Chapter III: Preface: To Parents and Guardians (2)

How the little fellow did study! It seemed as if he could not say his lessons wrong if he tried; and in play hours, he frolicked at such a rate with his particular friend Kriss Luff, who clung to him from the very first day, that he did not lose his bright rosy cheeks, as his good mother had feared. He wrote her a long letter once a week, sending many loving messages to his father and darling sister Essie, and not forgetting Phil. And once, when a travelling photographic gallery came up to the school, he had himself taken with his arm round his friend Kriss’s neck; and he particularly requested that Kriss should be looking at his watch at the moment, as it would seem such a grand thing, he said, for a boy to have one.

Johnny learned to construe Latin in such a surprisingly short time, that Dr. Gradus forgot one morning to be as pompous as usual, and tapping his new scholar on the back, told him he was an honor to the school, and said he was quite a “multum in parvo,” which, I am certain, meant a great compliment, for Johnny colored deeply, while an expression of delight illumined his features. It is a very majestic thing to praise people in Latin; but for my part, I wish Dr. Gradus had talked English, don’t you? If you can find out what “multum in parvo” means, just write it to me in a dear little letter, directed to the care of Mr. Sheldon.

Of course Johnny told Kriss all about his sister Essie; how pretty and good she was, and how she had to walk with crutches, because she had hurt her knee when she was a little bit of a thing, and the leg that was injured never grew any more, at which Kriss was dreadfully sorry, and sent his love to her, and a funny little picture, in an envelope, of a boy who was pulling out the nose of his sister’s india-rubber doll, and making it at least half a yard long. And Essie, in return, sent him a great gingerbread cake, which she helped to make herself, and Kriss had what he called “a public dinner” off of it, and made a fine speech, standing on top of the pump in the play-ground; after which he cut a slice of cake for every boy, all elegantly arranged on cabbage leaves for plates, upon receiving which they gave him three perfectly tremendous cheers, and in five minutes more every single crumb had disappeared.

And Johnny kept rosy and fat, although he really seemed to live on geography, the multiplication table, and the Latin grammar; but he could play too; for Kriss declared that he could run faster, jump higher, swim longer, and shout louder than any other fellow in the school, which was very remarkable, for some of the boys could run like lamplighters, jump like kangaroos, swim dog-fashion and crab-fashion, dive like stones, float like feathers, stand on their heads under water and bow, to you with their feet, and as to shouting, I only wish you could hear them once—that’s all.

* * * * *

All the boys agreed that Johnny made the very best back of them all at leap-frog,—so strong and square, with his hands firmly planted on his knees, and looking between his legs with his round face upside down. Then he was a capital hand at mending broken-down drums, toy-carts, horses, and all manner of playthings. The little boys in the school would bring them to him, and, first hugging him, would coax him to “make them as good as new,” until he declared that the little closet in his room was a perfect hospital, of which he was the doctor, and a jack-knife and Spalding’s glue the medicines.

And such wonderful kites as he could make! They quite astonished the whole neighborhood, birds and all. A famous one which he made was, as he declared, a genuine portrait of a round-shouldered, bullet-headed member of Congress he had seen, whose brains being made of feathers, were just the very ones to go off in a high wind, at a tangent, and never touch any sensible thing, or cut even a curve in the air, much less a difficult question. So the member of Congress was painted on an immense sheet of tissue paper, and furnished with an exceedingly long tail, made of scraps of cotton-wadding tied on a string at intervals of four inches, and so light that it balanced his brains to perfection. When he was finished, he was dubbed “The Honorable Mr. Kite;” and many a fine day did the honorable gentleman air his feather-brains over the broad fields, and look down with his stupid fat face at the delighted boys, who all took turns in giving him a “flier.”

But perhaps the very best of Johnny’s social accomplishments came out on rainy days, when he told stories without end, so excellent was his memory of what he had read or heard; and the bright play of his features added so much to the interest, that the boys declared, when they came to read the very same stories in books, as sometimes happened, they did not seem one quarter as good. I really feel tempted to tell you one of them, though, like the boys, you will lose three-quarters of the interest because you do not get it direct from him. Shall I.

Aunt Fanny had read thus far in her manuscript, when she paused, looked up, and repeated, “Shall I?”

“Oh, yes! yes! if you please,” cried all the children.

“But it won’t seem more than a quarter as entertaining.”

“Oh, you funny Aunt Fanny! you know we shall like it just as well—better. But tell us, did _you_ hear that jolly Johnny Goodfellow tell a story?”

“Of course I did,” she answered, “and this is the way he did it. First, let’s all sit down on the carpet.”

You would have thought that each of the children had been presented with a fine present, they received this proposition with such delight and so many chuckles. Down they all got in a bunch, with Aunt Fanny in the midst. Then she clasped her hands over her knees, made her mouth into a button-hole, and looked up at a corner of the ceiling, pretending to think. She looked so long, that Fred, full of Johnny Goodfellow and his story, quite forgot he was speaking to Aunt Fanny, and shouted—

“Come, old fellow! we’re all waiting; why don’t you begin?”

Then suddenly remembering himself, he turned as red as scarlet, and stammered out—

“Oh, I didn’t mean—— I beg your pardon.”

