Chapter I: Part 1

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

Pansy's Home Story Book

Edited by MRS. G. R. ALDEN. (Pansy)

AUTHOR OF "FOUR GIRLS AT CHAUTAUQUA," "CHAUTAUQUA GIRLS AT HOME,"
"ESTER RIED," "LINKS IN REBECCA'S LIFE," "JULIA RIED,"
"HOUSEHOLD PUZZLES," "RUTH ERSKINE'S CROSSES," "THE RANDOLPHS,"
"WISE AND OTHERWISE," "A NEW GRAFT ON THE FAMILY TREE,"
"WHAT SHE SAID, AND WHAT SHE MEANT," "THE POCKET MEASURE,"
"HALL IN THE GROVE," "SOME YOUNG HEROINES," "EUGENE COOPER," ETC.

_FULLY ILLUSTRATED_

BOSTON
LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY

Copyright, 1896,
BY
LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY.
———
All rights reserved.

CONTENTS.

YOUNG PEOPLE AT HOME.

EUGENE COOPER.

STELLA WESTON AT HOME.

JOHN MAYNARD.

SOMEBODY'S TROUBLE.

SOME YOUNG HEROINES.

A LITTLE WHITE CASKET.

HOUSEKEEPING. BY REV. G. R. ALDEN.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

BROKEN.

CHARLIE SMYTHE.

GRANDMOTHER BROWNSON.

A FOOLISH LITTLE GIRL.

FLORENCE AT HOME.

MINNIE LEE AND HER KITTEN.

ONLY A SPARK.

ROBERT HALL.

A LETTER FROM BIRD-LAND.

HARVEY IN TROUBLE.

TWO SINGERS.

HE WENT IN. BY REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

[JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL]

A THANKSGIVING SHOWER.

THE OTHER SINGER.

NAILS. BY REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

THE SPARROW IN THE SNOW.

THE BOY WHO WANTED TO BE A HERO.

RUFUS MAKES A POCKET MEASURE.

TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT IT.

THEIR FAITH.

HOW SIDNEY GOT THE PLACE.

THE LITTLE YELLOW DOG. BY MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.

STORIES FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

WHO DID IT?—A STORY IN TWO CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.

A DAY THAT JOHNNY NEVER FORGOT. BY MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

THREE LITTLE M'S.—A THREE-PART STORY. BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS.

P. S.

SIDE BY SIDE. [PART I.]

"THE OTHER ONE."

THE THREE LITTLE M'S.—PART II. BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

WHO DID IT? PART SECOND.

SIDE BY SIDE. [PART II.]

THE THREE LITTLE M'S.—PART III. BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

PANSIES P. S. THOUGHT.

WHO DID IT? PART THIRD.

SIDE BY SIDE. [PART III.]

PANSY'S HOME STORY BOOK

YOUNG PEOPLE AT HOME

EUGENE COOPER.

"WELL, begin," said George Dunlap.

The other boys laughed.

It was just at the close of summer vacation, and the five friends having met under the old tree, had agreed to give the story of their travels. It had not been decided who should be first speaker, so there seemed nothing to do but laugh over George Dunlap's direction.

"All of us do you mean?" Charlie Smythe asked.

"No, I mean you; or, no, the fellow that took the longest journey shall have the first chance."

"I went just twenty-four miles," said Charlie, meditatively.

Then they all laughed again.

"We needn't laugh, yet," George Dunlap said, when his laugh was over. "It may happen that Charlie saw more in those twenty-four miles, than we who went a thousand."

"I don't believe a single one of us went a thousand miles."

"Oh ho! You don't? Then you are mistaken. I went very nearly two thousand." This from Eugene Cooper.

"Then begin," said George Dunlap. "You're the very fellow."

"Well, from the very beginning, do you mean? It will take a week! In the first place we struck a bee line for Albany, in New York State, you know."

"How do you go to Albany?"

"Well now, that depends on what point you start from; I met a fellow who walked to Albany every Monday morning, and walked back on Friday; but we went by rail."

"Of course; I mean what road?"

"Oh, we went down the New York Central,—took it at Buffalo, you know. We went by steamer to Buffalo, down Lake Erie. That's a splendid ride: great handsome steamer, saloon all carpeted, and curtains and mirrors and sofas, finer than some folks' parlors. I went on deck, and one of the sailors walked around with me and showed me the life-boat, and how they lowered it, and the ropes, and everything. I was sorry when we got to Buffalo. There we took the train. Little narrow cars, not like the Erie, that I've been used to riding on; nice enough, though, and they go like sixty. Why, we were in Albany by dark, and it is two hundred and ninety-eight miles!"

"Well now, we shall be more likely to be astonished, if you tell us what time you left Buffalo."

"Why, in the morning, about ten o'clock."

"That 'was' doing pretty well. Better than my father did; he went from Albany to Buffalo about fifty years ago, and it took him three weeks."

"How long is it since the Central Railroad was built, anyhow?"

"Look here, boys," interrupted Eugene Cooper, "you are stealing my time; I didn't promise to tell about the Central Railroad, nor the way folks used to travel before it was built."

"All right. Tell us about Albany. How big a town is it?"

"Oh, it's big enough, eighty or ninety thousand or so; a handsome old city I tell you! Nice wide streets, some of them; State street is the handsomest,—wide and clean, and straight up a hill. We stopped at the Delavan house; that's the nicest in the city I guess,—nice enough to suit me, anyhow. My! But it's elegant.

