“Come, Anne! Come right in! Supper is waiting for you,” called their mother, and the confession was postponed until they should be alone again; but when that time came, and, after her usual custom Anne took the little one to her room to undress and put her to bed, the sight of the child’s happy expectant face forced back the words that she would have spoken and made her feel that she could not yet confess the deception.

“You must curl my hair real pretty, now. I _do_ wish,” with a sigh, “that mamma would let me wear her _waterwig_.”

And the bright eyes shone like stars, as she thus gave the signal for the preparations to commence; and Anne obeyed, patiently brushing out the tangled locks and curling them one by one over her fingers, while she listened to the excited chatter of her little charge and vaguely wondered how long it would be possible for those dreadfully wide awake eyes to keep open. She was as long about her task as possible, but the the last curl was finished at last, and Effie asked eagerly:

“What dress are you going to put on me?”

By this time poor Anne was fairly desperate.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said with a sudden determination to carry out the joke to the end, “that this is a queer party, something like the ‘sheet and pillow case balls,’ that you’ve heard of,--and everybody goes to this in----in their nightgowns.”

Ef May looked up sharply.

“What’s that for?” she asked with a suspicious look at her sister’s guilty face.

“Because--well, I guess its because its the fashion.”

Ef May pondered the subject for a moment, and then her brow cleared:

“I’ll wear my very bestest one, then, with the _tuckered out_ yoke an’ _Humbug_ trimming,” she said, complacently, “an’ my corals outside.”

Anne obeyed without a word, and the little lady surveyed herself in the glass with a smile of intense satisfaction.

“Ain’t it most time to go?” she asked, and Anne detecting, as she thought, just the ghost of a yawn in the tone, replied briskly:

“Oh no, not for some time yet. Come and sit in my lap,--there lay your head on my shoulder, ea-sy, so as not to tumble the curls, and I’ll sing, ‘Tap, tap, tapping at the garden gate,’ so you won’t get tired of waiting you know.”

The little girl was nothing loth to accept her sister’s offer, for in spite of her exertions to keep herself awake the heavy eyelids would droop, the curly head press more heavily, and the lively, chattering little tongue grow slower and more indistinct in its utterances until at last it was silent altogether; not even the tiniest line of blue parted the golden lashes, the dimples settled undisturbed into their old places about the rosy mouth while only the faintest breath of a sigh answered to Anne’s good-night kiss as she softly laid her precious burden down among the snowy pillows of her own little bed, and stole away, with the secret resolve in her heart that never again, by word or act, would she deceive the innocent little sister who trusted so implicitly in her truth and honor.

* * * * *

It _was_ a funny party, and Ef May looked about her in astonishment as a servant in dressing gown and night-cap, announced in a sleepy sing-song tone:

“Miss Ef May Marsh?”

Mrs. White, a heavy-eyed lady in an elaborately embroidered and ruffled night-dress, gave her hand a little languid shake, and asked, in a faint, die-away voice:

“How do you rest, my dear?”

“Very well, ma’am, generally, ’cept when I eat too much cake for my supper.”

At this Mrs. White nodded intelligently.

“’S that you, Ef May?” murmured a voice at her elbow, and there was Tommy Bliss, his brown curls all in a tangle, and--oh, horrible! in a yellow flannel night-gown with _legs_. Such a figure as he was with his short body all the way of a bigness, and his little yellow straddling legs like an old-fashioned brass andiron.

Ef May turned away and pretended not to see him, while she remarked with an air of kindly condescension to a little girl near her:

“It’s _impressively_ warm here.”

“Kick the clo’es off, then.”

There was a refreshing briskness in the tones that went straight to Ef May’s heart and she “took to” the stranger on the spot.

“Who is that old gentleman with such a big tassel in his night-cap?”

The little girl rubbed her eyes and looked in the direction indicated.

“Oh, that’s old Dr. Opiamus. He gives all the babies paragoric, and the old folks laudanum, so that they can die and not know it.”

Ef May shuddered. There was something in the idea that even to her childish fancy was horrible.

“Don’t you want another blanket?” asked her new friend; but Ef May shook her head.

“I hear some music?” she exclaimed, and just then began the funniest medley of sound that was ever heard:

First, a low, soft, half-frightened strain as of some wandering night-bird calling to his mate to set her glow-worm lamp in the window to light him home; then the quick, cheery note of the cricket chimed in; the owl’s solemn “too-whit! too-whit! too-whoo!” broke in at stately intervals; and the “rain-call” of the loon burst forth like a wild, weird laugh in the midst of the softer sounds, until the dancers, who had tried in vain to keep time with the strange music, faltered, hesitated, and at last stopped entirely, and dropped off to sleep upon the couches and easy chairs with which the rooms were filled, to a low, monotonous march that sounded exactly like the patter of raindrops upon the roof.

The costumes were a study, and Ef May who strange to say didn’t feel at all sleepy herself, found it rare fun to watch them.

There were old ladies, who minus their false fronts, teeth, and spectacles, would never have been recognized by their most intimate friends, in “calf’s-head” night-caps tied tightly under their chins, short night-gowns with wide, crimped ruffles at neck and wrists, and blue flannel petticoats just short enough to show the felt slippers beneath; young ladies, whose wealth of curls, braids and puffs had many a time excited the admiration and envy of their less fortunate sisters, appeared here, looking like picked chickens, their luxuriant tresses packed away in a drawer, their flounces, and ruffles, and panniers, and overskirts, all safe in the closet, their jewelry and their smiles laid aside together, and they nodded indifferently to stately gentlemen in tasselled night-caps and gorgeous dressing gowns, or frowned aside upon the boys, who, in all sorts of night gear, bobbed about in the most desirable nooks and corners, disturbing everybody with their clumsy ways and sleepy drollery.

