Chapter IX: Mr. Tompkins’s Small Story (1)

“It must be a small one,” said Mr. Tompkins.

“Oh, yes! we’ve agreed to that,” said Mr. Plummer.

Mr. Tompkins then asked if they were willing it should be merely a hen-story.

“We’ll take the vote on that,” cried Hiram. Then, turning to the company, he said,—

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is known to you that our friend Mr. Tompkins has paid his forfeit, and that he has been judged to redeem it by telling a story. It was no more than right for him to pay a forfeit; for he laughed at a quiet old lady who never did him any harm, and treated her in an unkind manner. Mr. Tompkins now wishes to know if his small story may be merely a hen-story. All who are willing that Mr. Tompkins’s small story shall be merely a hen-story please to say ‘Ay.’”

“Ay, ay, ay, ay!” was shouted many times by young and old; and, what with the shouting and the laughing and the hand-clapping, there was such a racket as set Snip a-barking at the top of his voice. Josephus crowed, and made his feet fly, and patted cakes, and tossed them up so high, that he nearly threw himself over backward. The cat hopped out of her private box, her tail standing straight in the air: and it is more than likely that the kittens’ eyes came open with wonder; which would have been a very great wonder indeed, seeing that the nine days were not much more than half over.

Mr. Tompkins then told the following short and simple story, which was written down upon the spot by the only person present who had a lead-pencil:—

* * * * *

There was once a hen who talked about another hen in a not very good way, and in a not at all friendly way. The hen she talked about was named Phe-endy Alome. Her own name was Teedla Toodlum. They both belonged to a flock of white hens which lived in the far-away country of Chickskumeatyourkornio.

Now, the one that was named Teedla Toodlum went around among the other hens, making fun of Phe-endy Alome on account of her having a speckled feather in her wing. She told them not to go with Phe-endy Alome, or scratch up worms with her, or any thing, because Phe-endy had that speckled feather in her wing.

One of the hens that Teedla Toodlum talked to in this way was deaf, and therefore could not hear very well. She had become deaf in consequence of not minding her mother. It happened in this way: A tall Shanghai roost-cock crowed close to her ear when she was quite small; when, in fact, she was just hatched out of her shell. She had a number of brothers and sisters who came out at almost the same time. The Shanghai stood very near, and in such a way that his throat came close to the nest, and he crowed there. The chicks wanted to put their heads out from under their mother, and see who was making such a noise. Their mother said,—

“No, no, no! Keep under! You might be made deaf: I’ve heard of such a thing happening.”

But one chick did put her head out, and close to the Shanghai’s wide-open throat too, and when he was crowing terribly.

Then her mother said,—

“Now I shall punish you: I shall prick you with my pin-feathers.”

And the chick was pricked, and she became deaf besides; so that, when she grew up, she hardly could hear herself cackle. And this was the reason she could not understand very well when the hen named Teedla Toodlum was telling the others that the hen named Phe-endy Alome had a speckled feather in her wing.

One day, the hen named Teedla Toodlum scratched a hole in the sand beneath a bramble-bush, and sat down there, where it was cool; and, while she was sitting there, a cow came along at the other side of the bramble-bush, with a load of “passengers” on her back. The cows in the country of Chickskumeatyourkornio permit the hens to ride on their backs; and, when a great many are on, they step carefully, so as not to shake them off. In frosty weather they allow them to get up there to warm their feet. Sometimes hens who have cold feet fly up and push off the others who have been there long enough.

The cow passed along at the other side of the bush, and by slipping one foot into a deep hole which was hidden with grass, and therefore could not be seen, upset the whole load of passengers. She then walked on; but the passengers staid there, and had a little talk together,—after their own fashion, of course. The deaf one happened to be among them; and, seeing that the others were having great sport, she wanted to know what it was all about. Upon this the others—those of them who could stop laughing—raised their voices; and all began at once to try to make her understand. And this is what they said:—

“Think of that goose of a hen, Teedla Toodlum, telling us not to go with Phe-endy Alome because Phe-endy Alome has a speckled feather in her wing, when at the same time Teedla Toodlum has _two speckled feathers in her own wing, but doesn’t know it_!

Teedla Toodlum was listening, and heard rather more than was pleasant to hear. She looked through the bramble-bush, and saw them. Some had their heads thrown back, laughing; some were holding on to their sides, each with one claw; and some were stretching their necks forward, trying to make the deaf one understand, while the deaf one held her claw to her ear in order to hear the better.

“Ah, I feel ashamed!” said Teedla Toodlum to herself. “I see now that one should never speak of the speckled feathers one sees in others, since one can never be sure that one has not speckled feathers one’s self.”

“Why, that’s the way _our_ cow does!” cried the Jimmyjohns as soon as Mr. Tompkins had finished.

“What! talks about speckled feathers?” asked cousin Floy.

“No: lets hens stay on her back.”

“Her parents, or grandparents, or great-grandparents, then,” said Mr. Tompkins, “probably came from Chickskumeatyourkornio.”

FLOWERS WAKING UP.

“It must be that spring has come,” said the Pansy, “or I should never feel so uneasy, and so very wide-awake. I’ve a great mind to put my head up out of the ground, and see. Hark! Yes, there are the birds. They are calling to the flowers. ‘Awake!’ they say, ‘awake, and come forth! There’s nothing to be afraid of now; for Old Winter has gone away. He can’t hurt you any more. Violet! Snowdrop! Pansy! Don’t stay down there any longer. We little birds are lonesome without you.’ Yes, birds, we are coming, and that right soon; for it is quite time the spring work was a-doing; and as old Goody Grass says, if some of us do not spring up, there will be no spring at all.