"Do you fellows know about Delavan? Father says he was a poor boy, a boot-black, and he used to hear the folks talking a good deal about a house, somewhere in Albany, that cost a great deal of money and was considered very grand in those days. And Delavan stood looking at it one day, and says he to himself, 'I'll build a bigger house than that, one of these days.' He did it, too; father says the house they used to think so fine was just nothing by the side of the Delavan."

"He did a bigger thing than build the Delavan house. I think," said George Dunlap.

"Why, what did he do?" chorused the boys.

"He was a grand temperance man, and worked for the cause and gave money for it."

"Did you go down the Hudson?" questioned Robert Hall, whose mind was on travel, and not on great men.

"I reckon I did! Boys, the Hudson is just the grandest river on this continent I do believe. I got up before daylight to see the palisades."

"I haven't the faintest kind of an idea what the palisades are." This, Charlie Smythe said, stretched out at full length on the grass, a wistful look in his eyes. About twenty-four miles had been the extent of his travels every year, but he longed to see and know.

"Why, my child, the palisades are, are—well now it's difficult to explain things to people who have never seen them."

This was the most comprehensive answer that Horace Brooks, with his extensive opportunities could make, and the boys roared.

"They are rocks, my child, great splendid rocks, from three to five hundred feet high, straight up and down, and they are as much as fifteen miles long. What do you think of such a showing of rocks as that!"

"Where's the sense in calling them palisades? I thought palisades were nothing, but a row of sharp-pointed sticks, built up around a fort, or something of that kind."

This time the boys stared at each other instead of laughing; Charlie was always asking questions that were hard to answer.

"I don't know," said Eugene, frankly. "Do any of you? They look as though they might have been built up for forts, that's a fact. I shouldn't wonder if they took their name from that. Anyhow, they are grand to look at. Oh, that reminds me! Don't you think I saw—"

Just at that moment came an interruption,—a young man tearing down the road in hot haste, waving his hat, and shouting lustily to some one in the distance.

"What's that he is yelling?" asked four of the five boys.

And none of them answering, George Dunlap said, "He's scared at something; let's go and see."

Then every one of those fellows sprang up and took to their heels, regardless of the wonders of travel and the beauties of the Hudson.

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STELLA WESTON AT HOME.

OH, yes, she was at home, curled up in the corner of the couch, with the last number of the "Wide Awake" in her hand, buried in a story. Much good it did to have her at home! Little Miss Amie Weston was also at home, and was supposed to be under Stella's care. Such care! Anything short of pulling the house down about her ears, would have failed to arouse Stella until she reached the end of her story. It is a mercy that the nursery was heated from a black hole in the floor, instead of by a grate-fire, or the house might have been well under way, burning down, before Stella would have known it.

Amie had been established with her blocks, and told to "be a good child, there's a dear, and let sister read." And she was doing it. The blocks, to be sure, did not last long; hadn't she played with them a thousand times? She wanted something new. There was kitty, pushing softly in from the hall. Dear me! What black paws kitty had! She must have been in the coal-cellar after a mouse.

Amie resolved that she ought to be washed before she was allowed to jump on the sofa.

She spoke to Stella, about it, but Stella was buried, you know, and heard nothing.

So, with much tugging and groaning, she succeeded in bringing the china bowl to the floor, and pouring a little water in it, and a good deal over the carpet. This she carefully wiped up with one end of the Persian rug, that lay before the toilet-stand. Then she made a lovely lather with cashmere bouquet soap, and splashed poor kitty in, head and ears. There was much squealing, and spitting, and a little bit of scratching, but Amie, being a brave girl, endured it, and brought one of the heavy damask towels from the rack to wipe the wretched kitty's eyes; then the hair brush of real bristles, and with inlaid handle, was dipped into the suds, and did duty in brushing kitty's soaking fur and whiskers.

Just what Amie would have done next will never be known, for the cat suddenly resolved that she would not endure such treatment another minute, and, giving a skilful jump from her tormentor's hands to the side of the bowl, and from the bowl to the floor, with a fearful "yowl," departed through the open door.

I am sorry to tell you that in her flight she overturned the bowl of suds.

"Sakes!" said Amie, in dismay.

That yell from the cat roused even Stella, and she dropped her "Wide Awake," and sat upright.

"What on 'earth' is the matter?"

Then, catching sight of the plight that Amie was in, with a lap full of foamy water, she started up.

"Why, Amie Weston! What 'have' you done now? I never 'did see' such a child! You are always doing mischief!"

Oh, dear! What trouble there was in that home, Amie's dress was stained with the soapsuds, and her shoes and stockings were wet, and the hair brush was spoiled, and Stella's temper was spoiled, and the mother, when she came, was tempted to scold both Amie and Stella, and punish the poor cat.

To whom do you think Stella laid all the blame? When she found that Amie was really too little to know better, and remembered that the cat never had any sense, she threw the "Wide Awake" down on the floor, and kicked it under the sofa, and said, "It is all the fault of that hateful old book! If it hadn't been for that, all these mean things wouldn't have happened."

JOHN MAYNARD.

FANNY STUART sat for fully twenty minutes, biting the end of her lead pencil, or making little irregular scratches with it, on the paper before her. At last she said in her weariest and most discouraged tones, "Oh, dear me! I 'can't' think of anything. I wish we had a different subject."

