Chapter VI: Part 6

“Bah, you’re afraid.”

“No, indeed I am not. Just now however I mean to take Gertrude and show her where her room is. She has been ever so patient.”

“But, my dear, please explain first about the _hanging_. It sounds so sanguinary.”

“Well, it is. Now listen and I’ll explain, and then we’ll go indoors. ‘To hang a person with a word,’ is the name of the game. You take any word you like in your mind and simply mention the number of letters it has. The other party has to guess, by letters, without making twelve misses. If she fails to guess without twelve wrong guesses, she is _hung_ as I was. That doesn’t seem very clear to you, I suppose.”

“Well, not exactly.”

“I’ll take a word and show you. Now, General, I did not mean to give you your battle now. But you may have it if you’re ready.”

“Steady, fire.”

“All right.” Then she whispered to me the word “Eyelet.”

“Well, I’ll hang you, General Bolton, with a word of six letters.”

“Bah, that’s easy. First, I’ll guess L.”

“Right. It has fourth place.” Then she explained to me, “You have to tell the position of the letter.”

“M.”

“Wrong. That’s one. You help me keep count, Trudy. Remember, twelve wrong guesses and I’ve hung him.”

“A.”

“Wrong. That makes two.”

“E.”

“Right. First place.”

“I.”

“Wrong. Three.”

“O.”

“Wrong. You see he’s trying the vowels. How many does that make?”

“Four.”

“Oh, you girls need not look so jubilant; four doesn’t make much. I’ll guess U, next.”

“Five,” we both shouted.

“Well, T.”

“Right, and sixth place.”

“An e, an l, and a t. Let me see. Any n’s in it?”

“No. That makes six. Oh, we have you, General, that is half the number.”

“The battle is not won yet; no, nor lost yet. Well, I’ll guess G.”

“Seven.”

He looked down at the grass and drummed his fingers on his knee, then said, “D.”

“Eight.”

“An e, an l, and a t. That’s a queer combination when all the other vowels are out. Holloa! Is there another e?”

“Yes. Third place.”

“Oh, and another l?”

“Nine.”

“I hope this word is in the English language?”

“Oh, yes. It is English and it is used to-day, but a generation back it was used more frequently.”

“A generation back! Bah!” and he straightened himself and rising strode back and forth with his hands clasped back of him. “I have it! That is, I am pretty certain. Has a y, hasn’t it?”

“Yes—second place.”

“Eyelet!” he shouted. “Bah, you thought you had me. Well, you almost did. Those pesky vowels were at fault.”

“Never mind, I’ll hang you yet. I have another word in mind. But not to-day. Come, Gertrude. You see it all now, I guess, and we must hurry in, or Will and the others will be back before we are ready for dinner. Good-bye for a time, General. Look to your guns. I shall be after you again.”

II.

Breakfast was more than half over, some mornings later, when in came Bob and Irving Bolton. A chorus of “Fie, fie,” greeted them, and Elsie Sterling shook her fingers threateningly as Bob explained, “Pen, don’t be hard on a fellow. Irving and I talked too late, I suppose, last night. At any rate I know I should never have turned up this morning only that he yelled across to me that lunch was most ready. And then he loitered to help me share the blame of our lateness. Hey, old fellow?” and he looked across at Irving as he slid into the vacant place between Elsie and Mrs. Burkhardt.

“You are both rascals, both of you,” growled the General. “Burkhardt and I have been up hours and have planned the finest sort of a day for the rest of you ungrateful ones. Shall we tell them, Burkhardt?”

Before Mr. Burkhardt had a chance to reply, Penelope interposed, “Let me try and guess.”

“All right, Mrs. Gerard, but you’ll have to try twenty questions or some such game or you’ll not hit it. It’s a fine scheme.” And Ned Burkhardt nodded triumphantly while he put a piece of buttered toast on his wife’s plate.

“I’ll guess just once, and without the help of twenty questions either. It’s a picnic.”

“Bah!” exclaimed the General. “You overheard, or somebody told you.”

“Perhaps I did, or perhaps that omnipresent ‘little bird’ chirped it in my ear. But, at any rate, it’s a fine idea. What say the rest of you?”

“Just the thing. Fine,” was the reply.

“How shall we go, Will, and where?”

“Oh, let’s go to Sylvan Grove. It is only ten miles. Let me see. Two of you can ride horseback.

“Will you and Irving ride, Gertrude? And, Burkhardt, you and madame and Elsie and Bob might take the buckboard, and we three old fogies—pardon me, General,—will follow on with the provisions. Will that suit, Penel?”

“All right. And now let’s get ready. Can you all start in three quarters of an hour?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Promptly we all sallied forth, and it was a merry party. The air was perfect, and Irving, Bolton and I cantered on ahead, and finding ourselves far in advance, we turned and rode across country for a few miles.

It was a perfect day, and the picnic was a perfect success. At dinner that night we voted it as the best day yet.

“Well, to-morrow is the golf tournament, you know,” said Will, and turning to his wife, he added, “Didn’t you say there was a dinner on too?”

“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot. Dear old Mrs. Preston asked us all to dinner.” Turning towards me she said, “You remember at our tea, the day after you came, a white-haired lady accompanied by her granddaughter?”

“Yes, indeed I do. I think you said she lives in that gray stone house we passed to-day.”