In short, taken as a whole, a comical looking set they were,--and _so_ stupid! Ef May felt somewhat hurt and a good deal offended when even her new friend dropped off into a doze instead of listening to her questions, and she was only too glad when a good looking young gentleman with a pen behind his ear and a roll of manuscript sticking out of the pocket of his dressing gown, walked leisurely up to her and began talking in a queer rambling fashion about the people around them.

“What makes some of the sleepiest folks groan and grumble so, all the time?” asked the little girl curiously, and her companion laughed, a queer, dreamy sort of a laugh, as he replied:

“Oh, those are the ones that came here on nightmares,--that sort of riding always makes people restless, it’s worse than a hobby for that!”

He spoke the last words with a sudden fierceness that startled her, but he didn’t seem to notice her frightened face for he kept on talking, in that steady but far off tone:

“Do you see that man there with his face all twisted up into a knot? That’s the head master of the Boys’ Grammar School,--he ate toasted cheese for his supper and he’s having a hard night of it,--no doubt the _boys_ will have _a hard time of it_, to-morrow.”

Ef May thought of brother Gus’ careless scholarship, and trembled.

“There’s a little girl that told a lie to her mother,--hear her moan and sob! She will confess her fault and ask to be forgiven, in the morning, I think.”

Ef May silently took the lesson to heart.

“Do you see that old fellow in the corner? How he grasps with his hands and mutters, and now he is trying to call ‘murder!’ He has spent all his life hoarding up riches, and now, sleeping or waking, he lives in constant terror of losing his gold that he will neither spend for himself or others.”

“But here,” and the speaker pointed to a corner near at hand, where rolled up into a round yellow ball, was the figure of Johnny Staples, sound asleep in the velvety depths of an easy chair, his good-natured, honest little face, calm and peaceful, with not a cloud of suffering, remorse or fear to mar its innocent beauty.

“But here,” he repeated, “is one who will find in our friend’s party the refreshment and rest that only health and innocence can reasonably expect.”

Just then the company showed signs of a general breaking up, and the assembled guests gave such a loud, unanimous _snore_ that Ef May started up, terrified half out of her senses; and pulling vigorously at her sleeping sister’s sleeve, she cried out with a burst of angry tears:

“It’s a nasty, mean old party, any how! They snore, an’ talk in their sleep, an’ make up faces, an’--I won’t go again, _so_, there!”

But she _did_ for all that.

QUEER CHURCH.

BY REV. S. W. DUFFIELD.

Of course Queer Church is on Queer Street, in the town of Manoa. And all good boys and girls who study geography know just where Manoa ought to be.

The Rev. Mr. Thingumbob is the minister, and among the principal attendants are Mr. So-and-So, Mr. What’s-his-Name, Mr. Jigmaree, Mr. You-Know-Who, Mrs. Grundy, Mr. Tom Collins, the Misses Glubberson, Mr. What-d’ye-Callum, that distinguished foreign family the Van Danks, Mr. William Patterson, Mrs. Partington, and Mr. Gradgrind. You have possibly heard of some of these persons before. Besides, there is quite a congregation, and there is also a very big number of little people, aged all the way from five to fifteen.

Where there are so many of them it naturally follows that they have a large number of things their own way. But probably my story would not have been written if a little girl called True Gravelines hadn’t come to town. “True” is short for Gertrude, which was her name.

True had been taken from the Orphan Asylum by Mrs. Potiphar. And because she loved the little lady, Mrs. Potiphar had her taught and trained as her own daughter, and even Mrs. Grundy said that she was charming, and the Glubberson girls--who were old maids and not handsome--allowed that she would make a fine woman.

Finally True came across the story of “Goody-Two-Shoes,” which that great big child of an Oliver Goldsmith told so sweetly, and she had some new ideas. One of them was that she would like to make some changes in Queer Church.

So she got all the boys and girls together after school and proposed her plan. Now True was tall for her age, with dark eyes, and beautiful rich brown hair. And she wore lovely dresses, and _such_ kid slippers, and _such_ a splendid real gold chain with a true and genuine watch that ticked and kept time. So of course she had matters a good deal in her own hands.

The “chatter meeting” (as she called it) was held in the summer-house that cost ten thousand dollars, and that stood among Mrs. Potiphar’s roses in the side garden back of the lawn. And it resolved to send a committee to wait on Mr. Thingumbob--for Queer Church was the only church in Manoa, and they all went there on Sundays.

They weren’t a bit afraid of him--not they! He had lots of boys and girls of his own, and one of them had such rosy cheeks that he looked as though the angel had forgotten to bring him to the front door and had stuck him in the apple-tree, whence, when he was ready to be picked, his father had taken him down.

To be sure True was the head of the delegation, and it started off, twenty strong, on Saturday morning. How the people at the Manse opened their eyes as the troop came in, just as grave as you please, and asking to be shown up to the study. Well, so did the minister when he saw them. He laid down his pen and he said: “How do you do, gentlemen and ladies! Pray be seated!” So they all sat down wherever they could, and waited for True to begin.