The button-hole mouth broke loose, and Aunt Fanny burst out laughing, as she said—

“That was just what I wanted. Now, attention, squad! Aunt Fanny has jumped over the moon, and Johnny Goodfellow is here in her place to tell you the wonderful tale, a good deal altered, which he read in an English magazine, called

“BROTHER BOB’S BEAR.”

Once upon a time, a Yankee farmer found he had such a lot of children, that they cost him more than they were worth. So he concluded to emigrate out West, where the old ones could shoot game and plant corn and keep out of mischief, and the young ones could laugh and grow fat by rolling on the prairies and eating hasty-pudding.

He found that he was well enough off, when he got to his new home, to build a very aristocratic log-house. Very few, you know, have more than one room, while his had three—all elegantly ceiled with hemlock-bark, with the smooth side out—quite gorgeous, you may believe.

It was in May that he moved, and the whole summer was before the children to frolic in, and have a grand good time; and the eldest brother, Bob, began the game by shooting a bear who wanted to hug him. You know a bear’s hug is a remarkably tight squeeze, and generally takes your breath away for good. So Bob declined the honor, and popped a bullet in the bear’s cranium, and carried home in his arms a perfect little darling of a cub, for the poor bear was a mother.

Oh, what a welcome the little cub got! It was hugged and kissed all round; and Bob, congratulating himself that it was too young to mourn long for the loss of its mother, solemnly declared that he intended to be a mother to it for the rest of its life. And he kept his word.

The cub, who was named Moses, slept with Bob, always laying his nose in a sentimental manner over Bob’s shoulder. He grew very fast; you could almost see him grow; and there really seemed no end to the bread and milk and mush and butter he would eat.

The first winter he was kind of numb and stupid, and spent a great deal of time in sleeping and sucking his paws. But when the warm weather came on, he was the happiest little bear in the world, following Brother Bob about like a dog, and only miserable when he lost sight of his master. He always woke him in the morning; and as the bear liked to get up early, you see he was quite a blessing to Bob in this respect, as getting up early, according to the proverb, is one of the sure and certain ways of becoming healthy, wealthy, and wise. I always feel the wisdom sprouting out all over me when I get up very early in the morning; but I’m afraid I should spend all the extra money I made by early rising in buying an extra breakfast, for it also makes me so tremendously hungry.

Well, one day Brother Bob had to go a long journey to buy material for building a frame house, of a man who had a saw-mill. Moses could not accompany him; and this was a dreadful affliction. Bob had to steal away; and when the bear found he had gone, he commenced a search for him. He went to Bob’s bed, and, beginning at the head, poked his nose under the sheets and blankets, and gravely travelled down till he came out at the foot; then he turned and slowly marched up again. He kept this up by the hour, never stopping till he was shut out of the room. He then took possession of all Bob’s clothes he could find, and got as far as he could push into the legs of the trousers and arms of the coats, still hoping that his beloved master would be found in some of the dark corners; and Bob’s mother, half distracted at seeing the clothes tearing with such rough usage, got them away with great difficulty, and locked them up in a wardrobe.

Then Moses, with tears in his eyes, and grunting with grief, managed to climb to the top of the wardrobe, and seized a large Bible which rested there, and, curling himself up into a round ball, dropped on the floor, hugging the Bible fast. Bob’s mother tried to get this away, but the bear showed fight for the first time, and kicked out his hind legs, and gave sly dabs at the broomstick with which she was beating him; but he held the book tight, and Bob’s mother had to give up, and come off second best; and what’s more, the bear knew it, and made use of his triumph afterward.

When Bob came back, the bear fairly danced for joy, dropping the Bible, and showing his contempt for Bob’s mother by taking the butter from the tea-table and eating it before her eyes. His master gave him a good drubbing for stealing, and he submitted to it with perfect indifference, for his dear master might do as he pleased; but when he was not present, butter and honey, and sugar and molasses, were all taken with the utmost coolness; and the poor old lady could not help herself, for he had now grown so large and strong that she was afraid of him.

“Oh, Bob,” she said, one day, “your bear is the plague of my life.”

“Now, mother,” he answered, “you have only got to be resolute, and show that you are not afraid of him.”

“But I _am_ afraid of him, and he will do me some dreadful harm yet.”

“Give him a taste of hot poker, mother, and he’ll never bother you again.”

“Oh, Bob!” she exclaimed, “I would not do that for the world!”

And so the bear had his own way, and became a very tyrannical member of the family, till something happened which did more than even a mother’s remonstrances.

For Brother Bob fell in love. Just at this time the Yankee farmer got a neighbor—a very near one for the West, only five miles off—and this neighbor had a pretty daughter, seventeen years old; so what does Bob, who, I forgot to tell you, was nineteen years old—what does he do but fall so head over ears in love, that he declared she was the prettiest and best girl in the whole universe, which _I_ think was saying a great deal.

But Susan (that was her name) treated Brother Bob shamefully. She played tricks upon him; she made fun of him before his face, and kept him perfectly miserable; and declared, moreover, that she did not care half an ear of corn for him. Here was a pretty state of things! for even the bear could not comfort the poor fellow.

