Chapter I

ARGARET was washing the dishes; making a vigorous clash and spatter, and setting down the cups so hard that had they been anything but the good solid iron-stone which they were, they would certainly have suffered under the treatment.

Margaret was noisy in all things, but to-day the usual vigor of movement was manifestly increased by ill humor. There was an ominous setting of a pair of firm lips, and all her face was in a frown. The knives and forks, when their turn came, seemed to increase her ire. She rattled and flung them about with such reckless disregard of consequences that there landed, presently, a lovely tricolored globe of foam in the centre of John’s arithmetic, over which he was at this moment gloomily bending.

“Look here,” he said, half fiercely, half comically, “quit that, will you? This thing is dry enough, I know; but it will take more than soap suds to dampen it.”

“Take your book out of my way, then. What do you s’pose _she_ would say to its being on the table and you bending double over it?”

“She may say just exactly what she pleases. It will stay on the table until I get ready to take it off.”

“O yes! you’re very brave until you hear her coming, and then you are as meek as Moses.”

“Now I say, Mag, that’s mean in you, when you know well enough that all I’m after is to try to keep the peace.”

“Peace! there isn’t enough of that article left in this house to make it worth while to try to save it. I’m sick to death of the whole thing.” And the knives bumped about against a plate in the dish-pan with such force that the plate rebelled and flew into three pieces in its rage.

“There goes another dish!” exclaimed West, from the window corner where he was busily whittling; “that makes the seventeenth this week, doesn’t it? Mag, you are awful, and no mistake.”

Then Margaret’s face flamed and her angry words burst their bounds: “I wish you would just mind your own business, Weston Moore! You think because you are eighteen months and seven days older than I, that you can order me around like a slave.”

“Whew! bless my eyes! How you do blaze out on a fellow! Who thought of ordering you around? I should as soon think of ordering a cyclone. I was only moralizing on the sweet and amiable mood you were in, and the nice comfortable times we have in this house.”

“Well, you may let my moods alone if you please; and my dishes too. I’ve a right to break them all if I choose, for all you. I’d rather blaze up in a rage, than be an everlasting tease and torment, like you.”

“Father’ll have a word to say about the dishes, I fancy, my lady; you might now and then think of him: he isn’t made of gold, I s’pose you know, and dishes cost money.”

“I do think of him a great deal oftener than you do, you great lazy, whittling, whistling boy! If it wasn’t for him I’d run away, and be rid of her and you, and all the other nuisances, dishes and all.”

She paused in her clatter long enough to dash away two or three great tears which were plashing down her hot red cheeks.

“As to that,” said the whittler, as he slowly closed his jack-knife, “perhaps you better seriously consider it. I’m not sure but it would be more comfortable for all concerned; especially the dishes.” Then he spied the tears; and seizing upon the dish towel which had been angrily flung across the back of a chair, he rushed toward his sister, exclaiming: “Here, let me wipe away those briny drops.”

Margaret’s hands were in the dishwater again, but she drew them forth all dripping with the greasy suds, and brought the right one with a resounding slap, about the curly head of the mocking boy.

Just how he would have received it will not be known; for the sudden jerk backwards of the left arm, came against the full dish-pan, already set too near the edge of the table, and over it went, deluging table, floor, and Margaret’s dress not only, but pouring a greasy flood over the rows of bread tins carefully covered, and set in a sheltered corner for the dough to rise.

Margaret’s exclamation of dismay was suddenly checked, and the angry color flamed back into her eyes as the door leading into the hall opened, and a woman appeared on the scene—a tall, pale woman in a plain, dark, close-fitting calico dress, without a collar, and with dark, almost black hair combed straight back from a plain face. She gave a swift glance at the confusion, and took in the situation.

“Quarreling again! I might have known it. Were you three ever together in your lives, without it? John, let the book alone until it dries; if it had not been on the kitchen table where I told you never to have it, the dishwater wouldn’t have ruined it. And the bread too! I declare! This is too bad!” These last words came in detached sentences as the extent of the misfortune grew upon her.