“Mr. Thingumbob,” she said, “why can’t we be somebodies in church, too?”

“I don’t know, my dear. Aren’t you somebodies now?”

“O-dear-bless-me-no,” says True, all in a breath.

“Well, what would you like to do?” asked Mr. Thingumbob.

“Why, we’d just like to have one week all to ourselves in the church, and one Sunday all to ourselves, to have sermons, and sing hymns, and all such things.”

The pastor looked very queer--just like his church. Now _that_ had in it everything to make a church pleasant--but it was all for big people. Said he “True, I guess I’ll try it. You stay here with me and let the rest of these youngsters go.”

So the black-eyed ten-year-older stayed and talked and planned, and then how they laughed, and then they talked some more and laughed some more, and then it was dinner-time. And away went True.

On Sunday morning in that beautiful autumn weather, Mr. Thingumbob--who did pretty much as _he_ pleased too told the church about it. All that week the children were to have it their own way. Nobody was to do anything but the children. As a special favor to himself he wanted to have _them_ do just as they pleased all that week and next Sunday, and he’d be responsible.

When I first heard the story I thought the children and he must have loved each a great deal, for him to make such an offer. And I guess they did.

Let’s see. Monday was his reception evening and he wanted nobody to come but the children. So they all came, and played big people, and asked about his health and how he enjoyed his summer vacation, and talked of business, and said their children (doll-children you know) had the measles and the whooping-cough, and what luck they had in shooting (with a bow-gun) and how they hoped he’d call soon and all that. Such a time! How funny it did seem, too.

And then there was Tuesday evening, and Mr. Thingumbob had a literary circle who met in the church parlor. So all the children went, and all the big people were to have stayed away--but _I_ know some who _peeked_. And Mr. Thingumbob told them about the little boy, Tom Chatterton, up in St. Mary Radcliffe church, and the boxes with the old papers, and how this small chap wrote poetry and how he pretended to copy it from the old papers, and how great learned men went to words over it and some said ‘He did’ and some said ‘He didn’t’ and some called him a ‘forger’ and some called him a ‘genius,’ and how he got tired of it all, and how he took a drink of arsenic and water and died when he was hardly grown to be a man.--For that was just what the big folks expected to talk about.

And then there was Wednesday evening, and that was Prayer-meeting. And the big grown-up people all stayed away and the little folks all came. How they did sing! And what a pleasant talk they had _that_ night too--about the little Boy that heard the doctors and asked them questions until his mother thought he had run away and got lost. And Mr. Thingumbob sat right down in the middle of them and they got all around him and he was the only big man there was there.

And then there was Thursday night--when the church people used to go to their Mission Chapel and help the poor people to sing and pray and find out how they did and what they wanted. So they all went together--all the larger children of Queer church, that is--and saw the mission people. And True Gravelines felt so badly for a poor little girl that she gave her her warm gloves. And Tommy What’s-his-name let another fellow have his brand-new jack-knife because he hadn’t got any at all of his own. And there wasn’t one of them that didn’t give the Mission people pennies, or promise things to them, like the big folks.

And on Friday afternoon they had a sewing-society and the girls came and sewed--dear, dear, what sewing it was!--and they brought lunch along and the boys came to tea, and it was just like a pic-nic. And Mr. Thingumbob was there too. And afterwards they played “Hy-Spy” in the church up-stairs, down the aisles and in the galleries and back of the organ--and True Gravelines, for real and certain, hid under the pulpit! And then they set back all the chairs in the Sunday-school room and played “Fox and Geese” and “Thread the Needle” and ever so many other things that I don’t know the names of--only I _do_ know that they were bound to act all the while like gentlemen and ladies, and they surely did.

And then came Saturday and they forgot all about being big men and women, and went off to play and let Mr. Thingumbob alone so he could _write_ his sermon. But he said he didn’t want to write his sermon, he wanted to _talk_ it, and he asked True what he should talk about. And she told him she wanted to hear about the little girl that was sick and died and that Some One took by the hand and made her well. So he said he would, and he promised to use real short weenty-teenty words--“Because” said True, “there’s some that’s only little bits of things and _they_ won’t understand.”

And then Sunday came. And all the big people took back seats. And all the little people went in to play big people, and opened their bibles and their hymn-books, and stood up, and sat down, and sang, and leaned their heads forward in prayer-time, and did just what they saw their papas and mammas do. And one boy, Peter Gradgrind, he went to sleep, because he said that was the way his father did. And Mr. Thingumbob laughed when he heard that.

And that was a real short service. It was all there, every bit of it. But the sermon was only a quarter of an hour long and all the rest was in the same proportion.

When it came time for Sunday school they all went. And the biggest one in each class taught the others. And by this time they had all got to be so good that they were trying to be big folks in earnest. And there was Tom Collins Jr. for Superintendent and _he_ tried his best. And True played the tunes on the cabinet organ. And you never did see how well it all went!

Weren’t they tired when night came! But out they came again--that is the bigger ones did--and then Mr. Thingumbob talked to them about growing to be men and women. It was a little sermon in short words, but I don’t think they will forget it--for it was about a Boy who did what his father and mother wanted him to do, who learned his father’s business and worked to help the family along, who always did good to others, who tried to be a boy and yet to do like grown-up folks all the while. And by this time all the boys and girls knew how it seemed to play at big people, and make calls, and hear sermons, and do good.

Then, they all went to bed and slept like tops.