“Yes, that is the one. It’s a lovely house too—and such china! Why, Mrs. Burkhardt, she has a willow set that would make your mouth water. Perhaps we’ll see it.”

Then turning swiftly, for dinner was over and we were just leaving the room, “Listen, all of you, please. To-morrow night at Mrs. Preston’s, and next night nowhere. It is Gertrude’s last night here and let’s spend it all alone,” and having made her little speech she slipped her arm around my waist and we went out together.

We passed through one of the French windows, out on the piazza, and sat there late into the night. Snatches of conversation came to us again and again, and Mrs. Burkhardt’s sweet soprano as she and Elsie sang together, while Irving accompanied on the mandoline. But we, Penelope and I, remained alone, each happy in the other.

The last night came, as all “last nights” must, and with it, “in sympathy with our mood,” was the General’s courteous construction, came a heavy, moaning storm. Will poked the fire and piled on the logs as though a blizzard were raging without. Finally, he paused and said, “I guess, Pen, dear, you may have your wish. No one will disturb our family serenity this night.”

How cosy it seemed and how happy all appeared. Elsie and Mrs. Burkhardt, Irving and Bob were playing checkers in the next room. Ned and Penelope were talking about dogs and horses and comparing their relative intelligence. The General was looking over some foreign photographs, while Will and I bestowed our attention on the fire.

“Truly,” spoke General Bolton, “did you ever get up early enough to see Covent Garden Market in its glory!”

“Oh, General, do you mean to infer absolute laziness, or do you mean that the gray gloom of London would forbid an early awakening?”

“Never mind what I inferred. Did you ever go to the market—early?”

“Strange as it may seem to you, I did. I went one morning to Covent Garden Market, and early, about six o’clock, with an English girl. It was a wonderful sight.”

“See,” he interrupted, “it was this picture of a costermonger with the palms and ferns that made me ask you.”

“It is very natural—the little donkey, the barrow and all. And how very cheap the plants and flowers are—why that morning I bought for sixpence as many moss roses and buds as I could carry.”

“Gertrude, did you ever see that?” And Will gave me a printed slip that he had been searching for in his pocketbook. It was called the Floral Test.

“No, but isn’t it good? Let’s ask the others the questions and see who can answer the most.”

“Come, all you people,” called Will, and he stepped over to the next room. “Aren’t you tired of checkers? Gertrude has a new game.”

When all were seated around expectantly he said: “Now, Gertrude, you ask the questions and we’ll reply. It is called,” he explained, “the Floral Test. She’ll ask questions and we’ll give answers in the names of flowers.”

“Tell me the name of a maiden, and the color of her hair.”

“Maria-gold,” shouted Irving.

“Good for you, old fellow. How did you know?” questioned Bob.

“O here,” and young Bolton tapped his forehead significantly.

“What adjective fitted her and what was her brother’s name?”

All were silent until Mrs. Burkhardt timidly said, “Is it Sweet-William?”

“That’s right. Now try this,—What was his favorite sport in winter?”

“That’s easy. Snowball,” and Bob threw his handkerchief at Will, who sharply returned it.

“Ned, what was his favorite instrument?”

“Is it the trumpet?”

“That is right. Can you tell me, Elsie, at what hour he awoke his father by playing on it?”

“Four o’clock.”

“Yes, and what did his father apply to him?”

“A golden-rod,” two or three shouted.

“What office did his father occupy in the church?”

All seemed puzzled. Finally Elsie said, “Was it elder?”

“Right. What was the young man’s name, and what did he write it with?”

“That is a poser, Trudy. You’ll have to tell them, I guess,” suggested Will.

“Jonquil, don’t you see?”

“Bah!” exclaimed the General, while the others laughed.

“Irving, what candy do you usually buy?”

“He doesn’t know,” said Will, “but wait a moment and I’ll show you some,” and he went to a closet and brought back a box of buttercups.

“Well, what did John do when he popped the question?”

“Aster,” yelled the General.

“That is correct, General. See if you can tell what ghastly trophy he offered her.”

“Oh, that is easy. A bleeding heart.”

“Well, what did she say as John knelt before her?”

“Why, Johnny-jump-up, of course.”

“That’s right. You are fine at this game, General. Can you tell me what minister married them?”

“Oh, Jack-in-the-Pulpit,” exclaimed Penelope.

“What did she wear in her hair?”

“Bridal-wreath.”

“What flowers bloomed in her cheeks?”

“Roses.”

“What did John say when obliged to leave her for a time?”

“Forget-me-not.”

“That is all. It is a fine game, Will. Where did you find it?”

“Oh, I came across it in a paper, and I know Pen likes that sort of thing, so I cut it out. But I forgot all about it until you two were talking over Covent Garden and the early market.”

“I think I can add one to that list of questions,” and Penelope arose and, drawing me up by the hand, said, “What flower should we put in the candle tray at night?”

“Poppy,” came the quick reply, and Bob quoted,

The Rock-a-bye lady
From Hush-a-bye street,
The poppies they hang
From her head to her feet.

“—— oh, I say, Pen,” he called, as we were on the stairs, “what shall we all do when Gertrude leaves us?”

“Do you mean that as a Floral Test question?”

“Yes.”

“I know what I’ll do, but I don’t know any flower or plant to describe it.”