But one day Susan and a younger sister came to take tea with Bob’s mother. They had never seen Moses, and did not know of his existence. Bob shut the bear up in his room, in compliment to the guests, and the afternoon passed off very pleasantly; that is, to all but Moses, who was highly disgusted at being locked in.

When the time came for Susan and her sister to leave, Bob prepared to see them home through the path in the woods. He ran into his room for his hat, never thinking of Moses, and left the door open, and came quickly out of the house, as Susan, with her teazing ways, had already started.

Down rushed the bear after him, out of the door, up to Bob, seized him in his arms, and hugged him, in his joy, in a way frightful to behold; and Susan, turning, saw Bob in this terrible embrace. She screamed; oh, how she screamed! and instead of running away, _she rushed right up to the bear_, and tried to pull him off, crying and sobbing, “Oh, Bob! dear, dear Bob! you will be killed!” and then fell fainting to the ground.

Ha! ha! Miss Susan, you were found out! But Bob behaved very well; for he caught her in his arms, and said—

“Dear Susan, he is a tame bear; do not be afraid.”

The poor girl looked like a broken white lily, trembling at the bear, and ashamed that she had showed Brother Bob how much she cared for him; and when she had recovered her wits, she cried out piteously—

“Oh, I will never come here again!”

“Yes, you will!” said Bob, “now that I know you like me. I’ll banish the bear, or put him in prison, or do any thing you wish.”

It was wonderful how many faults Bob discovered that the poor bear had after this; and one day when he snatched a pudding from the plate in the very hands of Bob’s mother, as she was taking it to the table, he made up his mind that Moses must be chained.

So the bear was fastened to a surveyor’s chain, made tight to a stake in the ground. He immediately began walking in a circle round the stake, at the extreme length of the chain, always turning a somerset at one particular point, and only stopping to eat, or look reproachfully at Bob when he came that way. Why he wanted to exercise in this very peculiar fashion, tumbling head over heels at one spot every time he went around, is a good deal more than I know; but I believe all bears who are chained act in this comical way, though it can’t be much fun to them.

This was all very well in the daytime, but sure as night came, Moses broke his chain, and did his best to get back into his master’s bedroom. Poor fellow! he so wanted to lie at the foot of Bob’s bed, hugging an old vest. And at last they had to build a prison for him of logs, with a roof of boards kept on by heavy stones.

The very first night the poor bear was put in this den, he raised the boards off the roof in his desperate struggle to get out and see his beloved master. He got his head out, and then, oh! ah! alas! hung by his neck, and was choked to death—a martyr to his great love for Brother Bob.

You may be sure, Bob’s mother was rather glad, but, old as he was, Bob could not help shedding a few tears for his clumsy, ugly pet. He got a new and pretty pet before long; and so it came to pass that the farmer and all his family soon gave up bewailing the tragical end of

BROTHER BOB’S BEAR.

* * * * *

“There!” said Aunt Fanny; “what do you think of Johnny’s story?”

“Grand!” cried the children. “We know more about bears now than we ever did before.”

“I wish I could have a bear,” said Peter.

“Come here and I will give you a bear’s hug,” cried Fred.

He jumped upon Peter and squeezed him till both were perfectly red in the face, and breathed in puffs. Then Fred kindly offered to give Aunt Fanny a hug; but she, jumping up and laughing, said she had no breath to spare. And after a good deal of skirmishing around, and making believe to punch each other with their elbows, dancing and singing—

“There was an old woman,
Who had but one spoon,
And all she wanted
Was elbow room,
Elbow room, elbow room,—
All she wanted
Was ELBOW ROOM”—

they consented to sit down quietly to hear once more about their friend Philip.

* * * * *

At the farm, all this time, Phil had been improving. Not steadily, for no one becomes good all at once. He would have his fits of laziness and sulkiness; but the ministering love and sweet example of little Essie soon made him ashamed of himself, and try to conquer the enemy, praying to his Father in Heaven for help. You know very well, darling children, that our worst enemies are our evil passions and bad habits, and when we gain a victory over them, all the angels in heaven rejoice, and then God’s Holy Spirit descends into our hearts, sending a glow and thrill of happiness all through us.

As Phil grew good-tempered and industrious he began bitterly to regret the advantages he had neglected and lost while at school, and when Johnny’s letters were read aloud, his heart would beat violently, and he would say to himself—“Shall I ever be so smart? What a miserable foolish fellow I have proved myself!”

One Saturday evening he went softly up to Mr. Goodfellow, and asked—“Won’t you please tell me something about my dear father and mother?” and then burst into tears.

“Why, Phil!” cried the farmer, “what’s the matter? Your parents are well, and know that you are trying to be a better boy. Don’t cry. The time will soon pass; and a little farm learning will not hurt you. If you go on as you have done this two or three weeks past, you’ll come out all right, my boy.”

The next morning, after his work, Phil washed and dressed himself carefully, and went to church. His history, by this time, was pretty well known, and the good minister, who had become quite interested in him, had not only been to see him, but had always spoken to him kindly when he waited in the churchyard after the service, while the farmer and his wife talked awhile to their neighbors.

On this day, Phil went up to the good clergyman, and, blushing deeply, stammered out, “I should like to speak to you, sir.”