And they talk there to this day about it. And isn’t it funny?--the Queer Church people actually have fixed some of the seats in front low enough for the little folks, and they are very proud to see them sitting there like small men and women. And every now and then Queer Church has a sermon in short words, and a prayer-meeting where the children swarm on Mr. Thingumbob’s chair, and a sewing-club of little girls--O, and ever so many strange nice things for children, that came of that week of playing at big people.

And when you ask the folks there “What does Mrs. Grundy say?” and “How does Mr. Gradgrind take it?” what do you think they answer?

Why, they just say “We don’t care. We want the children to grow up to love the church and to love things that are good.”

Wouldn’t you like to go to Queer Church and make a week of it?

THE FUN-AND-FROLIC ART SCHOOL.

BY STANLEY WOOD.

Cousin Joe had been sitting half asleep over a book in the library, when all at once the door opened just a little and a row of eyes peeped in at him, the eyes beginning somewhere near the top of the door and ending pretty close to the bottom. There were just five of these eyes; the one nearest the top being large and of a lovely soft brown color, the next one gray, the next one brown, the next blue, and the last one away down towards the bottom, a mischievous brown.

“Peep!” said a voice, which matched the mischievous brown eye, and a fat little hand was thrust in through the crack.

“May we come in?” asked a soft voice, which sounded near the top of the door.

“Certainly,” said Joe, shutting his book and trying to look as though he had not been half asleep over it. The door opened, and the cousins marched in. First came Bryant, a chubby five-year-old, with sturdy legs, a large head, yellow hair and brown eyes full of mischief, next to him Leefee, seven years old, slight of figure, a little lady with light hair and sky-blue eyes; then Adale, ten years old, her brown hair flying and her brown eyes dancing; after her Maud, only fourteen, but quite a young lady for all that, with serious gray eyes, and last of all, Cora, a slender young woman of seventeen with soft brown hair and eyes.

“Ladies and gentleman,” said cousin Joe, when they all stood before him, “to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“Your Royal Highness,” replied Maud, who had read one of Sir Walter Scott’s novels, “we have a humble petition to present, in which--”

“My top’s broked,” interrupted Bryant, suddenly.

“And we want you to tell us a story,” said Adale with eagerness.

“Have you learned your lessons, Adale?” asked cousin Joe, very solemnly.

“Oh yes, indeed.”

“Where is Terra del Fuego?”

“But cousin, I study geography only five days in the week; you can’t expect me to know where Terra del Fuego is on Saturday.”

“Really, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And you’ll tell us a story?” said Leefee.

“One we haven’t heard before,” suggested Adale.

“My top’s broked,” said Bryant with much emphasis.

“Friends,” said cousin Joe, “the demand for new stories is in great excess of the supply. When I finished telling you my last story, Adale there remarked that she had read that story in WIDE AWAKE. Now there’s a moral in that remark of Adale’s, for when my friends and fellow-citizens have grown old enough to read stories they are too old for me to tell them to.”

“Oh, cousin!”

“But, I’ll compromise with you; instead of a story I’ll give you a drawing-lesson.”

“I get drawing-lessons enough at school,” said Adale.

“I didn’t know you could draw, cousin Joe,” said Clara.

“I can’t; and that’s the beauty of my system. The teacher doesn’t need to know anything about drawing, and the students never learn anything.”

“How absurd!” said Cora.

“How curious!” said Maud.

“How pleasant!” said Adale.

“How funny!” said Leefee.

“My top’s broked,” said Bryant.

“The class will come to order,” said cousin Joe.

Then they all gathered around the library-table, and each one was provided with a pencil and a bit of paper.

“Students of the Fun-and-Frolic Art School,” said Joe, “we have met for mutual deterioration in art. As you all ought to know, but no doubt many of you do not, Sir Edward Landseer was a great artist in dogs, Rosa Bonheur is a great artist in horses and kine, but we unitedly will be great artists in--pigs.”

“Pigs?”

“Yes, ladies and gentleman, I repeat it--PIGS! Is there anyone in the class who can draw a pig?”

“I can draw one, such as the boys draw on their slates at school,” said Adale.

“Please draw one then,” said cousin Joe. In a moment Adale had accomplished the task and handed him the result.

“This,” said Joe, as he held it up in view of the class, “this is

“You see it doesn’t look like a pig, but every boy knows it is intended to represent a pig. If it looked a good deal more like a pig he might not recognize it. Thus conventional politeness does not resemble real politeness, yet everybody knows what it is intended to represent. There is a moral in that remark somewhere--if you can find it--and now we’ll go on with the lesson. The first thing you must do in order to become an artist in my school is to _shut your eyes_.”

“Shut our eyes!”

“Why, cousin,” said Cora, “I thought all artists had to keep their eyes especially wide open.”

“There are some who do not,” said cousin Joe, sententiously.

“I’ve seen people shut _one_ eye and look at pictures through their hand with the other--so,” said Adale, making a fist of her little hand and peeping through it.

“Those people were _connoisseurs_,” said Joe; “we are artists and must shut _both_ eyes, Cora; will you begin? Shut your eyes, place your pencil on the paper, and draw the outlines of a pig as nearly as you can.”

“But, cousin Joe, isn’t this a play for little girls, not for--well--proper young ladies?”

“Very well, Miss Cora; we’ll begin with Leefee then.”

Little Miss Leefee seized her pencil eagerly, and shutting her eyes uncommonly close, drew this:

How the rest did laugh at poor Leefee!

