Chapter V: Part 5

“We were down at the hole under the willows where we fished in summer and the boys set traps for muskrats in winter. It was getting colder, and I told Charlie I thought I’d go on to the house instead of going with him to the cabin in the sugar grove where he and Truman were keeping their skins that winter. The cabin was convenient to the traps, and Truman had put a good lock on the door and he and Charlie each had a key. I wanted to go to the house to play with brother Joe’s baby and see whether anyone else had come and to find out how the dinner was coming on. So Charlie told me to go ahead and he would come as soon as he skinned a couple of muskrats he had caught in his traps.

“There were so many of us and so much confusion that I did not notice until dinner was nearly over that Charlie was not there. When I called Mother’s attention to it, she said he was probably around somewhere and would eat presently. It took a long time to serve dinner that day, and afterward a sled load of neighboring young folks came in and there were games and music and a general good time. No one missed Charlie but me, and I didn’t miss him all the time, either.

“But about four o’clock in the afternoon Mother came out to the kitchen where some of the girls were popping corn and asked anxiously if anyone had seen Charlie. Belle said he hadn’t come in for any dinner.

“‘I can’t imagine where he is,’ Mother said. ‘He never did a thing like this before. He may have met the Orbison boys and gone home with them, but I can’t understand it at all. It isn’t like Charlie.’

“Just then Truman came up from the cellar with a big basket of apples we had polished the previous day.

“‘What about Charlie?’ he asked. ‘Where is he? What’s the trouble?’

“Mother explained that Charlie had gone to his traps early that morning and hadn’t been at the house since, nor been seen by any one since he had started for the cabin with two muskrats to skin.

“Truman just stared at Mother.

“‘You say Charlie went to the cabin this morning?’ he repeated slowly as if he couldn’t believe it. ‘Well, then, by jingoes, Mother, that’s where he is right now!’ And he went on to tell how when he was coming from feeding the stock on the upper place he had noticed that the door of the cabin was shut, but the lock was not snapped. He supposed Charlie had forgotten to tend to it as he had one other night, and so he had snapped it shut and come along home. Charlie had evidently been busy and had not heard the lock click.

“‘Oh, the poor boy!’ cried Mother. ‘Go see about him at once, Truman.’ And she began putting things in the oven to heat.

“And, sure enough, that was where they found Charlie—he had been locked up in the cabin all day. When he found he was locked in, he had tried to pry the windows open, but they were securely nailed down. He had shouted himself hoarse and had even attempted to climb up the chimney and get out that way.

“A little later, when he was thoroughly warmed and had had a good wash and sat at the kitchen table eating his dinner, with Mother piling up good things on his plate and Charlie eating as if he were afraid some one would snatch it away before he got enough, Father came out of the sitting room and stood looking down at him.

“‘Well, son,’ he said, ‘have you thought of anything special to be thankful for yet?’

“‘Yes, sir,’ Charlie answered, grinning. ‘I’m thankful for something to eat and a fire.’

“Well, well, if it isn’t bedtime already!”

TAKING A DARE

The next evening when Bobby and Alice and Pink came to Grandma’s room, she was astonished to behold an ugly black-and-blue lump on Bobby’s forehead, right over his eye.

“Why, what’s this?” Grandma asked, laying down her knitting and examining the bruise. “Wait till I get the arnica, and then you can tell me all about it.”

And while she bathed Bobby’s swollen forehead with the arnica, Bobby told her how another boy had dared him to hang by his toes from the scaffolding of a half-finished house and how his feet had slipped and he had had a fall.

“He said I was afraid to try,” said Bobby, “but I showed him!”

“And you got hurt into the bargain,” remarked Grandma, taking up her knitting again. “Don’t you know, my dear, that it is sometimes braver to take a dare than not? There is a time to say ‘no,’ and the boy or girl who doesn’t know when to say ‘no’ is often foolhardy rather than brave. I didn’t always know that, though, and I’ll tell you how I learned it. When I was little I played so much with brother Charlie that in many ways I was like a boy. One of Charlie’s codes was that he would never take a dare, and so of course it became my code, too.

“One Friday night Betty Bard came home from school with me to stay until Saturday afternoon. It was in the fall, and the nuts were ripe. On the meathouse floor, spread out to dry, were chestnuts, walnuts, hazelnuts, hickory nuts, and butternuts. Betty’s grandfather was our preacher. There were no nuts of any kind on the ground belonging to the parsonage, so we had been giving Betty some of our nuts. She had already gotten hickory nuts and chestnuts, and this evening we had gathered a bag of walnuts and we were out in the wood lot shelling them.

“We each had a flat stone to lay the nut on and another stone to hit it with. We wore old leather gloves to protect our hands, for the walnut juice makes an ugly brown stain. We would lay a nut on the flat stone, hit it hard with the other stone, and the green outer covering or shell would come off easily, leaving the walnut, which would then have to be dried.

“Not far from us Charlie sat cracking walnuts, left over from the year before, for the chickens. He would crack a nut and throw it to the chickens and they would pick the meat out with their beaks. Mother said walnut meats were good for the chickens and made the hens lay, and we often had to crack walnuts for the chickens. But this evening Charlie did not want to do it. He wanted to go on the hill to look at some traps he had set for rabbits, and he offered to give me his new slate pencil if I would crack the walnuts. Any other time I should have jumped at the chance of getting a new slate pencil so easily. But this evening, I wanted to help Betty shell her nuts so we would have time the next day to play and go down to the persimmon tree.