“Ah, how charming to breathe fresh air, and to be in the light! Why, I feel all alive, all astir! This warm sunshine thrills me through and through. ’Twas very dismal down there; but how light and cheerful it is up above! And here are all our old neighbors; come to spend the summer, I hope. Dear Violet, I’m so glad to see you! When did you come up?”

“Only just this moment, Pansy. When the birds began to call, I felt that we ought to start immediately. It is really very pleasant to be awakened by music; pleasant, too, to meet old friends once more. And, oh, how good it is to be alive! I have just your feelings, and cannot keep myself quiet. What is the charm that works upon us so?”

“I believe,” said Pansy, “that the great shining sun up there has something to do with it, in a way we don’t understand.—Ah! Neighbor Snowdrop, how do you do? No doubt, being so early a riser, you were one of the very first upon the ground.”

“Why, yes,” said Snowdrop, “I do make a practice of coming early. It seems as if the birds should have some one to welcome them back: it must be hard work singing to bare ground, after what they’ve been used to at the South. And, besides, my dreams were so unpleasant, that I was really glad to shake them off. Probably I slept too near the surface; for the terrible uproar above ground disturbed me, even in my sleep. I dreamed that a mighty giant was striding about, shaking the world to pieces; that he stamped upon the flowers; and was so cruel to the trees as to make them groan dreadfully. Once I half awaked, and shuddered, and said to myself, ‘Oh! what can be going on overhead?’ then fell asleep again, and dreamed that the whole beautiful earth was covered with something white and cold, and that a voice said, ‘Go up through the snow!’ to which I answered, ‘Oh! I’m afraid to go alone.’

“When I awoke, the voice seemed still saying, ‘Go up!’ Then I remembered the birds, and came, but came trembling; for the cold white snow was truly here, and I feared that dreadful giant might be real also. My good friends, did you have no bad dreams? and were you not disturbed by the tumult?”

“Not at all,” said Pansy. “When our mother told us the good Summer who loved us had gone, and that there was a dreadful old Winter coming, who would growl and pinch and bite, and that we’d better keep our heads under cover, then I went to sleep, and slept soundly. I haven’t heard any thing of all this rowdedow you say has been going on overhead, but, on the contrary, have had very charming dreams. I dreamed of being in a place where the sky was made up of the most beautiful colors,—purple, yellow, pale gold, and straw-color; and there were purple and yellow rainbows reaching down from the sky to me. At last I awoke, and heard the birds calling. Wasn’t that pretty? Now, little Violet, what did you dream?”

“In my dreams,” said the Violet, “the sky was all over blue,—a deep, beautiful blue. And I can’t tell you how it was,—the dream was a strange one,—but, while it lasted, this blue seemed to fall upon me,—to fall gently, as the dew falls; and with the blue came a delightful perfume. It was a very sweet dream.”

“Now I slept here quite accidentally,” said a young Sunflower, starting up; “but I, too, had my dreams. I dreamed of seeing something round and bright and glorious moving across the sky,—something which I so worshipped, so longed to be like, that, wherever it went, I never failed to turn towards it; and, in return for my worship, this glorious object sent me down floods of its golden light.”

“As for me,” said a Damask Rose-Bush, “I haven’t been to bed at all, but have slept standing; and in my dreams the sky was the color of the east just before sunrise, and every object seemed bathed in its lovely light. There was a fragrance, too, in the air about me, and whispers, very faint whispers, which sounded like this,—‘Love, love, love!’ and there were little winged boys hovering around.”

“Now I,” said the Woodbine, “slept leaning against the house, and my dreams were chiefly of climbing. Nothing would satisfy me but getting higher. And really the dream seems to have meant something. I have strange sensations: I feel active, restless. What has got into me, I wonder. It must be the sap. Well, here I go!”

* * * * *

The other dreams seemed to have meant something too: for the Snowdrop bore a flower the color of snow,—a pale, trembling blossom, that looked as if it were afraid old Winter would come back, and have a grab at it yet; and the Pansy’s flower was of the wondrous hues she dreamed of,—purple, yellow, and straw-color; the Violet’s was blue, and shed around it a delicious perfume, like that which in her dream came down with the blue from the heavens.

The Sunflower grew up very tall, and produced a flower which always turned to the sun, from the time of his rising in the east to his setting in the west, and thus drew into itself such floods of golden light, that at last this devoted flower came to resemble somewhat the sun it worshipped.

The buds of the Damask Rose were used by lovers when they wished to tell their love in the most beautiful way; and no doubt they and those who received them heard whispers in the air like those the Rose-Bush dreamed of; and if they did not see the little winged boys,—why, they might have been there, for all that.

As for the Woodbine, it climbed till the house-top was reached, and, at last accounts, was still creeping up the roof.

THE LITTLE PULLWINGER’S DREAM.

“You must know, children,” said uncle Joe, “that I have taken great pains to collect dreams. Whenever strange ones or funny ones are told me, I write them down in this ‘dream-book.’ Some of them would make you laugh till the tears ran out of your eyes. It is really curious what singular things do come to us in dreams,—such wonders! such jumbles! such sillinesses! and yet they all seem right enough when we are dreaming them.

“Now, there was little Barnabas Springer, who dreamed he was ploughing with an ox on the sea-shore, (of all places in the world to be ploughing!) and that the ox made a stifled, ‘rumble-grumble’ sound in its throat several times. He dreamed, that, when they reached the end of the furrow, he saw standing there a tall lady, whose head—now mind this—was set on in such a way that her face came over her right shoulder; and that this tall lady spoke to him in a loud voice, like a person scolding,—

“‘Barnabas Springer! that ox was trying to tell you to say “Gee” to him, so that he might “gee,” and not wet his feet.’

“Now, ‘gee’ means ‘turn to the right,’ and the tall lady’s face looked over her right shoulder; and, when Barnabas woke up, he was lying on his right side, with his eyes, nose, and mouth in the pillows: all of which is something to think of.

