Chapter II: Part 2

“Kittens” was by no means a quiet pastime. It consisted, indeed, in wild romps on all-fours, each child assuming for the time the character of a kitten, and jumping after balls of paper, which they caught in their mouths.

“It’s the happiest of all our games, and perhaps he’ll like it,” said Rosie.

“Patie,” said Alec, going up to the new nurse, “does ’oo know _Tic-tac-too_?”

“Of course I do, master Baby—a silly game that.”

“I ’ike it,” said little Alec.

He tripped across the nursery to the younger baby, and sat down by his side.

“Take off ’oo shoe,” he said.

Fred was very tired of being cross and miserable. He could not say he was too little to Alec, for Alec was scarcely bigger than himself. Besides he understood about taking off his shoe. It was a performance he particularly liked. He looked at Baby Alec, and obeyed him.

“Take off ’oo other shoe,” said Alec.

Fred did so.

“Pull off ’oo ’tocks,” ordered the eldest baby.

Fred absolutely chuckled as he tugged away at his white socks, and revealed his pink toes.

“Now, come to Patie.”

Fred scrambled to his feet, and holding Alec’s hand, trotted down the long nursery.

“Patie,” said Alec, “take F’ed on ’our lap, and play _Tic-tac-too_ for him?”

Patience was busy sewing; she raised her eyes. Two smiling little baby-boys were standing by her knee. Could this child, whose blue eyes were full of sunshine, be the miserable little Fred?

“Well, master Alec,” she said, kissing the older baby, “you’re a perfect little darling. Well, I never! to think of you finding out a way to please that poor child.”

“Tic-tac-too!” said Fred, in a loud and vigorous voice. He was fast getting over his shyness, and Alec’s game suited him to perfection.

But the little stranger did _not_ like the game of kittens. He marched in a fat, solid sort of way across the nursery, and sat down in a corner, with his back to the company. Here he really looked a most dismal little figure. The view of his back was heart-rending; his curly head drooped slightly, forlornness was written all over his little person.

“What a little muff he is!” said Harry; “I’m glad I didn’t give my skin horse to him.”

“Oh, don’t,” said Rosie, “can’t you see he’s unhappy? I must go and speak to him. Fred,” she said, going up to the child, “come and play with Alec and me.”

“No,” said Fred, “I’se too little to p’ay.”

“But we’ll have such an easy play, Fred. _Do_ come; I wish you would.”

“I’se too little,” answered Fred, shaking his head again.

At that moment Rosie and her two elder brothers were called out of the room to their morning lessons. Rosie’s heart ached as she went away.

“Something must be done,” she said to herself. “That new little boy-baby will get quite ill if we can’t think of something to please him soon.”

She did not know that a very unexpected little deliverer was at hand. The two babies were now alone in the nursery, and Patience, having finished her tidying up, sat down to her sewing.

Patience lifted him on her lap, popped him down with a bounce, kissed him, and began,—

“Tic, tac, too,
The little horse has lost his shoe,
Here a nail, and there a nail,
Here a nail, and there a nail,
Tic, tac, too!”

When the other children returned to the nursery, they heard peals of merry baby laughter; and this was the fashion in which a little boy won his name.

“HOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.”

X.—THE PASTURE FENCE.

We used to play a great deal about the pasture fence. It was a high rail fence and we used to take a little pole in both hands as a balancing pole, and run along on the top. Carefully we balanced ourselves as we ran! But finally we would tip first one way and then the other, and then, with a little laughing scream, off we’d topple!

Sometimes we would put a board through the fence and have a fine time at “seesaw.” Up one of us would go, high in the air, and down would go the other with a thud!

We used to play that the pasture fence was a huge cupboard. Each rail was a shelf. Many of those rail-shelves were loaded down with bits of broken dishes, shining pebbles, bits of green moss that we called “pincushions,” and white clam-shells full of strawberries, or raspberries, or little dark juicy choke-cherries. The contents of the clam-shells were for the birds. If we found a clam-shell lying on the ground, we believed with all our little hearts that a little winged creature had been fed from our cupboard.

Sometimes we would carry on a thriving millinery store out at the pasture fence. We would make queer little bonnets out of birch-bark. Then we would sew wildflowers on the bonnets and lay them on the rails of the fence for sale. Such a number of those funny little bonnets as would be on exhibition on our rail-counters!