“‘Very well,’ declared Charlie. He said that if I wouldn’t help him, he wouldn’t go with us to the persimmon tree. And without him to shake the tree, how would we get the persimmons? We had an especially fine persimmon tree that my great-grandfather had planted, and Betty and I wanted to get the fruit that was in the top branches. Charlie had promised to climb the tree for us, but now he said he wouldn’t do it unless I would finish cracking the walnuts.

“‘All right, you needn’t,’ I replied. ‘We don’t want you. I’ll climb the tree myself. But really I did not think for a moment I would do any such thing, for, of all the trees around, grandfather’s persimmon, as we called it, was the hardest to climb.

“Charlie laughed mockingly.

“‘I dare you!’ he cried. ‘I double dare you!’

“I jumped up, and so did Betty, and we threw our gloves to the ground and started for the persimmon tree.

“‘Are you sure you can do it?’ whispered Betty.

“I had my doubts myself by this time, for, though I could go all over the gnarled old apple tree in the side yard and climb the cherry trees and the peach trees and any reasonably high tree, to climb to the top of grandfather’s persimmon was a different undertaking.

“Charlie saw us talking and thought I was weakening.

“‘If you can’t do it, Sarah,’ he said, ‘of course I’ll let you off.’

“‘I can do it all right,’ I answered grimly, but I wished with all my heart I hadn’t said I would do it in the first place.

“The lower limbs of the persimmon were so high from the ground that for a while it looked as if I shouldn’t even get into the tree at all. Charlie offered to boost me, but I scorned his help. When finally, with the aid of a fence rail and by ‘cooning,’ I reached the lowest branch, my hands were scratched and swollen and hurting dreadfully. But after that it wasn’t as hard. As I went up, slowly and carefully, Betty and Charlie, under the tree, watched me.

“‘Be careful, Sarah,’ Betty cautioned every little bit. ‘Do be careful.’

“‘Higher, higher!’ Charlie kept calling.

“At last I reached the top and looked down, and then the most dreadful thing happened: I got awfully sick—sick and dizzy. I closed my eyes tight and held to the trunk of the tree and felt as if I should fall any minute. If I should fall to the ground and be killed, then every one would say it was Charlie’s fault. And it wouldn’t be at all, for I should have known better than to try to climb the old tree. I thought about the new blue delaine dress which I had never worn—they could bury me in that. And then I tried to say my prayers, but I was so dizzy, oh, so dizzy, that I couldn’t remember a single word of them.

“I told Charlie and Betty I was dizzy and that I was afraid I’d fall.

“At first they thought I was fooling, but they soon saw I was in earnest.

“‘Hold on tight!’ Betty screamed. ‘Keep your eyes shut. Don’t be afraid, Sarah, we’ll save you.’

“Charlie ran around as if he were crazy, crying and shouting, ‘It’s my fault, it’s all my fault! Hold on tight, Sarah. I’ll bring Stanley. He’ll get you down. Hold on!’

“‘No, no!’ cried Betty when Charlie started off at a run. ‘Come back, Charlie. We mustn’t leave her that way, she might fall. You’ll have to tie her in the tree.’

“Betty had on a new pinafore made out of strong gingham. She took it off and with Charlie’s knife they slit it into strips from neck to hem and knotted them together and Charlie climbed the tree and tied the gingham around my waist and to the trunk of the tree so that I couldn’t fall out.

“Then Charlie ran to the house for help, and it didn’t take Father and Stanley long to get there. Stanley carried me down to the lower branches and handed me to Father, and in a little while I felt all right again.

“I thought Father would think I was brave, but he didn’t at all. He was cross because Charlie had urged me to do such a foolish thing and because I hadn’t had courage to say I was afraid. He said we would have to take our own money to buy gingham for another apron for Betty. We did, and Aggie made it, and it was prettier than the one she had torn up, for Aggie worked a cross-stitch pattern in red around the hem.

“For a long time I could not bear to go near grandfather’s persimmon tree, and I have never forgotten the lesson I learned that day.”

DOGS

Bobby wanted a dog. He never remembered having wanted anything so much in all his life before. If he had his choice, he would prefer a mahogany-colored bull terrier, he told Grandma, but would gladly take any kind of a dog—even a common yellow dog.

“It’s a shame you can’t have a dog,” said Grandma sympathetically. Every boy should have a dog, I say. We always had dogs—collies and hounds and ordinary dogs, and once we had a wonderful fox terrier. He belonged to brother Charlie, who loved dogs as much as any one I ever knew, though I had some claim on him, too. The way we got Sport, that was his name, well—you might like to hear about that.

“Mother was going to the city to visit Uncle John, and Charlie and I were going along. Neither of us had ever been on the steam cars before, and we were all excited about it. We talked of nothing else for days. I hardly noticed my new buttoned shoes or my velvet bonnet. Mother was excited, too, at the last. She wore a brown dress with a great many buttons up the front and a bonnet with a plume. I thought she looked beautiful, and I think Father did, too, for when he had put us in the train at Clayville it seemed as if he couldn’t leave us. He took us into the train and found us seats, and told Mother over and over where she was to change cars and what to do if Uncle John shouldn’t be there to meet us, and gave her so many directions that Mother got nervous.

“‘Yes, yes, dear, I know. Do go now or the train will start before you get out.’

“Father laughed and got off. Then he came rushing back all out of breath just as the train was starting because, after all he had forgotten to give Mother the tickets.