“Why, Penelope, we’ll all balsam.”

HOURS WITH THE POETS.

“Felicia Hemans was an American, born ‘down East’ somewhere; I think in the same section Nora Perry hails from,” was the startling announcement uttered in my hearing, by a “sweet girl graduate” of so short time ago as June, 1892.

“Pardon contradiction,” I called from my end of the library, “but Felicia Hemans was an Englishwoman, and her birthplace was Liverpool.”

The surprise the above incident created caused my own thought to revert to the honored and beloved poets who have so lately left us, as well as to the mighty revered army, from Chaucer down, who have more or less an abiding-place in our hearts.

And then followed another thought,—would it not be a wise use of time for some of us to study the lives and works of these poets, the minor as well as the more prominent ones, and so save ourselves from similar ludicrous blunders as the one above given?

And particularly do I appeal to the young girls just out; but even the busy schoolgirl would have the opportunity if she would only systematically arrange her work. Afternoon classes might be formed, or evening ones if preferred; the latter would have the advantages, as then the big brothers might come. Simple refreshments, too, would not jar on harmony, but rather tend to sociability. These could be provided by the hostess, for the girls should take turns in having the class meet at each house. It would also be found to be a benefit to have a president and secretary for such a class, or, if an old person could be gotten, popular and wise enough to take charge, that would prove still more satisfactory.

It is quite the fashion now to be a member of a dancing class, why not be a member of a poets’ class, and so take care of your head as well as your heels? Indeed, classes are the “order of the day,” for language, music, riding, cooking, wood-carving, needlework, indeed everything, and the young girls or boys who may read this sketch certainly want to be into things as well as their fellows.

In these hours with the poets, take a different poet for each time the class meets. Before the close of one meeting decide on who will be the next one taken up. For example, will it be Keats, Saxe, Bayard Taylor, or Jean Ingelow? That settled, name who will be the one to give a biographical sketch of the poet. This may be in the form of an original paper, or read directly from an encyclopedia. Also name two or more members to read or recite poems from the poet under consideration. Discussion and criticism should be freely allowed, and unanswerable questions should be always answered at the next meeting before entering on the new poet. It would save time to have the hostess answer the questions left from the week before, as she could have numerous books at hand, and of necessity would be present.

Do not say this is too difficult a task. Nothing is too difficult for those who try.

And do not think such study and hours are unnecessary. If you do, find out how many of your classmates can at once answer whom Ben Jonson adopted as his poetical son? He was a pastoral lyrist, and left behind him thirteen hundred poems. He was a bachelor, though he lived to be eighty-four years of age. He was born at Cheapside, London, in 1591, and died in 1674, at Dean Prior, which living was presented to him, for at times he was very poor. His name was Robert Herrick.

Or does my reader know that Thomas Gray was a close student of Dryden, or that the author of the first important body of English sonnets was the romantic hero, Sir Philip Sidney, and that he died when but thirty-two years of age, having been conspicuous at the court of Elizabeth, was a soldier of great promise, a leading statesman, and has a prominent place in history?

“THANK YOU!”

“I sent her a basket of fruit for Christmas. The basket was of the finest Chinese straw, and decorated with handsome pale green satin ribbon; and the fruit, Bartlett pears, mandarins, and white grapes; but she has not acknowledged it by either verbal or written thanks.”

“Perhaps she never received it,” was the reply.

“I know that she did, for my daughter called one day and recognized the basket, which stood on the table in the hall through which she passed.”

“Well, but you know she is a very busy woman.”

“That is no excuse. People may be ever so busy, but they should not forget decent courtesy. Indeed, my experience has been that the busy people are, oftener than otherwise, the most polite people. My theory is, they do not allow themselves to rust in any direction; duty should be done, and is done. If an individual cannot take time to thank a friend for a Christmas gift, next year that friend may not take time to give one. I am sure it is not the question of time; it is the question of knowledge or carelessness. There are people who really don’t know enough to be polite; and others know, but are too indifferent to take the trouble, forgetting that their conduct reflects most disagreeably upon themselves. One would think a kind heart might dictate, if common-sense did not. But I suppose some people have neither common-sense nor kindness of heart.”

Overhearing the above conversation, the listener was reminded of a similar instance lately experienced in her own life. A letter had been written, which had honorably adjusted a money complication that concerned the gentleman to whom she wrote and a society which he represented, but did not concern or reflect upon the writer in the smallest degree excepting for the goodwill she bore her friend, and yet for this same letter she did not receive one word of thanks—not even the acknowledgment of its ever having been received. That it _was_ received was later proved by a printed report that it would have been impossible to set in order without it.

The examples given are by no means rare and peculiar, but may be duplicated over and over by every intelligent person. And in this age of letters, when printed matter was never so reasonable, and when teachers and schools may be really had “without money and without price,” when lectures on all topics are inexpensively if not, indeed, freely given, where is the excuse for knowledge not to be the power of all? It would almost seem as if even those indifferently educated could not help but have learned to say “thank you,” or to acknowledge by pen or voice any accommodation, help, or present.

