Chapter III: Part 3

“Yes,” said he, in a low tone, in reply, speaking to her mother, “perhaps I can; very likely.”

Royal wondered what they were talking about, but he did not ask.

“Well, Lucy,” said her father, “throw your corn into the coop, and about the door; perhaps you can catch some hens in it. Who knows but that it will do for a trap?”

“O father,” said Royal, “you are only making fun of us.”

“Why, you have caught squirrels, haven’t you, time and again? and why not hens?”

“Nonsense, father,” said Royal; “there are no hens to come and get caught in traps.”

“_Perhaps_, Royal,” said Lucy, as she scattered her corn into the coop, “Perhaps.----We will put in the corn, at least,--and leave the door open.”

So Lucy put the corn in and about the door; and then the party all went away laughing. Lucy forgot her disappointment in the hope of catching some hens, and Royal in the amusement excited by such an idea as setting a trap for poultry.

CONVERSATION IX.

EQUIVOCATION.

Immediately after breakfast, the next morning, Lucy went out to look at the coop, to see if any hens had been caught; and when she came back, and said that there were none there, her father said that she must not despair too soon,--sometimes a trap was out several nights before anything was taken.

That day, after Royal had finished his lessons, Lucy called upon him to fulfil his promise of making her a garden.

“Why, Lucy,” said Royal, “I don’t think I am under any obligation to make you any garden.”

“Yes, Royal,” said Lucy, “you promised me that you would, if I would help you make the coop.”

“Well, that was because I expected that we could have some hens; but, now that we cannot have any hens, the coop will not do us any good at all; and I don’t see that I ought to make you a garden for nothing.”

Lucy did not know how to answer this reasoning, but she was very far from being satisfied with it. She, however, had nothing to say, but that he had agreed to make her a garden, and that she thought he ought to do it.

Royal said that he meant if they got any hens to put into the coop; and Lucy said she did not believe that he meant any such thing.

Royal was wrong in refusing thus to fulfil his agreement. And the reason which he gave was not a good reason. He did, indeed, expect, when he made the promise, that he should have some hens to put into his hen-coop; but he did not make his promise _on that condition_. The promise was absolute--if she would help him make his coop, he would make her a garden. When she had finished helping him make the coop, her part of the agreement was fulfilled, and he was bound to fulfil his.

At last Lucy said,

“If you don’t make me a garden, I shall go and tell Joanna of you.”

“Very well,” said Royal; “we will go and leave it to Joanna, and let her decide.”

They went in and stated the case to Joanna. When she heard all the facts, she decided at once against Royal.

“Certainly you ought to make her a garden,” said Joanna. “There being no hens has nothing to do with it. You took the risk. You took the risk.”

Lucy did not understand what Joanna meant by taking the risk, but she understood that the decision was in her favor, and she ran off out of the kitchen in great glee. Royal followed her more slowly.

“Well, Lucy,” said he, “I’ll make you a garden. I’d as lief make it as not.”

He accordingly worked very industriously upon the garden for more than an hour. He dug up all the ground with his hoe, and then raked it over carefully. Then he marked out an alley through the middle of it, for Lucy to walk in, when she was watering her flowers. He also divided the sides into little beds, though the paths between the beds were too narrow to walk in.

“Now,” said he, “Lucy, for the flowers.”

So they set off upon an expedition after flowers. They got some in the garden, and some in the fields. Some Royal took up by the roots; but most of them were broken off at the stem, so as to be stuck down into the ground. Lucy asked him if they would grow; and he said that he did not know that they would grow much, but they would keep bright and beautiful as long as she would water them.

Miss Anne lent Lucy her watering-pot, to water her flowers, and she said that, after dinner, she would go out and see her garden. Accordingly, after dinner, they made preparations to go. While Miss Anne was putting on her sun-bonnet, Royal waited for her; but Lucy ran out before them. In a moment, however, after she had gone out, she came running back in the highest state of excitement, calling out,

“O Royal, we have caught them! we have caught them! O, come and see! come, Miss Anne, come quick and see!”

And before they had time to speak to her, or even to ask what she meant, she was away again, calling, as she passed away from hearing, “Come, come, come!”

Royal left Miss Anne, and ran off after Lucy.

Miss Anne herself walked along after them, and found them looking through the bars of the hen-coop, and in a state of the highest delight at the sight of a hen and a large brood of chickens, which were walking about within.

“O, look, Miss Anne!” said Lucy, clapping her hands as Miss Anne came up. “A real hen, and ever so many chickens!”

“Where _could_ they have come from?” said Miss Anne.

“O, we caught them,” said Lucy; “we caught them. I told you, Royal, that perhaps we should catch some.”

“How did they get here?” said Royal. “It is some of father’s sly work, I know. Do you know, Miss Anne, how they came here?”

“Let us see how many chickens there are,” said Miss Anne. “One, two, three,”--and so she went on counting up to thirteen.

“Thirteen,” said Lucy; “only think! More than Joanna’s, isn’t it, Royal? Thirteen is more than eleven, isn’t it?”

“Yes, two more,” said Royal; “but, Miss Anne, don’t you know how they came here?”

Miss Anne looked rather sly, but did not answer. She said to Lucy,

“Well, Lucy, let us go and see your garden.”

