Chapter IX: Front Matter (9)

Kip supposed so too. He waited for no further directions, but made a partial toilet very expeditiously, and was soon safely out on the road with his treasure. To say that he was pleased and proud is a very faint description of his feelings. He trundled that hand-cart by no out-of-the-way route, and he was not long alone; the village boys hailed him:

“Hello, Kip! What you got there?”

“It’s our folks’ present to the minister,” answered Kip grandly, and one after another the admiring boys fell into line until the chair formed the center of a triumphal procession. The village soon knew of the gift, as the village always did know of everything that happened within its limits, and Kip had the satisfaction of being stopped several times, and of hearing that Mr. Mitchel had done “the handsome thing,” and that the chair was “out-and-out nice.”

So, in a beatific state, he reached the gate of the little parsonage. There was no lack of assistance. Every urchin was anxious to share at least the reflected glory of helping to carry it, and it was borne to the house very much as a party of ants bear off a lump of sugar--by swarming all over it. The minister came to the door, the body-guard fell back, and Kip presented his prize.

“Here’s something that Uncle Ralph sent you, sir; he bought it in town to-day. He said tell you he sent it, and he guessed you’d know what to do with it,” he said with shining eyes.

The minister’s eyes shone too, and then grew dim. This was so unexpected, and it meant so much to him! It had sometimes seemed hard to that kindly, tender heart that the one of all the village who could have done most, had never manifested any interest in his work for those poor people--had not lifted with even a finger the burden of care and sacrifice, or shown any disposition to aid or encourage. But there must have been sympathy after all. This was a generous gift in its luxuriousness--a thoughtful one, for it was for the dear invalid. He opened a door near him and said softly:

“Rachel, look here!”

How he had wanted just such an easy, restful cushioned niche for the worn slight form! The boys could not understand what it was to him in itself and in what it represented--“Only his voice had a tremble in it like when he prays,” Kip said to himself on his homeward way.

However he hated “fixed up company” in general he would not for anything miss the gathering at the parsonage that evening, and wood and water, cows and kindlings must be looked after early. So it happened he did not speak with Mr. Mitchel again until nightfall. Then that gentleman bethought him of his commission.

“Ah, Kip, carried the chair safely, did you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, what did he say to it?”

“I wish you’d seen him, uncle Ralph!” said Kip radiantly. “Not, as he said much either, only something ’bout he didn’t know how to thank you--”

“How to thank me?” repeated Mr. Mitchel in amazement. “Why should he? He isn’t so short of work as all that, is he?”

“Short of work, uncle Ralph!” It was Kip’s turn to open wide eyes of astonishment. “I should think not, with all his preachin’ and Sunday-school and poor folks! I don’t s’pose he thought he’d have time to sit in it much himself; but Mrs. Clay, she’s sick--”

“What have the Clays to do with it?” demanded Mr. Mitchel with clouding brow and a dawning suspicion of something wrong. “I told you to take it to Mr. Parsons--the cabinet-maker’s--to have that spring fixed.”

Kip saw it all then, but he wished the floor would quietly open and drop him into the cellar, or that he could fly through the roof. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and his face flushed and paled.

“I--thought--you said the parson’s,” he stammered. “I s’posed ’twas for the minister’s donation, and so--”

“You took it there?” Mr. Mitchel completed the sentence. “Now how in the world--”

But it was too much to be borne. Kip waited for nothing more, but rushed from the house, and if in the shadow of the friendly wood-pile he leaned his head against the rough sticks and cried, there was no one to see.

“They may fix it up any way they please,” he said. “I can’t do it! I can’t and I wont!”

A little later he stood by the old gate watching the great yellow moon come up, and digging his red fists into his eyes now and then to wipe away some stray tears of shame, indignation and grief that still gathered there. This was not a very nice world anyhow, he decided with a queer aching spot at his heart. Almost it seemed as if he had asked for bread and received a stone--a sharp heavy stone at that.

Indoors Mr. Mitchel had expressed very distinctly his opinion of the carelessness and obtuseness that could have caused such a blunder, and the “awkwardness of the whole thing,” and in no little vexation was trying to find some means of remedy.

“I might write a note and explain, but then--I declare it’s the most awkward disagreeable thing I ever knew! Such a stupid blunder.”

“Papa,” interposed the slow, wondering voice of Bud, “I didn’t know there could be any mistakes up there.”

“Up where, child?”

“In heaven. Kip prayed you’d bring something for his minister--’cause I heard him--behind the wood-pile,” said Bud with slow emphasis. “I thought that made the chair come. I’m most sure ’twasn’t any mistake, papa.”

Mr. Mitchel pushed aside pen and paper, put on his hat and walked out. He really did not know the best way out of the difficulty. It was very vexatious, and in his perplexity he journeyed towards the parsonage. When he came in sight of the house he paused. What did he intend to do? Go there when others were making their offerings, and explain that he had not wished to show any friendship or appreciation, and wanted to take back what had been proffered through mistake? Certainly not! He turned, but at that moment some one joined him.

“Ah, Mr. Mitchel! Just going in? That was a generous gift of yours--exactly the thing for poor Mrs. Clay.”