“With a ringing of bells and a puffing of the engine we were off, and Charlie and I settled down to a day of solid enjoyment. We had a nice lunch that the girls had packed—chicken and pickles and election cake, with apples and cookies to eat between times. Everything seemed wonderful! The fine red plush seats, the conductor in his blue uniform and brass buttons, the rushing at such a swift pace through the country—it was like fairyland to me.

“But I got car-sick, and then pretty soon Charlie got a cinder in his eye. Poor Mother had her hands full. She made a pillow for me with the wraps and I lay down, but I didn’t get any better. A lady across the aisle handed Mother a piece of stiff writing paper and told her to pin it inside my dress. Mother did, but it only scratched my chest and didn’t help me. Mother got a flaxseed out of her bag and put it in Charlie’s eye. It worked the cinder out, but his eye was red and swollen, and we were all glad when we came to the city. Uncle John was waiting for us, and we got on a horse car and rode to within a short distance of his home.

“The next morning we felt fine and started out to explore with our cousins, Lily and Tom. The street was lined on each side with horse-chestnut trees, and children were picking up the glossy, brown nuts in baskets. But Charlie and I didn’t think much of picking up nuts we couldn’t eat. Charlie didn’t like the city at all. The houses were too tall and dark to suit him and the back yards too little and the grass not meant to be trodden on. A fellow couldn’t whistle or make a bit of noise without annoying some one, and there were no dogs, except an occasional fat pug or a curly poodle.

“Lily and Tom took us to the park at the end of the street for a walk. Charlie said it wasn’t as big as our cow pasture, and Tom said he knew it was and that anyhow we had no seats in our cow pasture. Just then a horse car went along, and after that Charlie wouldn’t do anything but sit on a bench and watch the horse cars come and go. He had found one thing he liked in the city, though he said that if he owned the cars he would have nice, sleek, well-fed horses like Father’s instead of such skinny ones.

“Sometimes Lily and I would play in the park with our dolls. One afternoon, a couple of days before we were to start for home, I was sitting on the bench beside Charlie when what should come running around the corner but a dirty, little, white dog with black spots! Not that we could see the black spots then. He was too dirty for that, all covered with mud and blood. His tongue was hanging out, and he ran as if he were exhausted, in a zigzag line, blindly. He was limping, too.

“I think Charlie would have run right out and picked the poor dog up, but he saw us almost as soon as we saw him. And when Charlie gave a low whistle, he ran over and crawled under the bench we were sitting on. He was hardly out of sight when around the same corner came a crowd of boys and men, waving sticks and clubs, and led by a policeman, brandishing a revolver, all of them yelling, ‘Mad dog! Mad dog! Mad dog!’

“There was some shrubbery behind the bench, but still if they came over they would be sure to see the dog. I was so frightened that I hardly breathed while they poked with their sticks around the low bushes that grew in clumps here and there. The fact that we sat so quietly saved the dog’s life, for they thought we had not even seen the dog. They went hurrying on and were soon all out of sight—or we thought they were. But it happened that a boy had fallen behind and turned back home just in time to see Charlie get poor Sport out from under the bench.

“He gave the alarm, and Charlie and I, with the dog wrapped in Charlie’s coat, had hardly reached the kitchen and explained things to Tom, who was making a kite in the back yard, when we could hear shouting down the street.

“We looked around for a hiding place. There was none. Then Tom thought of the attic. He and Charlie and the dog would hide in the attic. Up the back stairs they rushed and on up to the attic. I slipped into the sitting room where Lily was practicing and picked up a book just as there came a loud knocking at the front door.

“Aunt Mary went to the door, and she was very indignant and cross when a policeman asked her to give up a mad dog. Whoever heard of such a thing? A mad dog, indeed! She had no dog at all, nor ever had had a dog, she said. He was welcome to come in if he wanted to and look for himself. But Aunt Mary was so sincere that the officer apologized for troubling her and went away, taking the crowd with him.

“When the boys came down from the attic and brought the dog, Mother and Aunt Mary were frightened and didn’t know what to do with him. But Tom found a big box and they put him in that until Uncle John came home.

“‘Is he really mad, John?’ asked Aunt Mary anxiously as Uncle John examined the little dog.

“‘No more mad than I am,’ Uncle John answered, and he declared that he was a valuable little dog, too, but that if he were turned over to the police he would be shot. He didn’t know what to do with him, as they had no room for a dog.

“Charlie begged so hard to take the dog home with us, and he was so pretty and cute after he had had a bath and a rest, licking our hands and wagging his stubby tail, that Mother finally consented. Charlie named him Sport because he said that name suited him.

“And going home Charlie and I rode most of the time in the baggage car with Sport, and we were so busy taking care of him that we were not sick a bit and didn’t get any cinders in our eyes.”

THE LAST INDIAN

“Last summer,” began Alice one evening when the children came to Grandma’s room, “when we were in the country we went to the valley where the last Indians in this county were seen—the last wild Indians, I mean.”

“Were there any wild Indians around when you were a little girl, Grandma?” asked Bobby eagerly.

“Well, no,” said Grandma thoughtfully. “But my Father remembered very well when bands of Indians went through the country on hunting expeditions. They were thought to be of the Delaware tribe, but were called Cornplanter Indians, probably because they cultivated large fields of corn as well as hunted and fished for their living. It was customary, during the winter, for bands of these Indians to hunt deer and other game in the forests. They would follow the chase for weeks at a time. Father said that as each deer was killed it was carefully dressed and hung high in some near-by tree, beyond the reach of wolves and dogs. At the close of the hunting season the carcasses were gathered together and taken to the Indian camp.