Lucy did not now care so much about her garden; she was more interested in the chickens; however, they all went to look at it, and Miss Anne praised it very highly. She said the flowers looked beautifully.

“And now, Miss Anne,” said Lucy, “whenever I want any flowers, I can come out here and gather them out of my garden.”

“Yes,” said Miss Anne, “as long as they last.”

“O, they will last all the time,” said Lucy.

“Will they?” said Miss Anne, rather doubtfully.

“Yes,” said Lucy; “I am going to water them.”

“That will help,” replied Miss Anne, “I have no doubt.”

“I can keep them fresh as long as I want to, in that way,” said Lucy. “Royal said so.”

“Did you, Royal?” asked Miss Anne.

“No,” said Royal. “I said that they would keep fresh as long as she watered them.”

“That wasn’t quite honest, was it, Royal? for they won’t keep fresh more than two days.”

“Well,” said Royal, “and she won’t have patience to water them more than _one_ day.”

“That’s equivocation,” said Miss Anne.

“Equivocation?” repeated Royal; “what do you mean by that?”

“It is when anything you say has two senses, and it is true in one sense, and not true in another; and you mean to have any person understand it in the sense in which it is _not_ true.”

“What do you mean by that?” said Lucy.

“Why, I will give you an example. Once there was a boy who told his brother William, that there was a black dog up in the garret, and William ran up to see. His brother came up behind him, and, when they opened the garret door, he pointed to an old andiron, such as are called dogs, and said, ‘See! there he is, standing on three legs.’”

Royal laughed very heartily at this story. He was much more amused at the waggery of such a case of equivocation, than impressed with the dishonesty of it.

“Miss Anne,” said he, “I don’t see that there was any great harm in that.”

“Equivocation is not wrong always,” said Miss Anne. “Riddles are often equivocations.”

“Tell us one,” said Royal.

“Why, there is your old riddle of the carpenter cutting the door. He cut it, and cut it, and cut it, and cut it too little; then he cut it again, and it fitted.”

“Is that an equivocation?” said Royal.

“Yes,” said Miss Anne; “the equivocation is in the word _little_. It may mean that he cut too little, or that he cut until the door was too little. Now, when you give out that riddle, you mean that the person whom you are talking with, should understand it in the last sense; that is, that he cut until the _door_ was too little, and then that he cut it more, and it was just right. But it cannot be true in that sense. It is true only in the other sense; that is, that he did not cut it enough, and then, when he cut it more, he made it fit. So that he cut it too little, has two senses. The words are true in one sense; but you mean to have them understood in the other sense, in which they cannot be true. And that is an _equivocation_.

“But, then,” continued Miss Anne, “equivocations in riddles are certainly not wrong; but equivocations in our _dealings_ with one another certainly are.”

“I don’t think that the boy that said there was a dog up garret did any thing wrong,” said Royal.

“I do,” said Lucy, putting down her little foot with great emphasis. “I think he did very wrong indeed.”

“O no, Lucy,” said Miss Anne, “not very wrong indeed. Perhaps it was not quite right. But it is certainly wrong to gain any advantage from any person in your dealings with them, by equivocation.”

“Did I?” said Royal.

“Yes, I think you did, a little. You told Lucy that the flowers would keep fresh as long as she would water them. You meant her to understand it absolutely; but it is true only in another sense.”

“In what sense?” said Royal.

“Why, as long as she _would be likely_ to water them; which is a very different thing. Perhaps she would not have been willing to make the bargain with you, if she had understood that she could not keep them fresh by watering them, more than a day or two.”

While they had been talking thus, they had gradually been walking towards the house, and they had now reached the door. Miss Anne went in, and Lucy and Royal went to the hen-coop to see the hen and chickens.

Lucy went to get some corn, but Joanna told her that crumbs of bread would be better, and then the old hen could break them up into small pieces, and feed her chickens with them. She accordingly gave her some small pieces of bread, which Lucy carried back; and she and Royal amused themselves for a long time, by throwing crumbs in through the spaces between the sticks.

While they were talking about them, Royal happened to speak of them as _his_ hen and chickens, and Lucy said that she thought he ought not to have them all. She wanted some herself,--at least some of the chickens.

“O no,” said Royal; “they are altogether mine; it is my coop.”

“No,” replied Lucy; “I helped you make the coop, and I mean to have some of the chickens.”

“Yes, but, Lucy, you promised me that I should have the coop and the hens, if I would make you a garden.”

“Yes, but not the chickens,” said Lucy; “I did not say a word about the chickens.”

“O Lucy, that was because we did not expect to have any chickens; but it is all the same thing.”

“What is all the same thing?” said Lucy.

“Why, hens and chickens,” said Royal.

“O Royal,” said Lucy, “they are very different indeed.” Lucy looked through the bars of the hen-coop, at the hen and chickens, and was quite surprised that Royal could say that they were all the same thing.

“In a bargain, Lucy, I mean; in a bargain, I mean. If you make a bargain about hens, you mean all the chickens too.”

“_I_ didn’t, I am sure,” said Lucy; “I never thought of such a thing as the chickens; and besides, you did not make me such a garden as you promised me.”