“Then there was my pet niece Susie dreamed she was her own kitten, trying to catch her own canary-bird, and that she understood every thing the bird said in his flutterings, and just what his feelings were. The poor child cried herself awake, and no wonder.

“But among the strangest of the strange ones in this collection,” said uncle Joe, opening his dream-book, “is that of Jimmy, my little nephew. He dreamed he was a fly, and that he talked with a sorrowful butterfly (which died in the dream), and with a bluebird, and also with a curious being who wore five tall black-and-white plumes,—one in his hat, and two on each shoulder. The curious being also wore a cow’s horn, standing in front of his hat; for which reason he was called the ‘Great Head-Horner.’

“He had ten ‘helpers.’ These helpers had each one plume, but no horn. Their plumes stood up straight, in the middle of the crowns of their tall hats. You will hear about them presently; for I have the whole dream written down here, just as Jimmy told it to me, dialogue-fashion.

“It happened in this way: One summer afternoon Jimmy had been doing something naughty (you will find out what it was by and by); and his mother, after talking with him, read to him a story about a boy who had done the same thing, and other things somewhat like it. She also told some true stories of cruel men whom she had known, and read several short pieces of poetry on the same subject.

“Now that I have spoken the word ‘cruel,’ I may as well say that Jimmy had been tormenting insects in ways which it would give me pain to tell, and give you pain to hear, and that the men of whom his mother spoke had been cruel to dumb animals.

“While she was talking, three or four officers in uniform passed by. I mention these things in order that you may the better account for Jimmy’s curious dream.

“Jimmy fell asleep during the reading of the verses, and dreamed of being in a strange place, where he saw close beside him a large golden-spotted butterfly. He dreamed that it was a moaning, sighing, sorrowing butterfly, and—what seemed more strange—that it spoke to him, and called him a fly; and, stranger yet, that he thought, for a time, he was a fly, though he felt like himself all the while. Even this, however, is not so strange as the rest.

“In the dream-dialogue I call Jimmy by his true name, because, as he said, he felt like himself. You will observe that the sorrowful butterfly begins.”

_Butterfly._—Speak to him; ask him not to do it, dear, pretty fly!

_Jimmy._—You are not talking to me, butterfly, are you?

_Butterfly._—Yes, fly, I am talking to you.

_Jimmy._—But I am not a fly, butterfly: I am a boy, a Jimmy.

_Butterfly._—You are a fly, and this will prove it. Can a boy hear butterfly-talk, and know the meaning of it?

_Jimmy._—But if I were a fly, butterfly, I could fly.

_Butterfly._—So you can fly, fly. Flap, and try!

“He flapped in his dream, flew up, then flew down.”

_Jimmy._—But if I were a fly, butterfly, I could crawl on the wall.

_Butterfly._—You can. Flap again, fly; fly to the wall, and crawl!

“He flapped in his dream, flew to the wall, and crawled.”

_Butterfly._—Now do you believe you are a fly?

_Jimmy._—Yes, butterfly: I am a fly, and I am a Jimmy; I am a Jimmy-fly.

_Butterfly._—Oh, oh, oh! Help, he comes!

_Jimmy._—Who comes?

_Butterfly._—The giant. Ask him not to do it, dear, good fly! See, see the sharp rod! I tremble, I quiver!

_Jimmy._—What will he do with it, butterfly?

_Butterfly._—He will run it through my body. Oh, dear! oh, dear!

_Jimmy._—Why don’t you fly away?

_Butterfly._—The window is shut. Do, _do_ speak to him!

_Jimmy._—A fly cannot talk to a giant.

_Butterfly._—But you can buzz to him. A poor butterfly cannot even buzz. See, he comes near!

_Jimmy._—That is not a giant: that is only a boy.

_Butterfly._—Oh, it is a giant! Won’t you, _won’t_ you, buzz to him?

_Jimmy._—What shall I buzz to him?

_Butterfly._—Buzz that I want to live; that I long to live.

_Jimmy._—What shall I buzz that you want to live for?

_Butterfly._—To rock in the lily-bells.

_Jimmy._—What else?

_Butterfly._—To float up and down, up and down, all the summer-day.

_Jimmy._—What else?

_Butterfly._—For the honey of the flowers.

_Jimmy._—What else?

_Butterfly._—And for their fragrance. Flower fragrance is the breath of life to a butterfly. Buzz all this to him. Quick! Ah, too late, too late! Oh, oh, oh!

_Jimmy._—Will it take a great while to die?

_Butterfly._—A very great while. (Gasps for breath.) Oh, oh, dear! Cruel, cruel, cruel giant!

“The Jimmy-fly flies up to the ‘giant’s’ ear, and tries to buzz ‘Cruel, cruel, cruel!’

“A great hand strikes him off. He gets lost in the air; and when, after a long time, he finds his way back, the golden-spotted butterfly is almost dead. It takes no notice of any thing around, but murmurs, faintly and more faintly, of ‘clover, bees, honey, perfume, roses, mossy banks, lily-bells, dewdrops, humming-birds,’ and so passes away in a pleasant butterfly vision.

“The Jimmy-fly flies up again, and buzzes in the giant’s ear, as well as he can, ‘Cruel, cruel, cruel!’

“The window is opened, and he is driven out. He flies to a tree near by, where sits a bluebird. The bird appears frightened, and-utters cries of distress.”

_Jimmy._—Bluebird, what troubles you so?

_Bluebird._—There’s a gun below. It will kill me! Oh, if I could only live!

_Jimmy._—It is strange. The butterfly wished the very same thing. Now, what do you want to live for, bluebird?