A quick snatch of the carefully tucked cloth, now holding little pools of dishwater, a comprehension of the utter ruin of the many loaves of bread, and she turned upon the wrathful girl:

“Margaret, go upstairs this minute, and don’t venture down again until you are called. I’m sure I wish you need never come.”

“You can’t begin to wish it as I do.” This was Margaret’s last bitter word as she shot out of the door.

John stood dolefully surveying his soaking arithmetic, and his great sheet of now ruined examples, carefully worked out. The woman was already tucking up her calico dress ready for work, but she had a message for him.

“Now _you_ go _some_where; don’t let me see you until dinner time. And mind, I shall tell your father you have disobeyed me again.”

As for Weston the tease, he had slipped swiftly and silently from the room with the entrance of the mother.

Yes, she was their mother. At least, she was their father’s wife, though none of the three had ever called her by the name of mother. A curious position she held in the home, bound by solemn pledge to do a mother’s duty by these three children, yet receiving from none of them a shred of the love, or respect, or true obedience, which the name mother ought to call forth.

Poor Mrs. Moore! I do hope you are sorry for her. Sorry for the children, are you? Well, so am I.

Indeed it is true, they every one need pity and help. The question is, Will they get what they need?

Upstairs, angry Margaret made haste to remove her much soiled dress, eyes flashing, and cheeks burning the while. Something more than the scenes we watched in the kitchen had to do with Margaret’s mood.

A green and prickly chestnut bur came whizzing into the room, landing in the middle of her bed.

It called forth an angry exclamation. Here was some more of that tormenting West’s work. She would not stand it! She made a rush for the window, but a low, merry laugh stopped her. This was not West’s laugh.

“Well,” said Hester Andrews, from under the chestnut-tree, “can you go?”

“No; of course I can’t. I should think you might know without asking. Do I ever go anywhere now days?”

“It is just too mean for anything!” declared Hester. “What reason does she give this time?”

There was a peculiar emphasis on the word “this,” which was meant to indicate that here was only one of the numberless times in which Margaret Moore had been shamefully treated, Margaret answered the tone as well as the words.

“Oh! father says he can’t have me out so late in the evening; it isn’t the thing for a little girl, and he doesn’t approve of sail boats, anyway. As if I didn’t know where all that stuff came from!”

“The idea! I declare, it’s a perfect shame. Wouldn’t you like to see your own mother keeping you at home from places, and treating you like a baby, or a slave, as she does?”

“Don’t you speak my mother’s name the same day you do _hers_,” said Margaret, with fierce voice and flashing eyes.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t wonder that you feel so,” was Hester’s soothing answer. “I’m just as sorry for you as I can be; I wonder sometimes that you don’t run away. Every one says it comes harder on you, because you are a girl: the boys can keep out of her sight. O Mag! I’m so sorry you can’t go. If _your_ mother were only here, what lovely times we could have?”

And this was the help which Margaret’s most intimate friend brought her! In point of fact, these two knew no more of what the mourned mother would have done, than did the squirrels up in the chestnut-tree. She had been lying in the cemetery for a year when Hester Andrews’ family moved into the town, and Margaret was only a busy little elf of not quite six, when she received with gleeful laughter her mother’s last kiss. What did she know how the mother would treat the thirteen-year-old girl’s longings for sail boats and evening parties?

Downstairs, Mrs. Moore left to solitude and bitter thoughts, worked with swift, skilled fingers, and set lips. Not long alone; some one came to help her—a sister, married, and living at ease in a lovely home only a few streets away; a younger sister who was sorry, so blindly and unwisely sorry for the elder’s harder lot, that she could not keep back her words of indignant sympathy.

“It’s a shame!” she said, “just a burning shame, the way you are treated by those children. The idea of your being down on your knees mopping up the musses which they have made, on purpose to vex you. If I were you, Sophia, I wouldn’t endure it another day. It is a wonder to me that their father permits such a state of things. Henry and I were speaking of it last night.”

“Their father doesn’t know the half that goes on,” Mrs. Moore said, speaking quickly in defence of her husband. “What is the use? We live in an uproar all the time, as it is. And after all, Emma, they are his children.”