“Why, yes I did,” said Royal.

“No,” said Lucy, “you told me an equivocation.”

Royal laughed.

“You did, Royal; you know you did; and Miss Anne said so.

“_I_ think it was a falsehood, myself,” continued Lucy, “or almost a falsehood.”

“O no, Lucy; I don’t think you would water them more than one day, and I knew that they would keep fresh as long as that.”

Lucy was silent. She did not know exactly how to reply to Royal’s reasoning; but she thought it was very hard, that out of the whole thirteen chickens, Royal would not let her have any to call hers.

She told Royal that she only wanted two; if he would let her have two, she should be satisfied;--but Royal said that he wanted them all; that she had the garden, and he must have the hen and chickens.

Lucy might very probably have said something further on the subject; but at that moment she spied a little chicken, with black and yellow feathers, just creeping through between the bars of the coop. A moment more, and he was fairly out upon the grass outside.

“O Royal!” exclaimed Lucy, “one is out! one is out! I can catch him.”

“No,” said Royal, “let me catch him. You will hurt him.”

They both started up, and ran after the chicken; while he, frightened at their pursuit, and at his strange situation in the grass, ran off farther and farther, _peeping_ with great earnestness and noise. Royal caught at him, but did not catch him. He darted off towards where Lucy was, and at that instant Lucy clapped her hand over him, and held him a prisoner.

The poor hen was much alarmed at the cries of the lost chicken; and she pushed her head through the bars of the cage, trying to get out, and apparently in great distress.

“Give him to me,” said Royal, “and I’ll put him back again.”

“No,” said Lucy, “I am going to carry him in, and show him to Joanna.”

“O, well,” said Royal, “only give him to me, and let me carry him. You will hurt him.”

“No, I won’t hurt him,” said Lucy; “I will be very careful indeed.”

So she put the tender little animal very gently in one of her hands, and covered him with the other.

“O, what soft feathers!” said Lucy.

“Yes,” said Royal; “and see his little bill sticking out between your fingers!”

Thus they went into the house,--first to Joanna, and afterwards to Miss Anne; and the hen, when the lost chicken was out of hearing, soon regained her composure. She had a dozen chickens left, and as she could not count, she did not know but that there were thirteen.

CONVERSATION X.

JOHNNY.

Miss Anne was very much pleased to see the little chicken. She sent Royal out after a small, square piece of board. While he was gone, she got a small flake of cotton batting, and also an old work-basket, from the upper shelf of her closet. Then, when Royal came in with the board, she put the cotton upon it, shaping it in the form of a nest. She put the chicken upon this nest, and then turned the basket down over it, which formed a sort of cage, to keep the little prisoner from getting away. Royal and Lucy could look through the open-work of the basket, and see him.

But Miss Anne, though pleased with the chicken, was very sorry to find that Royal had so monopolizing a spirit. A monopolizing spirit is an eager desire to get for ourselves, alone, that which others ought to have a share of. Royal wanted to own the hen and chickens himself, and to exclude, or shut out, Lucy from all share of them. He wished to monopolize them. Too eager a desire to get what others have, is sometimes called _covetousness_. Miss Anne resolved to have a conversation with Royal about his monopolizing and covetous disposition.

She did not, however, have a very good opportunity until several days after this; but then a circumstance occurred which naturally introduced the subject.

The circumstance was this.

The children were taking a walk with Miss Anne. They went to a considerable distance from the house, by a path through the woods, and came at length to the banks of a mill stream. The water tumbled over the rocks which filled the bed of the stream. There was a narrow road along the bank, and Miss Anne turned into this road, and walked along up towards the mill, which was only a short distance above.

They saw, before them, at a little distance, a boy about as large as Royal, cutting off the end of a long, slender pole.

“O, see what a beautiful fishing-pole that boy has got!” said Royal.

“Is that a fishing-pole?” said Lucy.

Just then the boy called out, as if he was speaking to somebody in the bushes.

“Come, George; ain’t you most ready?”

“Yes,” answered George, “I have got mine just ready; but I want to get a little one for Johnny.”

“O, never mind Johnny,” said the other boy; “he can’t fish.”

By this time, the children had advanced so far that they could see George and Johnny, in a little open place among the bushes. George was about as large as the other boy; and he was just finishing the trimming up of another pole, very much like the one which the children had seen first. There was a very small boy standing by him, who, as the children supposed, was Johnny. He was looking on, while George finished his pole.

“_I_ would not get Johnny one,” said the boy in the road. “He can’t do any thing with it.”

“No,” said George, “but he will like to have one, so that he can make believe fish; shouldn’t you, Johnny?”

“Yes,” said Johnny; or rather he said something that meant _yes_; for he could not speak very plain.

“Well,” said the boy in the road, “I am not going to wait any longer.” He accordingly shut up his knife, put it into his pocket, and walked along.

George scrambled back into the bushes, and began to look about for a pole for Johnny. Miss Anne and the children were now opposite to them.

“Johnny,” said Miss Anne, “do you expect that you can catch fishes?”

Johnny did not answer, but stood motionless, gazing upon the strangers in silent wonder.