_Bluebird._—Why, to sing with the other birds, and to swing on the boughs; to take care of my little birdies, and to spread my wings, and fly away and away over the treetops; also to go South with the summer. Oh, but we birds have rare sport then! Have you heard of the sunny South? Do you know that we go where the orange-trees bloom? We find no frost there, but sunshine always, and flowers, and a mild air. And then the fun of going all together! We sing, we fly races in the sky, we follow the leader. Ah! a bird’s life is a happy life, and—

“A gun has been fired.

“The Jimmy-fly flies down, and finds the bird on the ground, gasping for breath. Its bright eyes are closed. Its head fails on its breast. One little flutter of the wings,—_dead_! The bluebird will never sing again, nor swing on the boughs, nor fly away and away over the treetops, nor go South with the summer.

“And here enters into the dream the curious being spoken of just now, namely, the ‘Great Head-Horner,’ or captain, with his five tall black-and-white plumes,—one in his hat, and two on each shoulder. Behind him, in single file, all keeping step, march his ten helpers.”

_Captain_ (in a loud voice).—Halt! Here is the boy.—Boy, step this way!

_Jimmy._—I am not—a boy. I am—a—a—fly.

_Captain._—Ha, ha! He says he is a fly. Ha, ha! Pass it along.

“It passes along the line, each helper saying to the next,—

“‘Ha, ha! He says he is a fly. Ha, ha! Pass it along.’”

_Captain._—If he is a fly, why doesn’t he fly?

“All repeat this, one after the other, ‘If he is a fly, why doesn’t he fly?’ till the noise of so many voices sounds like the bumbling of hoarse bumble-bees.

“Jimmy flaps his arms, but cannot rise.

“A laugh passes along the line.”

_Captain._—Which are you now,—fly, or boy?

_Jimmy._—I think—I am—a boy.

_Captain._—He thinks he is a boy: _we_ think he is a pullwinger-boy. Wheel about, my helpers.—Boy, these are my first company of helpers.—Wheel about, my helpers; form a hollow square around the boy; take him to the great “Bondenquol;” let him see what is being done there!

“Jimmy is now taken to the great ‘Bondenquol.’”

_Captain._—First company of helpers, begin your work: bring in the abusers of dumb animals. (The ten helpers march out.)

_Captain._—Helper No. 1, enter!

“Enter helper No. 1, driving before him a red-faced man who is harnessed to a wagon in which is a load too heavy for him to draw. Wagon moves slowly: man pulls with all his might. Helper No. 1 strikes him with a whip: man cries out, tries to move faster, but cannot. Another blow: he groans, quivers, bends himself nearly double.

“Meantime other helpers have come in at other doors, each driving a man who is trying to draw a load heavy beyond his strength. The helpers use their whips. The men suffer pain: some of them are lame; some blind; some are half starved, and so weak that their joints tremble. The great ‘Bondenquol’ resounds with shrieks and groans.”

_Jimmy_ (to the captain).—What are they hurting those men for?

_Captain._—To let them know how whip-blows feel. Those are the cruel: they abuse dumb animals. Do you know, that, were horses not dumb, whoever passes along the street would hear shrieks and groans worse than those you are now hearing? But come. You are waited for.—Boy-punishers, roll the wall.

“The heavy wall moves along on rollers. The noise of this, together with fright at the prospect of being punished, woke Jimmy from his sleep. A wagon loaded heavily with coal was passing the house. It was this which waked him. It came to a steep place in the road. The horses could scarcely move. The driver swore at them. He took his whip, and laid on the blows,—terribly hard blows!

“Jimmy ran out.

“‘Oh, don’t, Mr. Driver!’ he cried. ‘Please stop whipping the poor horses! You don’t know how it hurts!’

“The driver could hardly tell what to make of it to be spoken to in that way, and by a boy.

“‘And do _you_ know?’ he asked.

“‘Yes, yes!’ cried Jimmy. ‘I dreamed all about it.’

“The driver seemed more puzzled than ever. He stood still, looked down at Jimmy; and at last said he,—

“‘Well, to please you, I’ll stop.”

HOW THE BARN CAME FROM JORULLO.

TOLD BY THE FAMILY STORY-TELLER.

It was not a new story; indeed, it was hardly a story at all: but the children liked the family story-teller’s way of telling it and of acting it out. The family story-teller made a big matter of that barn-moving. He put in words enough to describe an earthquake, or a West-India hurricane, or a volcano pouring out red-hot melted lava, or a steamboat bursting her boiler and blowing herself up. He also wanted plenty of room in which to fling his arms about, and shake his fists, and make other kinds of motions, so as to act out what was done, and especially what the oxen-drivers did.

“Oh, yes!” the family story-teller said, taking a leap into the middle of the floor: “I’ll tell how the barn came from Jorullo. All keep quiet. The story is going to begin now. One morning the barrel-man—a collector of barrels—went forth from his house by the back-door; and there he stood with folded arms (like this), looking at all his carts, wheelbarrows, barrels, haystacks, garden-tools, and many other things. And he said, ‘Behold, I have carts, wheelbarrows, barrels, haystacks, garden-tools, and many other things, but have no roof whereunder to shelter them.’ And he said, ‘Behold, in Jorullo there stands a barn,—a brown barn, a right goodly barn. This barn will I buy. And I will get oxen (horned oxen with their drivers) and horses, and moving-men with their stout wheels, and timbers, and great iron chains; and the timbers shall be raised upon the wheels, and the barn shall be raised upon the timbers, and the oxen shall draw, and the wheels shall roll, and the barn shall come from Jorullo; and in that will I shelter my carts, barrels, wheelbarrows, haystacks, garden-tools, and many other things.’