“Well, my dear boy,” he answered kindly, “don’t be afraid; tell me what I can do for you.”

“Oh, sir, if—if—you would only ask Mr. Goodfellow to let me go to evening school. I want to learn—I do indeed.”

“Well, that is quite right; but you were at an excellent school. Why did you not study there?”

Phil blushed more deeply than before, but he said, truthfully and manfully, “I neglected my opportunities, sir: I would not learn; and all the boys hated me—because I tormented them; and I did not want to do any thing harder than to walk about with my hands in my pockets—or else to be eating.”

“But, my child, did this kind of life make you _happy_?”

“No, sir. I grew tired of every thing, and gaped till I sometimes thought the top of my head would crack off; and I used to wish I could sleep all day as well as all night; but now, oh! how I wish I could go back and study diligently—although the farmer and his wife are very kind, and I could hardly bear to leave dear little Essie. And I want to see my parents, and beg them to forgive me”—and here Phil’s lip quivered painfully.

“Well, my son, I will speak to the farmer, and if he consents, you shall come to _me_ for an hour every week-day evening and continue your studies.”

Phil could hardly believe his ears.

“You, sir! come to you!” he exclaimed, his whole face radiant with joy. “Oh, thank you, thank you; how can I ever thank you enough!”

He flew to the good farmer, the minister coming slower, and told him the precious good news, ending with, “Now I shan’t grow up a dunce!”—and I am afraid I must add that he took one or two great joyful jumps in the air, at which the minister looked a little grave, as it was Sunday, but did not say one word of reproof, because he knew that “boys would be boys,” and sometimes jumped when they ought to stand as still as a mouse.

It was all settled, and the next evening, just as the stars were peeping out, Phil shouldered his books, which, you will remember, were sent away from the school with him, and almost ran all the way to the parsonage.

It is perfectly astonishing how easy a lesson becomes, if you resolutely drive all other thoughts out of your mind, collect your five wits, and set to work at your book. Phil found it so, to his great delight. The good minister smoothed away some of the difficulties which required a little explanation, and excited his ambition to conquer others; and not being near so pompous as the great Dr. Gradus, though knowing quite as much, he and Phil got on capitally together. He did not learn Greek, Latin, and all manner of hard things, like a flash of lightning, mind you. If I should be so absurd as to tell you this, you would know I was writing about an impossible boy. But his mind gradually cleared up, because he no longer ate like a glutton, and he slept like a top, and took plenty of healthy exercise, and this has every thing to do with intellect and brain. You know, if you have a terrible headache, or eat a great many buckwheat cakes for breakfast, you can’t do your sums. So, if you want to grow up a wise man or woman, try to be a healthy child, full of good-nature, good-temper, activity, and courage. They will greatly increase your ability to learn.

About a mile from Mr. Goodfellow’s farm was a beautiful country place, which had lately been offered for sale, and one day, when Phil had been almost three months in his new home, the farmer, as he drew in his chair at the tea-table, said—

“Wife, Woodlawn is bought, and the owner is coming to take possession next week.”

He gave his wife a peculiarly comical look as he said this, and a smile broke over her face, but she did not ask any questions.

Phil did not care who was coming; he was so engaged with his books, and so happy working out in the fields all day, that if he could only have heard from his parents, he would have had nothing left to wish for.

Just at this time, also, there was a public examination at Dr. Gradus’s school, where anybody in the company was invited to put the most puzzling questions to the scholars. You may be sure, Johnny was always ready with an answer, except once, when he and the whole school, and all the company, burst out laughing, because a queer old wag of a gentleman, seeing that Johnny was so quick and bright, came out suddenly with this—

“Look here, my fine fellow. Suppose a canal-boat heads east-nor’-west for the horse’s tail, and has the wind abeam, with a flaw coming up in the south, and cats’-paws showing themselves, would the captain be justified in taking a reef in the stove-pipe, without first asking the cook?”

I said everybody burst out laughing; but I made a mistake; for Dr. Gradus rose up majestically, and made a speech stuffed full of Latin, in which he observed that “problems like that the gentleman had just given were not to be found in any of _his_ books;” at which everybody nearly laughed again—he was so solemn and pompous about a joke. I forgot to mention that Dr. Gradus was an old bachelor, and that accounts for it.

Of course, Johnny’s father and mother were present at the examination, with little Essie; and oh! what three proud and happy people they were, when, at the end of it, Dr. Gradus got up to present the prizes, and among the very first names called was Master Johannes Goodfellow. At first they did not quite understand that it was _their_ Johnny, because Dr. Gradus turned his Christian name into Latin, which, you know, made it grander; and as Johannes’s face,—as he walked up, bowed, and took the splendid book presented to him,—was perfectly radiant with happiness, I don’t know but what the Latin had something to do with it. But when he saw his dear father holding out his hand to him, his mother’s eyes full of joyful tears, and Essie’s rosy lips trembling with excitement and pride in her darling brother, he very nearly burst into tears himself; but controlling his feelings with a strong effort, he grasped his father’s hand for a moment, and then went back to his seat.