Others came with similar comment. There was no chance to say anything, and scarcely knowing why or how, Mr. Mitchel found himself in the well-filled room, saw the sweet, pale face, with its smile of welcome for all, looking out from the cushions of the new chair, and felt the quick warm grateful clasp of the minister’s hand. Something in look and clasp and murmured words brought a sudden throb to Mr. Mitchel’s heart, a moisture to his eye.

Then, before he had time to recover from his bewilderment, some one had called on him to “make a few remarks,” and others echoed the request, and he found himself pushed forward to the front and heard his own voice saying, “How much cause all had to value Mr. Clay’s work in the village,” and expressing the hope that he might “enjoy these simple offerings as tokens of esteem and friendship.” Aye, and he meant it too, for catching the spirit of those around him, and swiftly comprehending more of the good man’s life and work than he had ever done before, he only regretted that he had not sent the offering of his own free will and pleasure.

He found an opportunity, however, to whisper to Kip who had slipped in later with very sober face--a face that brightened at sight of him.

“It’s all right. Don’t say a word to anybody about it.”

He had a pleasant evening despite a feeling of strangeness about it, and on his homeward way muttered something to himself about “a blessed blunder.” What he told at home Kip did not know, but when the boy arrived, a little later, Bud, wide-awake and listening for his step, raised her yellow head from its pillow and called:

“Ke--ip! it all comed out right, didn’t it?”

Kip thought it had. He was sure of it afterward when he saw the friendship that from that night began between the Mitchels and “his minister.”

JIM’S TROUBLES.

BY GRANDMERE JULIE.

“I know he didn’t do it,” said good Mrs. Martin; “he says he didn’t do it, and I believe him.”

“Then you don’t believe _me_?” asked Mrs. Turner rather severely. “I wish I had never seen that boy! I’m sure I have done my best by him, and been a mother to him. And now he’s turned out bad, everybody blames me for it. Father says, if he has done it, it is my fault for tempting him; Nelly has nearly cried her eyes out about it; and everybody seems to think it is more wicked to lose a spoon than to steal it--I declare they do.”

“Well, he’s been a good, honest boy ever since he came here--a real nice, obliging, pleasant spoken little fellow; and it stands to reason a good boy don’t turn bad all in a jerk like that,” said Mrs. Martin, shaking her head.

“I don’t know about jerks,” answered Mrs. Turner, “but I do know that, as soon as I had done cleaning that spoon, I put it back in the case, and as I was a-going to put it away, Jim comes in to get a pail, and says he, ‘ain’t it a pretty little box!’ and says I: ‘yes, but what’s in it is prettier.’ Then I smelt my bread a-burning, and I put down the case right here,” said Mrs. Turner striking the corner of her kitchen table, “and I ran to see to my bread, and when I came back Jim was gone, and my spoon was gone too. And I don’t suppose it walked off itself--do you?”

“Of course it didn’t,” said Mrs. Martin; “but some one else might have come in, or it may be somewhere”--

“I’d like to know where that somewhere is, then,” said Mrs. Turner; “I have looked high and low and turned the house upside-down for a week, and I haven’t seen any spoon yet. And nobody could come in without my seeing them because the front door was locked and so was the kitchen door, and anybody who came in or went out had to go through the back kitchen where I was. I saw Jim go out with his pail, but I didn’t suspect anything then--why should I? And it isn’t the spoon I mind so much, it’s the trouble, and the idea of that boy that had been treated like one of the family--but I won’t say anymore about it. I’ll send him back to New York, and”--

“No, don’t do that! I guess I’ll take him,” said Mrs. Martin. “He hasn’t any home to go to, and if you send him back, there’s no telling what will become of him. Where is he?”

“I guess he is sulking about the place somewhere,” said Mrs. Turner. “He said he hadn’t done it, and now he won’t say another word. I’ll call him if you really want him.”

Mrs. Martin said she really wanted him, and Mrs. Turner, stepping out on the kitchen porch, called out, “Jim, Jim!”

There was no answer, but pretty soon a boy walked across the yard toward the house, and stopped near the porch.

He was a boy about twelve years old, tall of his age and rather thin, and with a round, honest face, which looked very pleasant when he was happy, but which was at that moment very much clouded.

“I’ll speak to him by myself, if you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Martin, shutting the door and seating herself on the porch step.

“Come here, my boy,” said she kindly, while her homely face looked almost beautiful with goodness. “I don’t believe you are a bad boy; I think it’s all a mistake, and it will come out all right some day. I am going to take you home with me, if you will come.”

Jim’s brown eyes brightened, but he answered, not very gratefully, “Thank you, but I’d better go away from here--they all believe I took it.”

“No, they don’t; I don’t for one. You had better stay and behave like a good, honest lad, and I’ll be a true friend to you. Besides, we mustn’t run away from our troubles! you know they are sent to make us good and strong, don’t you see, my boy?”

Having finished her little sermon, Mrs. Martin got up and gave Jim a motherly hug and a kiss. And poor Jim “broke down” as he would have called it. But it was a breaking down that did him a world of good, and made a new boy of him.

“There, there,” said Mrs. Martin, “now go and get your things, and we will go home.”

Jim went up-stairs quietly to the little attic room that had been his own for two years. He made a small bundle of his old clothes. He wouldn’t take the new ones. “They was my friends when they got them for me,” he said to himself, “but now they ain’t my friends any more, and them clothes don’t belong to me now.”