“And he sent round about into all the country; and there came twenty oxen, and horses besides, with their drivers, from South Stromriffe and Smithersville and Mt. Lob and Trilerbite Four Corners; and the Paxhamborough moving-men came with their stout wheels, and their timbers, and their great iron chains; and the timbers were raised upon the wheels, and the barn was raised upon the timbers. Then the drivers began to shout, and flourish their whips (like this): ‘_Get up there!_’ ‘_Gee!_’ ‘_Haw!_’ ‘_Come along!_’ ‘_Hi, hi, hi!_’ ‘_What’re ye ’bout?_’ The horses and oxen began to draw with mighty strength; the wheels began to roll; and the barn began to move from Jorullo.

“And first they came to a telegraph-wire, and there they stopped. ‘Take down that telegraph-wire!’ shouted the head moving-man, ‘and let it stay down till the barn passes by.’ Then out came the ladders, and up climbed the men, and down came the telegraph-wire.”

“And _out jumped a cat_!” cried one of the little boys.

“Yes, out jumped a cat from the barn-window, with a kitten in her mouth. She thought ’twas time to move into some other building. She went back to Jorullo and left her kitten, and came back and jumped in at the same window just as they were going to start again. ‘Ready!’ cried the head moving-man. Then the drivers began to shout, and flourish their whips (like this): ‘_Come along here!_’ ‘_Haw!_’ ‘_Whoa!_’ ‘_Go on!_’ ‘_Gee!_’ ‘_Get up there!_’ ‘_What ye ’bout there?_’ The horses and oxen began to draw with mighty strength; the wheels began to roll; and the barn moved on.

“And next they came to a railroad-crossing, and there they stopped. Across the way was a signboard; and on the signboard were capital letters, ‘LOOK OUT FOR THE ENGINE WHEN THE BELL RINGS.’ ‘Take down that signboard!’ shouted the head moving-man, ‘and let it stay down while the barn passes by.’ Then out came the ladders, and up climbed the men, and down came the signboard.”

“And _out jumped the cat again_!” cried the same little boy.

“To be sure, out jumped the cat again, with another kitten in her mouth, and ran. She had farther to go this time; and, before she got back, the head moving-man called out, ‘Ready!’ Then the drivers began to shout, and flourish their whips (like this): ‘_Move along now!_’ ‘_What are ye doin’ there!_’ ‘_Hi, hi!_’ ‘_Get up!_’ ‘_Go on!_’ ‘_Haw!_’ ‘_Haw!_’ ‘_Keep a-movin’!_’ The horses and oxen began to draw with mighty strength; the wheels began to roll; and the barn moved on.

“And next they came to a great oak-tree, whose limbs overhung the road, and there they stopped. ‘Chop off a few of those limbs!’ shouted the head moving-man. Then out came the ladders, and up went the men with their hatchets; and _crack_, _snap_! went the limbs. Soon ran somebody from a little house a long distance off, bawling away, and shaking his fists, ‘What you doin’ up there? Stop chopping; stop chopping! I’ll make you pay damages!’—‘All right! I’ll pay damages!’ cried the head moving-man; and just then the cat came back, and jumped in at the window. The drivers began to shout, and flourish their whips (like this): ‘_Come up!_’ ‘_Gee!_’ ‘_Gee, I say!_’ ‘_Come along!_’ ‘_Whoa!_’ ‘_Back!_’ ‘_Get up now!_’ ‘_Hawbuck!_’ ‘_Mind there!_’ ‘_Hi, hi, hi!_’ ‘_Now go ’long!_’ The horses and oxen began to draw with mighty strength; the wheels began to roll; and the barn moved on.

“At home, Hepsy Bacon and another woman, Sophrony by name, sat at the chamber-window, peeling potatoes. They had come to help the barrel-man’s wife get the dinner ready; for the Paxhamborough moving-men, and all the oxen-drivers from South Stromriffe and Smithersville and Mt. Lob and Trilerbite Four Corners, must have their dinners. And the barrel-man had said, ‘Watch out from the chamber-windows; and, when the barn comes in sight, _put your potatoes in the pot_.’

“Three great dinner-kettles were set boiling on the stove, besides tea-kettles, frying-pans, stew-pans, sauce-pans, coffee-pots, tea-pots, and many other things.

“At two o’clock the great brown barn came in sight, with all the horses and oxen and drivers, and a crowd of men and boys and dogs following on. Then ran Hepsy Bacon and Sophrony, and dropped into the pot their peeled potatoes, along with the meat, cabbages, parsnips, squashes, turnips, carrots, rye-dumplings, and many other things; and the table was set with plates, spoons, cups, saucers, forks, knives, napkins, tumblers, and many other things.

“At half-past two the great brown barn came rolling past the windows, with all the twenty oxen (twenty horned oxen) and horses (horses with tails), and crowds of men, and drivers cracking their whips, and boys shouting, and dogs barking, and a grand hurrah all round. The barrel-man’s lame horse whinnied and ran; the cow mooed and ran; the geese squawked and ran; the turkeys gobbled and ran; the old pig grunted and ran; the little pigs squeaked and ran; the hens cackled and ran; the two cats mewed and ran, and one jumped up on the house; the dogs barked; while Hepsy Bacon and Sophrony, with their long necks out the window, waved white handkerchiefs. When the barn stopped, out leaped the cat that came from Jorullo, with another kitten in her mouth. The boys hooted her,—‘Meauw, meauw!—’st, ’st!—quish! pr—rr—rr—rr—rr!’—and back she went again. Somebody chased her in, and found she had one kitten there besides the one in her mouth.

“When every thing was ready, the men came in to dinner,—tall men, short men, fat men, lean men, dark men, light men, young men, old men, curly-haired men, straight-haired men, men with shaggy coats, men with butchers’ frocks, men with bruised hands, men with bad coughs, men with pains in their shoulders, all tired, and all very hungry; for they had eaten nothing since early in the morning, and had walked all the way from their homes in South Stromriffe, Smithersville, Mt. Lob, Paxhamborough, and Trilerbite Four Corners. The barrel-man’s wife and Hepsy Bacon filled up the dishes as fast as they were emptied; and Sophrony, with the coffee-pot in one hand and the teapot in the other, asked each one, ‘Tea, or coffee, sir?’