Kriss, Johnny’s particular friend, obtained a prize too; and after they were all distributed, the company were invited to partake of refreshments in the parlors, which consisted of very sour lemonade, and such thin slices of cake, that they were all weak in the back, and fell over double when they were taken up. Of course, nobody ought to be hungry after such a “feast of reason” on Latin grammars, geology, mathematics, chemistry, and I don’t know what besides—the very names of which made Dr. Gradus smack his lips with delight. He, no doubt, would have preferred to have dined off of Greek lexicons, with chemical sauce, instead of plum-cake, with _comical_ sauce (that is, plenty of fun and laughing), which you and I would much rather have, wouldn’t we?

Then Johnny introduced Kriss to his sister with great pride and delight; and Essie’s sweet smile and soft pleasant voice won his heart, and he immediately told Johnny, in a whisper, that his sister was _such_ a dear little girl, and a great deal prettier than he expected, and her lameness ought to make everybody as kind and tender as possible; and moreover, that when he grew up to be a man, he meant to marry Essie, and watch over her, and make her as happy as the day was long.

“Oh, delightful!” cried Johnny; “just fancy! then you’ll be my brother. I always wished I had a brother. I don’t like the thought of finding that cross Phil at home; it will half spoil my holidays. But we must write to each other, Kriss; and you shall have Essie when you grow up; and then we shall live together all our lives.”

So they parted; for after the examination there was to be a month’s holidays; and Johnny had as much as he could do to shake hands and bid good-by to the crowd of noisy, merry boys, every one of whom loved him. All the teachers also shook hands, and hoped he would come back; and Dr. Gradus, pushing up his spectacles, and clearing his throat with a tremendous “hem,” said that Master Goodfellow quite fulfilled the promise of his name; at which heavy joke everybody nearly died of laughter, and all because it was the great Dr. Gradus who said it.

It was beautiful autumn weather. The leaves were just beginning to turn; the dark green woods were flushing into gorgeous tropical beauty; and four happy people were riding home, their hearts full of gratitude and peace, beyond all price.

But when they drove into the crooked lane, didn’t the little brown dog bark himself more sideways than ever before, in his frantic joy at hearing Johnny’s voice, for it was now quite dark; and didn’t Hannah, and the farm man, and Phil, rush out and cry, “Hurra! here they are!”—and Phil’s voice sounded so hearty and pleasant, that Johnny shook hands with him immediately, and said, “How are you, old fellow?” as if they had been friends a year, which made Phil very happy, for he had been quaking at heart lest Johnny should not speak to him at all, knowing what a bad boy he had been.

As they were sitting at the tea-table, Phil said—

“There is a note for you, sir, on the table in the living-room.”

“Oh, is there? Hannah, will you bring it here? It looks like something important,” he continued, as he took it in his hand. “Hm—hm—hm. Well, wife, what do you think it is? An invitation for all of us to spend to-morrow evening at Woodlawn.”

“Indeed!” said Mrs. Goodfellow, with a bright but peculiar smile on her face. “Phil is invited, of course?”

“Certainly; and I am glad and proud to say that I know he will do himself credit now, wherever he goes. Our good minister is to be there too.”

“Oh, I am glad of that!” said Phil; “he is my best earthly friend—” He stopped, and his eyes filled with tears.

“What is the name of the family who have bought Woodlawn?” asked Johnny.

“Such a curious chap as it is!” answered the farmer, laughing. “Never mind the name till to-morrow.”

That night there was another cot-bed put in the garret, and Phil and Johnny had a long affectionate talk together. Phil frankly told all about himself, and what Essie and the good minister, with God’s blessing, had helped him to do; and Johnny cheered and encouraged him, and told him that he had no doubt but that Phil’s parents had heard of his good conduct, and might be expected at the farm almost any day.

But the poor little fellow suffered terribly himself while he was saying all these kind things, for, as you know, Phil’s gain would be his loss. If Mr. Wiseman was convinced of his son’s reformation, Johnny must go back to farm work, and resign his precious hopes of growing up a learned man. His kind father had not yet paid all the money for his farm; he could not afford to hire another boy in his dear son’s place; and now a few months in winter at the district school was all that Johnny must expect.

But he got up the next day bright and happy. It was something—yes, indeed, it was a great deal—to have such a home as his; and after he had washed, dressed, and said his humble, thankful prayers, he was quite ready to race eagerly out with Phil and the little brown dog, and see which could get to the end of the crooked lane and back again first.

It was lucky that the little brown dog’s tail was fast at one end, and the hair on it not a wig, for he certainly would have shook it off, and every single hair out, if incessant and furious wagging would have done it; and the boys and the dog seemed to have each taken a dose of laughing-gas, they flew hither and thither in such a ridiculous way, just because they were so happy.

Then Johnny helped Phil with the horses and the rest of the farm work, and the little brown dog helped too by getting between their legs and nearly upsetting them half a dozen times, and by riding on one of the horse’s backs to water, barking the whole time to make him hurry, which, of course, was very funny, and made the boys laugh heartily.

And when they went in to breakfast, there was Essie, with a welcome shining in her sweet blue eyes, and her Bible all ready to read a chapter, before her father asked a blessing on the labors and pleasures of the day.