Jim’s grammar was not perfect, but he meant well, and in his heart he was very sorry to leave the friends who had been so kind to him during two happy years.

As he turned to go down-stairs, he heard a noise in the hall, not far from him, and he saw Nellie Turner who seemed to be waiting for him. “Oh! Jim,” she said, and could not say more, because she began to cry.

Poor little Nelly had been breaking her heart about Jim’s trouble. She was a nice little girl ten years old, with bright yellow curls, pink cheeks, and blue eyes; but now the pink of her cheeks had run into her eyes, and she did not look as pretty as usual. But Jim thought she was beautiful, and her red eyes were a great comfort to him.

At last he spoke, “Good-by, Nelly; I am going away.”

“I know it,” said Nelly, “but, Jim, I don’t believe you are bad, and you will be good, won’t you?”

“Yes, I will,” said Jim. Then he left Nelly crying on the stairs, and went quickly to the porch where Mrs. Martin was waiting for him.

“Well, good-by, Jim,” said Mrs. Turner. “I hope you’ll be a good boy. Remember I have been kind to you.”

“Yes’m, thank you,” said Jim, rather coldly. He wanted to see “Father,” but Mr. Turner had taken himself out of the way.

While Mrs. Martin was walking home with her little friend, and talking to him to cheer him up, they heard something running after them, and Jim said, “Here is Spot, what shall I do? I am afraid I can’t make him go back.”

“Well, we’ll take him home, too,” said Mrs. Martin. “I like dogs, they are such faithful friends; they don’t care if people are pretty or ugly, rich or poor, good or bad, they just love them, and stick to them. Yes, we will take Spot, and make him happy.”

This remark made two people very happy. Jim brightened up, and laughed; and Spot, who had kept his tail between his legs in a most respectful and entreating manner, now began to wag it joyfully, and showed his love by nearly knocking down Mrs. Martin, to let her know that he understood what she had said, and approved of it.

Spot had been given to Jim by one of his school-mates, and Jim was very proud of his only piece of personal property. Spot was a white dog with a great many black spots all over him, and he was not exactly a beauty, but he was the best, lovingest, naughtiest, and most ridiculous young dog that ever adorned this world. He was always stealing bones, and old boots and shoes, and burying them in secret places as if they had been treasures, and no one had the heart to scold him much, because he looked so repentant and as if he would never, no never, do it again as long as he lived.

Since the silver spoon had disappeared, Spot had been very unhappy; people seemed to give him all the benefit of their disturbed tempers. Mrs. Turner spoke crossly to him, and would not let him stay in the kitchen; Mr. Turner had slyly kicked him several times; Nelly cried over him when he wanted to play, and Jim only patted his head, and said, “poor Spot, poor Spot!” by which he meant, “poor Jim, poor Jim!” But now Spot felt that a good time was coming, and he rejoiced beforehand, like a sensible dog.

And, in truth, a pretty good time did come. Jim was not entirely happy, because he could not prove his innocence, but he found that no one had been told of his supposed guilt.

Mrs. Turner had not said a word about her missing spoon to any one. “I will give him another chance to begin right,” she had said to her husband. And Mr. Turner had replied, “I don’t believe he took it any more than I did; so what’s the good of making a fuss about nothing?”

No fuss had been made; but Mrs. Turner had said to her little daughter, when she started for school the morning after Jim’s departure, “Nelly, you must be careful not to say a single word to anybody about Jim. But I don’t want you to ask him to come here, and it’s just as well for you not to play with him much.”

“It is too bad,” said Nelly. But she was an obedient little girl, and the first time Jim came to school, when she saw that he hardly dared to look at her she thought that it would be better to tell him the truth.

So at recess she called him, and asked him to go with her on the road, where no one would hear them; then she said:

“Jim, I want to tell you something. Mamma told me I must not ask you to come to the farm any more, and that I must not play with you much, and so I won’t do it. But I like you just the same, and I will give you an apple every day to say we are friends.”

Nelly was as good as her word. Every morning, at recess, she gave Jim a small red and yellow “lady-apple,” which she had rubbed hard to make it shine, and which was one of the two apples her father gave her when she went to school; and the “lady-apples” were all kept for her, because she said they were so good and so pretty--“just like my little girl,” Mr. Turner said.

And what do you suppose Jim did with his apples?

Eat them. No, not he!

Every time Nelly gave him an apple, he put it in his pocket and took it home. Then in the evening before going to bed, he made a hole in it--the apple, not in the bed--and strung it on a piece of twine which hung from a nail in the window-sash in his little room.

The poor apples got brown, and wrinkled, and dry, but they were very precious to Jim, but every one of them said to him, as plain as an apple can speak: “I like you just the same.”

And so the winter passed away quietly. Mrs. Martin became very fond of Jim; she said he was so smart and so handy about the house she didn’t know what she would do without him, and she didn’t think boys were any trouble at all.

But, alas, how little we know what may happen!

Spring had come, and house-cleaning had come with it. Mrs. Martin had a nice “best-room” which she never used except for half an hour on Sunday afternoons during the summer, and which was always as clean as clean can be. But in Spring, it had to be made cleaner, if possible; summer could not come till that was done.