“One poor sickly man who was troubled with a very bad cough was asked to stay all night, so that he needn’t take anymore cold; and Hepsy Bacon and Sophrony made for him in the frying-pan a cough-medicine of molasses and castor-oil and pepper and sugar and butter and vinegar, and many other things.

“Next morning there were four kittens in the barn. That cat must have gone all the way back to Jorullo in the night, and brought those others, one at a time.

“And now, children,” said the family story-teller in conclusion, “stand around—little and big, old and young—while I show you the beautiful, graphic, and animated drawings which the barrel-man made himself on the very day that the barn came down from Jorullo.”

A POTATO STORY WHICH BEGINS WITH A BEAN-POLE.

The family story-teller, being asked to tell one of his “ten-minute” stories, said, “If it will content you, I will tell you a Potato story which begins with a Bean-Pole.

“Once there was a Bean-Pole which was stuck into the ground by the side of a Potato-Hill.

“‘Dear me!’ cried a young Cabbage, growing near, ‘what a stiff, poky thing that is! and of no earthly use, standing there doing nothing.’

“But very soon a Scarlet-Bean, running about in search of something to climb upon, found this same Bean-Pole.

“‘All right!’ cried the happy little Bean. ‘You are the very thing I want. Now I’ll begin my summer’s work.’

“‘Well, to be sure!’ cried young Cabbage. ‘Every thing comes to some use at last. But who would have thought it!’

“The Scarlet-Bean was a spry little thing. She ran up that pole just as easy! Being of a lively turn, she began, at last, to make fun of the Potato-Plant.

“‘How sober you are!’ said she. ‘Why don’t you try to brighten up, and look more blooming?’

“The poor Potato-Plant, though doing her best, could only show a few pale blooms.

“‘You don’t mean to call those things flowers?’ cried the frisky Bean. ‘Just look at my beautiful blossoms!’ And she held up a spray of bright scarlet.

“The Potato-Plant kept quiet.

“‘What stupid, useless things those Potato-Plants are!’ said young Cabbage; ‘and how much room they take up!’

“Summer passed. The Bean began to fill her pods, and proud enough she was of them.

“‘Why don’t you do something?’ she cried to the Potato-Plant down below. ‘Only see what I’ve done! There’s a summer’s work for you!’ And, sure enough, she had hung her full pods all up and down the pole.

“‘Yes, why don’t you do something?’ cried Cabbage. ‘Your summer is gone, and nothing done. Can’t you come to a head? Any thing but idleness!’

“The Potato-Plant still kept quiet: but when digging-time came, and the hill was opened, and the pile of ‘Long Reds’ appeared, her neighbors could hardly believe their senses.

“‘Dear me! what a surprise!’ cried the Bean. ‘So we can’t always tell by appearances.’

“‘I declare!’ cried Cabbage. ‘Then you were doing something all that time! But how could I know? There’s that Bean: she hung her pods up high, so that everybody could see. Well, well, well! After this, I’ll always say of a plant which makes but little show, “Wait: _potatoes inside there_, maybe.”’

“There are a great many Scarlet-Beans among the people I know,” said the family story-teller, “and some Potato-Plants too, and perhaps a few young Cabbage-Heads.”

THE WAY MRS. MACGARRET’S TEA-PARTY WAS BROKEN UP.

Mrs. MacGarret was an attic cat, and lived in the garret; but Mrs. O’Cellary lived in the cellar. Mrs. MacGarret had three children, and Mrs. O’Cellary had three children. Mr. MacGarret had gone away, and so had Mr. O’Cellary. Mrs. MacGarret’s children were all of an age, and Mrs. O’Cellary’s children were all of an age. The names of the MacGarret children were Spotty MacGarret, Tabby MacGarret, and Tilly MacGarret. The O’Cellary children were named, the first, Dinah O’Cellary, after its mother; the second, Thomas O’Cellary, after its father; while the third was called Bengal Tiger O’Cellary, after one of their grand-relations.

One day Mrs. MacGarret said to her children, “My dears, I have decided to have company this afternoon. I shall invite Mrs. O’Cellary and her family. Behave well, or you will be punished. At supper eat the poorest, and give the best to the company. Be very quiet, and never interrupt. That you may look your best, I shall put up your tails in curl-papers. Now, don’t cry if I pull some.” And they shut their mouths tight, and never uttered a sound.

“Good children!” said Mrs. MacGarret. “Now you may go down and invite the company.”

“What, in curl-papers!” cried Spotty. “Oh, not in curl-papers!” cried Tabby. “You can’t mean in curl-papers!” cried Tilly.

“True,” said their mother: “you can’t go in curl-papers. I’ll step down myself.”

“But we’re afraid to stay alone!” cried Spotty and Tabby and Tilly. “Don’t go!” “Don’t go!” “Don’t go!” And each held up her fore-paw, and begged and prayed and wept.

“Poor darlings!” said Mrs. MacGarret: “how can I leave you? Now, if we were but good friends with Mr. Rat, how easily he could do the errand! for yonder rat-hole leads to the cellar straight.”

“Can’t you speak down to her?” asked Spotty. “I think you might speak down,” said Tabby. “Do speak down!” cried Tilly.

“To be sure,” said Mrs. MacGarret: “of course I can. ’Tis often done in hotels. What smart children you are!”

Then Mrs. MacGarret spoke down, and invited Mrs. O’Cellary and her family to tea at seven o’clock; and Mrs. O’Cellary answered up that they would be most happy.

At quarter before seven the curl-papers were taken out.

“Charming!” cried Mrs. MacGarret. “All stand in a row, that I may see. Charming! Don’t move!”