Blood is sure to tell, and with Emerson we say that “man is physically as well as metaphysically a thing of shreds and patches, borrowed unequally from good and bad ancestors.” To those of gentle blood, rudeness would be impossible. If there are partial lapses of manner with those looked upon as the refined, the question is asked, “Where does she get that trait?” and possibly the answer may be, “Her great-grandmother.” For thus are the sins visited upon the children of even the third and fourth generations. The deportment of the real gentleman or woman can never be unpleasantly criticised. They could not be ungracious, no matter how hard they should try. If there is ever a question about how far politeness should extend, err on the side of too much rather than that of too little. Have too much manner rather than not enough. Be too profuse in thanks rather than too scant and meagre.

When a gift has been received or a courtesy of any kind shown you, at once acknowledge it, unless you are too ill so to do, or a positively important matter prevents. If it is impossible to write to the one you are indebted to that day, do it the next. But as it is so easy for most of us to have good intentions, do not put off for to-morrow what should be done to-day.

The note should not be long, but heartily and pleasantly worded. Some people might reflect, “I would not tell a falsehood, and how can I say I like a thing if I do not?” Or, as happened lately, two boxes of wild flowers were sent me from California by two little boys, with a note in one of the boxes containing the words, “Which flowers got to you best, Pierre’s or mine?” and I was obliged to at once put both boxes in the fire. Should I write of the sweetness of the blossoms and the purity and beauty of their coloring? By no means. But I would not wound the childish hearts by telling of the condition of the flowers at the time they were received. Remember the thought that prompted the gift. Dwell on that altogether if you will. Send a loving message to the donors, and they will never dream you did not like their offering in the one case or were obliged to burn it in the other.

After all, remembrance is the sweetest of all earthly gifts. When the dear ones with whom we journey are no longer here, we will miss their gentle ministry. May not any one of us then know the bitterness of remorse, but rather let us hasten to send abundant, hearty thanks to those who have taken time to think and care for us!

A STORY WITHIN A STORY

It was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,

that four young people were vivaciously talking on the front piazza at Aunt Mary’s.

Aunt Mary was everybody’s friend, but particularly beloved by the nephews and nieces, of whom this story tells. And her home, “just the jolliest kind of a place to visit,” Jo said, as he described beforehand the expected good times his sister Madeline with their cousins, Madge and Ernest, were to have in the week’s vacation given them for recuperation after the half-yearly examination.

Aunt Mary’s house was in New Jersey; of course, it was on a farm, for whoever would think of looking for such fun and frolic anywhere else? And as all the cousins came from city homes, and Jo and his sister from a small flat of a large apartment house, the freedom of space which the country had given, added to the bracing air and sunny, cheerful atmosphere, was a delightful contrast. But no one would have thought, though, that Madeline was seventeen years of age, or that Madge was called “Miss Propriety” at home, for they would race over the farm, playing the wildest of games “like a couple of tomboys,” their brothers said. But Aunt Mary let them do exactly as they pleased, and would always sigh when she would talk of their shut-in city life, and point to their red cheeks with great pride, which she assured them came from living with her. And the boys, too, had seemed wonderfully benefited by their running, racing, riding, ball and tennis playing. Even the hallooing “got plenty of fresh air in their lungs,” Ernest said, which, with other things too many to mention, had been done in this brief holiday.

To-morrow they must start homeward; and just because they were exhausted with one and another game, they are, at the commencement of our story, resting and talking on Aunt Mary’s front piazza.

Ernest is rubbing his right arm meanwhile, for he says, “It has pained me dreadfully ever since that last catch at the ball.”

And Aunt Mary has just joined them, carrying with her a big tin waiter on which is a large molasses cake, so fresh that it is yet hot from the oven, and a four-quart pitcher of milk, which Bessie, the brown-eyed Alderney, had given at the morning milking hour. At sight of their aunt thus laden, three cheers were laughingly and loudly given, for if there is one way quicker than another to young people’s hearts, perhaps it is by the way of hot molasses cake and ice-cold fresh milk, as rich as many city folks have their cream.

Jo, who was eighteen years old on his last birthday, is considered the young man of the party. He has always been a gentleman, and he at once rushed to the sitting-room for his aunt’s favorite rocking-chair. As Ernest has already disposed of the tray by putting it on a spruce-bark covered table which stands for all sorts of convenient purposes on the piazza, Aunt Mary is comfortably placed in her easy-chair before she realizes that Jo had gone for it. “Oh, what delicious cake!” “How kind you are!” “I must have another glass of that milk.” “Isn’t this lots better than being in school?” etc., were the pleasing comments and ejaculations which any stranger might have heard passing on the other side of the road from the house, or, indeed, a quarter of a mile beyond it.

After awhile, however, the eating and drinking were over, and “What shall we do now?” was the question. “I’m tired out, for one,” said Ernest, and “I for another,” continued Madge; “still, these are our last hours and we must do something; we cannot afford to lose a moment. Aunt Mary, you tell us what to do.”

“Will you promise to do what I tell you?”

“We will,” answered Madeline. “Of course we will,” continued Ernest; “a likely thing we could say no, now, of all times, after the way this cake and milk have disappeared.”

“Well, it’s agreed, then,” said Aunt Mary. “I want you to entertain me awhile by telling a story.”

“A story! How? We don’t exactly understand, do we?” asked Jo, looking at one and another perplexed face.