So the carpet was taken up, shaken, and put down again, and as Jim had helped in the shaking, Mrs. Martin kindly invited him to come in, and admire the room.

“What a pretty room it is!” said Jim; “why don’t you live in it?”

“Because it would wear out the carpet, and it is more comfortable in the sitting-room;” answered Mrs. Martin. Then she showed him a few books, boxes, and other works of art which were spread out on the big round table, and Jim admired everything.

Among Mrs. Martin’s treasures, there was a brown morocco “Keepsake,” containing a pair of scissors, a silver thimble, and a needle-case. It had belonged to Mrs. Martin’s little daughter who had died several years before, and when Mrs. Martin went into the best-room on Sunday afternoons she always opened the “Keepsake,” and thought of the little hands that had played with it, long ago. And now as a reward of merit, she showed it to Jim.

“It is the prettiest thing I ever saw!” said Jim; “when I am rich I will give Nellie Turner one just like it.”

“She will have to wait some time, I guess,” said Mrs. Martin, laughing.

Then they looked at the pictures of George Washington shaking hands with nobody, and of his wife, looking very sweet and handsome.

“You are so great at stringing up things, Jimmy,” said Mrs. Martin with a funny look, “I want you to hang up these pictures for me, will you?”

“I will,” said Jim, blushing a little as he thought of his string of apples; “I will do it next Saturday.”

Jim kept his promise. The pictures were hung in the best light and made the room look so much prettier, that even Spot, who had been a silent observer, could keep still no longer, and barked his approbation. Then the blinds and windows were closed, the door locked, and the best-room was left to quiet and darkness.

The next day being Sunday, Mrs. Martin paid her usual afternoon visit to the best-room. She admired the pictures a little while, then she went to the round table to take up the Keepsake; but the Keepsake was not there.

She looked all over the table and under it, behind every chair and in every corner, but she did not find it. “I wonder where it can be? Perhaps I took it to the sitting-room without thinking,” said Mrs. Martin to herself.

She went back to the sitting-room and looked everywhere, but found no Keepsake. Then she sat down in her rocking-chair and tried to think about something else, but could only say to herself: “I wonder where it is!”

Jim came into the room with a new Sunday-school book, which he began to read. Mrs. Martin looked at him while he read, but for some reason she did not say anything to him about the Keepsake.

The next morning she put off her washing, and as soon as Jim had gone to school she began to search the whole house; but no Keepsake did she find.

“It can’t be, it can’t be,” she said with tears in her eyes; “but I _must_ look in his room--perhaps he took it up to look at--he said it was so pretty.”

Mrs. Martin went up to Jim’s room, but found nothing there except his clothes, the apples, and a few little treasures such as boys have.

Then she fell on her knees by Jim’s bed, and cried with all her heart. “No, I won’t believe it till I have to,” she said at last. “Poor boy; it’s hard on him and he has been so good, too! But I must speak to him about it, and if he has done wrong I must try to be patient with him.”

When Jim came home from school in the afternoon, Mrs. Martin called him into the sitting-room. “Come here, Jim,” she said; “I want to speak to you.”

She had said it very kindly, but there was something in her voice that made Jim feel a little queer.

He came in and stood before her, and she said to him: “Jim do you know what has become of that pretty Keepsake I showed you the other day? I can’t find it anywhere, and I have looked and looked.”

“No,” said Jim boldly, “I havn’t seen it since. I hope it isn’t lost.” Then he stopped, and his face blushed crimson. There was something in Mrs. Martin’s eyes, as well as in her voice, that reminded him of his trouble about the silver-spoon.

“Oh! you don’t think”--he cried out.

But he could say no more--Mrs. Martin had him in her arms the next moment.

“No, I _don’t_ think,” she said, “I don’t, my boy! not for the world I wouldn’t! only I can’t find it, and--and--”

“Let me look for it,” said Jim.

They looked again together, but with no success. That night there were two heavy hearts in the quiet little house, and the next morning there were two pair of red eyes at the breakfast table.

“You must not grieve so, Jim,” said Mrs. Martin. “I hope it will all come out right; we must try to bear it well, and go to work as if nothing had happened.”

But she could not follow her own advice, and the washing remained undone.

Jim did not go to school, and spent his time looking everywhere in the orchard and in the garden, while Spot followed him, wondering what was the matter.

No one had any appetite for dinner, and after trying in vain to eat a potato, Jim went up to his room.

Mrs. Martin tried to sit still, and sew, but she could not bear it long; and when she heard the children coming from school, she went to the gate to look at them; they were so happy that it seemed to do her good.

“Is Jimmy sick?” asked little Nelly, stopping on her way.

“No,” said Mrs. Martin; “but he’s been busy, and couldn’t go to school.”

Nelly wanted to send him a nice russet apple she had kept for him, but she did not quite dare to do it because Mrs. Martin looked so sober.

Jim heard her voice from his room, but he did not dare to show himself. “She won’t like me just the same when she hears of this,” he thought; and he felt as if he had not a friend in the world. “I would give my head to find that thing,” he said; “she don’t believe I took it, but she believes it too; I shall have to go away from here, and I don’t care what becomes of me, anyway.”

Mrs. Martin stood at the gate a little while watching the children, then she went to the garden to look at her hot-beds--two large pine boxes in which lettuce, radishes, and tomatoes were doing their best to grow fast and green.