At seven o’clock Mrs. O’Cellary arrived with all her children, and two young cousins who were paying her a visit: and, as it was a grand occasion, supper was laid out on a black leather trunk bordered with brass nails; and nothing could have been more elegant.

Now, this was what Mrs. MacGarret set before them for supper: first, mouse; second, scraps; third, codfish dried; fourth, squash in the rind, brought up from the kitchen in the dead of the night. Mrs. MacGarret lamented that she was out of milk; but their saucer was licked dry at dinner, and the milkman had not been round. But the company all said they seldom took milk, and that every thing was lovely. The talk was very entertaining, being mostly about the boldness of a mouse, who would peep out of his hole at them, but who popped back again the minute they stirred. They also talked much of the bad boy. A new little whip had been given him, and travelling through the passages was really quite unsafe.

“We were in great danger coming up, I assure you,” said Mrs. O’Cellary.

“Very great danger, ma’am,” said Thomas.

“We ran for our lives, ma’am,” said Bengal T.

“Be not so forward to speak in older company,” whispered Mrs. O’Cellary.

After supper a neighbor dropped in from the next attic, bringing her children; and there was a very merry party; and all would have gone well but for Tabby MacGarret, who did not do the right thing. This is how it happened.

All the mothers sat down on a spinning-wheel to have a cosey talk, and the children had great sport with the funny little mouse. First he would peep out of his hole, and wink at them; and, when they all jumped for him, he would dodge back again; and the next thing they knew his little black eyes would be peeping out from another hole. Then they would jump again. But he always popped back just in time.

“Now do come out, mousey, and play with us,” they said.

Said mousey, “I like this better.”

Now, Mrs. MacGarret had given the children all that was left at supper to divide among themselves. They chose one to divide it; and Tabby MacGarret was the one chosen. Pretty soon Spotty saw her clap something under her paw in a very private way; and, guessing that all was not right, she stepped softly round behind, and just bit the end of her tail. This made Tabby lift up her paw, and then—they all saw! She had taken the best piece for herself!

Such a time as there was! “O shame!” “Shame!” “Shame!” cried Spotty and Tommy and Dinah; and “Shame!” cried Bengal Tiger O’Cellary. And they all hissed and sputtered; and Tabby ran down the garret-stairs with all the others after her, and all the mothers behind. The bad boy was standing in the passage with his new whip; and he snapped it and cracked it till they were frightened out of their wits, and scampered to hide where best they could.

And it was in this way that Mrs. MacGarret’s tea party was broken up.

GETTING UP IN THE WORLD.

“Mother, do butterflies remember when they were worms and caterpillars?” inquired Natty.

“What puzzling questions you children do ask!” said his mother. “The idea never entered my head. You must ask your uncle Joe.”

“Uncle Joe,” asked Natty, again, “do butterflies remember when they were worms and caterpillars?”

“Why, no!” said uncle Joe. “I should say not, if all stories are true.”

“What stories do you mean, uncle Joe?”

“I am thinking now,” said uncle Joe, “of a story I once heard, which perhaps you will like to hear. Yes? Then I will tell it.

“A poor tired worm was one day crawling slowly along the ground, seeking for food; while above her happy insects darted through the air, their bright wings flashing in the sunlight.

“‘Alas!’ sighed the worm, ‘what a toilsome life is ours! We move only by great labor, and, even with that, can never travel far. Kept near the damp ground, liable at any moment to be crushed, toiling up and down rough stalks, eating tough leaves,—for it is only now and then we find a flower,—oh, it is truly a wearisome life!

“‘Yet none seem to pity our sorrows. Those proud insects flitting overhead,—the miller, the butterfly, the dragon-fly, the golden bumble-bee,—they never notice us. Oh, but life goes well with them! Flying is so easy! Wherever they wish to be, they have only to spread their wings, and the summer wind bears them on. Dressed gayly, at home with all the flowers, living on sweets, seeing fine sights, hearing all that is to be heard, what care they for us poor plodders? Selfish creatures, they think only of themselves. Now, for my part, if I had wings, and could move about so easily, I would think sometimes of the poor worms down below who cannot fly. I would bring them now and then a sip of honey, or a taste of something nice from the flower-gardens far away. I would come down and speak a kind word; tell them something good to hear; in short, be friendly. Oh, if one only had wings, how much good one might do! But these selfish creatures never think of that.’

“Not long afterward, this complaining worm was changed into a butterfly. Spreading her light wings, she passed the happy hours in flitting from field to field, rocking in the flower-cups, idling about where the sunshine was brightest, sipping where the honey was sweetest. Oh! a right gay butterfly was she, and no summer day ever seemed too long.

“One morning, while resting upon an opening rosebud, she saw below her a couple of worms, making their slow way over the ground.

“‘Poor creatures!’ she said. ‘Life goes hard with them. Dull things, how little they know! It must be stupid enough down there. No doubt their lives could be brightened if proper means were taken. Some few pleasures or comforts might be given them; and I hope this will be done. If I were not so busy—but really I haven’t a moment to spare. To-day there is a rose-party, and all the butterflies are going there. To-morrow the sweet-pea party comes off, and all the butterflies are going there. Next day the grasshoppers give a grand hop, and at sundown there will be a serenade by the crickets. Every hour is occupied. The bumble-bees and hornets are getting up a concert. Then there is a new flower blossoming in a garden far away, and all are flying to see it. The two rich butterflies—Lady Golden-Spot and Madame Royal-Purple—have arrived in great state, and they will expect great attentions. The bees have had a lucky summer, and, in honor of these new arrivals, have promised to give a grand honey-festival, at which the queen herself will preside. The wasps are on the police; and they will, I trust, keep out the vulgar. The gnats and mosquitoes have formed a military company, called the Flying Militia, which will serve, if needed. It is to be hoped that no low creatures, like the two creeping along below, will intrude themselves. Poor things! If I had the time, I really would try to do something for them; but every sunny day is taken up, and stirring out in the wet is not to be thought of.