"What's the matter now?" It was her fourteen-year-old brother who asked the question, as he closed his Latin dictionary.

"Why, this subject. Miss Parsons is always thinking of hard things. She wants us to write about heroism. Something that we think would be real grand, you know! I can't think of anything grand."

"Why don't you tell a true story of a hero?"

"I don't know any."

"I'll give you one; tell about John Maynard."

"John Maynard, who was he?"

"He was a pilot on Lake Erie; a good man, and a grand man, I think. Don't you remember hearing father tell the story of the burning boat?"

"I don't believe I ever heard of it."

"Well, he was bringing a steamer from Detroit to Buffalo, and the first thing they knew great puffs of black smoke were coming up from somewhere. A man was ordered below to see about it, and he reported the ship on fire. Then there was all awful time, the captain shouting orders, and the people running in every direction to obey them, and the passengers streaming. To make matters worse, the boat was loaded with tar and resin; they soon saw that there was no hope of saving her.

"They were only about seven miles from land, and could make it in three quarters of an hour; but, mind you, where the pilot stood, the fire was growing hotter and hotter. They crowded forward, passengers and sailors, only John Maynard; there he stood, with the flames bursting out all around him, and the heat getting fiercer every minute. Suppose he had gone forward too? The captain kept shouting out to know whether he could stand it, and he would answer, 'Ay, ay, sir!'

"The fire grew hotter, and hotter, and it grew every minute more terrible for John Maynard. Only five minutes more, and if the pilot could stand it, they would reach the shore. There he stood at his wheel, his hands blistered, his face scorched, working away at his wheel.

"'John Maynard!' the captain shouted, putting up his trumpet, 'Can you hold on five minutes longer?'

"And this is what he answered, Fanny,—

"'By the help of God I will, sir.'

"One hand burned so that he could not use it any more; his hair was all burned from his head, yet there he stood, and guided the boat to the shore. And everybody on that boat was saved. But he gave his life for it, he fell overboard dead, just as his work was done.

"He was a hero, Fanny."

"Yes," said Fanny, in a low voice, "I think was. I can write that story. I'm sure Miss Parsons will think that was heroism. I like it for another thing, Allen, I don't believe John Maynard could have done that if he hadn't been a good man, one who asked God for help: he would have been afraid to die."

"Well, I don't know, perhaps not," her brother said, but he went away with a sober face; he liked the idea of being a hero, but if it took a Christian to make a hero, as Fanny said, then he knew he was not preparing for one.

══════════

SOMEBODY'S TROUBLE.

"Come, you little maiden, hush awhile your fretting,—
Surely you have trouble with your ribbons, and your rings,
And trouble with the rain,—which always is forgetting
That you want to go to church,—and with many other things.

"Why, the first thing in the morning, if spring chance to be the season,
After trouble with awaking, there is trouble with the dew;
Yes, the May dew 'is' the meanest, and there ought to be no reason
Why, to make your face look fairer, it should have to wet your shoe.

"You have trouble with the sun, which, instead of being pleasant—
Only pleasant, nothing further—is too gracious with his heat;
And there's trouble with the moon, which is sometimes just a crescent,
When it 'should' shine full and golden through the shadow at your feet.

"You have trouble with the blossoms, which keep lying close and curly,
Afraid of wind, and all that, although you want to wear
A bud of rose or violet, that's 'out' a little early,
To some beautiful pert party, in your muslins and your hair.

"You have trouble, through your books, with some hundred thousand cities,
With a spicy lot of islands and a stormy set of seas;
With your moods, sometimes imperative; and certainly one pities
A golden head so sadly vexed with unknown quantities.

"You have trouble with all nations too, through history or tradition,
With their manners, dress, religions, with their kings and with their wars;
And perhaps, somewhat remotely, through the telescopic vision
Of Professor This, or That, you have trouble with the stars.

"Now, since you must have trouble, since to bear it you seem able,
(I fancy even trouble, may be made a little sweet),
Suppose you take your trouble and arrange it on the table;
Let the china, glass, and silver show that trouble can be neat.

"Suppose you try with trouble, if you cannot please the baby;
He has many a petty failure, and many a grievous loss;
And suppose you dust a chair or two, as charmingly as may be,
And suppose you teach a housemaid just how not to be 'cross.'"

SOME YOUNG HEROINES.

THERE was to be a grand picnic on the Fourth of July up in Mr. Paxton's woods; a school picnic to which all the scholars, old and young, were invited. There was a great deal of planning to be done, and among other questions that came up, was that old one which has always to be talked over, as to what they were all going to wear. Half a dozen of them or more, met one evening at Fanny Easton's on the croquet lawn and discussed the matter.

"I shall wear my new Swiss mull," said Cora Lewis.

Now Cora was one of the best dressed girls in the school, and the rest always liked to follow her example as far as they could. They looked at each other in some dismay. If she was going to wear such an elegant dress as her new Swiss mull, what "should" they select to match it.

"I think I shall have to wear my summer silk," said Alice Wilmot, speaking somewhat faintly, "I suppose it is not very good taste to wear silk to a picnic, and mamma will not approve of it much, I'm afraid, but still I haven't another decent thing."

"I shall wear my buff organdie with blue ribbons," Estelle Porter said, and the girls, who knew how lovely the organdie was, and how exactly the blue ribbons matched her hair, could imagine what a picture Estelle, the beauty, would be.