Miss Anne smiled, and walked on, and the children followed her. Presently George and Johnny came up behind them,--George walking fast, and Johnny trotting along by his side. When they had got before them a little way, they turned out of the road into a path which led down towards the stream, which here was at a little distance from the road. The path led in among trees and bushes; and so Miss Anne and the children soon lost sight of them entirely.

“George seems to be a strange sort of a boy,” said Miss Anne.

“Why?” asked Royal.

“Why, he cannot be contented to have a fishing-pole himself, unless little Johnny has one too.”

“Is that very strange?” asked Royal.

“I thought it was rather unusual,” said Miss Anne. “Boys generally want to get things for themselves; but I did not know that they were usually so desirous to have their brothers gratified too.”

“I do,” said Royal; “that is, I should, if I had a brother big enough.”

“You have a sister,” said Miss Anne.

“Well,” said Royal, “if I was going a fishing, and Lucy was going too, I should want to have her have a fishing-pole as well as I.”

“It is not always so with boys, at any rate,” said Miss Anne. “And that makes me think of a curious thing that happened once. A little boy, whom I knew, had a beautiful picture-book spoiled by a little gray dog, in a very singular way.”

“How was it?” said Royal.

“Tell us, Miss Anne,” said Lucy; “tell us all about it.”

“Well, this boy’s father bought him a very beautiful picture-book, with colored pictures in it, and brought it home, and gave it to him. And the next day the little gray dog spoiled it entirely.”

“How?” said Lucy.

“Guess.”

“Why, he bit it, and tore it to pieces with his teeth, I suppose,” said Lucy.

“No,” said Miss Anne.

“Then he must have trampled on it with his muddy feet,” said Royal.

“No,” said Miss Anne, “it could not be in any such way, for it was not a _live_ dog.”

“Not a _live_ dog!” said Lucy.

“No, it was a little glass dog,--gray glass; only he had black ears and tail.”

“I don’t see how he could spoil a book,” said Royal.

“He did,” answered Miss Anne.

“The book gave Joseph a great deal of pleasure before the dog came, and after that, it was good for nothing to him.”

“Joseph?” said Royal; “who was he?”

“Why, he was the little boy that had the book. Didn’t I tell you his name before?”

“No,” said Royal; “but tell us how the dog spoiled the book.”

“Why, you must understand,” said Miss Anne, “that Joseph had a little sister at home, named Mary; and when their father brought home the book to Joseph, he had nothing for Mary. But the next day, he was in a toy-shop, and he saw this little glass dog, and he thought that it would be a very pretty little present for Mary. So he bought it, and carried it home to her.”

“Well, Miss Anne, tell on,” said Lucy, when she found that Miss Anne paused, as if she was not going to say anything more.

“Why, that is about all,” said Miss Anne, “only that he gave the dog to Mary.”

“But you said that the dog spoiled Joseph’s book.”

“So it did. You see, when Joseph came to see the dog, he wanted it himself, so much that he threw his book down upon the floor, and came begging for the dog; and he could not take any pleasure at all in the book after that.”

“Is that all?” said Royal; “I supposed it was going to be something different from that.”

“Then you don’t think it is much of a story!”

“No,” said Royal.

“Nor I,” said Lucy.

“Well, now, _I_ thought,” said Miss Anne, “that that was rather a singular way for a dog to spoil a picture-book.”

There was a moment’s pause after Miss Anne had said these words; and then, an instant afterwards, the whole party came suddenly out of the woods; and the mill, with a bridge near it, crossing the stream, came into view.

“O, there is a bridge,” said Lucy; “let us go over that bridge.”

“Well,” said Royal, “so we will.”

They walked on towards the bridge; but, just before they got to it, Royal observed that there were ledges of rocks below the bridge, running out into the water; and he said that he should rather go down upon those rocks.

Miss Anne said that she should like to go down there too, very much, if she thought it was safe; and she concluded to go down, slowly and carefully, and see. They found that, by exercising great caution, they could advance farther than they had supposed. Sometimes Royal, who was pretty strong, helped Miss Anne and Lucy down a steep place; and sometimes they had to step over a narrow portion of the torrent. They found themselves at last all seated safely upon the margin of a rocky island, in the middle of the stream, with the water foaming, and roaring, and shooting swiftly by, all around them.

“There,” said Royal, “isn’t this a good place?”

“Yes,” said Lucy; “I never saw the water run so much before.”

“Children,” said Miss Anne, “look down there!”

“Where?” said Royal.

“There, upon the bank, under the trees, down on that side of the stream,--a little below that large, white rock.”

“Some boys,” said Royal. “They’re fishing.”

“I see ’em,” said Lucy.

“Yes,” said Royal, “they are the same boys we saw in the road.”

“Yes,” said Miss Anne; “and don’t you see Johnny running about with his pole?”

“Where?” said Lucy; “which is Johnny?”

“That’s he,” said Royal, “running about. Now he’s gone down to a sandy place upon the shore. See, he’s reaching out with his pole, as far as he can, upon the water; he is trying to reach a little piece of board that is floating by. There, he has got it, and is pulling it in.”

“I am glad George got him a pole,” said Miss Anne.

“So am I,” said Royal.

“And so am I,” said Lucy.

“It seems George is happier himself, if Johnny has something to make him happy too; but the other boy isn’t.”