“I don’t care. You are his wife. You owe something to your self respect. Henry thinks so too; he thinks it is a shame. Why do you go on the floor and clean after them? Isn’t that girl as able to mop up her dishwater as you are?”

Mrs. Moore wrung the wet, greasy cloth with a nervous grip, letting some of the soiled drops trickle down her arm, in her haste, and answered with eyes that glowed:

“To tell the truth, I would scrub the floor after her all day, for the sake of getting her out of my sight for an hour.”

And this was the help Mrs. Moore received.

THE MISSION OF A GRAY WOOLLEN SOCK.

ARIOUS exclamations greeted Nell Erwin as she entered the schoolroom and drew out her work—a coarse gray woollen sock.

It was “Fancy Friday” at Daisy Hill Seminary—something peculiar to the place. Three Fridays out of the month were spent in the customary elocutionary exercises, but the afternoon of the fourth was spent in a cosey, informal way, the girls, both day scholars and boarders, bringing their fancy work, and Madam Lane reading to them from some standard work.

At the present time she was in the midst of a translation of the Iliad, but I fear that in spite of Madam’s clear and beautiful rendition, “Jove, the cloud-gatherer,” “Juno, the ox-eyed,” and the other Homeric worthies, were less fascinating than “rick-rack” and “Kensington stitches.”

On this particular Friday, there was a brilliant display of fancy work. Helen Grant was embroidering a pair of slippers—splendid purple and yellow pansies; Lulu Fletcher a sofa pillow—a cluster of lilies on cardinal satin; Katie Lee was at work on an elaborate stand-spread; Mary Morse was crocheting a fleecy white shawl; Carrie Evans was making an applique bracket; a dozen or so girls were deep in the delightful mysteries of “crazy quilts”; and—but, dear me! I have not the time to enumerate all the beautiful things! Seats and desks were covered with a dazzling array of silks and worsteds.

So you see it was no wonder that Nell’s humble gray sock created such a sensation. However, though she blushed a little at the pleasantries of her mates, she took her seat and courageously set to work.

“Why, Nell! I thought you were going to bring that lovely foot-rest!” said Helen Grant. “You told me yesterday that you were going to finish it to-day. Have you it already done?”

“O no!”

“Then why under the sun didn’t you bring it instead of this solemn old sock!”

Nell blushed still redder, then she said hesitatingly, “Well, you see, girls, I _did_ think I’d bring the foot-rest. In fact I had it all done up in my work-bag, and then I remembered that I would need a pair of scissors. So I went to mother’s work-basket, and, girls, in rummaging around there, I got an idea!”

“An idea in a work-basket! How very remarkable! Now I shall know where to go when I am obliged to write a composition and can’t think of anything to say!” said Maude Hasket.

“What I mean is this,” said Nell earnestly; “I found that work-basket full—yes, full to overflowing—with things to mend, make and fix! There were Billy’s mittens to mend; the baby’s petticoats to be shortened; buttons to be sewed on Kitty’s apron; a patch in Tom’s jacket, and all for my dear little mother’s one pair of tired hands! And all to be done this afternoon or evening! I tell you, girls, I felt ashamed when I looked at my own nonsensical piece of fancywork! And then and there I made up my mind to do something towards lessening the contents of that basket. So I grabbed up this sock, for I remembered hearing mother say only a few days ago that father needed a new pair. I’m not much of a hand at knitting, but I’ll do all I can this afternoon, working on the leg, and when I get home to-night, mother’ll show me about fixing the heel.”

There was a short silence.

Presently Maude said, “Well, girls, I dare say the most of us have mothers whose work-baskets are in the condition of the one Nell has described! I’ve no doubt that I can find one in my own home! There are six of us children—four younger than myself. It would take one woman’s time to keep our little Ben in anything like decent order! He is a veritable Peggotty for button-bursting! And sister Flo is almost as bad! She’s a perfect Tomboy! Tears regular barn-door holes in her apron!”

“Well, it’s pretty much the same at our house,” observed Maggie Gray. “Of course there are not so many of us, but still mother’s sewing, mending and darning about all the time.”