Meantime Faith Halsted had not said a word; her face was quiet and thoughtful, and at last they, noticing her stillness, called out, "Faith, Faith Halsted what are you going to wear? You are getting up something to outshine us all, I do believe, and that is what keeps you so still."

Then Faith laughed. "I shall wear my new blue sprigged calico dress, and thick boots," she said brightly. "If you think that will be outshining the rest of you, I just hope you will follow my example."

Oh, what a chorus of eager and rather indignant voices there was then!

"Now Faith Halsted, I think that is real mean!" "O, Faithie, you 'can't' mean it!" "But Faith, what are you going to do that for, when you have such lovely dresses?" "Faith, does your mother agree to that way of dressing?" These are some of the exclamations and questions.

Then Faith sat down on a mossy bank and clasped her two pretty hands, and spoke her reasons. "Well girls, I'll tell you; you know Carrie Morris? Well, she is one of the sweetest girls in our class, I think, as well as one of the best scholars. She will have to be rather prominent that day, you know, because she stands so high in class. Now, I happen to know that she hasn't a nice thin dress in the world; her father has been sick all the spring, and they have just had to do without things. Carrie has a light calico, neatly made; she looks as fresh as a daisy in it, and I know she means to wear it. I've been thinking how unpleasant it would be for her to be in common calico, and all the rest of us dressed in our best, and I just decided to wear my new calico; mamma is willing; so now, you have my reasons."

Nobody seemed to be quite ready with an answer to this; they all stood and stared at each other, or looked off to sea for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, Cora Lewis came to the front.

"I'll tell you what it is, girls, let's do a new thing, and astonish everybody. We each have pretty calicoes, nicely made, let's wear them to the picnic; then people won't be staring at those two girls and wondering about it."

I told you Cora Lewis was a leader; the girls were all ready to be led; they clapped their hands over the new idea, and voted at once that it should be done. It was so new an idea to these fashionably-dressed people, and struck them so pleasantly, that, after all, I am not sure there was a heroine among them, except little five-year-old Lolly Porter. The tears were actually in her eyes when she said it, but she struggled to speak in a brave voice.

"Then I won't wear my new fancy top gaiters, but just my every day shoes, so Trudie Baker won't cry because she has to wear patched ones."

"Bless her little heart," exclaimed several voices, and Lolly was kissed until the tears turned to smiles.

"What are you girls talking about?" said Cora's handsome young brother, putting his head in among the group.

"Common sense," said Faith Halsted.

"Yes, and what's more, we are going to 'live' it, as well as talk it," added Estelle Porter. And they did.

══════════

A LITTLE WHITE CASKET.

SHE was just as cross us anybody that you can imagine. Not the little girl by the sofa with the dollies; oh no, that is Cora, she was very quiet and pleasant; a little bit disappointed, but bearing it bravely.

It was Emma, the older sister, who was hopelessly cross. She kicked the kitten and turned it out of the room.

And when Cora begged, she said, "No, indeed; did she suppose she was going to have that horrid little kitten under her heels all the afternoon?"

Then she sat down in the large rocker to nurse her wrath. With whom was Emma angry? Well, truth to tell, she would not have quite liked to own. She had had a heavy disappointment; a splendid meeting there was down town this very afternoon; a missionary meeting, and a real China-man in costume was to be there, and a little Japanese girl, and she, Emma, was to have read the report of their Band, and was one of the singers; so was Cora, for that matter, and here they both had to stay at home.

"Such perfect nonsense," said Emma to herself, rocking back and forth angrily. "Just a little sprinkle of rain that wouldn't hurt a kitten! Mamma is 'so' afraid of Cora; I know it isn't going to rain any more. Just because she has had the measles, she must be cooped up at home, and I have to stay with her. Other children who have had the measles caper about, and don't mind rain nor any thing; I think it just is too bad. Mamma might have stayed herself."

She didn't mean that last; she knew her mamma was the presiding officer and "must" be there, if it were a possible thing, and really she wouldn't have had her stay in her place for "anything;" but it was such a relief to think cross things. As she glommed over it, and thought how all the rest of the Band girls would be there, and how much they would miss her voice in the singing, and how horridly Alice Parker would be likely to read the report that she had written so carefully, she kept growing crosser every minute.

So when Cora, tired of her dolls, and lonely without the kitten, and trying to be brave without mamma, and bear her own great big disappointment es well as she could, came and leaned against her sister's chair, and proposed that they practise their duet so as to play it beautifully for mamma, she was pushed not very gently away.

"No, indeed; she never wanted to hear that silly little duet again; it was too babyish for a girl like her anyway; she wasn't 'going' to play it, ever. For her part, she wished she could ever play anything, or go anywhere, or do anything like other girls, without being always tied to a little baby."

Then she flounced out of the room, shut the door behind her, and sat down on the lowest steps of the side piazza, where Cora could not come because of the dampness. Here she meant to have a good time going over all her grievances. She was right in the midst of them, her face as gloomy as night, when the solemn "toll, toll, toll" of a bell made her look up and down the street, and wonder if there was a funeral coming. Yes, there was the hearse, drawn by white horses, and with white plumes all around it; some little child in the white casket inside; then a long line of carriages followed, slowly, slowly, oh, so solemnly.