“The story,” answered Aunt Mary, “must be altogether, ‘made up,’ as Madge would say. It must be divided in four chapters or parts, as nearly equal in length as is possible. Jo can begin it, and, after talking, say for two minutes, Madge must follow, then Ernest and Madeline will close.”

These words were followed with whistles from the boys, and “Oh, my!” from the girls, to all of which Aunt Mary said, “You promised, and of course you will do it. And when the story is told, we will all drive over to Bear’s Gulch, and that will take the remainder of the afternoon.”

These words were followed by a halt and sighs. “But it would be a burning shame,” said Madeline, “not to please Aunt Mary; besides, of course, we can do it. We can do anything, if we try.”

“So say we all of us; so say we all,” sang Ernest.

And Aunt Mary laughingly replied, “The sooner the story is started, the sooner it is through, and the sooner it is through, the sooner we have the drive.”

“Well, as I’m the starter, here goes!” said Jo.

“And,” interrupted his aunt, “when your time is up I’ll call Madge’s name, and so on. Don’t let us have any breaks. Tell me a story just as smoothly as if you were reading it from a book. Now, Jo.”

“My title is, ‘The Adventures of an Irish Setter.’ When Ned Armstrong was so small a boy that he yet wore knickerbockers, he received a short visit from his cousin William Adams. He, too, was a little boy and was often called ‘Sweet William,’ on account of his sunny disposition, for, notwithstanding he was sole heir to great wealth, being the only child of rich parents, rich enough to count their wealth by many millions of dollars,—he was neither selfish, exacting, nor in any way disagreeable, thereby an example to some grown-up people we have met. When William came on this visit, he brought with him a large, well-trained dog. He was a magnificent fellow, and Ned, his cousin, was as amazed as he was pleased to find that the dog was a present to himself from William’s father, his Uncle Ned, after whom he was named. This uncle had long known he must sometime part with Moselle; he had been his own from the time Moselle was a puppy but two months old. The reason for the separation of master and dog was the giving up of housekeeping for life in a hotel, as Aunt Cornelia, Uncle Ned’s wife, was now too much of an invalid to continue caring for a house, even with the assistance of a housekeeper, of whom she had tried many, and dogs are among the ‘not allowed’ in hotels. So, Uncle Ned, remembering his little nephew in the country, and knowing how he would prize and kindly treat his old pet and friend, sent Moselle by his son William to him. This gift made Ned, however, nearly crazy with delight, and the old gardener often feared the results to his flower beds after the races which Ned and Moselle would take over them. Indeed the dog was not to blame if he forgot many of his well-trained ways, country life with the little boy was so ungoverned by comparison with what it had been with his staid, but kind old master.

“One day, five months after Moselle had changed his home, Ned was missing. No one knew where the child had gone. He did not have a regular nurse; but an old colored servant called Tamar had been in the family many years, and she, with other duties, was supposed to keep an eye on this child. But Tamar had been negligent this time. Ned was missing. The big garden was searched everywhere, thinking possibly he had fallen asleep under some of the rose or berry bushes, but Ned was not in the garden. Strangely enough, as the boy and dog were counted inseparable, Moselle was all right and contentedly sunning himself on a pansy bed, which was a favorite place of his, though often scolded and chased away for thus flattening the beautiful flowers——”

“Madge, it is your time.”

“As Ned was not found in the garden, the next place to look was all over the house, while the cry of ‘Ned! Ned!’ was heard in every room and from several windows, for as one after another looked they would throw up a window-sash, thinking Ned must be somewhere outside in the grounds and would surely hear them call, and they would hear his voice in answer, even if they did not see him. But it was all in vain. Ned could neither be seen nor heard, and his mother and sister Mary, a girl of twelve years old, who were the only ones of the family then at home, finally cried with fright and anxiety. But their fright was of short duration, for, before an hour had passed, Ned was back perfectly safe, without scratch or injury, and having the rested dewy look to his eyes which all children have who have lately woke from sleep.

“It was Isaac, the stableman, who found him. No one ever could really explain why Moselle was not with him at the time, but the child had wandered alone into the stable, and the man passing in and out had not noticed him, who, probably tired with play, had fallen asleep on the hay. While thus asleep, Isaac had closed the stable door and fastened it, preparatory to a three miles’ drive to the flour mill. On his return with the meal, the clatter connected with the moving of the stable door and getting the horses back had wakened the child, who came hurriedly out, rubbing his eyes as he ran, and calling at the top of his lungs for Moselle, not knowing others had as loudly been calling for him. But Moselle did not answer. There was no running, jumping and wagging of the tail from his dog-friend, for Moselle was now the missing one. In the gladness of Ned’s being found, neither Mrs. Armstrong, nor Mary, nor, indeed, any of the servants, had given the dog a thought, and it was not until Ned refused to be comforted that one of the help slowly said, ‘There was a poor old soldier here this morning, just at the time Isaac came home with the meal. I thought, perhaps, Isaac had given him a lift up. He asked for a cup of coffee, but I had none made, and didn’t want to take the trouble to make any, so I gave him a couple of slices of bread with apple-sauce between. I reckon he’s made way with the dog, the mean, contemptible wretch!’