“How do you know that he isn’t?” asked Lucy.

“Why, he did not want George to stop. He had got a pole himself, and he did not care any thing about Johnny’s having one.”

“Yes,” said Royal, “so I think.”

“Some children,” said Miss Anne, “when they have anything that they like, always want their brothers and sisters to have something too; and George seems to be one of them.

“And that makes me think,” continued Miss Anne, “of the story of the _horse_ and the picture-book.”

“What _is_ the story?” said Royal.

“Why, it is a story of a little wooden horse, which, instead of spoiling a picture-book, as the dog did, made it much more valuable.”

“Tell us all about it,” said Lucy.

“Very well, I will,” said Miss Anne. “There was once a boy named David. His uncle sent him, one new year’s day, a picture-book. There was a picture on every page, and two on the cover. He liked his picture-book very much indeed; but one thing diminished the pleasure he took in looking at it.”

“What do you mean by _diminished_?” asked Lucy.

“Why, made it smaller,” said Royal.

“Yes,” said Miss Anne; “and the circumstance which made his pleasure in the picture-book less than it otherwise would have been, was, that his little brother Georgie had no new book or plaything. David showed Georgie his book, and sometimes let him have it by himself; but he would have liked it better, if Georgie had had a present of his own.”

“And now about the horse?” said Royal.

“Well,--that evening, when these boys’ father came home to supper, he brought something tied up in a paper, which, he said, was for Georgie. David took it, and ran to find Georgie,--hoping that it was some present for him. Georgie opened it, and found that it was a handsome wooden horse, on wheels,--with a long red cord for a bridle, to draw him about by. David was very much pleased at this; and now he could go and sit down upon his cricket, and look at his book, with a great deal more pleasure; for Georgie had a present too. So, you see, the horse made the picture-book more valuable.”

The children sat still a short time, thinking of what Miss Anne had said; and at length Royal said,

“Are these stories which you have been telling us _true_, Miss Anne?”

“No,” said Miss Anne, quietly.

“Then you made them up.”

“Yes,” said Miss Anne.

“What for?” said Lucy.

“Why, to show you and Royal,” said Miss Anne, “the difference between a monopolizing and covetous spirit, and one of generosity and benevolence, which leads us to wish to have others possess and enjoy, as well as ourselves.”

Royal, pretty soon after this, proposed that he and Lucy should find some sticks upon the little island, where they were sitting, and throw them upon the water, and see them sail down; and they did accordingly amuse themselves in this way for some time. Lucy was very much amused to see the sticks shoot along the rapids, and dive down the little cascades among the rocks. Miss Anne helped them throw in one piece of plank, which had drifted down from the mill, and which was too large and heavy for them to lift alone. They watched this for some time, as it floated away far down the stream.

At last, it was time to go home; and they all went back, very carefully, over the stones, until they got back to the shore; and then they walked home by a new way, over a hill, where they had a beautiful prospect.

That night, just before sundown, when Royal and Lucy went out to see their chickens, Royal told Lucy that she might have the little black chicken and two others for her own.

“Well,” said Lucy, clapping her hands, “and will you let me keep them in your coop?”

“Yes,” replied Royal; “or I will let you own the coop with me;--you shall have a share in the coop, in proportion to your share of the chickens.”

“In proportion?” said Lucy; “what does that mean?”

“Why, just as much of the coop as you have of the chickens,” said Royal.

“Well,” said Lucy, “how much of the coop will it be, for three chickens?”

“O, I don’t know,” said Royal.

“So much?” said Lucy, putting her hand upon the side of the coop, so as to mark off a small portion of it.

“O, I don’t mean,” said Royal, “to divide it. We will own it all together, in partnership; only you shall have a small share, just in proportion to your chickens.”

Lucy did not understand this very well, but she thought more about the chickens than about the coop; and she began to look at them, one by one, carefully, to consider which she should have for hers. She chose two, besides the black one; and she said that she meant to get Miss Anne to name them for her.

Royal took a great deal of pleasure, after this, every time that he came out to see his chickens, in observing how much interest Lucy took, every day, in coming to see _her_ chickens, and how much enjoyment it afforded her to be admitted thus to a share in the property.

CONVERSATION XI.

GETTING LOST.

One afternoon, a short time after dinner, Lucy was sitting upon a seat under a trellis, near the door which led towards the garden, when her mother came out.

“Lucy,” said she, “I have got some rather bad news for you.”

“What is it?” said Lucy.

“I am rather afraid to tell you, for fear it will make you cry.”

“O no, mother; I shall not cry,” said Lucy.

“Well,” said her mother, “we shall see. The news is, that we are all going away this afternoon, and are going to leave you at home.”

“What, all alone?” said Lucy.

“Not quite alone; for Joanna will be here,” said her mother.

“Where are you going?” said Lucy.

“We are going away, to ride.”

“Why can’t I go too?” said Lucy.

“I can explain the reason better when we come back,” answered her mother.