"Who is dead?" This question she asked of Carrie Phillips as she stopped at the gate to wait for the procession to pass.

"Oh, Emma Barstow! Didn't you go, after all? I didn't either; don't you think, I missed the train. But then I don't care, it was because brother Aleck came home unexpectedly. Why, that little bit of a Marshall girl is dead; don't you remember her? They live away up on Selwyn avenue."

"What, that little curly-haired girl?"

"Yes; the one that looks like your Cora. I went to see her, after she died, and she did look just exactly like her."

"I didn't know she was sick," said Emma with a little shiver. "What was the matter with her?"

"Why, she had the measles, you know; she got all well; then she took cold, and they went to her lungs, or something, and she didn't live but a few hours. Oh Emma, Aleck brought me some lovely presents."

"I must go right in to Cora," said Emma, rising suddenly, her face as white us the dress she wore. She trembled so that she could hardly get across the piazza. That little thing who looked "exactly like" their Cora, being carried by in a white casket, on her way to Laurel hill. It might have been their Cora. Her heart stood still while she thought of it, and of all the hard thoughts she had had about staying with her darling sister.

What a sister she was for the rest of that day! The first thing she did when she came in, was to seize upon Cora and hug and kiss her until the little thing was almost smothered. Then she was ready for anything. The duet? Why, she was willing to play it through twenty times; she would dress and undress all the dolls; she called in the kitten and let it climb on her shoulder and paw at her hair; and every few minutes she kissed Cora, and called her "Emma's darling pet."

"Emma was just as good and sweet as two angels," explained Cora earnestly, when the mother came home; and not a word said the forgiving little girl about the first half hour of misery when the cat was kicked, and everything went wrong.

"I am very glad," said the Mother, with a relieved sigh; "Emma was disappointed, and I was afraid she would not be able to rally. She is a dear girl."

And Emma, with quivering lip, and face that was still pale, felt that she could hardly wait until Cora was asleep, for a chance to confess to her mother, about that first miserable half hour, and how the slow tolling bell and the little white casket recalled her to her senses.

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HOUSEKEEPING.

BY REV. G. R. ALDEN.

THEY built their nests in a shady nook,
Where the trees were all fresh and green,
Where never a lad had been known to look,
Or to hide him to read either paper or book,
Or a hunter had stopped his dinner to cook
Of meat, either fat or lean.

Two loving birdies, indeed, were they,
Each willing to do his share.
With a welcome song would they greet the day,
And as happily "work" as if it were "play,"
And never for once caused any delay
Till their nest was done, I declare.

But why build a nest with so much care?
As soon a boy's pocket unused!
So into this nest, so soft and fair,
One laid little eggs, so round and rare,
Then patiently, constantly waited there,
Though 't was dull, she never refused!

But one fine morn, the time to awake,
There something happened that I must tell:
'Twas just as the day began to break
When the little shells began to shake;
And I'm so glad, for birdies' sake!
For what was within each shell?

Why, a little birdie, as you must know.
Three sisters and a brother
In that sweet nest were there to grow
A little each day, though very slow;
While parents keep flying to and fro,
Each trying to help the other.

May you in your home as happy be,
In work, or study, or play.
Taking each kindness as thankfully,
Waiting God's time as patiently,
Doing each duty as faithfully
As the birdies up in that tree!

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

I DO not know that this story would ever have been written, had it not been for Rupert Strong, who really was not "strong" at all, but a very weak boy because he could not resist the temptation to do mean things.

One night grandmother Burchard left her dear old arm-chair out on the side porch, and in the morning it was gone.

Battered and bruised was the old chair, yet how Grandmother Burchard loved it. It had been young when she was, and had come home to the new house with her, a bride. And "father," as for fifty years she had called Mr. Burchard, always sat in it at family worship, and when he read the newspaper, and took his little after-dinner naps. Only once since "father" went to heaven, ten years before, had she left the chair on the porch, forgotten.

One time was enough fur Rupert Strong. He thought it would be "funny" to drag the old chair away, tie Jonas Barker's great yellow cat to it, and send it floating down stream. "Another Moses in the bulrushes," chuckled Rupert.

This plan was never carried out, for the reason, among others, that Jonas Barker's cat was not to be found. Rupert got tired of dragging the chair around with him, and finally left it in the grove through which he passed on his way home.

There it was that Ralph Burns found it nearly a week after it had been stolen. He knew the chair at once; he had often sat in it and eaten one of Grandmother Burchard's cookies. He dragged it home, a poor, forlorn chair. Rain had soaked it through and through. Wind had rolled it over and over, and battered and bruised it on every side, and two of the rounds were gone entirely. Whether the birds carried them away for fishing-rods, or what became of them. Ralph never knew. Ralph's heart swelled with indignation.

Rupert's attempt at "fun" had tickled him so much,—the plan that he meant to carry out and didn't,—that he told it to some of his friends, and the story leaked out.

So Ralph, when he found the old chair, had no trouble in deciding how it got to the woods. "I'll tell you what it is," he said to his mother that evening, "I know a bit of fun worth a dozen of Rupert's plans; wouldn't it be nice to take that old chair to Mr. Rice and get him to fix it up; put on a new head-piece, and new rounds, and paint it, and all, and then take it back to her?"

"I'm afraid it would cost almost as much as a new chair," said his mother.