“‘Besides, one meets with so much that is not pleasant in mixing with low people. Their homes are not always cleanly: I might soil my wings. And, if once taken notice of, they will always expect to be. Why make them dissatisfied? They are well enough off as they are. Perhaps, after all, it is my duty not to meddle with them: in fact, I have no doubt of it.

“‘Here comes Miss Gossamer. Welcome, Miss Gossamer! All ready for the rose-party? How sweetly you look! Wait one moment till I have washed my face in this dew-drop: the sun has nearly dried it up while I have been pitying those mean worms below there. It is folly, I know, to thus waste the time; but my feelings are so tender! I actually thought of calling! What would Lady Golden-Spot think, or Madame Royal-Purple? Have you seen them pass? They are sure to be there. Do you suppose they will take notice of us? If they don’t, I shall be perfectly wretched. Come, dear Miss Gossamer, one more sip, and then away!’”

THE STORY OF FLORINDA.

A party of small cousins were spending New-Year’s at grandma Bowen’s; and, while waiting for tea, they begged her to tell them the story of Florinda,—some because they had never heard it, others because they had. The old lady was more than willing. “Yes,” said she, “we Bowens ought to keep alive the memory of Florinda, the faithful hired girl; and I will tell you the story just as your grandfather told it to me, and just as his grandfather told it to him, and as _his_ grandfather told it to _him_. Your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather remembered Nathaniel Bowen very well; and _his_ father—Nathaniel Bowen’s father, the first Mr. Bowen of all—came over from England in the bark ‘Jasper’ more than two hundred years ago. He brought his family with him, and they settled in this very place where we live now. The country was covered with woods then. Indians, buffaloes, deer, wolves, and foxes had it pretty much to themselves.

“But, if I am going to tell the story,” continued the old lady, suddenly raising her voice, and sitting straight in her chair, “there is something to be done first, so that we may seem to see just how they lived in those days. For instance, carry out the furniture, and the stove, pictures, carpet (_make believe_, you know); then tear the house down, leaving only this one room, and let this one room pass for that one-roomed hut. But knock away lath and plaster: the walls must be made of logs; the same overhead. Cut square holes for windows, and hang wooden shutters inside (one of the square holes may have four small panes of glass); cover the others with oiled paper (there was no glass made in this country then). Let a stone chimney run up through the logs overhead at one end; and at the other end a ladder, leading to a loft: the fireplace must be very large. And now, to furnish the hut, bring in a bed, a meal-chest, a large, heavy clothes-chest, a spinning-wheel, a bench or two, and a few chairs. Can you _see_ that hut now?”

“And the _stumps_!” cried some of the listeners, who knew the whole story.

“Yes, dears,” said the old lady, looking pleased, “and some stumps of trees, sawed off short, for the children to sit on.

“There was one house beside in the valley, and only one, and that belonged to a man named Moore. It stood nearly an eighth of a mile off in that direction” (pointing). “Four miles off in _that_ direction” (pointing the opposite way), “at the Point, called then Mackerel Point, there were some dozen or twenty houses, a store, and a mill. There was no road between here and the Point: there was only a blind pathway through the woods. Those woods reached hundreds and hundreds of miles.

“When Mr. Bowen had lived in this country a little more than a year, his wife died, leaving three children,—Philip, not quite eleven years old; Nathaniel, six; and Polly, three: and to take care of these children, and to keep his house, he hired a young girl named Florinda LeShore, who came over from England as servant in some family. This Florinda was born in France; but she had spent the greater part of her life in England. She was only fifteen years old,—rather young to take the care of a family. There were so few whites in this country then, however, that Mr. Bowen was glad to get even a girl fifteen years old. I suppose he little thought she would be the means of saving the lives of two of his children.

“Florinda hired out to Mr. Bowen some time in November. On the 29th of December, as Mr. Bowen and Mr. Moore were saddling their horses to go to the store for provisions, word came that they must set out immediately for a place about fifteen miles off, called Dermott’s Crossing, to consult with other settlers as to what should be done to defend themselves against the Indians; for there were reports that in some neighborhoods the Indians were doing mischief.

“So the two men turned their horses’ heads in the direction of Dermott’s Crossing. It was woods most of the way; but they knew the general direction of the bridle-path, and thought they should make good time, and be back by noon of the next day. Florinda baked corn-meal into thin cakes, and put the cakes and some slices of bacon into the saddle-bags along with corn for the horses. The men were to return by way of the store, and bring provisions.

“Two days and two nights passed, and they had neither come, nor sent any message. By that time there was not much left to eat in either house. Florinda and the children slept both nights at Mrs. Moore’s. Mr. Bowen said it would be better for them to sleep there. He did not fear any actual danger (the Indians in this neighborhood had never been troublesome at all): still, in case any thing should happen, Mrs. Moore’s house was much the safer of the two. It was built of heavy timbers; and its doors were oak, studded with spikes. The Indians never attacked a strong house like that, especially if it were guarded by a white man with fire-arms. Mrs. Moore was a feeble woman. She had two little children; and her brother was then living with her,—a young man named David Palmer, at that time confined in doors on account of having frozen his feet badly.

“On the second morning, Philip begged Florinda to let him take his hand-sled and go to the store and get some meal and some bacon for themselves and Mrs. Moore. Florinda felt loath to let him go. It was a long distance: there was snow in the woods, and no track. But Philip said that he wasn’t afraid: the oldest boy ought to take care of the family. And at last Florinda said he might go: indeed, there seemed no other way; for, unless he did, they might all starve, especially if there should come on a heavy snow-storm.