“But though the Indians were gone when I was a little girl, there were many things left to remind us of them. Old trees, blazed to mark Indian trails, still stood, and arrowheads and darts were often ploughed up in the fields. My brothers had quite a collection of them, and they also had a tomahawk that looked very much like a hatchet.

“And there was one Indian left, too. I almost forgot about him—old John Cornplanter. He was supposed to have belonged to the Cornplanter Indians, but no one knew much about him. He lived alone on an unsurveyed piece of land and was seldom seen except when he brought his skins to sell or came to the store for occasional supplies. He lived as his forbears had lived, by hunting and fishing, and, like them, he had a cornfield.

“He made few friends because he was gruff and short of speech and surly in manner. He had a quick temper which flared up at the least thing, and some of the men and boys teased him on purpose to make him angry. Father said it wasn’t right.

“One day when Father and my brother Stanley were coming through our woods they heard a noise like that of some one groaning. Hunting around, they presently found the Indian, John Cornplanter, helpless and unconscious, with what turned out to be a broken leg. They carried him into the cabin in the sugar grove and Stanley went for the doctor. The doctor set his leg. For a time they thought he would die, for he had been exposed to the weather for hours before Father found him. But he got better, though slowly, and for weeks he lay on one of the bunks in the cabin, and Father took care of him and Mother sent him things he liked to eat.

“At first I was afraid to go near the cabin, but after a while I got brave enough to venture in with Father. Then it wasn’t long till Charlie and I were visiting Cornplanter every day, carrying him food and cool drinks.

“When he got better, he wove pretty baskets and carved things out of wood and made Charlie a bow and arrow. After he got well and went home, he often came back to see us, bringing presents of fish or game, or maybe a basket of wild strawberries or early greens. Charlie and I liked to walk back with him through the woods as far as the edge of our farm, and sometimes he would build a fire and we would have a meal of some kind of game, cornbread baked on a stone heated in the fire, and wild honey.

“He taught Charlie new ways to set traps and cure skins, and he showed me where the first trailing arbutus was to be found, hiding, fragrant and pink, under the brown leaves. He knew where the mistletoe grew and where the cardinal built her nest, and he could mimic any kind of a bird or animal.

“But no one knew John as we did. As he grew older his manner became gruffer and his temper shorter. People were afraid of him, and there was some talk of making him leave the country.

“In the winter he would go for miles and miles hunting and trapping, for even then game was not so plentiful as it had been. One winter Cornplanter brought a deer he had shot and dressed to Orbison’s woods and hung it in a tree, just as his people before him had done, until he should be ready to take it the rest of the way home.

“That night there was a light fall of snow. The next morning some boys on their way to school spied the deer hanging in the tree and, thinking to tease John, they moved the deer to the very top of the tree and fastened it there. Then they went on to school, not thinking but that the Indian would immediately discover the deer.

“But Cornplanter was old and his sight was poor. When he came along a little later, he saw only that the deer was not where he had left it, and, thinking that it had been stolen, he set out to follow the tracks the boys had made in the snow.

“Mr. Carson, on his way to the store, saw John stalking along, head down, in the direction of the schoolhouse, but thought nothing of it. When he got to the store he would not have mentioned the fact had he not found the men there gravely shaking their heads over the joke the boys had played on John Cornplanter. It wasn’t safe to joke with John, they said. Bud McGill, who had helped move the deer, had gone around to the store and told about it. So when Mr. Carson said he had seen John going in the direction of the schoolhouse, they were all greatly disturbed. Several men started immediately for the schoolhouse. No telling what John might do!

“In the meantime John had arrived at the schoolhouse and opening the door without knocking, stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned against it. He was a forbidding figure, dressed in furs from head to foot, a gun at his side, a dark frown on his face. He looked at the teacher.

“‘Where deer?’ he demanded. ‘Where deer?’

“He thought his deer had been stolen. He had followed the tracks to the schoolhouse and now he wanted the deer.

“We all knew what the boys had done. We looked at each other, waiting for some one to speak.

“John Cornplanter waited, too, his back to the door.

“I thought about Charlie, at home sick. If he had been there, he might have straightened things out. I was the only other person who knew John Cornplanter well and did not fear him. I went over to him and explained as well as I could about the deer just being moved and not stolen, and that the boys were only in fun and meant no harm. When I finished, it was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. Cornplanter did not like to be teased. Would he think it a joke on himself that he had not seen the deer, or would he be furious?

“Suddenly he smiled, and the teacher with a sigh of relief announced morning intermission.

“A few minutes later when a group of anxious men came in sight of the schoolhouse they stopped to listen in amazement to a series of unusual sounds—a bull frog croaking hoarsely, an owl calling to its mate, a cardinal singing sweetly, the long-drawn-out wail of the whip-poor-will, the joyful note of the lark, the sharp barking of a squirrel.

“And what they saw surprised them even more, for there was the Indian, surrounded by children, as he mimicked for their amusement one after another of the animals and birds he knew so well.

“It’s bedtime now, so run along and we’ll have another story soon.”

A PRESENT FOR MOTHER

“Goody, goody!” sang Pink, dancing into Grandma’s room one evening, “It’s only four weeks till Christmas.”

“And I’m saving all my allowance for Christmas presents,” Bobby announced. “I’m going to get Mother an umbrella—hers is slit and it has a long handle—or a sparkly comb for her hair or some silk stockings.”

“Why!” exclaimed Grandma in surprise. “How did a little boy ever think of such nice, appropriate things?”