Lucy did not cry; though she found it very hard to refrain. Her father and mother, and Miss Anne and Royal, were all going, and she had to remain at home. They were going, too, in a kind of barouche; and when it drove up to the door, Lucy thought there would be plenty of room for her. She found it hard to submit; but submission was made somewhat easier by her mother’s not giving her any reasons. When a mother gives a girl reasons why she cannot have something which she is very strongly interested in, they seldom satisfy her, for she is not in a state of mind to consider them impartially. It only sets her to attempting to answer the reasons, and thus to agitate and disturb her mind more than is necessary. It is therefore generally best not to explain the reasons until afterwards, when the mind of the child is in a better condition to feel their force.

After the barouche drove away, Lucy went out into the kitchen to see Joanna; and she asked Joanna what she should do. Joanna advised her to go out and play in the yard until she had got her work done, and then to come in and sit with her. Lucy did so. She played about in the grass until Joanna called from the window, and told her that she was ready.

Then Lucy came in. She found the kitchen all arranged in good order, and Joanna was just sitting down before a little table, at the window, to sew. Lucy got her basket of blocks, and began to build houses in the middle of the floor.

“Joanna,” said she, after a little while, “I wish you would tell me something more about when you were a farmer’s daughter.”

“Why, I am a farmer’s daughter now,” said Joanna.

“But I mean when you were a little girl, and lived among the stumps,” said Lucy.

“Well,” said Joanna,--“what shall I tell you about? Let me see.--O, I’ll tell you how I got lost in the woods, one day.”

“Ah, yes,” said Lucy, “I should like to hear about that very much indeed.”

“One day,” said Joanna, “my father was going a fishing, and my brother was going with him.”

“The same one that made your hen-coop?” asked Lucy.

“No, he was a bigger one than that. I asked my father to let me go too. At first he said I was too little; but afterwards he said I might go.”

“How big were you?” said Lucy.

“I was just about your age,” said Joanna. “My mother said I could not possibly walk so far; but father said I should not have to walk but a little way, for he was going down the brook in a boat.

“So father concluded to let me go, and we started off,--all three together. We went across the road, and then struck right into the woods.”

“Struck?” said Lucy.

“Yes; that is, we _went_ right in.”

“O,” said Lucy.

“We walked along by a sort of cart-road a little while, until we came to a place where I just began to see some water through the trees. Father said it was the brook.

“When we got down to it, I found that it was a pretty wide brook; and the water was deep and pretty still. There was a boat in the brook. The boat was tied to a tree upon the shore; my brother got in, and then my father put me in; and afterwards he untied the boat, and threw the rope in, and then got in himself. Then there were three of us in.”

“Wasn’t you afraid?” said Lucy.

“Yes, I was afraid that the boat would tip over; but father said that it wouldn’t. But he said that I must sit still, if I didn’t want the boat to upset. So I sat as still as I could, and watched the trees and bushes, moving upon the shore.”

“I wish I could go and sail in a boat,” said Lucy.

“It is very pleasant,” said Joanna, “when the water is smooth and still. The branches of the trees hung over the water where we were sailing along, and one time we sailed under them, and my brother broke me off a long willow stick.

“After a time, we came to the end of the brook, where it emptied into the pond.”

“Emptied?” said Lucy.

“Yes; that is, where it came out into the pond.”

“Do brooks run into ponds?” asked Lucy.

“Not always,” said Joanna; “sometimes they run into other larger brooks, and sometimes into rivers, and sometimes into ponds. This brook ran into a pond; and when we came to the end of the brook, our boat sailed right out into a pond. This pond was the place where they were going to catch the fishes.”

“Why didn’t they catch the fishes in the brook?” asked Lucy.

“I believe they could not catch such large fishes there,” said Joanna. “At any rate, they went out into the pond. There was a point of land at the mouth of the brook, and when my father had got out around this point, he began to fish.”

“Did he catch any?” asked Lucy.

“He caught one, and my brother caught one; and after that, they could not catch any more for some time. At last, my father said it was not worth while for them both to stay there all the afternoon, and that my brother might go back home by a road across through the woods, and he would stay and see what luck he should have himself. He said, too, that I might stay with him, if I chose.”

“And did you?” asked Lucy.

“No,” replied Joanna. “At first, I thought I should like to stay with father; but then I had already become pretty tired of sitting in the boat with nothing to do, and so I concluded to go with my brother. Besides, I wanted to see what sort of a road it was across through the woods.

“My father then took his line in, and paddled the boat to the shore, to let me and my brother get out. Then he went back to his fishing-ground again, and let down his line. As for my brother and myself, we went along a little way, until we came to a large pine-tree, which stood not very far from the shore of the pond; and there we turned into the woods, and walked along together.”

“And was it in these woods that you got lost?” said Lucy.

“Not exactly,” said Joanna; “but I will tell you all about it. We went along a little way without any difficulty, but presently we came to a bog.”

“What is a bog?” asked Lucy.

“Why, it is a low, wet place, where wild grass and rushes grow. The path led through this bog, and brother said he did not think that I could get along very well.”

“I should not think that he could get along himself,” said Lucy.

“Yes,” answered Joanna, “_he_ could get along by stepping upon the stones and hummocks of grass; and he tried to carry me, at first; but he soon found that it would be a great deal of work, and he said that I had better go back to my father, and get into the boat, and stay with him.