One of the big upright posts of our rail fence was hollow a little way down. One day we found on the ground a nest full of birdlings; one of them was dead, and a little green snake had almost reached the nest. The mother-bird was flying about crying pitifully. I snatched the nest away and carried it O, so carefully to the pasture fence and put it down in the hollow of the fence-post. Then we went a bit away and waited. Pretty soon there was a little rush of wings; and soon the mother-bird settled down in that hollow post just as cunning as could be. And that dear little family staid in that hollow post until the baby-birds grew up and flew away.

_Percia V. White._

LULU’S FIRST THANKSGIVING.

Lulu was six years old last spring. She came to make a visit at her grandfather’s, and stayed until after Thanksgiving.

Lulu had lived away down in Cuba ever since she was a year old. Her cousins had written to her what a good time they had on Thanksgiving Day; so she was very anxious to be at her grandfather’s at that time. They do not have a Thanksgiving Day down in Cuba. That is how Lulu did not have one until she was six years old.

She could hardly wait for the day to come. Such a grand time as they did have! Lulu did not know she had so many cousins until they came to spend the day at her grandfather’s. It did not take them long to get acquainted. Before time for dinner they felt as if they had always known each other.

The dinner was the grand event of the day. Lulu had never seen so long a table except at a hotel, nor some of the vegetables and kinds of pie.

Lulu had never tasted turkey before. Her grandmother would not have one cooked until then, so she could say that she had eaten her first piece of turkey on Thanksgiving Day.

After dinner they played all kinds of games. All the uncles and aunts and grown-up cousins played blind-man’s-buff with them.

“HOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.”

XI.—OUR RAINY-DAY PLAYHOUSE.

We had a number of rainy-day playhouses. When it did not rain very hard, Myra and I would scamper out to our little playhouse made of boards, and listen to the patter of the drops.

It was not a very costly playhouse. It was built in a corner made by the shed and the orchard fence. One side of our playhouse was the shed. Another side was the fence; this open side we used to call our bay-window. A creeping hop vine twined around the rough fence-boards and made a green lace curtain for our bay-window. The third side was made of boards. Across this side stretched the wide board seat, which was the only furniture of our playhouse. The fourth, or front side of the playhouse consisted mostly of a “double-door,” of which we were very proud. This double-door was two large green blinds. Did not we feel like truly little housekeepers when we fastened those two blinds together with a snap!

When the rain came down in gentle showers we used to go out to the little playhouse and have a concert. First Myra would step up on to that wide board seat and recite a little piece. Then I would step up on to the seat and sing a little song. Perhaps while I was singing a robin in the orchard would begin to sing, O, so loud and sweet that all the orchard just rang with that sweet music! We would stop our concert and listen to the robin. When he had finished, we used to clap our little hands. And all the time the rain kept up a fairy “tinkle, tinkle,” as if some one was keeping time for us on a tiny piano.

Spat-t! Spat-t! would come the little drops through a tiny hole in the roof of our little house. We used to hold our faces up towards that little leak in the roof. Oftentimes a drop would strike us fairly on the tip of our small noses! Then how we would laugh!

Sometimes we would take hold of hands and repeat together, over and over again: “Rain, rain, go away, come again, another day!”

And if we said those words long enough, the rain would go away!

_Percia V. White._

“HOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.”

XII.—THE WHOLE WHITE WORLD.

In winter we played everywhere! The whole white world was a lovely playground! We had no skates, but we wore very thick-soled boots that took the place of skates very well. At least we thought so, and that was all we needed to make us contented. When the little pond was frozen over, we would take a quick run down its snowy banks and then we would skim clear across that little pond’s frozen surface just as swift as a bird would skim through the air.

Sometimes a thick frost would come in the night-time. The next morning a fine blue haze would be in the air and everything would be clothed in soft white frost-furs. As the sun rose higher and higher we would watch to see the trees and bushes grow warm in the sunshine and throw off their furs. Then we would try and catch those soft furs as they fell. But if caught they melted quickly away.

If the surface of the snow hardened enough so that we could walk on the crust without breaking through, our happiness was complete. High hills were all about us, and it seemed to us as if every shining hill would say if it could, “Come and slide!”

And O, the happy hours that we have had with our clumsy old sled! Away we would go, the wind stinging our faces until crimson roses blossomed in our cheeks, and the shining crust snapping and creaking under our sled, and the hill flying away behind us!

If a damp clinging snow came, it made lovely snowballs; and it was such fun to catch hold of the long clothes-lines and shake them and see little clumps of snow hop like rabbits from the line into the air.