"Well, but if it did, it is worth more than all the new chairs in the country to Grandmother Burchard. I've got a dollar; I should think that might fix it up nice; you wouldn't mind having me spend my dollar in that way, would you?"

"I don't think I would," said his mother.

I want you to understand, that in her secret heart she was very much pleased with Ralph for having thought of such a kind, unselfish thing to do, but of course she didn't want to tell him so.

Mary, however, Ralph's sister, was not so quiet. "I think that is a real nice plan." she said, decidedly, "and I mean to make a cushion for it; that crimson shawl that you said was too worn-out to do anything with, would make a splendid cushion, mother."

And the mother agreed that it would.

"Very well," said Grandmother Burns, from her handsome chair in the corner; "I'll knit her a tidy for it, such as we used to knit in the old times."

Every one of these plans was carried out,—secretly, too.

Grandmother Burchard had given up talking about her dear old chair; many a time though she sat in her straight, high-backed one, and thought about it. I have neglected to tell you that she was poor, so far as chairs and things of that kind were concerned. She was rich enough; being one of the people described in the second chapter of James, fifth verse.

One lovely summer afternoon the chair was done, glistening with paint, glowing in a red cushion all over its back and seat; gleaming with a white tidy, made after the pretty pattern of forty years ago; and Ralph put it in his hand-cart, and trundled along over the hill with it towards Grandmother Burchard's little cottage. It was a great pleasure of course to him, to meet Rupert Strong, who stared at the chair, not recognizing it, and said, "My eyes! Ain't that a beauty!"

Ah, but what did Grandmother Burchard say? You won't be disappointed, I hope, to hear that the first thing she did was to cry.

"I'll tell you what it is," she said to Ralph, when she was quieted down a bit; "the angels came all around that chair once, and stood and waited; and it's my opinion they've set store by it ever since, and that's the reason you were told to do such a thing as this, for Grandmother Burchard; and your dollar bills are none of the plentiest either, bless your heart."

"Angels!" said Ralph, with wide open astonished eyes.

"Yes, angels. Father was sitting right in that chair, reading in his Bible, when they come after him; and I make no doubt that they waited for him to finish his chapter, for he said, with his eyes on his book, 'Wait a bit.'

"And I said, 'What did you say, father?'

"But dear heart, he wasn't speaking to me, and they waited, for he finished his chapter, with his finger on the last verse, and then laid back his head, and then I went in a hurry to see what was the matter. They had taken him away! Oh, the dear chair! I hope they'll find me sitting right here in it, when they come for me."

That evening Ralph sat at home, with thoughtful face, and worked at a problem; not being able to get the answer, he went to his father for help.

"Father, you know about the old chair?"

"I should think I did," said his father, laughing.

"Well, you know how Rupert stole it, and all; now I was thinking, ought he to get a blessing, too, such as Grandmother Burchard says people get for kind things? Because, you know, if he hadn't stolen it, we'd never have thought of making it over new?"

"Do you suppose he stole it to please Grandmother Burchard, my boy?"

"Why, of course not."

"Then you will find the answer to your question in the 23d chapter of Proverbs, the 7th verse."

And Ralph, who rushed for the Bible, found this:

"As he thinketh in his heart, so is he."

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BROKEN.

"AREN'T they just 'lovely!'" As she said this, Estelle Brownson held the quaint, dark blue cream-pitcher aloft, to show how transparent it was.

"Oh, they are too pretty for 'anything!'" declared Frances Holmes, her dear friend and companion, and she wound her arms caressingly around a dark blue plate, as she spoke. "I don't believe another girl in our set can bring such a charming array of old things as you can. How came your grandmother to let you take them?"

"I'm sure I don't know; I didn't expect it; she thinks so much of them. Grandpa bought them, you know, when they first commenced housekeeping, sixty years ago. Just think, Frances, of having been a housekeeper for sixty years! I didn't expect to be allowed to touch these dishes, but I was telling mamma about the plans for the old folks' supper, how we were going to have all the nice old-fashioned things we could get, for the table. And I was complaining that our things were so distressingly 'new;' when grandma said,—

"'I suppose you would like the blue china tea-set to dress out your table with.'

"I gave a little scream, and said I guessed I would, better than anything else in the world. And when she said I might take it, I gave her such a hugging as to almost take her breath away. I wouldn't have one of the pieces broken for 'anything;' I'm really afraid it would break grandma's heart. I've been nervous all the morning, while I was wiping them and getting them ready. I shut Tiny up in the nursery for fear she would break something."

But somebody had let Tiny out of the nursery; she came skipping over the ground just at this moment, her heart full of some scheme of importance.

"Oh, Stella!" she said, as she came within hearing. "Mamma says I may go to the supper, and that she will dress me up in white pantalets, and a long-sleeved, high-necked white apron, just as little girls used to dress ever so many years ago. Won't I look too funny!"

And the happy little girl whirled on one foot, and came up with a thud against her sister just as she was turning to set the cream-pitcher down. Down it went, not on the table, but on the hard floor, and of course it broke, in—I don't know how many pieces.

Poor little Tiny! How suddenly the happy light went from her eyes, and her face grew pale.

But Estelle did not see it; all she saw was the cream-pitcher in hopeless ruins. "You naughty, careless, wicked girl!" she exclaimed, her voice hoarse with anger. "You hit my arm on purpose; I know you did! You are a perfect little nuisance! Always in the way; the idea of your bunting up against me in that manner! You ought to be whipped severely, and I'll tell mother so; see if I don't. Come into the house this minute!"