When she came near the beds, she saw Spot stretched on the ground, enjoying an old bone, as she thought.

“This won’t do, Spot,” she said; “I don’t want you to bring your bones here. Go away!”

Spot did not seem to mind her at all, so she came a little nearer to make a personal impression upon him with the toe of her shoe.

Spot growled, and turned away his head a little, and as he did so, a little silver thimble fell out of the old bone and rolled upon the ground.

“My Keepsake!” exclaimed Mrs. Martin. And, as she said afterward, she was so taken by surprise you could have knocked her down with a feather.

She waited half a minute to get her breath when she picked up the thimble and ran toward the house, calling with all her might: “Jim, Jim, here it is! here, come!”

Jim never remembered how he got down stairs, but there he was staring at the thimble, and so happy that he couldn’t even begin to say a word.

Mrs. Martin was just explaining to him: “you see it was Spot, and the bone, and the hot-bed fell out of it, and I knew it was not you”--when, they heard a big voice calling from the road: “Jim, Jim, come out here quick!”

They looked round, and saw farmer Turner running as fast as such a fat man could run, and waving something shiny over his head.

“Here it is!” he said, “here is that blessed spoon! I was a-plowing in a corner of the orchard, when I turned up a soft stone made of red morocco, with a silver spoon in it. Didn’t I tell you so? I never believed it. Hallo! what’s the matter?”

The matter was a most wonderful scramble. Mrs. Turner and little Nelly had run across lots, and here they were, talking, and laughing, and crying. Everybody hugged everybody else, and everybody was so glad she was so sorry, or so sorry she was so glad--farmer Turner vowed he couldn’t tell which it was most.

At last they made out that they were all very glad, and Mrs. Martin invited them all to stay to tea. They accepted the invitation, and such a tea-party never took place anywhere--not even in Boston--for the company had joy as well as hot biscuits, and happiness as well as cake.

Spot was scolded and forgiven, and wagged his tail so hard that it is a wonder it didn’t come off.

As for Jim, he got kisses enough that evening to last him for a lifetime.

This is the true end to a true story, but not the last end by any means.

For Jim is now a “boy” twenty-one years old, and Nelly “likes him just the same,” only a great deal more.

THE CHRISTMAS THORN.

BY LOUISE STOCKTON.

In the December of 1752, Roger Lippett was a boy of ten years, and “Dan,” his dog, was six months old and had to be taught to swim. To this pleasing duty Roger addressed himself whenever he had a chance, and the only draw-back was that his mother would allow no wet dog upon her sanded floor, and as Roger had to be wherever Dan was, he had often a tedious time in waiting for such a very curly dog to get dry.

But this Sunday afternoon the two had taken a long walk after the swim, and when they came back Dan was dry and uncommonly clean and white.

In the little parlor Roger found the usual Sunday company. In an arm-chair on one side of the fireplace sat Simon Mitchels, the school-master; opposite to him, on a three-legged stool, was Caleb Dawe, the parish clerk, and on the settle, in front of the fire, was Roger’s cousin, old Forbes the miller, and short Daniel Green, the sexton. His mother sat in her high-backed chair by the window, and Phœbe Rogers’ younger sister was near her playing gleefully with a kitten.

“Christmas!” said Caleb; “there’ll be no Christmas! What between the New Way and the Old Way, we’ll all go astray. It is a popish innovation at the best, and if King George knew his duty, he’d put his foot on it.”

“Nonsense!” said Simon, testily; “when a thing is wrong, ’tis wrong, and if you mean to make it right, you must not mind a little temporary trouble. King George knows that just as well as any one, and so do you! If you wanted a new roof on your house you would first have to take the old one off.”

“Not Caleb,” said old Forbes. “Caleb ’d patch the old one until it was new-made over.”

“Yes,” replied Simon, “that is just what we have been doing with the year--patching and patching. Now here comes King George, and says, ‘Look here, this is 1752, and if we are ever going to have a decent regular year with the proper number of days in it, ’tis time we were about it.’ But you people who patch roofs object because it alters the dates for one year a day or two. Thanks be to the King, however, he has the power.”

“Alters the dates a day or two!” repeated Caleb. “You yourself said the New Way would take eleven days out of the year.”

“Only this year,” Simon replied; “afterward it will be all right. It is but to bring the first of January in the right place.”

“It was right enough,” persisted Caleb. “And I say no one, king or no king, has any right to take eleven days away from the English people.”

Then Mistress Margery Lippett spoke:

“For my part,” she said, “I think the New Way unchristian. Mistress Duncan, you know, has a fine crowing little boy, and when the squire asked how old he was, she told him--’twas but a day so ago--three months and two weeks; and he laughed, and told her she would have to take the two weeks off. Now _that_ I call unchristian, and not dealing justly with the child.”

At this the school-master laughed, and taking his pipe out of his mouth, and pushing his velvet skull-cap a little farther back, he replied:

“They were both right, Mistress Margery. Both of them. The mother counts by weeks--very good--the squire by the proper calendar. One makes the child three months and two weeks, and she is right; the other deducts eleven days to fit the calendar, and he, too, is right.”