And if instead of warmth, and great damp feathery snowflakes, there came a bitter wind and an icy sleet that froze as it fell—what then? Never mind! Sunrise would set the whole world a-sparkle. Every tree and bush would be gay with splendid ice-jewels! And in the great shining ice palace, we could run and laugh and shout, watching the ice-jewels loosen and fall, all day long.

_Percia V. White._

_GRAN’MA GRACIE._

It was Uncle George who called her “Gran’ma” when she was only six, and by the time she was seven everybody had taken to the name, and she answered to it as a matter of course.

Why did he call her so? Because she was such a prim, staid, serious, little old-fashioned body, and consequently her mother laughingly took to dressing her in an old-fashioned way, so that at last, whether she was out in the grounds, or round by the stables with Grant, in her figured pink dress, red sash, long gloves, and sun-bonnet, looking after her pets, or indoors of an evening, in her yellow brocade, muslin apron—with pockets, of course, and quaint mob cap tied up with its ribbon—she always looked serious and grandmotherly.

“It is her nature to,” Uncle George said, quoting from “Let dogs delight;” and when he laughed at her, Gran’ma used to look at him wonderingly in the most quaint way, and then put her hand in his, and ask him to take her for a walk.

Gran’ma lived in a roomy old house with a delightful garden, surrounded by a very high red-brick wall that was covered in the spring with white blossoms, and in the autumn with peaches with red cheeks that laughed at her and imitated hers; purple plums covered with bloom, and other plums that looked like drops of gold among the green leaves; and these used to get so ripe and juicy in the hot sun, that they would crack and peer out at her as if asking to be eaten before they fell down and wasted their rich honey juice on the ground. Then there were great lumbering looking pears which worried John, the gardener, because they grew so heavy that they tore the nails out of the walls, and had to be fastened up again—old John giving Gran’ma the shreds to hold while he went up the ladder with his hammer, and a nail in his mouth.

That garden was Gran’ma’s world, it was so big; and on fine mornings she could be seen seriously wandering about with Dinnywinkle, her little sister, up this way, down that, under the apple-trees, along the gooseberry and currant alleys, teaching her and Grant that it was not proper to go on the beds when there were plenty of paths, and somehow Dinnywinkle, who was always bubbling over with fun, did as the serious little thing told her in the most obedient of ways, and helped her to scold Grant, who was much harder to teach.

For Grant, whose papa was a setter, and mamma a very lady-like retriever, always had ideas in his head that there were wild beasts hiding in the big garden, and as soon as his collar was unfastened, and he was taken down the grounds for a run, he seemed to run mad. His ears went up, his tail began to wave, and he dashed about frantically to hunt for those imaginary wild beasts. He barked till he was hoarse sometimes, when after a good deal of rushing about he made a discovery, and would then look up triumphantly at Gran’ma, and point at his find with his nose, till she came up to see what he had discovered. One time it would be a snail, at another a dead mouse killed by the cat, and not eaten because it was a shrew. Upon one occasion, when the children ran up, it was to find the dog half wild as he barked to them to come and see what he was holding down under his paw,—this proving to be an unfortunate frog which uttered a dismal squeal from time to time till Gran’ma set it at liberty, so that it could make long hops into a bed of ivy, where it lived happily long afterwards, to sit there on soft wet nights under a big leaf like an umbrella, and softly whistle the frog song which ends every now and then in a croak.

Grant was always obedient when he was caught, and then he would walk steadily along between Gran’ma and Dinny, each holding one of his long silky ears, with the prisoner making no effort to escape.

But the job was to catch him; and on these occasions Gran’ma used to run and run fast, while Dinny ran in another direction to cut Grant off.

And a pretty chase he led them, letting them get close up, and then giving a joyous bark and leaping sidewise, to dash off in quite a fresh direction. Here he would perhaps hide, crouching down under one of the shrubs, ready to pounce out on his pursuers, and then dash away again, showing his teeth as if he were laughing, and in his frantic delight waltzing round and round after his tail. Then away he would bound on to the closely shaven lawn, throw himself down, roll over and over, and set Dinny laughing and clapping her hands to see him play one of his favorite tricks, which was to lay his nose down close to the grass, first on one side and then on the other, pushing it along as if it was a plough, till he sprang up and stood barking and wagging his tail, as much as to say, “What do you think of that for a game?” ending by running helter-skelter after a blackbird which flew away, crying “Chink—chink—chink.”