And she seized the arm of her frightened little sister, and dragged her up the steps, and through the hall in frantic haste. It was hours after that, in the cool of the afternoon, that Estelle knocked softly at the door of grandmother's room, then slipped in and sat down in a sorrowful little heap at her feet.

"Oh, grandma!" she said. "Have they told you? I'm so 'awfully' sorry! I could cry for a week if that would only mend it."

"So am I, child," said grandma, knitting away quietly on her red and white stocking; "I would cry, too, if that would do any good; but tears will not mend them; there were so many of them broken, too: that seems to make it worse."

Then Estelle lifted her sorrowful face. "Oh, grandma!" she said. "There was only one broken: that was bad enough; did you think there were more?"

Grandma gravely shook her white old head. "You are mistaken," she said, "there was more than one, child; I was in the sitting-room at the time, and heard the crash. Let me see, 'Bear ye one another's burden.' That was broken, I'm sure: poor little Tiny had to bear her own heavy burden. Then, 'Be ye kind, one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another;' I'm afraid that was dreadfully broken. Oh, there were a good many of them; I felt them rattling about my ears all the morning."

Not another word said Estelle. For ten whole minutes she buried her head in grandmother's apron.

Then grandmother said softly, "Take them to 'Him,' child, and try again."

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CHARLIE SMYTHE.

"LOOK here, old fellow," said Eugene Cooper, as soon as the boys were seated under their favorite tree, "you haven't peeped yet; it is high time you give us an account of some of your adventures."

"I told you I didn't go but twenty-four miles," said Charlie, chewing a clover top.

"Never mind that," chorused the boys, "tell us where you went and what you saw."

"I went to Adams' birthplace."

"What Adam?" asked George Dunlap. "John Quincy, or Samuel; or, no, it can't be that you went to Eden, where Adam the apple-eater began life!"

"I don't mean those Adams," laughed Charlie, "I means the second president of the United States."

"Oh, I declare I don't know where he was born."

"Oh, well it isn't a very remarkable place, and there wasn't a great deal to see; but I liked it because John was born there. It was at Quincy, Massachusetts, or Braintree, as they used to call it."

"Did the people have lots of stories to tell about Adams, when he was a boy? That's what they talk about, when you go to great people's birthplaces."

"I heard about his getting tired of Latin and wanted to give up the idea of an education, and how his father cured him."

"I don't remember any such thing," declared two of the boys.

"Nor I," said Horace Brooke; "tell us about it."

"Why, he was about fifteen; and he hated Latin. One day, he decided that he could not study it any longer, and he went to his father and told him, he did not like study, and wanted to go to work."

"'Very well,' his father said, and set him to work digging a ditch. 'See if ditching suits you, since Latin doesn't,' he said.

"But it didn't suit; by noon, he hated it worse than the Latin grammar; and by night he thought he had never been so tired in his life. He would have liked to go back to school the next morning, but he was too proud to give up, so he worked in the ditch for another day. At night, though, he told his father he would like to leave the ditch, and try the grammar again."

The boys all laughed, and Horace said he would have chosen ditching rather than Latin.

"Well, Adams became a fine scholar, even when he was young man," said George Dunlap.

"Yes," said Charlie, "he did. And a statesman, too; why, when he was only nineteen he wrote that letter, you know, which hinted that he believed this country would set up for itself. What a brilliant man he was! A lawyer, and a foreign minister, and a vice-president, and then president. Suppose he had stuck to that ditch, instead! Perhaps we should have had no Declaration of Independence."

"Why? He didn't write it."

"Well, he helped write it; and nominated George Washington for commander-in-chief of our army."

"When did Adams die?" asked Horace.

"On the Fourth of July, 1826. Wasn't it strange that he and Jefferson should die on the same day?"

"Why, did they?"

"Yes; on that Fourth of July, the first semi-centennial celebration. They were friends, you know, and lawyers, and makers of the Declaration of Independence, and foreign ministers, and presidents, and they died together. Adams' last words were, 'Jefferson survives.' It wasn't so, though; Jefferson died a few hours before."

"Upon my word, I didn't know much about it," frankly declared George Dunlap.

And Eugene Cooper said, "Look here, boys, we haven't heard a word about summer vacation travels; this young scamp has been giving us a lesson in American history!"

"Which we seemed to need," said one.

And then they all laughed, only Charlie, his face was grave; he was still thinking of John Adams.

"After all," he said, "I wish he had said something better than that to die by; he was a great man. But when my grandfather died, his last words were, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth.' And those were better words for last ones than anything that Adams said."

"I guess," said Horace Brooks, getting up from the grass, and shaking the dried leaves from his clothes, speaking slowly and gravely meanwhile, "I guess you've got to 'live' things, or you can't 'say' them when you come to die."

GRANDMOTHER BROWNSON.

"IT is just wonderful to hear her read in the Bible," said Estelle, talking about her grandmother, as she was fond of doing. "It doesn't matter how dull a chapter you pick out, she is sure to have some sweet new thought about it. I wish I loved to read it as well as she does; and knew half as much about it. I don't believe you could pick out a place, from which she wouldn't give you a new thought."