“You’ll have to write under it, ‘This is a pig,’” said Adale.

“And I will do it too,” said Leefee, and she did so, as you can see by the picture.

“It’s your turn now, Adale,” said Joe.

“This will be a conventional pig, like my other one,” said Adale, laughing as she shut her eyes. When she had finished her drawing, all confessed, amidst great laughter, that it was not at all a “conventional pig;” so Adale wrote under her production:

“It looks more like a tapir than a pig,” said Leefee, mindful of Adale’s criticism on her effort.

“Well, isn’t a tapir a kind of unconventional pig?” replied the artist.

“Your pigs are all too long,” said Maud; “you don’t make them fat enough.”

“You can be guided by your own criticism, for you come next after Adale,” said cousin Joe, merrily.

Maud drew her pig with great care. “There!” said she, as she displayed the result of her labors, “what do you think of that?”

“Oh what a funny rabbit!” exclaimed Adale.

“It’s more like a rat,” said Leefee.

“It _must_ be a pig,” said Maud firmly, “I’m drawing pigs.”

In the mean time Miss Cora, who had declined to enter into such childish sport, had been closely observed by Adale. Suddenly that versatile young lady seized Cora’s paper before she could prevent it, and exclaiming with a triumphant flourish, “Cora’s pig! Oh, _do_ look at Cora’s pig!” she displayed this:

Cora blushingly acknowledged that she had been induced by the enthusiasm of the others to try and improve on their efforts.

“What a fierce-looking quadruped,” said Maud.

“Yes; I have called it my ferocious pig,” replied Cora, evidently greatly enjoying her production.

“Ladies and gentleman of the Fun-and-frolic Art School,” said cousin Joe, oratorically, “your incapacity has exceeded my highest expectations. Your efforts to draw the lineaments of the domestic animal known as the pig having exceeded in grotesqueness and falseness to nature the efforts of many more experienced artists, I am naturally very much gratified. I now have the honor to announce to you that ‘school’s out.’”

“Oh not yet, cousin.”

“Not yet?”

“No; _you_ must draw a pig,” said Maud.

“You must draw a pig,” said Adale.

“You must draw a pig,” said Leefee.

“My top’s broked,” said Bryant.

“Necessity knows no law,” said cousin Joe.

“Bring me my pencil now, my hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift from my waked spirit airily and swift,” and with an air of vast importance he began to execute his task. The little cousins were so fearful that he would take a sly peep at his work, that they blindfolded him, and his production was received with shouts of laughter. When they took off his muffler he saw this:

“_Oh_ what a bad pig,” said Cora.

“Oh _what_ a bad pig,” said Maud.

“Oh what a _bad_ pig,” said Adale.

“Oh what a bad _pig_,” said Leefee.

“My top--”

“Shall be mended,” said cousin Joe, taking little Bryant upon his knee.

SOME QUAKER BOYS OF 1776.

BY C. H. WOODMAN.

In 1776, the eastern end of Long Island was over-run with the English troops and mercenaries. There was no security to life or property: everything was at the mercy of the wicked Hessians.

At this time there was living on the island, and not far from New York, a Quaker by the name of Pattison. Henry Pattison, the father, was one of the strictest of the sect; of a noble, generous nature, a kind neighbor, and a wise councilor. He was universally loved and revered. He won the name of the Peace-Maker.

He owned a fine farm, and was growing wealthy, when the war came and sad days settled down upon the community.

Mother Pattison was the true type of the Quaker wife and mother. Under her tidy white cap beamed the placid, tender face which is so common among these pure-hearted people, and her skillful advice and winning words of consolation were often heard in the house of the sick and afflicted. Eight sturdy boys, and one little sweet, timid flower of a daughter, blessed this good couple, and made their home one of happiness and love.

Edmund, the oldest son, was a handsome, manly lad of eighteen. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat, his quiet “thee” and “thou,” beat a fiery and fearless heart that often broke through the mild Quaker training and made him, notwithstanding his peace principles, a leader among his fellows.

One day, as he sat in the barn, quietly enjoying his noonday rest, a British trooper rode up to the door. Seeing Edmund he shouted:

“Come, youngster, make haste and stir yourself. Go and help my driver there unload that cart of timber into the road!”

Now Edmund had just been hard at work loading that wood, to carry it to a neighbor to whom it was sold.

Both wagon and oxen belonged to his father.

“Come, hurry!” said the horseman.

“I shall not do it!” said Edmund.

“What--sirrah!” cried the ruffian, “we shall see who will do it!” and he flourished his sword over the boy’s head, swearing and threatening to cut him down unless he instantly obeyed.

Edmund stood unflinchingly, fiercely eyeing the enraged soldier.

Just then a little boy, Charles, the son of a neighbor, ran into the house and told Mrs. Pattison that “a Britisher was going to kill her Edmund.” She rushed to the barn, begged the soldier to stop, pleaded with her son to unload the wood and so save his life.

“No fear of death, mother; he dare not touch a hair of my head.”

“Dare not!” The horseman flourished his sword before the lad’s face and swore he would kill him instantly.

“You dare not!” said Edmund firmly; “and I will report you to your master for this.”

The fierce and defiant look really awed the trooper, and he mounted his horse, although he still told the boy he would “cut him into inch pieces.”