That was a famous old wilderness of a place, with great stables and out-houses, where there was bright golden straw, and delicious sweet-scented hay, and in one place a large bin with a lid, and half-full of oats, with which Gran’ma used to fill a little cross-handled basket.

“Now, Grant,” she cried, as she shut down the lid, after refusing to let Dinny stand in the bin and pour oats over her head and down her back—“Now, Grant!”

“Wuph!” said Grant, and he took hold of the basket in his teeth, and trotted on with it before her round the corner, to stop before the hutches that stood outside in the sun.

Here, if Dinny was what Gran’ma called “a good girl,” she had a treat. For this was where the rabbits lived.

Old Brownsmith sent those rabbits, hutch and all, as a present for Gran’ma, one day when John went to the market garden with his barrow to fetch what he called some “plarnts;” and when he came back with the barred hutch, and set the barrow down in the walk, mamma went out with Gran’ma and Dinny, to look at them, and Grant came up growling, sniffed all round the hutch before giving a long loud bark, which, being put into plain English, meant, “Open the door, and I’ll kill all the lot.”

“I don’t know what to say, John,” said mamma, shaking her head. “It is very kind of Mr. Brownsmith, but I don’t think your master will like the children to keep them, for fear they should be neglected and die.”

“’Gleckted?” said old John, rubbing one ear. “What! little miss here ’gleck ’em? Not she. You’ll feed them rabbuds reg’lar, miss, wontcher?”

Gran’ma said she would, and the hutch was wheeled round by the stables, Grant following and looking very much puzzled, for though he never hunted the cats now, rabbits did seem the right things to kill.

But Gran’ma soon taught him better, and he became the best of friends with Brown Downie and her two children, Bunny and White Paws.

In fact, one day there was a scene, for Cook rushed into the schoolroom during lesson time, out of breath with excitement.

“Please’m, I went down the garden, ’m, to get some parsley, and that horrid dog’s hunting the rabbits, and killing ’em.”

There was a cry from both children, and Gran’ma rushed out and round to the stables, to find the hutch door unfastened, and the rabbits gone, while, as she turned back to the house with the tears running down her cheeks, who should come trotting up but Grant, with his ears cocked, and Bunny hanging from his jaws as if dead.

Gran’ma uttered a cry; and as Mamma came up with Dinny, the dog set the little rabbit down, looked up and barked, and Bunny began loping off to nibble the flowers, not a bit the worse, while Grant ran and turned him back with his nose, for Gran’ma to catch the little thing up in her arms.

Grant barked excitedly, and ran down the garden again, the whole party following, and in five minutes he had caught White Paw.

Dinny had the carrying of this truant, and with another bark, Grant dashed in among the gooseberry bushes, where there was a great deal of rustling, a glimpse of something brown, and then of a white cottony tail. Then in spite of poor Grant getting his nose pricked with the thorns, Brown Downie was caught and held by her ears till mamma lifted her up, and she was carried in triumph back, Grant trotting on before, and leading the way to the stable-yard and the hutch, turning round every now and then to bark.

The rabbits did not get out again, and every morning and evening they were fed as regularly as Gran’ma fed herself.

On reaching the hutch, Grant set the basket down, leaving the handle rather wet, though he could easily have wiped it with his ears, and then he sat down in a dreamy way, half closing his eyes and possibly thinking about wild rabbits on heaths where he could hunt them through furze bushes, while Gran’ma in the most serious way possible opened the hutch door.

There was no difficulty about catching White Paw, for he was ready enough to thrust his nose into his little mistress’s hand, and be lifted out by his ears, and held for Dinny to stroke.

“Now let me take him,” she cried.

“No, my dear, you are too young yet,” said Gran’ma; and Dinny had to be content with smoothing down White Paw’s soft brown fur, as it nestled up against its mistress’s breast, till it was put back kicking, and evidently longing to escape from its wooden-barred prison, even if it was to be hunted by Grant.

Then Bunny had his turn, and was duly lifted out and smoothed; after which, Brown Downie, who was too heavy to lift, gave the floor of the hutch a sharp rap with one foot, making Grant lift his ear and utter a deep sigh.

“No,” he must have thought; “it’s very tempting, but I must not seize her by the back and give her a shake.”

Then the trough was filled with oats, the door fastened, and the girls looked on as three noses were twitched and screwed about, and a low munching sound arose.