The day was soon spent in cheerful work, and in the evening they all prepared for their visit to Woodlawn. Phil made himself as neat as possible in his farmer’s-boy Sunday suit. He thought first of asking Mr. Goodfellow to let him wear the fine broadcloth clothes in which he came to the farm, but he said to himself a moment afterwards—

“No; I am only a farm-boy now; I will make no pretence to be any better, until my father gives me leave.”

He did not need the fine clothes to improve his appearance, for his excellent habits had made such a change, that he would hardly have been known for the same boy. His eyes were bright, his manner animated, and he had learned to be unselfish, industrious, polite, and kind to all—though not without many hard struggles and constant prayer.

As the party drove into the great gate of Woodlawn, and up the long beautiful avenue, they heard the sound of music, and a hundred colored lanterns met their eyes suspended from the trees. They had the effect of enchantment; and Essie said she was sure she saw little fairies dancing in the shaded alleys on either side, and peeping and smiling at her from the bushes. The boys laughed, but they too felt the strange magic of the scene; and when they arrived at the brilliantly lighted entrance, they were prepared, they thought, for all manner of wonderful events.

After taking off bonnets, shawls, and hats, they were ushered into a small room, the walls of which were covered with beautiful paintings, at which both the boys gazed with delight. Two immense closed doors, opposite the windows, led into another room, from which sounds of laughing and talking proceeded.

Presently the good minister came into the small room, and it was delightful to witness the mixture of respect and grateful affection with which Phil hastened to meet him, and place a comfortable arm-chair for his use.

“Our host and hostess will be here very soon,” he said. “Meanwhile, Philip, if you like, I will ask you and my friend Johnny some questions about your studies.”

The boys were delighted, and immediately placed themselves before him, their arms around each other’s necks.

Question after question was poured out, and readily answered by the boys in turn—Johnny sometimes having to prompt Phil, and Phil quite as often helping his friend; while the farmer, his wife, and Essie listened with delighted attention: _and two others listened_—for a door behind the boys had been softly opened, and a gentleman and lady stood with the rest, their faces beaming and radiant with love and eagerness.

The good minister saw them, and turning to Phil, he said—

“My dear boy, you have done so well, not only in your studies, but in what is of far more importance, in conquering your bad habits, that all that there is left to wish for is, that your parents might take you back to their home and hearts.”

The lady gave a sudden start towards him at this, but the gentleman laid his hand gently on her arm.

“Oh, sir,” answered Phil, his lip quivering, “will they ever love me again? Can they ever forgive me?”

“Oh, yes! yes! my own darling boy!” screamed the lady.

Philip turned quickly around, became deadly pale, staggered towards her, and fell nearly fainting into the outstretched arms of his mother; while his father, seizing his hand, cried—

“God bless you, my son! God bless you! You have done nobly. You have made us very, very happy.”

Then the rest went softly out of the room, and Phil had a few moments of blissful joy. He curled his arm around his mother’s neck, and kissed her over and over again. He hugged his father with eager affection; and then darted back to his mother—laughing, crying, now smoothing her hair, now crumpling her beautiful lace collar—perfectly beside himself with ecstasy.

All at once a band of musicians struck up a martial air, the great sliding-doors moved back, and Phil’s father and mother, taking his hands, went forward and introduced him to the company, for they were the owners of Woodlawn. All knew his story—for you can’t keep such a thing secret in a country place—and they looked at him with such intense interest, that he was becoming confused, when who should dart forward to welcome him but Kriss Luff and half a dozen of his old schoolmates, all wanting to shake hands at once, and this making him laugh, he was soon at his ease.

Oh, what a delightful evening it was! They played games and sang, they laughed and frolicked—the good minister joining in every thing, like a real Christian as he was. They partook in moderation of all manner of nice things which were loading down a table in the dining-room, and each one went home with the recollection of a delightful evening well spent.

Of course, Phil stayed at Woodlawn, and that was one little drop of unhappiness to the kind people with whom he had lived so long, and who had learned to love him very much. They could not bear to part with him. But Johnny was made so happy, that I do not think he knows to this day whether he walked home on his head or like other people; for Mr. Wiseman, patting his sturdy shoulders, said to him—

“Well, my son, are you tired of school yet?”

“Oh dear, no, sir. I love my books. I even love Dr. Gradus.”

“Well, that last _is_ convincing; so if your good father, to whom I owe more than I shall ever be able to repay, will permit me to find him a farm-boy, you shall go to school and through college with Phil, and, if you like, choose a profession afterwards, still under my care.”

“Hurra! hurra!” cried Kriss and all the boys; “Johnny Goodfellow is coming back to school. Philip _Badboy_ has flown to the moon, and Philip WISEMAN is to come in his place. It’s the jolliest thing that ever happened. Three cheers for Mr. Wiseman.”

They gave three cheers and a “tiger,” a big one too, little Essie helping.

“Now,” said Kriss, who had voted himself master of ceremonies, “three cheers for Farmer Goodfellow.”

They were given, Phil hurraing with such a will, that he got perfectly crimson in the face.

“Now, three cheers for little Essie,” said Kriss.

If Phil _could_ have made more noise, he would have done so this time; as it was, in his eager desire to honor Essie, he hurraed himself sideways, like the little brown dog, and nearly cracked his throat.