Edmund knew that such things were actually done by the soldiers, and he appreciated the man’s terrible rage. He coolly walked across the barn-floor, and armed himself with a huge pitchfork.

“You cowardly rascal!”--the boy’s words came fierce and sharp. “Now take one step towards this floor, and I stab you with my pitchfork.”

The gentle Mrs. Pattison expected to see her boy at once shot down like a dog. She ran to the house, and, meeting her husband, sent him to the rescue.

Friend Pattison rode hastily up, and said calmly to the trooper:

“You have no right to lay a finger upon that boy, who is a non-combatant.”

The man did not move.

Then Farmer Pattison turned toward the road, saying he would ride and call Col. Wurms, who commanded the troops.

Upon this the horseman, thinking it best for him to see his master first, drove the spurs into his horse and galloped away, uttering vows of vengeance.

The little boy who had alarmed Mrs. Pattison was a lad of fourteen,--the son of a neighbor who was in Washington’s army.

Sitting one day under the trees, with the little Pattisons, talking indignantly of the “British thieves,” he saw a light-horseman ride up toward a farm-house just across the pond. He guessed at once what the man was after. He tried to signal the farmer, but in vain.

“They are pressing horses,” cried Charlie; “they always ride that way when stealing horses.”

He thought of his father’s beautiful colt, his own pet.

“Fleetwood shall not go!” said he.

Running as fast as he could to the barn, he leaped on to his back, and started for the woods.

The red-coat saw him, and, putting his spurs into his horse, rising in the saddle and shouting, he tore down the road at headlong speed.

Charlie’s mother rushed to the door. She saw her little son galloping towards the woods with his murderous enemy close upon his heels. Her heart beat fearfully, and she gave one great cry of prayer as her brave little boy dashed into the thick woods, and out of sight, still hotly pursued by the soldier.

The trees were close-set and the branches low. Charlie laid down along the horse’s neck to escape being swept off. He cheered on, with low cries, the wild colt, who stretched himself full length at every leap.

With streaming mane, glaring eyes, distended nostrils, he plunged onward. Charlie heard the dead dry boughs crackling behind, and the snorting of the soldier’s horse, so near was his fierce pursuer. On, on Fleetwood dashed, bearing his little master from one piece of woods to another, till the forest became dense and dark. He had now gained some on the soldier; and, seeing ahead a tangled, marshy thicket, Charlie rode right into its midst.

Here he stood five hours without moving.

The soldier, so much heavier with his horse, dared not venture into the swamp. He rode round and round, seeking for some firm spot of entrance. Sometimes he did come very near; but every time sinking into the wet, springy bog he was obliged to give it up; he could not even get a shot at the boy, the brush was so thick, Fleetwood instinctively still as a mouse, and finally, with loud oaths, he rode off.

But the lad and the colt still stood there hour after hour, not knowing whether they might venture out; but at nightfall his mother, who had been watching all the while, with tears and prayers, saw her dear boy cautiously peeping through the edge of the woods. By signs she let him know that the danger was past, and, riding up to the house, he dismounted. Then, leaning against his beautiful colt, his own bright, golden curls mingling with Fleetwood’s ebon mane, the plucky little fellow told his adventures to the eager group.

The Quaker neighbors in this vicinity had at last been driven, by the outrages of the hostile troops, to use some means of defense. They agreed that, whenever a house should be attacked, the family would fire a gun, which would be answered by firing from other houses, and so the neighborhood become aroused.

But Farmer Pattison so abhorred the use of a gun that he would have none in his house. He procured a conch-shell which, when well blown, could be heard a great way.

One night, while Charlie’s family were all soundly sleeping, and, without, the clear November air was unstirred by a breath of wind, suddenly the grum report of the conch boomed in at the windows and alarmed the whole house.

Wakened so unceremoniously, all thought it was a gun; but no one could tell whence it came. The venerable grandfather knelt in prayer; the sick English officer, staring at the house, ordered his two guards to prepare for defence; the mother sat trembling, while the two little girls, Grace and Marcia, hid their faces in their mother’s night-dress.

But our Charlie was brave. He loaded the old firearm, and, going down to the piazza blazed away, loading and firing, to frighten away the unseen foe. Through the still air could be heard the guns of the neighbors, all aroused to defend their homes.

But no burning building could be seen, nor were there any shouts or noises of conflict.

The alarm subsided, but for the rest of the night the little family sat anxious and waited for the dawn. In the morning they learned the cause of the alarm. It seems that at noon, the day before, the Pattison boys were trying their lungs on the conch, calling the hired men to dinner.

Little Joseph stood by, waiting his turn, but it didn’t come. Dinner was ready, and the shell was put away on the shelf over the kitchen door. The little fellow’s disappointment was great, and that night he dreamed of robbers, of English soldiers and burning houses. He dreamed that he must blow the shell.

Up he jumped, ran down stairs, and through two rooms, still asleep, and, standing in a chair, got the conch from the shelf. Going to the back door he blew it lustily, and aroused the whole family. They rushed down-stairs in great alarm, and there stood the little boy, bareheaded and in his nightgown, while great drops of perspiration stood on his face, from the exertions he had made!

WHAT I HEARD ON THE STREET.

BY CLARA F. GUERNSEY.

Not long ago, while I was waiting for the cars at a street corner, I heard two men talking together. The one was a young fellow of nineteen or so, a big, tall youth, whose appearance would have been pleasing had he not worn, in addition to a general air of discouragement, that look of being on the down-hill road, which, once seen, is unmistakable.