“Oh, Mother always makes a list,” Alice explained carefully. “She puts down all the things she’d like to have, and we pick from that. You see, the first year we bought our own presents to give, Bobby got her an iron-handle at the five-and-ten-cent store and she always uses an electric iron, and I gave her a book that she already had, so after that she made us a list. But Bobby won’t have money enough for any of the things he named,” she said, with scorn for her brother’s idea of prices. “I know very well he won’t.”

“Well, you might all three go together,” Grandma suggested, “just as brother Charlie and I did once for a present we got for our mother. Her birthday came in November, and we wanted to give her something nice—a real store present—so we put our money together. Of course there was nothing at our store, but twice a year, in the spring and again in the fall, Mr. Simon, the peddler, came straight from the city, and it was from him that we planned to buy Mother’s present.

“Mr. Simon was no common peddler, no, indeed. He was little and round and fat and bald-headed—not handsome at all, but one of those people whose looks you never think about after you know them. He always staid over night with us, and because Father would take no money for keeping him he left tucked away some place a little present that Mother said more than paid his bill.

“We all liked to see Mr. Simon come. He brought Father the latest news from the city and told Mother and the girls about the newest fashions and customs. I remember when he told Mother how some people were putting wire screens over their windows to keep the flies out, and how she laughed and said, ‘The very idea of shutting out the fresh air like that!’

“He would tell stories to us children and recite poetry, and when he opened up his packs in the evening, how we all crowded around!

“He didn’t show everything at all the houses, but he did at ours—fine Irish linens, velvets and satins, beads and brooches and wonderful shawls.

“It was a shawl that Charlie and I meant to buy for Mother—a soft, creamy, silk shoulder shawl. Aunt Louisa had just such a shawl, and when Mr. Simon was showing his things that spring we decided on that shawl the minute we saw it. We coaxed Mother to try it on, and she threw it around her shoulders to please us. It was so soft and lovely and the creamy tint was so becoming to Mother that we would have bought it immediately, but, alas! when we slipped out to count our money we didn’t have enough—not nearly enough.

“‘But we don’t need it till fall,’ said Charlie. ‘Let’s get Mr. Simon to keep it for us till he comes next time, and then we’ll have enough money.’

“When we went back to the sitting room the shawl had been put away in its flat little box. At the first opportunity we asked Mr. Simon if he would save it for us, and he said he would.

“‘It won’t be too much trouble, carrying it around so long?’ I asked as an after-thought.

“‘Not a bit of trouble,’ he answered cheerfully. ‘’Tis no heavier than one of your own black curls.’

“But the next day we forgot all about the shawl, for Mother had lost her best brooch. It was a cameo with a carved gold border set around with pearls. It had been Father’s wedding present to Mother, and she always wore it even with her everyday print dresses. That brooch looked as well on a common gown as it did on a fine silk. Mother said it was like some people, they were so fine and wonderful that they were at home in any company.

“Mother missed the brooch that night when she went to take it off. She had gone back downstairs and searched carefully all over the sitting-room floor, but she hadn’t found it. She didn’t mention losing it until after Mr. Simon had gone. Then we hunted all over the house and the yard and the garden, and Charlie kept on hunting when everyone else had given up. He climbed the trees and looked in all the bird nests around, because he had heard that sometimes, when birds are building, they carry valuable things to their nests. And he searched in every other unlikely place you could think of, but he didn’t find the brooch.

“We were very busy that summer, for besides our regular work we had to earn enough money to pay for Mother’s shawl. I weeded in the garden for five cents a day, and Charlie picked potato bugs, and we sold blackberries and did all sorts of things. When it was time for Mr. Simon to come again we had our reward, for safely hidden away under a loose board in the attic floor, was enough money to pay for Mother’s present.

“But by this time we had changed our minds about what we wanted to give her—instead of the shawl we thought we would give her a brooch. We met Mr. Simon at the gate and asked him anxiously if he had saved the shawl, for we were afraid that maybe he wouldn’t like our not taking it in the spring.

“‘Indeed, I did,’ he answered. ‘I haven’t so much as opened that box since I was here before.’

“Then Charlie and I told him that if he could sell the shawl to someone else we would like to buy instead a brooch for Mother. He said he could sell the shawl, but why buy our mother a brooch when she already had one so much finer than anything he had to offer? We told him about Mother’s brooch being lost, and he was awfully sorry. We selected a new brooch, and Mother was pleased with it and fastened it into her collar right away.

“The next morning I came into the sitting room, after seeing Mr. Simon off, to find Father and Mother talking seriously together.

“‘I can’t understand it,’ Father was saying. And I saw that Mother held in one hand the cream-colored shawl that Charlie and I had meant to buy for her.

“‘Oh, is that what Mr. Simon left this time?’ cried Belle, coming in just behind me. ‘Who gets it, Mother, Aggie or me? I think I ought to have it because I am going to be married, but Aggie will say it’s her turn because I got the lace collar last time.’

“But Mother did not answer, and we saw with surprise that in her other hand she held her brooch—not her new brooch, but the one that had been lost.

“‘It was in the box with the shawl,’ she said quietly, and looked at Father. How had the brooch come into Mr. Simon’s possession, they were wondering, and why had he returned it in this mysterious way? Had he found it the night Mother lost it and had he now repented of having kept it?

“‘You had the shawl around your shoulders the night you lost the brooch, Mother,’ Belle said. ‘Maybe the brooch got fastened in it then.’