“And he had. Moselle was already miles away from the house of little Ned Armstrong, and his companion was the same poorly-clad half-sick looking soldier that the housemaid had given the apple-sauce sandwich to that morning. The dog was prevented from running home by a strong cord fastened around his neck at one end and the other end firmly clutched by the man’s hand, and both dog and man had had several helps over the road, as their rested-looking condition proved. That night, in the city of Wilmington, North Carolina, the soldier sold the dog for twenty-three dollars to a handsome young army officer, at present stationed at Old Point Comfort, but who had a three days’ leave of absence to visit a sick relative at Wilmington. The dog and his new master had already started for ‘Old Point’ when the officer suddenly remembered—”

“Ernest, your time now.”

“That he had forgotten to ask the dog’s name, and, as he could not take time to hunt the man up from whom he had bought the dog, he decided to christen him Duke.

“It was the month of March, and the Hygeia Hotel was a gay scene of life and beauty. Among the guests was a charming young woman, talented and rich, but also very lame. She could not walk without the aid of a crutch; but, notwithstanding this detraction, she fascinated everybody by her lovely manner and cheerful, sunny disposition. The gentleman who had bought Moselle, now called Duke, daily dined at the Hygeia, and in a particularly fortunate time was presented to the lame lady. He was, therefore, the envy of all the unmarried army officers who, with every one else, would delight in thinking of her as their friend. The young lady admired Duke very much, and often petted and caressed him, and the dog seemed proud and pleased to be in her company. However, the time came for the lame lady to return to her home in New York, and the dog was left alone with his master, though I might add, not alone, for everybody living at the ‘Point’ seemed to know Duke and would always praise his beauty. One old gentleman offered two hundred dollars for him once, but it was refused, his owner saying, ‘I will never sell Duke, though some day I may be tempted to give him away.’ Duke was taught many tricks while at the Fortress, among others, to carry letters. These he would hold in his mouth, but would neither tear them with his teeth, nor wet them with his tongue. He was also taught to ‘say his prayers,’ which he always did kneeling on a wooden chair, with his head resting with closed eyes on the back. When ‘Amen’ was said this was the signal to jump over the chair-back and shake himself as if pleased to have prayer-time over. One day, as the mail was being distributed, Duke, as was his wont, was standing near, and one of the officers putting a letter in the dog’s mouth, said: ‘Take that to your master. It’s from his friend, the lame lady.’ This the officer meant for a joke, but it was really true, and, as the letter concerned Duke, we will insert it here:

“‘DEAR MR. G——:

“‘According to promise, I write you the result of the
operation, which I am sure you will be glad to learn is
a complete success. My physicians say if I will have
patience for another month I will then walk as well as
anybody. Please give Duke an extra pat on my account,
and whenever you feel constrained to part with him,
remember

“‘Your friend
“‘PAULINE JEROME.’

“That settles it!” exclaimed Duke’s master. ‘I learned last night I was soon to be sent to California, and I at once decided my good dog and I must separate. And now that he can have so kind a mistress, and I have this opportunity to win the gratitude of my lovely friend, what a fool I would be to hesitate longer. On my way to California, I will arrange to pass through New York City, and will then personally give my dog to Miss Jerome.’”

“Madeline, will you finish the story?”

“Six months have now passed since Duke exchanged his home at Fortress Monroe for the luxurious apartments of his beautiful mistress. The dog is constantly tended with the greatest care, groomed as tenderly as if made of human flesh. He sleeps in my lady’s room and seems truly aristocratic with his lordly bearing. His baby-blue satin ribbon bow, knotted into the solid gold collar, which bears his name and address, a Christmas gift from his mistress, causes him to appear what indeed he has become—almost spoiled with good fortune.

“But what a change a few short hours can make! That night there was a cry of ‘Fire!’ My! the alarm and panic it raised! for the fire was not noticed until there was so much flame and smoke that it was with the utmost difficulty the inmates of the house escaped with their lives. Nothing else was saved. Miss Jerome calling to a fireman, said: ‘Take care of my dog, and I will pay you well.’ The man, catching the dog harshly by the collar, fairly dragged him out of the burning building, for Duke seemed dazed with smoke and fright. But, on reaching the street, the dog was entirely beyond control, and, with wonderful strength freed himself from the man’s grasp, strong as it was, and dashed down the street. Miss Jerome offered at different times large rewards for his return; but it was useless, Duke and his mistress were never again to meet, he was as lost to her as if he had never existed. Several months passed, after the fire, and the dog once more found friends, a home, and his old name, Moselle. Peculiar events happen in life, and few more so than the following. Mr. and Mrs. Adams of whom this story first told, had gone to the South of France, hoping to recover the health of Mrs. Adams, on whose account it will be remembered the valued dog had to be parted with. They were accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong and their children, Ned and May. The older people of this party were one morning talking on the lawn connected with the Hôtel de Grace, when Ned and May suddenly burst upon them accompanied by a large dog, who was jumping and tearing around as if wild with joy. Seeing Mr. Adams, he left the children, and, jumping on his lap, laid his head on his shoulder and moaned and actually seemed to weep with gladness. ‘This is Moselle, Moselle!’ shouted Ned; ‘we saw him with an old fiddler out here on the road. I thought he looked like my dear old dog, though he is so thin and starved looking, and I called “Moselle,” and you should have seen him run. Those long legs of his fairly raced to reach me. Indeed, he knocked me down. He was too happy to behave, wasn’t you, Moselle?’ and Ned tenderly smoothed his beautiful head, which he yet kept on his old master’s shoulder, as though they must never be separated again, while his tender brown eyes seemed to speak of affectionate content. The family never again parted with Moselle until he died, which sad event occurred towards the close of the same year. The dog’s exposures and privations after the fire, during his varied life, seemed to have weakened and injured him to such an extent that, though tender care was constantly lavished, it came too late. All that Mr. Adams ever learned of Moselle’s history, he heard from the fiddler, who had bought him from an old woman, who said he belonged to her son, and that they had had nothing but bad luck since the dog was theirs, and she would be glad to get rid of him at any price. The fiddler thought the son had stolen the dog, and, as he was himself having bad fortune, he determined to leave America and return to his own country, and had brought the dog over the sea, thinking in that way if there was any wrong dealing connected with the dog he would never be discovered. ‘But,’ said the old fiddler, gravely shaking his head, ‘I’ve always heard “wrong will out,” and I’m thankful to dispose of him for so liberal a compensation as you have so kindly made me.’ With these words, the fiddler folded his money over, thrust it in his pocket and walked away.”