“_Now_, boys, three cheers for Phil, our _new_ friend.”

Didn’t they give it, though! YES, THEY DID, and such a royal Bengal tiger to end with, that the very windows rattled again.

To the children who do not live in New York, I ought to say that we have a splendid regiment of soldiers, called the “Light Guard,” who, whenever they cheer, always say, “Hurra! hurra! hurra! ti-g-a-r!” I don’t know why they do it, but this is what is meant by “three cheers and a tiger.”

Phil bade the farmer, his wife, and little Essie good-night with tears in his eyes, promising to come and see them every day. Mr. Wiseman had invited Kriss and the other boys to stay a week at Woodlawn, which was a most delightful fact to know and experience. A merry, merry week they all had, and you may be sure Johnny was included in every day’s pleasure, and Essie was with them very often.

And now, my darlings reading this, do you think it likely that Mr. Wiseman will ever have to send Philip away again? I do not, and I hope you are of the same opinion; but if you would like me to keep one eye on his future movements, and write to you about them, just let me know, won’t you?

* * * * *

“That’s all,” said Aunt Fanny. “What do you think of it, my merry men and ladies? Will Philip Badboy Wiseman do for a beginning?”

“It’s perfectly splendid!” cried the children.

“And you don’t mean to eat greedily of flower-pot pudding after this, or snap each other’s legs with knots in your pocket-handkerchiefs?”

“Oh no, dear Aunt Fanny. This pop-gun has made us better already. We mean to be ever so kind, industrious, and unselfish after this.”

“I wish I had a kite like Johnny’s,” said Peter.

“Who knows, if you try to be a loving, obedient child, but what the Honorable Mr. Kite may call upon you next spring, all ready for an airing. I’ll have a talk with my friend Johnny about it.”

“Oh goody! will you?” cried Peter, jumping straight up and down in the air. “My! how good I’ll be! I’m going to begin right away;” and he sat down, solemn and stiff, twirling his thumbs one over the other, and saying, “Look at me! Only see how good I am!” while the rest laughed merrily at the joke.

Then Aunt Fanny had a kind kiss from all, and bade them good-night.

The next time Aunt Fanny came she had a funny and rather mischievous twinkle in her eyes. She did not say a word, while she unfolded her manuscript but quietly read out the Pop-gun printed above, and then said her story was called by the comical title of

THE DOG’S DINNER-PARTY.

The children looked at each other, wondering what was coming, then fastened their eager eyes on the reader, who began as follows:

Once upon a time there lived a funny, bustling, little old gentleman, who thought that dogs, horses, cats, and monkeys, ought to live just as he did; that is, first and foremost, to behave with perfect politeness, learn to read and write, sit at the table and eat their meals with knives and forks, and sleep in French bedsteads, all tucked up warm. He even insisted on their wearing clothes and patent leather boots, and they ran clattering about the house on their hind legs, with trousers and coats on, and their tails dangling out behind, like a pocket handkerchief out of a pocket.

The little bustling old gentleman was a bachelor. He had tried about twenty-nine times to get married, but the ladies, one and all, insisted that the dogs, cats, and monkeys must be turned out of the house, if they consented to come in, which was very disagreeable and unreasonable, and made the old gentleman so mad, he said to himself he would see them to Jericho first; so making each one in turn a very low bow, for he was the very pink of politeness, he took himself off, and that was the last of getting married.

So his family consisted of four fine dogs, six beautiful cats, eight comical monkeys, one fat cook, and one fat coachman, two thin housemaids, and nobody knows how many grooms and footmen—and they all lived together, a great deal happier than Barnum’s happy family, and what do you suppose was the reason? Why, they were taught by the bustling little old gentleman to be _perfectly polite_. I forgot to tell you that his name was Lord Chesterfield.

One day Beppo—one of the family—a handsome brown and white spaniel, went out for a walk. As soon as he got out of sight of the house, he dived into a bramble bush, and scratched off all his clothes, for they plagued him to death, and he trotted joyously along, whistling—

“With reading, and writing, and riches,
For once in my life, I have done!
I’ve got rid of that old pair of breeches;
So, hurrah! my brave boys, for some fun!”

Presently he came to a fine river, and was just thinking he would take a swim, when he heard a piercing scream, and something went splash into the water.

Beppo rushed to the brink just in time to see a little golden-haired child disappear under the rippling waves.

In he dashed, like a flying-fish, swam like lightning to the spot, and caught the little child’s dress in his mouth; then turning, swam back, and laid it, drenched and gasping, on the green bank, just as the nurse, her face white with terror, and her limbs trembling, was struggling to reach the shore.

The poor woman caught the beautiful child in her arms and kissed her, and thanked Heaven for her rescue. Then she patted and hugged Beppo, who stood wagging his tail and shaking the water out of his long silky hair. “Ah, madam,” he said, with a very polite how, and his fore-paw on his heart, “I am truly grateful that I was made a spaniel: if I had been a stupid poodle-dog I should have been afraid of the water, and the poor little darling would have been drowned.”

“Why!” exclaimed the nurse in astonishment, “is it possible you can talk?”