Three rabbits and a dog! Enough pets for any girl, my reader; but Gran’ma had another—Buzz, a round, soft-furred kitten with about as much fun in it as could be squeezed into so small a body. But Buzz had a temper, possibly soured by jealousy of Grant, whom he utterly detested.

Buzz’s idea of life was to be always chasing something,—his tail, a shadow, the corner of the table-cover, or his mistress’s dress. He liked to climb, too, on to tables, up the legs, into the coal-scuttle, behind the sideboard, and above all, up the curtains, so as to turn the looped-up part into a hammock, and sleep there for hours. Anywhere forbidden to a respectable kitten was Buzz’s favorite spot, and especially inside the fender, where the blue tiles at the back reflected the warmth of the fire, and the brown tiles of the hearth were so bright that he could see other kittens in them, and play with them, dabbing at them with his velvet paw.

Buzz had been dragged out from that forbidden ground by his hind leg, and by the loose skin at the back of his neck, and he had been punished again and again, but still he would go, and strange to say, he took a fancy to rub himself up against the upright brass dogs from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail, and then repeat it on the other side.

But Gran’ma’s pet did not trespass without suffering for it. Both his whiskers were singed off close, and there was a brown, rough, ill-smelling bit at the end of his tail where, in turning round, he had swept it amongst the glowing cinders, giving him so much pain that he uttered a loud “Mee-yow!” and bounded out of the room, looking up at Gran’ma the while as if he believed that she had served him like that.

In Gran’ma’s very small old-fashioned way, one of her regular duties was to get papa’s blue cloth fur-lined slippers, and put them against the fender to warm every night, ready for him when he came back tired from London; and no sooner were those slippers set down to toast, than Buzz, who had been watching attentively, went softly from his cushion where he had been pretending to be asleep, but watching all the time with one eye, and carefully packed himself in a slipper, thrusting his nose well down, drawing his legs right under him, and snoozling up so compactly that he exactly fitted it, and seemed part of a fur cushion made in the shape of a shoe.

But Buzz was not allowed to enjoy himself in that fashion for long. No sooner did Gran’ma catch sight of what he had done than she got up, went to the fireplace, gravely lifted the slipper, and poured Buzz out on to the hearth-rug, replaced the slipper where it would warm, and went back, to find, five minutes later, that the kitten had fitted himself into the other slipper, with only his back visible, ready to be poured out again. Then, in a half-sulky, cattish way, Buzz would go and seat himself on his square cushion, and watch, while, to guard them from any more such intrusions, Gran’ma picked up the slippers and held them to her breast until such time as her father came home.

Those were joyous times at the old house, till one day there was a report spread in the village that little Gran’ma was ill. The doctor’s carriage was seen every day at the gate, and then twice a day, and there were sorrow and despair where all had been so happy. Dinny went alone with Grant to feed the rabbits; and there were no more joyous rushes round the garden, for the dog would lie down on the doorstep with his head between his paws, and watch there all day, and listen for the quiet little footstep that never came. Every day old John, the gardener, brought up a bunch of flowers for the little child lying fevered and weak, with nothing that would cool her burning head, and three anxious faces were constantly gazing for the change that they prayed might come.

For the place seemed no longer the same without those pattering feet. Cook had been found crying in a chair in the kitchen; and when asked why, she said it was because Grant had howled in the night, and she knew now that dear little Gran’ma would never be seen walking so sedately round the garden again.

It was of no use to tell her that Grant had howled because he was miserable at not seeing his little mistress: she said she knew better.

“Don’t tell me,” she cried; “look at him.” And she pointed to where the dog had just gone down to the gate, for a carriage had stopped, and the dog, after meeting the doctor, walked up behind him to the house, waited till he came out, and then walked down behind him to the gate, saw him go, and came back to lie down in his old place on the step, with his head between his paws.

They said that they could not get Grant to eat, and it was quite true, for the little hands which fed him were not there; and the house was very mournful and still, even Dinny having ceased to shout and laugh, for they told her she must be very quiet, because Gran’ma was so ill.

From that hour Dinny went about the place like a mouse, and her favorite place was on the step by Grant, who, after a time, took to laying his head in her lap, and gazing up at her with his great brown eyes.

And they said that Gran’ma knew no one now, but lay talking quickly about losing the rabbits and about Dinny and Grant; and then there came a day when she said nothing, but lay very still as if asleep.