“I said, ‘Well;’ and he carried me back as far as to hard ground; and then he told me to go back by the path, until I came to the pine-tree; and then he said I should only have to follow the shore of the pond, a short distance, when I should come in sight of father’s boat.”

“Yes, but how could you get into the boat,” said Lucy, “without getting wet, when it was so far from the shore?”

“O, I could call to my father, and he would come to the shore and take me in,” said Joanna.

“Well,” said Lucy, “tell on.”

“I walked along the path, without any trouble, until I came to the great pine-tree, where I saw a woodpecker.”

“A woodpecker?” said Lucy.

“Yes; that is, a kind of a bird which pecks the bark and wood of old trees, to get bugs and worms out of it, to eat.”

“I should not think that bugs and worms would be good to eat,” said Lucy.

“They are good for woodpeckers,” said Joanna. “This woodpecker was standing upon the side of the great pine-tree, clinging to the bark. He has sharp claws, and can cling to the bark upon the side of a tree. I looked at him a minute, and then went on.

“I followed the shore of the pond, until I came to the place where we had left my father fishing; but when I looked out upon the water there, the boat was nowhere to be seen. I was very much frightened.”

“Where was he gone?” said Lucy.

“I did not know then,” said Joanna; “but I learned afterwards that he had found that he could not catch any fishes there, and so he concluded to go up the brook again, and see if he could not catch any there. I did not know this then, and I could not think what had become of him. I was frightened. I did not see how I could ever find my way home again. What do you think I did first?”

“I don’t know,” said Lucy. “What was it?”

“I called out, _Father! Father! Father!_ as loud as I could call; and then I listened for a reply,--but I could not hear any.”

“Then what did you do?” asked Lucy.

“Why, I began to consider whether I could not go home the way that my brother had gone, by walking along through the mud, even if it was deep. I thought I had better get my feet wet and muddy than stay there in the woods and starve.”

“Well, did you go that way?” asked Lucy.

“No,” said Joanna; “on thinking more of it, I was afraid to go. I did not know but that the mud would be deep enough somewhere to drown me; and then, besides, I did not know that I could find the way, any farther than I had gone with my brother.

“The next plan I thought of, was to follow the shore of the brook up. You remember that we came down the brook, in the boat; and of course I knew that, if I went _up_ the brook, either on the water or close to it, upon the shore, I should be going back towards home. I tried this way, but I found that I could not get along.”

“Why couldn’t you get along?” asked Lucy.

“Because,” said Joanna, “the trees and bushes were so thick, and the ground was so wet and swampy, in some places, that I couldn’t get through. Then I came back, and sat down upon a log, near the shore of the pond, and began to cry.”

“And didn’t you ever get home?” said Lucy.

“Certainly,” said Joanna, laughing, “or else how could I be here now to tell the story?”

“O!--yes,” said Lucy. “But how did you get home?”

“Why, pretty soon I thought that the best plan would be for me to stay just where I was, for I thought that as soon as my father and brother should both get home, and find that I was not there, they would come after me; and if they came after me, I knew they would come, first of all, to the place where my brother had told me to go, near the mouth of the brook. So I concluded that I would wait patiently there until they came.

“I waited all the afternoon, and they did not come; and at last the sun went down, and still I was there alone.”

“Why did not they come for you sooner?” asked Lucy.

“Why, the reason was, that my father did not get home until night. When he went up the brook, he found a place where he could catch fishes quite fast; and so he staid there all the afternoon. He thought I was safe at home with my brother. And my brother, who was at home all this time, thought that I was safe in the boat with my father.

“When it began to grow dark, I thought I should have to stay in the woods all night; but then I thought that, at any rate, they would come for me the next morning; and I began to look around for a good place to lie down and go to sleep. But, just then, I heard a noise, like a noise in the water, through the woods; and I looked that way, and saw a light glancing along through the trees. It was my father and brother coming down the brook in the boat. I called out to them as loud as I could, and they heard me and answered. They came round the point of land, and then up to the shore where I was, and took me in. And so I got home.”

Here Lucy drew a long breath, very much relieved to find that Joanna was safe home again.

“What did you do when you got home?” said she.

“I don’t recollect very well,” said Joanna, “only I remember that my mother let me sit up pretty late, and eat some of father’s fishes, which she fried for supper.”

* * * * *

When Miss Anne came home that night, Lucy told her the story which Joanna had related to her. She told her while Miss Anne was putting her to bed. Lucy said that she should like to be lost in the woods.

“O no,” said Miss Anne, “you would not like the reality. It makes an interesting story to relate, but the thing itself must be very distressing.”

“Well, at any rate,” said Lucy, “I should like to sail under the trees in a boat.”

“Yes,” said Miss Anne, “that would be pleasant, no doubt.”

“And to see a woodpecker,” said Lucy.

“Yes, very likely,” said Miss Anne.

CONVERSATION XII.

LUCY’S SCHOLAR.

After this, Lucy often “played boat” for amusement. She built her boat of chairs and crickets, and had the hearth brush for a paddle.

One evening, just after tea, when she was playing in this way, in the parlor, Royal looking on, she said to Miss Anne,

“I wish we had a real boat.”

“A real boat,” said Miss Anne, “would do no good, unless you had a place to sail it in.”

“Couldn’t we sail it in our brook?” asked Lucy.