“And mine too!” said Laura Harris. “It was only last evening that I heard father ask mother if she wouldn’t go to the lecture with him, and she said she would like to very much, but couldn’t go, because she had to patch Jack’s trousers so that he could wear them to school the next day. And I sat there like an unfeeling wretch, working on a silly, good-for-nothing lamp-mat! And mother did look so tired and wistful, poor darling! Father seemed disappointed too. Now I might have offered to do the patching, and so given her a chance to go. It would have done her so much good!”

“Well,” said Maude briskly, “I guess we’re all in the same fix! We have been going on and doing our own sweet wills, and I for one propose that we make a change! Suppose we all agree to go to our respective mother’s mending-basket and get work from it for our next Fancy Friday?”

“All right! We will!” chimed the others.

Further conversation on the subject was put an end to by the entrance of Madam, Iliad in hand, and for the next hour, the girls were regaled by the account of Achilles dragging the body of Hector nine times around the walls of Troy.

“Four!” chimed the great clock in the hall.

“Young ladies, you are dismissed,” said Madam, closing her book. “Next time, I think we will have a little prose instead of poetry. It will be a change, you know. Good afternoon!”

“Prose instead of poetry,” Maude repeated as they put on their wraps. “And we’ll have the prose of sewing instead of its poetry, won’t we?”

And Nell answered by a wave of the gray woollen sock. “You dear old sock!” she whispered as she rolled it up, “how I did hate to bring you this afternoon, for I was so afraid the girls would make piles of fun! But it all turned out nicely, after all, and you had a mission, didn’t you, you humble thing!”

/* M. E. BRUSH. */

POEM FOR RECITATION.

MISS MARION’S THANKSGIVING DAY.

/*
TWO big houses broad and high,
Outlined against an autumn sky.

Set on two hills, the houses stand,
One grim and cheerless, one fair and grand;

One teems with life throughout its walls,
One silent in all its stately halls.

One is of wood, and one of stone,
Each set in broad acres all its own.

One is the almshouse, gaunt and gray,
One the beautiful home of Miss Marion Ray.

Miss Marion Ray—her kith and kin
All to their rest have entered in.

Now she dwells with servants in lonely state,
In the mansion behind the iron gate.

A lady tall, and sad, and fair,
With a quiet face and a gentle air—

A sweet, worn face, and hair of gray,
Has the lonely lady, Marion Ray.

Sometimes in the night, when all is still,
She has looked at the lights on the other hill,

And wondered much if ’twere sadder fate
To live in the house with the wooden gate.

But something happened, the other day,
That has stirred the heart of Miss Marion Ray:

A mother went out of the almshouse door,
Went out of it to go back no more;

Went out to be buried under the leaves,
While the wind of November moans and grieves,

And left a wee blossom with eyes of brown,
To the tender mercies of all the town.

Miss Marion has thought of the baby’s fate
Till love and pity have grown so great.

She has opened her Bible there to see:
“As ye did it to Mine, ye did it to Me;”

And so, on the morn of Thanksgiving Day
In the early morn, when the sky is gray,

At the almshouse door a carriage stands,
With shining horses in gleaming bands;

And into the eyes of the little child,
The sad-eyed lady looked and smiled.

On the silken shoulder the glittering head,
Then—“I love ’oo, lady,” the baby said,

Gathered close to the hungry heart,
The child and the lady never to part—

Carried home to the mansion grand,
The proudest and richest in all the land.

Never a pauper, the lovely child
Into whose face the lady smiled.

“Done to the least it is done to Me.”
What grander honor on earth could be?

Oh! a sweet and joyous Thanksgiving Day
Has come to the home of Miss Marion Ray.

EMILY BAKER SMALLE.
*/

THEY “TWO AGREED.”

ISS RAINES was very earnest that day. Deb and Dora noticed as she bent over them and whispered, “Where two agree, just two, dear ones,” that her face was filled with a strange light.

They went home from Sabbath-school, wondering about that promise and why their teacher gave them such a tender look as she said “Two, remember; you are two, dear ones; haven’t you some great thing you’d like to ask of your Heavenly Father—something for Thanksgiving Day? Think now, won’t you? and then just you _two agree_ to ask Him.”