That night as the doctor was going, he said softly that he could do no more, but that those who loved the little quiet child must pray to God to spare her to them; and that night, too, while tears were falling fast, and there seemed to be no hope, Grant, in his loneliness and misery, did utter a long, low, mournful howl.

But next morning, after a weary night, those who watched saw the bright glow of returning day lighting up the eastern sky, and the sun had not long risen before Gran’ma woke as if from a long sleep, looked up in her mother’s eyes as if she knew her once more, and the great time of peril was at an end.

All through the worst no hands but her mother’s had touched her; but now a nurse was brought in to help—a quiet, motherly, North-country woman who one day stood at the door, and held up her hands in astonishment, for she had been busy down-stairs for an hour, and now that she had returned there was a great reception on the bed: Buzz was seated on the pillow purring; the rabbits all three were playing at the bed being a warren, and loping in and out from the valance; Grant was seated on a chair with his head close up to his mistress’s breast; and Dinny was reading aloud from a picture storybook like this, but the book was upside down, and she invented all she said.

“Bless the bairn! what does this mean?” cried nurse.

It meant that Dinny had brought up all Gran’ma’s friends, and that the poor child was rapidly getting well.

The Sunshine Corner

Miss Myrtle read to the children this afternoon an Account sent by her married cousin, Mrs. Pingry. Mrs. Pingry wrote: “I spell it with a big A, just for fun, because it is of so small a matter, but it was a sunshiny matter for it caused some smiling, and it brought out real kindness from several persons.

“Mr. Pingry goes in on the 8.17 train and attends to his furnace the last thing, allowing twelve minutes to reach the station. When about half-way there, yesterday, it occurred to him that he forgot to shut the drafts. Just then he met Jerry Snow, the man at the Binney place, and asked him to please call round our way, and ask for Mrs. Pingry, and say Mr. Pingry had left the drafts open. Jerry said he would after going to the post-office, but Mr. Pingry, fearing Jerry might forget, called hastily at the door of Madam Morey, an elderly woman who does plain sewing, and said he forgot to shut the furnace drafts; if she should see a boy passing would she ask him to call at our door, and ask for Mrs. Pingry, and tell her? Madam said she would be on the lookout for a boy, while doing her baking.

“Now as Mr. Pingry was hurrying on, it came to him that he had not yet made a sure thing of it, and at that moment he saw the woman who does chore-work at the Binney’s, coming by a path across the field. He met her at the fence, and asked if she would go around by our house and say to Mrs. Pingry that Mr. Pingry had left the drafts all open. She agreed, and Mr. Pingry ran to his train, a happy man.

“Now Madam Morey felt anxious about the furnace, and stepped often to the window, and at last spied a small boy with a sled, and finding he knew where we live, told him Mr. Pingry went away and forgot to shut the furnace drafts and wished to send back word, and would the boy coast down that way and tell Mrs. Pingry? The boy promised, and coasted down the hill.

“Madam Morey still felt uneasy about the furnace, and not being sure the boy would do the errand kept on the watch for another; and when the banana-man stopped and made signs at her window ‘would she buy?’ she wrote a few words on a bit of brown paper and went with him far enough to point out the house and made signs, ‘would he leave the paper there?’ He made signs ‘yes?’ and passed on.

“Now at about half-past eight, our front doorbell rang and I heard a call for me. I hurried down, and received the chore-woman’s message and acted upon it at once.

“Sometime afterwards, as I was in the back-chamber, I heard voices outside and saw six or eight small boys trying to pull their sleds over a fence, and wondered how they happened to be coasting in such a place. Presently I heard a commotion on the other side and went to the front windows. All the sleds were drawn up near the steps, and the small boys were stamping around like an army come to take the house. Seeing me they all shouted something at me. They seemed so terribly in earnest, and came in such a strange way, that I flew down, sure something dreadful had happened—perhaps Willy was drowned! and I began to tremble. At sight of me at the door they all shouted again, but I did not understand. I caught hold of the biggest boy and pulled him inside, and said to him, in a low, tremulous voice, ‘Tell me! What is it?’ He answered, in a bashful way, ‘Mr. Pingry said he left the drafts open.’ ‘Thank you all!’ I said.

“Next, the banana-man, bobbing his head, and making signs, though I shook my head ‘no.’ Finally up came Bridget with a slip of brown paper having written on it, but no name signed: ‘Your furnace drafts are open.’ Such a shout as went up from us!