“‘That would be perfectly possible,’ said Father gravely, ‘but how many times do you think Simon has showed that shawl in the last six months?’

“Then I found my voice.

“‘Oh, not once, Father!’ I cried. ‘He never even opened the box since he was here last time. He said so himself.’ And I told them how he had been saving the shawl all that time for Charlie and me. Mother laughed happily and said we were dear children, and Father picked up the county paper with an air of relief.

“Next time I think, yes, I know that next time we shall have a Christmas story.”

A CHRISTMAS BARRING OUT

’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Bobby and Alice and Pink had hung their stockings by the living-room mantle and, though it was very, very early, they decided to go to bed. They always wanted to go to bed early on Christmas Eve. Morning seemed to come so much more quickly when they went to bed early. They wouldn’t even wait for a story. They would just say good night to Grandma and go right to bed.

“Why!” exclaimed Grandma in surprise, when they had explained their intentions to her, “you mustn’t go to bed so soon. You’d be awake in the morning before daylight! Come in and visit with me a while and I’ll see if I can’t think up a story to tell you, the same as on other nights.”

So they went in and sat down on their stools in front of the fire. Grandma put on her spectacles, but, instead of her knitting, she took up her Bible. The children were very still while she read the story of the first Christmas—how in a stable in Bethlehem the baby Christ was born, and how an angel appeared to the shepherds, who were watching their flocks, and told them about the Savior’s birth, and then a host of angels came and praised God, saying, “Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace, good will toward men,” just as we sing today on Christmas.

“I think,” said Grandma, “that I will tell you tonight about a Christmas treat at our school. When I was a little girl we had a custom, handed down from pioneer times, called ‘barring out.’ A few days before Christmas the teacher would arrive to find the schoolhouse door securely fastened. Before he was admitted he would have to sign a paper promising to ‘treat’ his pupils.

“In those days we didn’t have much ‘store’ candy, and we looked forward for weeks to the Christmas treat we got at school. You wouldn’t think much of it today—six sticks of red and white striped candy apiece, wintergreen and sassafras and clove and maybe one of horehound. My, but it tasted good to us! We didn’t eat it all up at once, either. No, indeed!

“But one year we didn’t know whether to look for a treat or not. The teacher, a Mr. Hazen, was from Clayville, and he had been heard to say that he did not believe in ‘barring out’ or in being forced to treat his pupils. Nevertheless we all came early to school one morning and locked him out.

“While we all cried ‘Treat! Treat!’ at the tops of our voices, William Orbison opened the window a tiny bit and thrust out the paper they had prepared for the teacher to sign, but he refused to touch it.

“This was not alarming, as most all of the teachers stayed out for an hour or two just for fun. We played games and had a good time. But by time for morning intermission the older pupils had begun to get anxious. Could it be possible that the teacher really did not mean to treat? At noon he was still out, walking up and down the playground, clapping his hands together, stamping his feet, and rubbing his ears to keep warm. We were anxious in earnest now. The wood box was empty and the fire was getting low. There was no water in the water bucket, and some of the younger children were coaxing for drinks.

“No teacher in our recollection had ever refused to treat. There was an old rule that if the teacher persisted in refusing to treat he was to be ducked in the nearest stream of water. We had heard of instances when this had been done, but no one wanted to try it. The older pupils stood around in frightened little groups, and some of the smaller children were crying openly, when the teacher knocked loudly on the door and asked that the paper be handed out to him.

“But the paper had disappeared! We searched all over the room, but it was nowhere to be found. Again the teacher knocked and asked rather impatiently for the paper.

“Then William Orbison sat down at his desk and hurriedly prepared another paper and handed it out the window to the teacher. He looked at it in a puzzled way for a little bit, smiled a queer smile, and without a word signed the paper and handed it back to William. Then he was admitted and took up books, but all afternoon he kept smiling to himself as if he knew a joke on some one. We felt uneasy, though we didn’t know why.

“After school that evening my brother Truman asked William Orbison to let him see the paper the teacher had signed. When he read it, he gave a long whistle of astonishment. And what do you think William had done? In the fuss and excitement of writing out the second paper he had omitted the word ‘treat.’ The teacher had promised nothing! That explained his smiles. We were a disappointed lot of children, I can tell you.

“We shouldn’t have any Christmas treat, for after the way the teacher had talked about treating, no one thought he would treat if he could help it, and here was a way out for him. The next day we were perfectly sure he did not intend to treat, for when William Orbison left out a word in his reading lesson the teacher said, ‘Watch yourself, William. Leaving out words is getting to be quite a habit with you.’

“Other years we could hardly wait till the day before Christmas. We wore our best clothes, and right after dinner we would speak pieces, have spelling and ciphering matches, sing songs, have our treat, and play games the rest of the afternoon. Lots of the older brothers and sisters would come to visit, and they would play with us and the teacher would play, too, and we would have lots of fun.

“But this year I should rather have stayed at home and watched the Christmas preparations at our house, for there wouldn’t be much fun at school without any treat.

“It was a cold, windy morning, and Father took us to school in the sled. We had lessons in the morning as usual, and in the afternoon recitations and songs and a little play that the teacher had helped us get up. Truman gave ‘Hamlet’s Soliloquy,’ and did it very well, too. And Charlie had a piece, but he forgot all but the first verse. We were so interested that we didn’t think about the treat, and you can imagine how surprised we were when the teacher, instead of dismissing us, said that we would now have an unexpected but very welcome visitor. The door opened, and in came old Santa Claus with a white beard and a red coat and on his back the biggest bag! You should have seen our eyes pop! Of course it wasn’t the really, truly Santa Claus who comes in the night and fills the stockings. Oh, no, this was just a pretend Santa.