And she gave each a kiss, and went her way; they, theirs. But they turned about to catch one more sight of their “beautiful teacher.” She had turned, too, and was looking after them. She waved her hand with another kiss, and disappeared around the corner.

On they went their weary way and talked as to what they should agree to ask. They thought of a turkey and cranberries and mince pie as it used to be when papa was “right” and had work and brought home money, and mamma bought what she liked. But a turkey and no papa there to eat it with them, or, if there, to curse, and mamma crying! that would be no Thanksgiving for them. Besides, how could they expect a turkey with no money or friends? and they two walked on together, wondering what Miss Raines _could_ mean. Then a thought struck them, and at once they stopped and their faces shone like Miss Raine’s, and there on the street they fairly leaped up and down for joy.

“What is it?” said Deb.

“And what is it, _you_?” answered Dora.

“Let’s ask Him,” said Deb.

“Let’s,” answered Dora, “but what?”

“To give us our own papa back again.”

“Agreed, Deb; and let’s begin now.”

And away they ran down, down the dirty street. Dogs barked; ragged boys laughed and hooted, but Deb and Dora were soon up the old stairs, into the little dark bedroom, on their knees.

Just one thing they plead, they two; first Deb, “Give back our papa,” then Dora, the same.

Then with radiant faces to poor mamma.

Wednesday they two went through the market.

Turkeys, chickens, ducks, by the ton. So many were buying, their eyes were hungry. But they could not buy one cent’s worth, not having even that. Still, somehow, they murmured not, nor charged God foolishly. They _knew_ there was a good time coming. They looked from the fat stalls and smiled into each other’s face.

That evening it was a bare floor at their home, an almost empty grate, little or no bread, mamma sad as usual.

But Deb and Dora laughed and chatted joyously as though they were at a king’s banquet. They had come from their knees.

Then a knock, and the door slightly opened, and a turkey, ready for the oven, looked in and a hand came after it and—dear poor papa after the hand, and mamma sobbed out something. Deb and Dora seized the turkey and cranberries, then bounded into papa’s outstretched arms. Then they danced about the room as though they were mad.

Papa had that very morning signed the pledge and found work, and there was his wages—that turkey with needful sauce and vegetables.

He was trusted for half a ton of coal. Just then the coal man rapped at the door to know where to put it.

The next day was Thanksgiving. They four went to church. They were shown into a seat near Miss Raines.

Deb and Dora whispered to her. She whispered back, “Did not I tell you so?”

That day “poor papa” asked the blessing. And so ever after.

/* REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON. */

BEING TRUE.

HE was four and he was six. She sat on the piano stool, and he stood beside her; and I, behind the curtain, heard their talk.

“I picked out the biggest one there was, and brought it on purpose for you and me.”

“But we mustn’t eat it, because mamma wouldn’t like it; you know she wouldn’t, Freddy.”

“She wouldn’t care if it didn’t hurt us, and it _wouldn’t_. Who ever heard of an apple hurting anybody? You just take a big bite, and then I will.”

“No, Freddy, I can’t, and you can’t. Mamma said if they were hard, we mustn’t.”

“That ain’t so very hard. Mamma is in a worry. Aunt Mag said it wouldn’t hurt us; she said mamma worried about things. If she doesn’t know, she can’t worry. Let’s go behind the curtain and eat it, then if mamma comes up, she won’t see us.”

“No, Freddy. God can see us behind the curtain, as well as he can in this room, and this apple is as hard as a rock. Now, Freddy, let’s be _true_.”

“Well,” said Freddy, “we will.”

/* PANSY. */

/*
_Volume 14, Number 3._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_November 20, 1886._
*/

THE PANSY.

UNCLE WILL’S JACK-KNIFE.

/*
GRANDPA sat in his big arm-chair,
At the close of a long, bright day,
Gathered closely about him
Robbie, Martie and Say.
“So you want another story!
What shall it be to-night?”
And Grandpa stroked Say’s shining head
Till it glowed in the fading light.