“Grand company coming, I guess! exclaimed my sister, a short time afterwards. Sure enough there stood a carriage and span. Jerry Snow, it seems, forgot our furnace until he went to look at his own. He was then just about to take Mrs. Binney out for an airing. He mentioned it to her and she had him drive round with the message.

“By this time we were ready to go off, explode, shout, giggle, at the approach of any one; and when Madam Morey stepped up on our piazza we bent ourselves double with laughter, and my sister went down upon the floor all in a heap, saying, ‘Do—you—suppose—she—comes—for that?’

“Even so. She had worried, thinking the hot pipes might heat the woodwork, and half-expected to hear the cry of ‘fire!’ and bells ringing, and could not sit still in her chair, and in the goodness of her heart she left her work and came all the way over!

“Oh! we had fun with Mr. Pingry that evening. But now, my dear Miss Myrtle, the funniest part of all was that Mr. Pingry did not forget to shut the drafts!”

_Miss Fillissy-Follissy._

A SLUMBER SONG.

[Music]

1. Sleep, oh sleep, my lambs a-wea-ry! Shin-ing sun-beams all are o’er; ’Tis the time when lit-tle children Sail a-way to slum-ber shore.

2. Glid-ing, glid-ing to the mu-sic Of a ten-der, tender lulla-by Gent-ly drift the lads and lass-es When the stars come out on high.

3. Soft-ly to the swaying grass-es Fall the gracious drops of dew; Yet more soft-ly at the gloaming Close the bairn-ies’ eyes of blue.

THE GROCER’S BOY.

Sammy Swattles wasn’t a bad boy, you understand; he was simply thoughtless. He thoughtlessly did things which robbed him of peace of mind for some time after he did them.

When Sammy was ten years old he had to leave school, to go to work for Mr. Greens, the grocer, in order to help support his mother.

He did a great many things for the grocer, from seven o’clock in the morning till six at night, but his principal work was to place large paper bags on the scales and fill them with flour from the barrel.

When the bag weighed twenty-three pounds, Sammy had to seal it up and take it to the family it was ordered for. The grocer allowed him two cents for every bag he carried, over and above his wages, which were $2.50 per week. Some weeks Sammy made over $3.00 which helped his mother to run their little house quite comfortably.

Now, Sammy, in his thoughtlessness, used to sample quite a good deal of the grocer’s preserved ginger. Every time he would pass the tin boxes of ginger, he would thoughtlessly take a piece, and it would disappear in the recesses of Sammy’s rosy mouth.

One night, after he had locked up all but the front door of the store, he helped himself to quite a large piece of the ginger, and walked home.

He did not care for any supper that night. He felt as if bed was the best place for his troubled little stomach.

He hadn’t been in bed two minutes when a little fierce man, with a white cloth round his black body and a huge grin on his ebony face, bounded into his room.

With a scream Sammy leaped out of bed and bounded out of the window. With a yell the Indian was after him. Sammy flew down the road like a runaway colt, the black man in his rear yelling like thunder and lions. Sammy never ran so fast in his life, but the little black man gained on him, and finally caught him!

Sammy pleaded hard to be spared to his mother, but the little man grimly took him by the collar, and with one leap landed him on the island of Ceylon, in the Indian Ocean, at a place called Kandy. Then he led Sammy out into the country, and blew a whistle. In an instant they were surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of men, women and boys, all as black as Sammy’s captor. Sammy cried:

“What have I done! what have I done!” and they all cried:

“You have taken the ginger that we have gathered by hard work, without permission, and you are condemned to live here for the rest of your life on ginger alone!”

Then Sammy began to cry real hard, for he thought of his poor mother, off there in Massachusetts, wondering day after day, “What has become of my Sammy!”

And then to be compelled to eat nothing but ginger all his life! It was awful! He already hated ginger. He looked so woebegone that they all cried:

“If you will promise to be good, and think before you do things, we will let you go! But if you don’t keep your promise we’ll get you again, and then, look out!”

So Sammy promised, and ran for home. But the black people seemed to regret having let him off so easily, and they all came trooping after him!

You should have seen Sammy run! He went over through India, and across Afghanistan, Persia and Turkey like a streak of lightning! He plunged into the Mediterranean and swam across to Italy. From Italy he swam to Spain; and across Spain, from Tarragona to Cape Finisterre, he ran like the Rapids of the River St. Lawrence, the black people at his heels!

He was almost exhausted as he dove off Cape Finisterre into the broad Atlantic, and he would have sunk down deep, for fifteen or twenty miles, if a friendly dolphin hadn’t come along and invited him to ride on its shiny back!