“No, indeed,” said Royal; “there is scarcely water enough in our brook to float my turtle.”

“O Royal,” said Lucy, “it is a great deal too deep for your turtle.”

“In some places,” said Miss Anne; “but to sail a boat, you must have a long extent of deep water. I should think, however, that you might have a better boat than you can make of chairs and crickets.”

“How could we make it?” said Lucy.

“Why, Royal might find a long box, out behind the barn; or two common boxes, and put them together, end to end, out in the yard. You might put two boards across for seats, and have poles for paddles.”

“But it would not sail any,” said Royal.

“If you want it to sail, you must put some rollers under it, and then you can push it along a little.”

Royal said that that was an excellent plan, and that he meant to go and make such a boat the very next day. He said he did not believe but that he could put a mast in, and hoist up a sail; or at least a flag or a streamer.

“Well,” said Lucy, “we will.”

“I mean to go now and see if there is a box,” said Royal; “it is just light enough.”

So Royal went off out of the room.

“Miss Anne,” said Lucy, “how much does a real boat cost?”

“I don’t know, exactly, how much,” said Miss Anne.

“I don’t suppose I should have money enough to buy a boat, even if we had a deep brook to sail it in,” added Lucy.

“I don’t know,” said Miss Anne; “how much money have you got?”

“I have not got but a little; it is a dollar, or else a half a dollar; or a sixpence; I don’t know exactly. Royal has got more than I.”

Miss Anne merely said, “Has he?” and then the conversation dropped. She had just taken her seat at her work table, and began to be busy.

“I wish I knew of some way that I could earn money,” said Lucy. “Do you know of any way, Miss Anne?”

“What did you say?” asked Miss Anne.

“Don’t you know of some way that I could earn money?”

“Why, I don’t know; earning money is rather hard work, as I’ve heard people say. I believe young ladies generally earn money by teaching.”

“Well,” said Lucy, “if I could only get any scholars.”

“Why, you must be your own scholar; teach yourself to read. Come, I think that will be an excellent plan.”

“Can I earn any money so?” said Lucy.

“Yes, I should think so. It would take you three months, at a school, to learn your letters, and three months is twelve weeks. Now, I suppose that your father would have to pay about sixpence a week for you to go to school, and that would make twelve sixpences; and I presume he would be willing to give you as much as eight of the sixpences, if you would learn to read yourself.”

“Why not all the twelve?” asked Lucy.

“Because you would not do quite all yourself. Somebody would have to answer your questions, and show you what the letters were, at first; so that you could not do it all yourself. I should think that perhaps you might earn eight out of the twelve sixpences. That would be one sixpence for every three letters.”

“Well,” said Lucy, “I mean to try.”

“If you think you would like to try,” said Miss Anne, “I’ll form a plan for you, so that you can begin to-morrow.”

Lucy said she should like to try, and accordingly Miss Anne reflected upon the subject that evening, endeavoring to contrive some plan by which Lucy might sit down by herself and study her letters, half an hour every day, until she had learned them all. She thought of a plan which she hoped might answer pretty well; and the next morning she made preparations for carrying it into execution.

First she got Lucy’s little table, and set it near one of the windows in her room; she also put her little chair before it. Then she got a large flat pin-cushion, and put upon the table.

“Why, Miss Anne!” said Lucy, who stood by looking at all these preparations, “what is the pin-cushion for? I never heard of studying with a pin-cushion.”

“You’ll see,” said Miss Anne. “I am going to have you learn to read on the _pin-cushion method_.”

Then Miss Anne opened an ebony box, which she had upon her table, and took out a very large pin, and also a stick of red sealing-wax. She carried these into the kitchen, Lucy following her; then she lighted a lamp, and melted some of the sealing-wax, and stuck it upon the head of the pin, turning it round and round, and then warming it, and pressing it with her fingers, until at last she had made a little ball of sealing-wax, about as big as a pea, which covered and concealed the original head of the pin.

“There,” said Miss Anne, “that is your _pointer_.”

“Let me take it, Miss Anne,” said Lucy. “I want to take it.”

Miss Anne handed the pointer to Lucy, and she looked at it carefully, as she walked slowly along back into Miss Anne’s room. When she got there, Miss Anne took it, and stuck it into the pin-cushion, and requested Lucy not to touch it.

Then she went and found some of the scattered leaves of an old picture-book, which had once been Royal’s, but was now nearly worn out and almost destroyed. She took one of these leaves, and spread it out upon the pin-cushion. Then she seated Lucy before it, and put the pointer in her hands.

“Now, Lucy,” said she, “what letter do you know?”

“I know _o_ the best,” said Lucy.

Then Miss Anne pointed to the upper line, and in the third word there was an _o_.

“There,” said she--“prick it with your pointer.”

Lucy pricked through the _o_ with great force, so as to sink the pin for half its length into the pin-cushion.

“That will do,” said Miss Anne. “Now look along until you find another _o_.”

Lucy found one about the middle of the line.

“Now,” said Miss Anne, “prick _him_ too,--only do it gently, so as just to put the point in a little way; and when you are doing it, say, _o_.”

Lucy did so. She pressed the point of the pin through the letter, and at the instant that it went through, she said, _o_.