Chorused the sweet-voiced trio,
“Tell us something we don’t know:
Tell us something that happened
Ever so long ago.”
“Well,” said Grandpa slowly,
“I thought of something to-day,
Something that really happened,
But ’tis more for the boys than Say—

“Something about my own little boy,
Your grave good uncle Will,
He preaches to us each Sunday,
And the people all keep still.
The thing he wanted most to own,
When he was a little boy,
Was a big jack-knife, with four shining blades,
That was his dream of joy.

“And I meant to give him a beauty
For a grand birthday surprise;
I wanted to see his pleasure,
The laugh in his great blue eyes,
But I didn’t tell him, of course not,
And to get it he saw no way:
Once I heard him say so sadly,
‘When I get it I’ll be gray.’

“Now there was a good old carpenter
Who lived not far away,
And Will used to go quite often,
’Mong the shavings and chips to play—
That good old man is in Heaven
This many and many a year,
But I can see him as plainly now
As, children, I see you here.

“Such a knife as my Willie wanted
Was always by his side;
Sometimes it was under the shavings—
Seemed almost in play to hide.
Now I must tell you a sad, sad tale:
One day my little Will,
When the old man went to his dinner,
Crept there so sly and still,

“And _stole_ the knife he wanted,
And carried it away
In his little inside pocket—
O sorrowful, sorrowful day!
But do you think he was happy?
Ah, no! and again, ah, no!
He could not use it or show it,
And nobody must know.

“So he grew sadder, and sadder,
My pitiful little man!
And shrank from me and his mother,
And was thin and pale and wan,
Till one day he told me the story
With many a bitter tear,
And laid the knife before me,
And sobbed on my shoulder, here.

“Then I told him he must carry it,
And tell the dear old man
How he stole it, and he was sorry.
It was hard, but he said, ‘I can.’
Then I told him his Heavenly Father,
He had sinned against Him too;
And Will asked Him to forgive him,
And I think Our Father knew.

“He says that the scent of new shavings;
Sickens him in the air,
And the sound of their rustle underfoot
_To-day_ he cannot bear.
That year his birthday present
Wasn’t a big jack-knife—
I gave him something different;
But the lesson was for life.”

Then up spoke the little girlie:
“Grandpa, ’twas some for me;
I wanted a ribbon for kitty’s neck,
And I almost took it, you see.
Kitty is white and pretty,
And the ribbon was pretty and blue,
I wanted to do it, Grandpa,
And nobody ever knew.”
*/

/*
“But then, you see you didn’t,
My darling little Say;
You triumphed over temptation,
And that is the very way.
Now, little folks, ’tis our bed-time:
Robbie and Martie, may you
Both grow to be like uncle Will,
As noble and as true.”
E. B. S.
*/

THE PEACHES.

I ONCE read a story that I want to tell the Pansies. A man brought some fine luscious peaches to his four boys and their mother. They had never seen any peaches before. That evening, he said, “Well, how did you like the peaches?” The elder answered, “Father, it was lovely; I kept the stone, and shall have a tree for myself some day.”

The father was well pleased with his boy’s thoughtfulness.

Then the youngest said: “I ate mine and threw away the stone; mother gave me half of hers.”

Another spoke up: “I picked up the stone my brother threw away, and ate the kernel. I sold my peach, and will buy a dozen with the money when I go to town.”

“And you, Edmund?” the father asked.

“I took mine to George, who is ill with fever. I laid it on his bed, and came away.”

“Now, who has done the best?” inquired the father.

“Brother Edmund,” they all exclaimed, and his mother embraced him with tears in her eyes.

From this fable you may learn many valuable lessons. The first is Prudence and Carefulness; for, if we all planted stones and trees, we should, like the Spaniards, have a great abundance of the good things of life; and we may likewise learn a lesson of unselfishness, and also be taught to have a kindly consideration for the sick, to whom little attentions are very gratifying.

Each one of us could do something to cheer the many sick-rooms if we faithfully endeavored so to do, and always kept in mind the motto of “The Pansy Society.” Let us take the story of “The Peaches” for our lesson.

/* RINGWOOD. */

MONTEAGLE.

BY PANSY.