“He put his bag down on the teacher’s platform, and after he had made a little speech he opened it up.

“And what do you suppose was in that bag? Candy! Cream candy and chocolate drops and clear candy, red and yellow, shaped like animals and horns and baskets, such candy as we had never seen before. A sack for each pupil.

“As we went up, one by one, the smallest first, to get our treat, Santa asked each one of us to recite something for him. The smaller children knew verses out of their readers, and some of us recited the pieces we had said earlier in the afternoon. But how we all laughed when Longford Henlen, who was the tallest boy in school, couldn’t think of anything to say but,

“I had a little dog, his name was Jack,
Put him in the barn, he jumped through a crack.

“And now to bed, to bed, and go right to sleep. I’ve heard that if Santa Claus comes and finds children awake he goes away and comes back later. That is, he means to come back later, but he has been known to get so busy he forgot to come back at all. So say your prayers and go to sleep.”

A VOCABULARY

(This vocabulary contains only words of unusual difficulty in spelling, pronunciation, and meaning.)

Transcriber’s Note: To make the most of this pronunciation guide, you’ll need a font that supports the characters used to indicate the different sounds. U+1DF5 COMBINING UP TACK ABOVE (᷵) is probably the least commonly supported character: if you can’t see this, find and install a font that can display it, and you should be covered for everything else as well.

KEY TO PRONUNCIATION

ā _as in_ āle
a᷵ _as in_ senʹa᷵te
ă _as in_ ăm
ă _as in_ fiʹnăl
ȧ _as in_ ȧsk
ä _as in_ ärm
â _as in_ câre
ē _as in_ ēve
e᷵ _as in_ e᷵vent
ĕ _as in_ ĕnd
ẽ _as in_ hẽr
ī _as in_ īce
ĭ _as in_ ĭll
ō _as in_ ōld
o᷵ _as in_ o᷵bey
ô _as in_ ôrb
ŏ _as in_ ŏdd
ŏ _as in_ cŏn-nectʹ
o͞o _as in_ fo͞od
o͝o _as in_ fo͝ot
ū _as in_ ūse
ŭ _as in_ ŭp
u᷵ _as in_ u᷵nite
û _as in_ ûrn

_alpaca_ (ăl păkʹ_ȧ_). A kind of cloth made from the hair of the alpaca, an animal of the sheep family.

_arbutus_ (ärʹbū tŭs). A plant having small, sweet-smelling pink and white blossoms; known also as the Mayflower, and ground laurel.

_ascension_ (_ă_ sĕnʹsh_ŭ_n). Rising in the air, as a balloon.

_auction_ (ôkʹsh_ŭ_n). A public sale, where each article is sold to the one offering the most money for it.

_barricaded_ (bărʹĭ kādʹĕd). Filled with materials making it difficult for one to pass.

_beaux_ (bōz). Men paying special attention to certain young women.

_Bethlehem_ (bĕthʹle᷵ hĕm). The village where Christ was born.

_brooch_ (brōch). An ornamental clasp; a breastpin.

_calico_ (kălʹĭ kō). A kind of cotton cloth.

_cameo_ (kămʹe᷵ ō). A gem containing a carving, usually in the shape of a head.

_Canterbury_ (kănʹtẽr bĕr ĭ) _bell_. A plant having lovely bell-shaped blossoms.

_carcasses_ (kärʹk_ȧ_s ĕz). Dear bodies.

_cardinal_ (kārʹdĭ n_ă_l). A small red bird.

_cashmere_ (kăshʹmēr). A cloth made of fine woolen material.

_chiffonier_ (shĭfʹo᷵ nērʹ). A high chest of drawers, with mirror.

_ciphering_ (sīʹfẽr ĭng). Doing arithmetic examples.

_circuit_ (sûrʹkĭt). When a minister was pastor of several churches at the same time, the circuit was his regular journeying around the whole number.

_code_ (kōd). A system of rules governing one’s own conduct.

_colony_ (kŏlʹo᷵ nĭ). A company of people going to a new place to make their home.

_conference_ (kŏnʹfẽr _ĕ_ns). A meeting for the purpose of deciding some question.

_conspicuous_ (k_ŏ_n spĭkʹū _ŭ_s). In plain sight.

_Copenhagen_ (kōʹp_ĕ_n hāʹg_ĕ_n). A children’s game.

_cravat_ (kr_ȧ_ vătʹ). A man’s necktie.

_cretonne_ (kre᷵ tŏnʹ). A strong cotton cloth, prettily colored.

_crocheted_ (kro᷵ shādʹ). Made out of thread woven together by means of a hook.

_dahlia_ (dälʹy_ȧ_). A plant with showy blossoms.

_delaine_ (de᷵ lānʹ). A kind of light woolen cloth.

_Delaware_ (dĕlʹ_ȧ_ wâr). Name of an early tribe of Indians; name of a state of the United States.

_dolman_ (dŏlʹm_ă_n). A woman’s cloak with cape-like pieces instead of sleeves.

_Dominique_ (dŏmʹĭ nēkʹ). A variety of fowl something like the Plymouth Rock.

_Egypt_ (ēʹjĭpt). A country in Africa.

_election_ (e᷵ lĕkʹsh_ŭ_n). The choosing of one to hold some public office.

_embarrassed_ (ĕm bărʹr_ă_st). Ashamed; mortified.