"I do," declared Stuart Harper, who was leaning against the door, pulling yellow roses to pieces, and scattering the leaves on the piazza. Stuart was one of those boys who are always picking things to pieces. "My small brother was stumbling through a lot of hard names in his Bible-reading this morning, just because they belonged to the next chapter in his course; and I said to mother that I didn't believe there was any good to be gotten out of a list of names, if they 'were' in the Bible; I don't believe even your grandmother could make anything of them."

"Let's try her," exclaimed Estelle, "she is in her room with her knitting. She is always ready to read to us; let us all go in and ask her to read that chapter. Can you find the place, Stuart?"

No sooner thought of, than the whole troop of grandchildren with Tiny at their heels, and Stuart Harper, and Francis Holmes, following more quietly, started for grandmother's room. She received them cordially, in no way surprised, for she was used to many visits from the young people. Neither did it astonish her to be asked to read; this was a favorite Sabbath afternoon entertainment, and grandmother saw no reason why it should not be as pleasant a thing on Tuesday, as on the Sabbath.

"Stuart wants you to read from the first chapter of Numbers, beginning at the fifth verse," explained Estelle, "he wants to ask you some questions about it."

So grandmother read: "'And these are the names of the men that shall stand with you: of the tribe of Reuben, Elizur the son of Shedeur; of Simeon, Shelumiel the son of Zurishaddai; of Judah, Nahshon the son of Amminadab; of Issachar, Nethaneel the son of Zuar; of Zebulun, Eliab the son of Helon.'

"I never read over these names," said grandmother, looking up over her spectacles, "but I think of your father; when he was a little boy, he liked to read them, and to imagine how he should feel if he should read there, 'Tommy, the son of Jeremiah.' That was your grandfather's name, you know; and your father said, he knew he should hold up his head proudly at the thought of being the son of such a good man as Jeremiah.

"'But mother,' says he, 'what if father couldn't hold up his head, when my name was called, because he was ashamed of me.'"

And grandma laughed, and at the same moment wiped a tear out of her faded eyes, and went on with her reading.

"'Of the children of Joseph: of Ephraim, Elishama the son of Ammihud; of Manasseh, Gamaliel the son of Pedahzur.'"

Then she looked up again. "Did you ever think, children, what a beautiful thing it is that the Lord knows us so well he can call all our names? I love to think of him as speaking of my children and grandchildren, and setting them their tasks to do for him."

It was a solemn thought, as well as a sweet one, and ought to have sobered them. The grandchildren were quiet, but Stuart could not resist the temptation to clap his hands. This made grandma look up in wonder, and then the whole story came out.

"But I still think," said Stuart, "that it would take a woman like grandmother, to find the crumb in such verses as those."

"Read on, my boy," said grandmother, "read on to the last verse:

"'And the children of Israel did according to all that the Lord commanded.'

"Are these children doing so?"

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A FOOLISH LITTLE GIRL.

SHE was washed and partly dressed, and set up high and dry in a safe place while Mrs. Stuart went for more clothes. Her name was Margary, and she had been picked up in the streets. Mrs. Stuart meant to dress her neatly, and teach her to read, and sew, and sweep, and dust; in short, teach her how to be a useful girl, and earn her own living. They had made a queer beginning.

"Do you know how to wash yourself?" she had asked the dirty little girl, when she first brought her home.

"Yes 'm," said Margary, with twinkling eyes.

And as she seemed to know a great deal, for a little girl of her age, Mrs. Stuart had taken her to the bath-room and showed her how to draw the water, and where to put the towels, and the soaps, and had left her to herself, to see what kind of a bath she would take.

"I really didn't feel as though I could touch the little thing, until she got her dreadful rags, and some of the dirt off," said Mrs. Stuart in telling about it, afterwards.

One thing she forgot, that was to lock the door that lead from the bath-room into Miss Emma's dressing-room. What do you think little Margery did but slip in there!

It was lovely there, she thought, and she roved around looking at everything. On the bed lay Miss Emma's white dress, fresh from the laundry, where its many ruffles, and puffs, and tucks, had been carefully fluted and pressed; "a good half-day's work," Nelly, the ironing-girl, said it was. Also there lay, near at hand, a lovely new garden hat, trimmed with white tarlatan, and a pair of high-heeled French slippers with stockings to match Miss Emma's ribbons. That very afternoon she was going to a garden party, and her dress was laid out, ready for her to put on. She had gone to the garden to pick just the sort of flowers that she needed for a wreath, and in the meantime, Margery had slipped in.

"Oh, my!" she said. "How perfectly splendid!"

Then she set to work; the beautiful tucked skirt and elegant white dress were slipped on, over her rags and dirt; they trailed on the floor, but what of that? Margery thought that more becoming than short dresses. Then she sat down on the floor, and drew on the delicate stockings over her dirty bare legs, and slipped into the French slippers, and perched the garden hat on the back of her naughty head, drew on the gloves, seized the delicate parasol with dirty fingers, and began to parade up and down the room.

Imagine what Miss Emma said when she came in and caught her! Imagine what Mrs. Stuart said when she was summoned to see this dirty little girl, prinked up in borrowed feathers! Do you wonder that she took Margery in hand herself, gave her a bath in haste, burned her dirty clothes, then dressing her in the clean ones, perched her high up on a table near at hand, with orders not to stir until she came back?

There Margery sat, looking somewhat cross, and disappointed; she liked the fine clothes better than these.