“Out with it,” cried Caleb; “out with such a calendar! Why, the whole realm will be in confusion. None of us will ever know how old we are, or when the church-days are due; but I doubt if, in spite of it all, the Pope’s new calendar doesn’t keep the squire’s rent-day straight. They’ll look out for that.”

“I suppose,” said Simon, “you all think the year was created when the world was?”

“Of course it was,” said Mistress Margery; “didn’t He make the day and the night, and do you suppose He would have passed the year over?”

“You are about right,” said Simon; “but the trouble is we are just finding out what His year is? See here, Roger,” and he turned his head to the boy, “do you know how many different kinds of years we can reckon?”

“Not I, master,” said Roger.

“Well, I’ll tell you. Suppose you wanted a measure of time answering to a year, you might reckon from the time the apples blow to when they blow again, but if a frost or a blight seize them, you’d be out with your count, wouldn’t you?”

“Truly,” said Mistress Margery, who delighted to see how well Roger understood his learned master.

“Well, then,” resumed the teacher, “you would soon find that if you wanted a regular, unchangeable guide, one unaffected by seasons, by droughts, heats, or hostile winds, you would look to the skies. You would, perhaps, if you were wise enough, and had observed--you would single out some special star; you would take close notice of its position, note its changes, then you would say, ‘When that comes back to the very spot where it was when I began to watch it, that time I shall count as my year.’ Do you follow me?”

“That I do,” said Roger.

“That, then, is one way in which a year was once calculated, and the star chosen gave three hundred and sixty-five days for a year.”

“Now that is a calendar, true and unchangeable, and correct beyond what a Pope can make,” said Caleb.

“That, Roger,” said Simon, taking no notice of Caleb, “is called a Sidereal year. Now, come you here, Phœbe, and tell me what is a Lunar year?”

“A year of moons,” said Phœbe, her bright eyes dancing.

“You have the making of a scholar in you,” said Simon; “’tis a pity you are a girl. A Lunar year _is_ a year of twelve moons. This Lunar year has but three hundred and fifty-four days, still it served the purposes of the Chaldeans, the Persians, and Jews.

“Then there was the Solar year, calculated by the sun; and it and the Lunar year agreed so badly that every three years another lunar month had to be counted in to keep the one from running away from the other. Now, I suppose you all think,” looking at the group around the fireside, “that all these years began the first of January and ended the thirty-first of December?”

“It is but just that they should,” said old Forbes, Caleb disdaining to speak.

“But _they didn’t_,” said Simon. “The Jews began their year in March; in Greece it began in June, and certain Eastern Christians began theirs in August.”

“That isn’t England,” said Caleb, in a tone of contempt.

“Truly not,” said Simon; “but the English year used to begin the twenty-fifth of December, until the coronation of William the Conqueror--when was that, Phœbe?”

“In 1066,” said Phœbe, smoothing her teacher’s ruffles with the air of a petted and privileged child.

“It was January the first, 1066,” resumed Simon; “and it was judged so important an event that it was ordered that ever after _the year should begin on that day_. But I can tell you worse than that of England. There are places in England to-day, where they reckon their year from the twenty-fifth of March!

“But long before William’s time,” he continued, “the Romans had ideas, and they thought it wise to straighten up the year for their own use. So Julius Cæsar--when did he begin to reign, Phœbe?”

“I don’t know,” said she.

“In 63, B. C.” said Roger, eagerly.

“No, that was Cæsar Augustus, and we are coming to him. Julius Cæsar lived before that, and he arranged the years so that all the even numbers among the months, except February, had thirty days, and all the odd ones thirty-one. Do you understand that?”

“Not I,” said Phœbe, frankly.

“January is the first month; it is not an even number?”

“No,” said Phœbe.

“March is the third month, and so is not an even number?”

“No,” said Phœbe again.

“They each then, being odd, had thirty-one days, while May and July, and the other even months, except February, had thirty days. That was all very easy, and the length of the year seemed settled; but when Cæsar Augustus came on the throne he was not satisfied. ‘What,’ said he, ‘shall Julius Cæsar in his month of July have thirty-one days, and I, in my month of August, have but thirty!’ And so he at once made August longer.”

“He was very foolish,” said Phœbe. “I was born in February, wasn’t I, mother? and _I_ don’t care because Roger was born in December, when there are more days.”

“But you are not a Cæsar,” replied her teacher. “At any rate this Cæsar made the year all wrong again; and in 1582 Gregory, who was Pope, set to work to help matters. He had to drop some days, I believe, in the first year just as we are going to now. The French and Italian people, and some others, were wise enough to see this improvement at once, and they adopted Pope Gregory’s year; but we, for nearly two hundred years more, have been getting along with the old way, and our new year comes ahead of almost everybody else’s, and those who travel get their dates badly mixed.”

“Surely,” said Roger, “it _would_ be best to have the same year the world over.”

“So King George thinks,” said Simon; “but Caleb here says not, and quarrels because eleven days have to be dropped out of this one year, so that for all aftertime the years, months, and days, will go on in an even, regular and seemly manner.”

“And I rightly object,” replied Caleb; “and when the proper Christmas-day comes I shall keep it, and no king, no pope, and no Julius Cæsar, _nobody_, shall ever make me change the blessed day for any other falsely called by its name.” And Caleb put his hands to his three-legged stool, and lifting it and himself at the same moment, brought it down with a bang.