His clothes were sufficiently good in quality, but they seemed never to have known the clothes-brush, his coat lacked four or five buttons, for which three pins were a very inadequate substitute, and he had an aspect generally of having forgotten the use of soap and water.

Perhaps all this might not have been his fault. It is possible he had no womankind belonging to him, though I don’t hold that an excuse for missing buttons, and his work might have been such as bred fluffiness and griminess, but no man’s work obliges him to slouch when off duty, to keep his hands in his pockets, or tilt his hat on one side.

The other man was a brisk, middle-aged person, whom I take to have been a worker in iron in one way or another. He had on his working-dress, and his hands were black, but the blackness in his case was a mere outside necessity, and went no farther than the surface. He looked bright and sensible, and it was in a pleasant voice that he asked the younger man:

“Well, Jim, got a place?”

Jim gave a weary, discouraged sigh, and shifted from one foot to the other.

“Yes, I’m in Blank’s, but I might as well not be.”

“Why?”

“Oh,” returned Jim, in a forlorn manner, “what’s the use? I work all the week, and when Saturday night comes, there’s just five dollars. What’s that? Why, it’s _just nothing_.”

“No, it ain’t,” replied the senior, laying a kindly hand on the other’s shoulder. “It’s _just five dollars better than nothing_. Put it that way, Jim.”

“Well, now, that’s so,” said Jim, brightening up wonderfully after a minute’s thought. “It does make it seem different, don’t it?” And he walked off, apparently much comforted.

If you think of it, Reader, you will see that the difference between five dollars and nothing is infinitely greater than that between five and five thousand.

KIP’S MINISTER.

BY KATE W. HAMILTON.

“‘_Jack and Jill went up the hill_,’” piped Bud’s shrill voice from the hayloft in the barn where she was hunting eggs. “‘_To fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill_----’”

If Bud’s own name had been Jill she could not have come “tumbling after,” any more speedily than she did. A board tilted, her foot slipped, and in a moment she was sitting on the floor below. Fortunately a quantity of hay had fallen with her, so there was no broken crown or other crushed bones; but her dignity was considerably jarred, and glancing around to see whether any one had witnessed the mishap, she discovered Kip looking out toward the road from a door at the farther end of the building.

“Kip Crail! what makes you stand there for?” she demanded, severely.

“I’m a-watching my minister,” answered Kip slowly.

It is not every boy who owns a minister all by himself, but Kip spoke as if nobody else had any claim upon this one; and as he seemed to have noticed neither her tone nor her downfall, Bud regained her chubby feet, shook the hay from her yellow curls, and going to Kip’s side looked curiously after the slightly grey-haired man, in clothing somewhat worn, who was quietly picking his way along the road. Her blue eyes discerned nothing remarkable, and she turned away disappointed.

“Ho! Why he’s everybody’s minister; he a’n’t yours.”

Kip knew better than that. Did not he remember who always knew him, and stopped to shake hands and say “How do you do, Christopher?”--a name that made him feel nearly as big as anybody. And who always asked after his mother? And did not forget when he told him little Bob was sick? The people in the house hitched up their sleek horses and nice carriage, and drove two miles to the city church every Sunday; but Kip, with freckled face shining from soap, head wet and combed till not a hair could stir from its place, and red hands thrust into his pockets, trudged whistling over the hill to the little frame church where most of the people from the straggling villages and the neighboring farms gathered.

“So he is my minister,” said Kip stoutly as he considered the matter.

He would have liked to share the honor that day, however, with the inmates of the large comfortable farm-house; for they were really the most prosperous family in the village, while he, only a distant relative, was “chore boy and gener’ly useful” as he phrased it. And there was to be a “donation party” at his minister’s home that very evening.

“If they’d just give something handsome!” he said to Nancy the “hired girl,” who was busy in the kitchen.

“They won’t never think of it no more’n they will of flyin’,” replied Nancy, dextrously turning a flapjack, and the subject also, by requesting Kip to “run for an armful of wood.”

Somebody always wanted wood or water, or something from the cellar, or something from the attic, whenever Kip was in sight. But he scarcely thought of the constant calls that morning, so full was he of other thoughts. Nancy might dispose of the question carelessly, but he could not. He was connected with the house, and he felt that the honor of the house was involved. Beside, he wanted his minister well treated and he knew--few knew better than Kip--how sorely the “something handsome” was needed in the shabby little parsonage. He did not mean they should “never think of it” as Nancy had said! he would remind them by bringing up the subject naturally and innocently in some way.

So he lingered in the room a few minutes after breakfast, while Mrs. Mitchel was gathering up the dishes, and Mr. Mitchel consulting the almanac. He coughed once or twice, and then, staring straight out of the window, observed as follows:

“There goes our big rooster! He’s most as big as a turkey, a’n’t he, Aunt Ann? Turkeys always make me think of Thanksgivings, Christmases, Donations and such things--oh yes! there _is_ going to be a donation down to the minister’s to-night!”

Kip considered that very delicately and neatly done!

“Eh? what?” said Mrs. Mitchel, paying no attention except to the last sentence.

“Who’s going to have a donation?”

“Down to the minister’s,” repeated Kip. “Everybody’ll take ’em things, you know--flour and potatoes and wood--something handsome, I hope--the folks that can ’ford to.”

That was another masterly hint. Kip chuckled to himself at his success in managing his self-appointed task but his spirits sank with Mr. Mitchel’s first words.