“Yes, ma’am, my master, the Lord Chesterfield, will have it, though I’d much rather bark; and he makes us eat at the table out of plates, and cut our food with knives and forks, when I think a marrow-bone to gnaw, out in the court-yard, is as nice again; but he says gnawing bones is perfectly dreadful, and we must learn to eat politely.”

“Well, that is very funny! I shall tell about it as soon as I get home.”

So the nurse hastened away, with the pretty child, and was soon telling the frightened mother how little Lucy had run away from her, and tumbled into the river, and how the beautiful spaniel, who could talk like a Christian, had saved her life.

The grateful mother went out the next morning and bought a splendid gold collar, and had this inscription engraved upon it: “_For the noble and brave dog Beppo, who saved little Lucy’s life._”

When the parcel came, the little bustling old gentleman opened it, and reading the words on the gold collar, called Beppo to him.

“Why, only look at this splendid collar, my good fellow,” he cried; “why did you not tell me of your adventure?”

“I only did my duty,” Beppo modestly answered.

“Ah! I am quite proud of you. I shall give you a dinner-party, and you shall carry round the invitations yourself.”

“May I invite little golden-haired Lucy?” asked Beppo. “I should like to _so_ much.”

“Certainly,” said Lord Chesterfield; “suppose you write the note yourself; it will be a very delicate attention.”

Down sat Beppo, joyously, and soon he had penned this fine invitation:

“Master Beppo wishes you to dine with me to-morrow at five o’
clock.

“MISS LUCY HILL.”

This was not exactly the right way to word it, but you see his education was not yet completed.

Then the little bustling old gentleman wrote the rest of the notes; for Beppo was rather slow, and ran his tongue out in the most fearful manner, in his anxiety to spell the words right, and then they were nicely sealed up in envelopes, and he put them all together in a pretty little basket.

And now the coachman was ordered to bring out the state carriage and four horses, and Beppo, sitting up inside on his hind-legs, very grand, and no doubt exceedingly uncomfortable, carried the notes of invitation to the most fashionable dogs of his acquaintance.

Three of the dogs to be invited lived in the house, as you know; but they had notes as well as the rest, for that is the way to be perfectly polite. I dare say you have many a time heard people say something like this—

“Oh, it don’t make any difference what there is for dinner when _you_ come, because we are so intimate; but I should be mortified to death, not to have every thing nice when General Fusbos is invited, as he is such a stranger.”

This is abominable manners—as if you ought not to treat those you love far better than a stranger. It always makes me very indignant when such a remark is made to _me_; and I sincerely hope you will profit all your life by this hint about _true_ politeness from our friend Beppo.

You can’t have a great many at a dinner party, you know; so you must be careful to invite the most agreeable people, and as many ladies as gentlemen. Beppo knew this as well as you, and so you may be sure he had taken great pains to have a pleasant party.

The next morning there were a great many people ringing at the little bustling old gentleman’s door, and each one left a note.

Beppo ran into a corner with them, as fast as they arrived, and read them in a great hurry. At last one came, very pretty, of a three-cornered shape, and smelling of roses. The moment Beppo opened it, and glanced at the contents, he danced around the room for joy, waving the note in the air with one of his fore-paws. Then he rushed up to his master, exclaiming—

“She’s coming! my Lord Chesterfield, she’s coming! Just fancy how delightful to have her sweet face and golden curls among our hairy muzzles! Oh, we must be very polite, and make her as happy as possible.”

It was a lovely summer’s day. The sun turned the ripples of the river into shifting gold, and there was singing, and buzzing, and whispering, and laughing everywhere; all felt kind and loving. Even the hideous old scarecrow in the cornfield allowed Beppo, in his joy, to dash at him and playfully throw him down, bang! on his old red nose, and he never once attempted to get up; for he said, in his pine-wood heart—

“I’m a brute, after all, to frighten the poor birds out of their wits. I’ll just lie down here and take a nap, and let the dear little things have a good time for once.”

Oh, it was charming to see that even an old scarecrow could be polite, which, after all, is only another name for loving-kindness.

Just before five o’clock, the nurse brought little Lucy, dressed in blue, and looking like a fairy. Strange to say, although only four years old, she was not in the least frightened, but put her soft white arms around Beppo’s neck, and said, “Oh, I love oo, good dog!” and hugged him so kindly, that he would have given all the world to have had her tumble into the water again, so that he might save her life once more.

The little bustling old gentleman took her by the hand, and showed her all over his curious old house, with its suits of rusty armor, great stag horns nailed to the walls, and queer black-looking paintings; and Beppo followed wherever they went, gently wagging his tail, and answering every question with admirable politeness.

And now all the dogs who had been invited had come, and were sitting in the parlor waiting for the dinner-bell to ring, talking and laughing as pleasantly and properly as the king, or the president, or you, or I.

Of course, the first thing any one said, after “How-de-do?” was, “It’s a fine day!” because that’s the solemn rule in all polite society. Then, of course, they went on to say it was worse weather last week, and would be better weather next week; and after about a dozen more deeply interesting remarks upon the weather, the dinner-bell rang, and made them all jump. But the very next instant they sat down again, trying to look as if they were in no sort of hurry, as it would have been very bad manners to rush pell-mell down stairs. Everybody knows that.