“Well, we can’t go wrong about Christmas-day,” said Mistress Margery, “if we but follow the blooming of the Glastonbury Thorn.”

“That we cannot,” answered old Forbes. “For hundreds and hundreds of years, long before popes or calendars were thought of, that Thorn has bloomed every Christmas Eve, and not only the one at Glastonbury, but every sacred slip cut from it and planted has remembered the birthday of The Child _and never failed to blossom_!”

“That is all superstition,” said Simon; “the plant naturally blossoms twice a year--that is all.”

“Indeed that is not all,” cried Mistress Margery. “I was born and raised at Quainton, but seven miles from here, and there, as you all know, is a fine tree grown from a Glastonbury slip, and many’s the time when, with the whole village, have I gone out to see the blooming.”

“And when did it bloom, mother?” asked Phœbe.

“Always on Christmas Eve. The blossoms were snow white, and by Christmas night they were gone.”

“But, mother,” said Roger, “why is the Glastonbury tree the best, if this at Quainton blooms as well?”

“Because it was the first one planted, of course,” said Mistress Margery; “I know no other reason.”

Phœbe saw the little smile upon Simon’s face, and taking his coat lappets in both hands, she bent her pretty little head in front of his, and said:

“Tell us, master.”

“You think,” he answered, “that I must know all the old wives’ stories? Well, I will tell you this one. Joseph of Arimathea, you know, gave his sepulchre to receive the body of the Lord. Into it the blessed angels went, and out from it, upon the third day, came the Risen Saviour. From that hour, until the one in which he saw the Lord return unto the skies, Joseph followed Him, and then all Palestine became to him empty and weary. There were people who doubted the resurrection; people who said that Joseph himself was one who aided in a deception; and so, tired of it all, he took his staff in hand and wandered until he came to England, and to Glastonbury. On Christmas-day he climbed the hill where the old, old church now stands, and here, in sign that his wanderings were over, he planted his staff. At once it rooted, it shot forth leaves, it blossomed, and the scent of the milk-white flowers filled the air. From that time to the days when Charles and Cromwell fought, it has blossomed on Christmas Eve; but then it was cut down by some impious hand, yet still all the slips, the twigs, which had been cut off by pilgrims, have kept the sacred birthday; and as your mother says, the one in Quainton can as well as the other decide between the Old calendar and the New.”

“I am glad to hear thee say so,” exclaimed Mistress Margery, with brightening eyes, “and if you choose to journey with us when next we go to Quainton, you are heartily welcome to our company, and I’ll bespeak thee a honest welcome from my sister who, like my Phœbe here, has a strong leaning toward learning.”

“Nay,” said the school-master, looking a little ashamed of himself; “I but told the story to amuse the child. The plant is merely a sort of hawthorn from Aleppo, and regularly blooms twice in the year, if the weather be but mild.”

But although Mistress Margery was much disappointed that he had no desire to go to Quainton, she found both Roger and Phœbe bent upon witnessing the Christmas blooming.

“I don’t know,” said she, lightly, “but that between the Old Way, and the New, the Thorn will be confused, and not know when it should bloom.”

“It will not bloom on your new Christmas, take my word for that,” said Forbes; “and if the children will wait until the true day comes, I myself will take them along, for I have a mind to see it myself.”

“But, cousin Forbes,” said Phœbe, “it _may_ bloom on the new day.”

The little people had their way. On the morning of the twenty-fourth of December, by the New Style, but the thirteenth by Caleb’s count, Roger and Phœbe started off, mounted on their mother’s own steady white horse, Phœbe behind her brother, with the bag containing their holiday clothes, while to Roger was given their lunch, and a bottle of blackberry wine for their aunt, with whom they were to lodge in Quainton.

The morning was cold and bleak, but the children rode merrily on. It was the first time they had been trusted alone on such an expedition, and Phœbe at once proposed that they should play that Roger was a wandering knight, and she one of the fair, distressed damsels who were always met by knights when on their travels.

“I would,” said Roger, “if you could find another knight to whom I could give battle, but it is rather tame to be pacing along here with you behind me, and no danger ahead.”

“I wish then,” said Phœbe, “that mother had not wanted cousin Forbes’ horse, for, perhaps, he would have lent it to us, and then, with such a horse, we could have been a knight and a lady out hawking, and I would have given you a race.”

“That would have been a rarely good plan,” said Roger, looking up the level road, “and I do not like to lose it. Ho, lady,” he cried, looking behind him, “thy father is in pursuit!” And clapping both feet to the sides of the horse, he put him to his speed.

“Oh, Roger! oh, sir Knight!” exclaimed Phœbe, “my hood--if I could but tie it!”

“I cannot wait for hoods,” said the knight, in a stern voice; “when we reach my castle thou shalt have twenty-two, and a crown beside.”

The lady would not have doubted this for the world, but she nevertheless loosened one hand, clinging desperately to her protector with the other, and pulled off the hood, held it, and clutched her knight who, with cries of “on Selim, on!” urged poor old Dobbin to his best.

There was, indeed, a clatter of horses’ hoofs behind, and with it a loud cry, Phœbe turned her head.

“Oh, sir Knight!” she cried with very short breath; “my father _is_ near at hand! Hasten, oh, hasten!”