The black men gave up the chase then, and the dolphin swam over to Massachusetts Bay, up Boston Harbor, to the Charles River, to the bridge by Sammy’s home. There the dolphin said good-by, told Sammy to always be a good boy, and then, with a flip of its tail, it rushed down the river—and Sammy awoke!

It had all been a dream, of course; but it cured Sammy of thoughtlesness, and nobody ever had cause again to say that Sammy Swattles wasn’t all a nice little boy should be. He told his employer all about it, and his employer said: “Well, be a good boy, and never do anything without thinking of whether it’s right or wrong to do it.”

_John Ernest McCann._

AN ABSENT-MINDED MAN.

He lit a candle for young Ted.
This absent minded man.
—Twas time to send the boy to bed—
But something else came in his head,
Some problem or some plan.

◼

His thoughts were miles and miles away,
But still the taper there,
While he was thinking, seemed to say,
“Bed! Bed! I’ll burn out if I stay!”
And scolded with its glare.

●

And so he took Ted’s candle light
—Ted grinned, the little elf—
And bade, with manner most polite,
His son a very sweet good-night,
And went to bed himself.

◻

Good King Grin.

There is a King in Nonsense Land
Whose castle, neither tall nor grand,
Is gaily perched upon a hill
Behind the town of Jolliville.
A spangled jester lets you in—
Whoever calls on good King Grin.

His height in feet is only four;
Around his waist is one foot more;
His mouth is wide; his eyes are twinkles
Half hidden in a net of wrinkles;
His beard is red; his hair is thin—
In fact, quite bald is good King Grin.

His family—beneath the sun
You never saw a happier one:
The good Queen Smile, so fair to see;
Prince Laugh, the heir-apparent he;
And Princess Giggle’s baby din—
Is life and joy to good King Grin.

Three ministers of state has he:
Prime Minister is Pleasantry;
In Foreign Matters, great and small,
Good-Nature ministers to all;
And Cheerfulness, when bills come in,
Is Treasurer to good King Grin.

His courser is a palfry stout,
And when the good king rides about,
The very babies crow for joy:
From peasant-man and peasant-boy,
From landed knight and all his kin,
Arise one cry: “Long live King Grin.”

_A Funny Twin Brother_

Last sum-mer when we were in the coun-try hav-ing a hap-py ho-li-day, we of-ten went in-to the hay-field, and you lit-tle ones may fan-cy the fun we had. John-ny and Lil-ly rolled in the sweet fresh hay, and were bu-ried and came up a-gain ma-ny and ma-ny a time; and just when we thought there was not a bit of chub-by child to be seen, a round red laugh-ing face would peep out, fol-lowed by a sort of wind-mill of arms and legs.

It was on a bright sum-mer’s day in that hay-field that we met Tim and his lit-tle mis-tress. “Who was Tim?” you say. Well, Tim was a don-key, and such a hap-py pet-ted don-key has sel-dom been seen be-fore. Liz-zy—the lit-tle girl you see in the pic-ture—was the far-mer’s daugh-ter, and as she led Tim round her fa-ther’s field, she picked up the sweet hay and fed him with it.

When Tim and lit-tle Liz-zy came near us, we all went up to pat the don-key: then the lit-tle girl told us how good and gen-tle her Tim was. “We are very luc-ky to have such a good don-key,” said she.

“And I think he is luc-ky to have such a good lit-tle mis-tress,” said I.

“Oh, but he be-longs to us all,” an-swered the child, “and there are six of us; we all feed and pet him. My father bought him when he was quite lit-tle. He is five years old now; just the same age as my lit-tle bro-ther Willy. So he is his Twin Bro-ther you see,” ad-ded Liz-zy grave-ly.

SAM ON THE KITCHEN FUNNEL BLEW,
THE DINNER-BELL JANE RANG;
THE BELLOWS MADE A NICE GUITAR,
MIN PLAYED WHILE ALICE SANG.

TOM CAME TO HEAR US, TABBY TOO,
WHO BROUGHT HER KITTENS THREE;
AND ALSO FLORA WITH HER PUP;
WE LET THEM ALL IN—FREE!

TO
WEE PEOPLE
WHO MAKE HOME
HAPPY WITH ARTLESS
PRATTLE AND MERRY
PLAY, THIS BOOK IS
LOVINGLY
DEDICATED.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.