“Well, now, I don’t know as I approve of that way. The folks here can do as they please--it’s no affair of mine--but seems to me it’s better to pay a man a decent salary, and let him buy his own things.”

“Don’t know as _I_ ’prove of that way either,” soliloquized Kip indignantly when he found himself alone behind the wood-pile. “Don’t know as I ’prove of folks giving me their old clothes,” looking down at his patched knees. “Seems to me ’twould be better to pay me decent wages and let me buy my own clothes. But seein’ they don’t, these trousers are better’n none; and I guess if Uncle Ralph had a sick wife and three or four children he’d think a donation party was a good deal better’n nothing.”

Ideas that found their way into the brain under Kip’s thatch of light hair were sure to stay, and the cows, the chickens, and the wood-pile heard numerous orations that morning--all upon one subject.

“Now if I owned all these things, do you s’pose I’d go off to the big city church every Sunday, and wouldn’t go down now and then to see what was a-doin’ for the poor folks round here? And when I went, don’t you s’pose I’d see how his coat was gettin’ shinier and shinier, and her cloak fadeder, and all the new clothes they have is their old ones made over? A boy don’t like that kind of dressin’-up partic’lar well, and how do you s’pose my minister feels? Don’t you b’lieve I’d know when she got sick, how the bundles from the grocery-store was smaller and fewer ’count of the bottles that had to be paid for and the doctor’s bill? And wouldn’t I hear the tremble in his voice when he prays for them that has ‘heavy burdens to carry?’ Just wait till I’m a man and see!”

Old Brindle looked at him meditatively, and one pert little bantam mounted the fence and crowed with enthusiasm, but no member of the barn-yard offered any suggestions; and going to a little nook behind the manger, Kip drew forth his own offering for the important evening--a little bracket-shelf, clumsily designed and roughly whittled out, but nevertheless the work of many a precious half-hour. He looked at it rather doubtfully. It did not altogether satisfy even his limited conceptions of beauty.

“But then if you keep it kind of in the shade, and look at it sort o’sideways--so--it does pretty well,” he said, scrutinizing it with one eye closed. “I guess Mis’ Clay will, seein’ she’s had to look sharp for the best side o’things so long.”

But how he did wish the others would send something--“something that would count,” as he said. He was down on the ground gathering up a basketful of chips when one of the well-kept horses and the light wagon passed out of the yard and down the lane bearing Mr. Mitchel away to the town. A host of brilliant possibilities suddenly trooped through Kip’s thoughts as he watched the vehicle out of sight. His wish grew into something deeper and stronger.

“Oh please _do_ make him think and bring back something nice for them!” he murmured.

Bud, who had a fashion of appearing in the most unexpected times and places, looked at him wonderingly from around a corner of the wood-pile.

“What makes you do that for?” she asked solemnly.

“’Cause,” answered Kip briefly, with a flush rising to his freckled cheeks. “I don’t care,” he whispered to himself. “The minister’s folks are good and care for other folks, and it’s ’bout time somebody was takin’ care of them.”

Bud did not quite accept the lucid explanation given her. She seated herself on a log and pondered the subject until she reached a conclusion that she considered satisfactory; and after that, though she said nothing about it, she watched quite as eagerly and much more expectantly for her father’s return than did Kip.

There certainly was something new and unusual in the light wagon when at last it drove up to the door again. Both children discovered that at once--Bud from the window, Kip from the piazza--a great, easy, luxurious arm-chair. Mr. Mitchel lifted it out and carried it into the house.

“See here! What do you think of that?” he said to his wife triumphantly. “I happened into a furniture store where they were auctioning everything off and I got this at such a bargain that I took it in a hurry. Isn’t that as comfortable a chair as you ever saw? Just try it.”

Mrs. Mitchel examined and admired; Nancy who came to the kitchen door exclaimed and interjected; and the household generally bestowed such unqualified commendation that Mr. Mitchel’s gratification increased.

“I think I know a good thing when I see it,” he declared, “and this couldn’t be bought anywhere else for that money. Nothing in the world the matter with it either, not a flaw about it except”--showing where the back could be lowered to make it more of a reclining chair--“this spring works a little hard. But a cabinet-maker could fix that in a few moments, and we’ll have it done right away. Kip!” as the boy passed the door--“Kip, could you take this down to the parson’s this afternoon? I want it to go at once.”

Kip could scarcely believe his ears. “Yes _sir_!” he said with his eyes fairly dancing. “You mean to send it to him, uncle Ralph? guess I can take it!”

He never called his minister “the parson”--it scarcely sounded respectful enough--but of course he knew who was meant and he was far too happy for any criticising thought. That handsome easy chair! Wouldn’t the very sight of it rest poor tired Mrs. Clay? Kip could see just how her pale face would look leaned back against the cushions.

“It’s pretty heavy for you to carry so far though,” Mr. Mitchel was saying when Kip recalled his wandering wits far enough to understand. “’Jim could take it in the wagon perhaps”--

“I might put it in the hand-cart and wheel it over,” interposed Kip with a sudden inspiration. He could bear no delay, and he wanted to take it himself.

Mr. Mitchel commended that suggestion as “not a bad notion on Kip’s part.”

“And what shall I tell him, uncle Ralph?”

“Tell him--why, he’ll understand; he can see for himself. Tell him I sent it, and he’ll know what to do with it, I suppose.”