_epidemic_ (ĕpʹĭ dĕmʹĭk). Spreading to many people in a community, as a disease.

_fluting_ (flo͞otʹĭng). Ruffles so made as to have a wavy appearance.

_furlough_ (fûrʹlō). A soldier’s vacation from the army.

_gnarled_ (närld). Twisted or rugged.

_gnawed_ (nôd). Bitten apart, little by little with effort.

_gospel_ (gŏsʹp_ĕ_l). The story of the life of Christ.

_husking_ (hŭskʹĭng). Taking the husks from ears of corn.

_immersion_ (ĭ mûrʹsh_ŭ_n). Baptism by dipping the person into the water all over.

_infare_ (ĭnʹfâr). A party given by the husband’s family as a welcome to the new wife.

_institute_ (ĭnʹstĭ tūt). A meeting of school teachers.

_Israel_ (ĭzʹra᷵ ĕl). Ancient kingdom of Palestine, the scene of the stories of the Bible.

_larvae_ (lärʹvē). The tiny worms hatched from insect eggs.

_leghorn_ (lĕgʹhôrn). A variety of fowl that gets its name from Leghorn, a city in Italy.

_loam_ (lōm). Clayey earth or soil.

_lozenge_ (lŏzʹĕnj). A kind of candy.

_mahogany_ (m_ȧ_ hŏgʹ_ȧ_ nĭ). A tree having a reddish brown wood.

_mature_ (m_ȧ_ tūrʹ). To become ripe.

_mincemeat_ (mĭnsʹmētʹ). A mixture of meat, apples, raisins, etc., to be used as a pie filling.

_mistletoe_ (mĭsʹ ʹl tō). A vine having waxy white berries.

_muskrat_ (mŭskʹrătʹ). A small fur-bearing animal living in holes in the banks of streams or lakes.

_myriads_ (mĭrʹĭ _ă_dz). Large numbers.

_parsonage_ (pär ʹs’na᷵j). The house occupied by the minister of a church.

_persimmon_ (pẽr sĭmʹ_ŭ_n). A plum-like fruit.

_Pharaoh_ (fāʹrō). The name of the kings of Egypt in the long-ago time.

_pioneer_ (pīʹo᷵ nērʹ). One who goes first to make a home in an unsettled country.

_pippin_ (pĭpʹĭn). A general name for apple. Here means “something extra good.”

_pithy_ (pĭthʹĭ). Soft and spongy.

_plagues_ (plāgz). Great troubles.

_plaid_ (plăd). Woven in the form of squares.

_Plymouth_ (plĭmʹ_ŭ_th). The town settled by the Pilgrims.

_portico_ (pōrʹtĭ kō). A porch or piazza.

_preserve_ (pre᷵ zûrvʹ). To make to last.

_proclamation_ (prŏkʹl_ȧ_ māʹsh_ŭ_n). A public announcement.

_Psalm_ (säm). One of the verses from the Book of Psalms in the Bible.

_quilting_ (kwĭltʹĭng). A meeting of women for the purpose of making a bedquilt.

_recollection_ (rĕkʹ_ŏ_ lĕkʹsh_ŭ_n). That which is called to mind; a memory.

_recommendation_ (rĕkʹ_ŏ_ mĕn dāʹsh_ŭ_n). Expression in favor of something.

_recruiting_ (re᷵ kro͞otʹĭng). Persuading new men to join the army or navy.

_recruits_ (re᷵ kro͞otzʹ). Men who had recently joined the army or navy.

_reveille_ (re᷵ vālʹya᷵). The bugle call awakening the soldiers in the morning.

_Reverend_ (rĕvʹẽr _ĕ_nd). A clergyman’s title; one who is to be honored.

_ruching_ (ro͞oshʹĭng). A plaited strip of lace or net.

_sassafras_ (săsʹ_ȧ_ frăs). A kind of tree, from the root bark of which a flavoring extract is made.

_Savior_ (sāvʹyẽr). Christ.

_scarred_ (skārd). Having the marks of old cuts.

_serenade_ (sĕrʹe᷵ nādʹ). Singing or playing outside a house as a greeting to one or more within the house.

_shirred_ (shûrd). Sewed in such a way as to make the material hang full and loose.

_soliloquy_ (so᷵ lĭlʹo᷵ kwĭ). A talking to oneself.

_sorghum_ (sôrʹgŭm). A sirup made from a variety of corn plant.

_stealth_ (stĕlth). In secret.

_suet_ (sūʹĕt). A hard fat.

_superstitious_ (sūʹpẽr stĭsh_ŭ_s). Having fear of what is unknown; believing in signs.

_symbol_ (sĭmʹb_ŏ_l). A sign.

_telescope_ (tĕlʹe᷵ skōp). A kind of traveling bag.

_Timotheus_ (tĭ mōʹthe᷵ ŭs). A man spoken of in the Bible.

_tithes_ (tīthz). Tenths. What one gives toward the support of a church.

_unsurveyed_ (ŭnʹs_ŭ_r vādʹ). Not measured.

_vouchers_ (vouchʹẽrz). Papers showing money is due one.

_wagered_ (wāʹjẽrd). Bet.

_waistcoat_ (wāstʹkōt). A man’s garment worn under the coat; a vest.

_whinny_ (hwĭnʹĭ). The sound made by a horse; a neighing.

_worsted_ (wo͝osʹtĕd). A cloth made of soft woolen yarn.

_wrenched_ (rĕncht). Twisted or pulled off by force.