“Thank you for such an entertaining story,” said Aunt Mary; “and now we will have our promised drive.”

ORRIN THE BOOTBLACK.

“Shine, shine, shine!” the cry was as earnest as it was pitiful. I rose from my seat in the cabin of the Fulton Ferry boat, for I was crossing from Brooklyn to New York at the time, and found the boy; one glance into his honest blue eyes did the rest.

I at once gave him my boots to blacken, regardless of the opinion of my man Dennis, that he had put on them an extra polish that morning, and, while the almost baby hand continued to shine them into as dazzling a glare as blackened boots could reach, I asked him his name, and, giving him my card, told him to call on me that evening at seven o’clock.

“Mr. Adams, you surely do not mean me to understand that your protégé, who to-night delivered the valedictory address in this honored college, and the bootblack are one and the same?”

“I do.”

The above conversation was between the President of the college and the senior member of the Board of Trustees.

“Yes; he is the same, and yet not the same, because then he was such a sad little fellow, and now he is full of jokes and wholesome pranks, a merry wit that gladdens my old days, and almost makes a boy of me again. At one time, though, I thought he would never laugh; it was such an apology for a smile that I first saw cross his prematurely wizened face. But how long ago it now seems! Let me see,” thoughtfully counting one, two, three on his fingers, “why, it must be twelve years since then. How time flies!”

“Yes, time always does fly, when we are busy and happy. But are you aware that your Orrin is one of our youngest men? He gave his age as twenty-two!”

“Quite correct.”

“Well, I am confounded at your information. I am as curious as I am interested. Would you mind some time telling me the rest of the boy’s story?”

“Not at all; why not spend to-morrow evening with me? You know we sail Saturday for the continent, and after that our movements are uncertain. Orrin has worked hard, and I have promised him this treat, and, though he does not know it, I am contemplating leaving him at Oxford for a year or two. By the way, I would like your opinion as to that. But one thing is sure—if he stays in England, I stay too. I could not put the ocean between us. You cannot imagine how my heart holds that boy; so, if you really want to hear my chap’s story, you would better come to-morrow night.”

“I will come.”

It was evening, and, when the two men were comfortably seated in Mr. Adams’ library, the following was told.

Mr. Adams prefaced the recital with the words: “I will photograph Orrin as he first appeared in my home, and then, as nearly as my memory can recall our conversation, I will give it. Twelve years ago, about seven o’clock in the evening, a maid told me that a small poorly-clad lad, with a box under his arm, was asking to see me. He had entered by the lower door. I directed her to bring him to me, and, strangely enough, in my comfortable lounging-chair, with the evening paper for companion, I had entirely forgotten the engagement I had made, but the girl’s words instantly recalled all, and, a few moments later, I was addressing him. His manner was neither shy nor bold. He appeared neither surprised nor bewildered. I did not note the confused air, which I could reasonably expect. He met my gaze with the honest, frank look that I first noticed, but he seemed sad, even painfully. He was such a small boy. He evidently was what is so rarely found—a gentleman. I almost exclaimed as he stood in the doorway, for I noticed the way he held his cap; Beau Brummell in his most happy days could not have done better, and the bow with which he answered my ‘good evening,’ as well as the response to my asking him to take a chair, made me say to myself, ‘Adams, you must look out, or this little bootblack will leave you leagues rearward in the manner question!’ His hair was dark, very glossy, and slightly curly. His face and hands almost shone with cleanliness. I especially noticed his nails, and, knowing his business, was surprised to find that they, also, were quite clean. His height was decidedly small for his age (he did not really seem to grow much until he was about seventeen years old, and then how he shot up! he is just six feet tall now); his clothes were not patched, but threadbare and ragged. The material was fine. His trousers only came to his knees, and both shoes and stockings were visibly the worse for wear. He was not a pretty boy, but a manly-looking little fellow. His complexion was fair, but pallid; indeed, the boy wore a starved, pinched look. His jacket, which was buttoned with brass buttons to the neck, hung on him, as if he had grown thinner since it was made. So much for my photograph. Now for our conversation, which will give you a better idea of the boy, than if only using my own words.

“‘Good evening, my little man.’

“‘Good evening, sir.’