And sure enough, some one was! He was short and stout, and looked much more like a butcher’s boy than a gentle lady’s father; and he was certainly in pursuit, and he called again and again, but the only effect was to make the flying knight more vigorously kick the sides of his horse, and more vehemently push on. But as fortune would have it the father’s horse was the swiftest, and in spite of the knight’s best efforts he was down along-side.

“What do you mean?” he exclaimed, “by racing off in this way! If I didn’t know that was Mistress Margery Lippett’s horse I would have let you go on, seeing that you haven’t sense enough to know he has lost a shoe.”

At this Roger quickly stopped his steed.

“Which one?” he exclaimed--“Here Phœbe, I must get down--the hind foot shoe is gone.”

“Oh, Roger,” cried Phœbe, “what would mother say! She is so careful of Dobbin, and she charged us to take heed of him; and Roger, _must_ we go home, do you think?”

“Of course not,” replied Roger, “and see here Dick,” for he now recognized his pursuer, “cannot you tell me where to find a blacksmith?”

“There is one at Torrey,” said Dick, “a mile down that road. It is the nearest place, but it will take you out of your way, if you are going to the Blooming as am I, who must be off, or my master will take my ears in pay for my tarrying.”

It was easy enough to find the blacksmith’s shop, but the blacksmith was not there, although he would soon be back, his wife said. Roger tied his horse, and then he and Phœbe wandered about until he declared it was lunch time; so they came back, and were about to eat their lunch by the stile, when the smith’s wife saw them, and calling them into her kitchen, spread a table for them, and added a cold pie and some milk to their repast.

But still the man did not come, and Roger waited in great impatience. He was almost ready to start off again for Quainton, but Phœbe was so sure that the penalty of injuring Dobbin would be the never trusting of them alone again, that he was afraid to risk it. Then there came a man with two horses to be shod, and he waited and scolded and stamped his feet, and then the blacksmith came, but he at once attended to the man, and so Dobbin had to wait. But at last Dobbin was shod, and Roger mounted, and then the blacksmith lifted Phœbe up.

“Where are you going?” said the smith.

“To Quainton,” replied Roger; “we are going to see the Blooming.”

“Why, so are we,” said the man. “It is late for you children to be on the road. If I had known all this I would have shod your horse first. You had better wait for us.”

“Oh, no,” replied Phœbe, “we have first to go to our aunt’s. It would frighten her greatly to have us come so late.”

Roger looked down the road. It was certainly late in the afternoon, but the road was direct, and so he said good-by, and off old Dobbin trotted.

It now seemed as if the mile out of the way had stretched itself to two, and it was fast growing dark when they reached a mile-stone three miles from Quainton. Little Phœbe was certain they should be lost riding on in the dark; but not so Roger.

“There is no fear of that,” said he stoutly, “we will meet others going.”

And Roger was right. The nearer they got to Quainton the greater became the throng of people, and they were one and all going to the Blooming.

They came from the lanes, from over the fields, out of every hamlet, from every road. They were in wagons; they were on foot and on horse-back; two old ladies were in a sedan-chair, and at last they overtook an old man carried like “a lady to London,” by two great sons. As it grew dark and darker, and no stars came out to brighten the sky, wandering lights began to shine forth and torches, candles, lanterns, gleamed out on the roadside and flickered in the bushes and among the trees. There was in every group much talking and discussion; and it was easy to be seen that most of the people were of Caleb’s opinion, and doubted the new way of arranging the year; but it was equally clear that they meant the slip from the Glastonbury thorn to decide the matter for them.

Roger kept close behind a travelling-carriage which was attended by two horsemen carrying torches, and greatly to his joy it went into Quainton and passed directly by his aunt’s home.

“There is no use in stopping,” cried Phœbe, as the house came in sight, “it is all shut up and dark, and aunt Katherine has surely gone with the others.”

This was so likely to be the case that Roger urged on his horse, and again overtook the carriage. When they reached the field in which the Thorn-tree stood it was already filled with flickering, moving lights, and was all astir with people and voices.

Roger jumped down, lifted Phœbe, and then tying Dobbin to an oak sapling which still rustled with dried and brown leaves, he turned to his sister and, hand in hand, they hastened to where the Thorn was growing, and around which stood a large group.

The tree was bare, leafless, and looked as if dead.

“If that blooms to-night,” said a woman, “’twill be a miracle.”

“It is always a miracle,” said a grave and sober-looking man by her side.

Phœbe held closely to her brother’s hand; but the scene was too wonderful to promise much talking on her part. The darkness, the dim and shadowy trees and bushes, the tramping of unseen horses, the confusion of voices, the laughing and complaining of children, the moving lights, the thronging people, and in the centre of it all a ring of light and a dense group around the tree, made a wonderful picture.

Nearer and nearer the people pressed, the parish beadle in advance, with his watch in his hand, a man by his side swinging his lantern so that the light would fall directly upon it. Many eyes were bent on it.

It grew late, and the crowd became silent, gathering closer around the tree.

“Twenty minutes of twelve--a quarter of twelve--five minutes of twelve!” proclaimed the beadle.

The tree was still bare, and gave no signs of bloom.

“_Twelve o’clock!_”

And off in the distance pealed the bells, ushering in King George’s Christmas.