“‘You blackened my boots so well this morning, I thought I would like to talk with you about your business to-night.’

“‘Thank you, sir.’

“‘How long have you been a bootblack?’

“‘Seven weeks.’

“‘Have you made much money?’

“‘I make more now than at first, sir.’

“‘How much is the most you have made a week?’

“‘Last week, sir, I made ninety-five cents.’

“‘How much is the least you ever made?’

“‘Fifteen, sir; that was my first week, when I was new in the business.’

“‘You live with your parents, I suppose?’

“‘No, sir.’

“‘Don’t live with your parents? Whom do you live with?’

“‘With myself.’

“‘You, a little midget like you, live by yourself! Where do you sleep?’

“‘Wherever I can find a place.’

“‘Where did you sleep last night?’

“‘You won’t tell, sir, if I tell you?’

“‘No.’

“‘Well, I’ve slept for three nights, now, in a covered wagon. It has been left outside, and, some way, no one has ever seen me crawl into it. Please don’t tell any one, sir. I really don’t hurt the wagon.’

“‘But why don’t you go home? Do your parents drink?’

“‘I have no home, sir; my parents are dead; they are both in heaven.’ And then the little hands hastily undid the few top buttons of his jacket, and untied a black shoe lace which served as a chain. Then, stepping nervously towards me, he said; ‘Would you like to see mamma’s picture?’

“I tell you what, sir, this action, united to the boy’s words, unmanned me. ‘John Adams,’ I asked myself, ‘you’ll befriend this boy?’ And John Adams answered, ‘I will.’

“The picture was painted on porcelain, a medallion resting on dark blue velvet; the whole was framed in a band of narrow gold. The woman was a blonde, delicate looking, but very beautiful. She had an intellectual face, and seemed of good birth. In age about twenty-five years.

“‘Has your mother been dead long?’ I next asked.

“‘She died when I was born, and I am ten years old. Papa gave me her picture, and I always wear it. I would starve, sir, but I would never part from it.’ I am sure the boy has it on now, but I would not like to ask him to show it to you. He is sensitive, and I would not risk hurting him.”

“No, indeed, I would not have you, if you were ever so willing. And what more, Mr. Adams? It is well I did not know of this while he was in college; I am afraid I should have spoiled him.”

“Well, I asked him if he had brothers or sisters. His reply was—

“‘I had one brother; he died a year ago.’

“‘How long since your father died?’

“‘Eight weeks, sir.’

“‘And you started at the boot-blacking business one week later?’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘What was your father’s business?’

“‘When he was in business, he was a stockbroker.’

“‘A stockbroker!’ I exclaimed, although I was positive before, judging from his mother’s picture, that he was born above his present position. ‘And you say there was a time when your father was not in business. How long ago was that?’

“‘The last two years of his life, after he became blind.’

“‘Tell me all about it, my good boy.’

“‘My father, sir, must have made a great deal of money; we lived in such a handsome house.’

“‘As handsome as this?’

“Looking around before he replied,—

“‘Oh, yes, sir.’

“‘You say your mother was dead. Who, then, kept house for you?’

“‘Mrs. Prentiss, our housekeeper. I had a nurse first, Nurse Ann, and when I got to be a big boy, I had a governess. She taught me to read, write, and all I know. I have never been to school. We had several servants, and my father kept horses. It was the house in which mamma died, and everything, papa said, must be as she kept house. But, one day, I know not how it happened, my father lost a great deal of money, and a lot of strange people came to the house, and almost all of our beautiful things were sold. All the servants left but one, and my governess. Papa and I lived then in a few rooms. I used to hear papa talk about his eyes, at that time, and one day he went to see a doctor about them. When he came back he told me: ‘My son, I am going to be blind,’ and then explained to me exactly what that meant. He told me that the reason he would be blind was because he had used too much tobacco. My father smoked a great many cigars every day, and sometimes a pipe. He chewed tobacco too. I felt frightened when I heard all of this, and I remember I cried and papa comforted me. He afterwards asked me to repeat these words after him. ‘My papa was blind. His optic nerves were hurt because he used too much tobacco. I will never smoke or chew.’ My papa had me repeat these words until I knew them perfectly, and then I said them once every day to him until he died. I say them every day to myself now. My papa became blind very soon after we left our home, and about six months before he died he was sick most of the time. My governess left one day, and then I had no more lessons. And almost every day our things would be sold, until, when papa died, we had most nothing left. About a week after he was buried, some men came to our rooms, and then our girl left, and the men told me I must go too. I could not live there any more. They gave me my clothes, and one of the men gave me a dollar. I cried so hard that another man said he would take me home with him, and I could stay two or three nights at his house until I could get some work and make money for myself. That was why I became a bootblack. This man told me it was a good business, and, because I was so little and did not know what to do, the man and his wife made me a present of my outfit and told me to watch other bootblacks and cry out: “Shine, shine,” and so get business. The man gave me his boots to black while I stopped at the house and that taught me the way, for I never had blackened boots before. I stayed with these kind people for one week, and since then I have taken care of myself.’

“‘Have you no relations?’

“‘None I have ever seen. The day before papa died, he told me I was soon to be all alone in the world, that I had no relatives, and then he said: “Your relatives are all dead, my son, or dead to you.” That is all I know, sir.’