Chapter II: Part 2

At this moment, the wall of the room opened, and the beautiful fairy Benevolence entered. She related to the happy mother all Mark's adventures, and the courage, patience, and goodness which he had shown. Then she told the brave boy that he might make use of the presents given to him by the little old man and the giant.

Mark opened the snuff box, and out sprang a number of workmen about the size of bees, who set to work with such good will and diligence, that in an hour they had built a pretty little house, and furnished it completely, not forgetting a book case filled with excellent books, some fine engravings, and a few paintings on the walls. Mark was especially delighted at this, for he wanted of all things to learn to read and write; and the pictures charmed him even more, for he had a natural taste for such things.

Then he opened the thistle. Dear me! It was crammed full of clothes for himself and his mother, with sheets, tablecloths, and napkins, all of fine linen. Was there ever anything known like it!

While they were admiring these wonders, the busy-bee-men, who had popped out of the snuff box, had prepared an excellent dinner of roast beef and pumpkin pie; and while Mark and his mother were eating it, what should march past the pretty bay window, which opened to the floor, but two fine cows, one fine horse, a great rooster, and twenty hens; turkeys, geese, and ducks; all lowing and neighing, and crowing, and cackling, and gobbling, and hissing, and quacking, enough to take your head off; but Mark and his mother and the fairy seemed to like it, for they clapped their hands and laughed so loud that--

* * * * *

"Why, Mark!" cried a cheery, laughing voice, "do you mean to sleep a week?"

Mark started up wildly and looked about him. What did it mean? He was in his own little bed, in his own little room!

"Where is the fairy Benevolence?" he said, looking perfectly bewildered.

Harry shouted with laughter. "Why, Mark, are you cracked? What has made you sleep so soundly? Father and I came here last evening, about an hour after dark, and found you fast asleep, sitting at your mother's bedside.

"'Poor, tired little chap, he has watched with his mother, till he is worn out,' said father; and he took you gently in his arms and laid you down here. Then he sat by your mother's bedside some time, to watch the effect of some famous medicine he gave her; and when she was in a pleasant sleep, he and I went home.

"But we came here this morning early, and found your mother much better, and you, you little monkey, still as sound as a top.

"I've been making your mother's room more comfortable; and Betty, mamma's maid, has brought a great basket full of all sorts of nice things for her. Come and see her; she looks real bright! she is getting well already."

Little Mark had listened, with his senses getting clearer every minute, and at last he understood, with a sigh of disappointment, that his wonderful adventures and the fairy Benevolence _were only a dream_. He was almost crying as he said, "Oh, Mr. Harry, if you knew what I had been dreaming, you would be sorry for me. I was so sure it was all true about the fairy Benevolence."

"So it is," laughed Harry; "only the fairy has got whiskers. Come along."

Mark suffered Harry to lead him into the other room; and then, forgetting everything and everybody, he rushed up to his mother, and bursting into tears on her neck, sobbed out, "Oh, mother! if it only could have been true, you would have been cured, and we should have been living in such a nice house! with cows, and hens, and turkeys, and all--oh! oh--!"

His mother was sitting up in the bed, and Harry's father was mixing a pleasant drink for her. Mark looked up as Harry said: "Come, Mark, don't cry so: here is a fairy who will help you, and your mother too." When the little boy saw the genial, kindly smile of the doctor, he felt comforted; and sitting down on the side of the bed, he told his wonderful dream.

It was listened to with the deepest interest; and when he had finished, the doctor patted him on the head, and said, "Never mind, my fine little fellow! if we can't give you a grand house and a snuff box full of servants, and a thistle which drops out of it all the clothes you want, I think we can cure your mother; and when she is well, we will find her something better to do than making shirts at ten cents apiece; and you shall go to school, and learn to be a great scholar; and I don't see the first thing to prevent your having a good chance to become, one of these days, the President of the United States. So hurrah!"

The kind doctor was as good as his word. The poor widow recovered rapidly under his excellent care, which did her _heart_ more good than her body, for it was both sweet and strange to receive so much kindness. Good Samaritans are very scarce nowadays.

When she was well enough to go out, she found that her rent was paid, a load of wood was piled away in the wood shed, half a barrel of flour was in the pantry, and some nice hams were hanging up. Plenty of work at good prices soon poured in. Little Mark was sent to the district school, for now he had comfortable clothes and shoes on his poor little feet; and really, as he told his mother one happy evening--"After all, dear mother, I like my _waking_ fairy Benevolence best--whiskers and all!"

* * * * *

A few evenings after the last story had been read, the little mother drew from her pocket quite a thick roll of paper, saying: "Here is something from Aunt Fanny, with a proposal that will surprise you."

"What _can_ it be?" cried the children with eagerness.

"She wants you to act a play."

"_We_ act a play! Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"Yes; she has partly written, partly translated a little play, and here is her letter with it."

"MY DARLING CHILDREN;

"Don't you wish, you could get on faster than ever
with your mittens? Well, here, is a plan that came
into my head a few days ago, and I have been
arranging it very industriously.

"You must go right to work to learn the parts in
this little play. I do not approve of some parts
of it, because a deceit was practised to bring one
of the boys to a sense of his selfish and
undutiful conduct. This was 'doing evil that good
may come,' and was very wrong. If your mother were
to punish you by deceiving you, you would doubt
her ever after; and for a child to doubt a parent
is, I should think, one of the most miserable
feelings in the world.

"With this very important exception, the little
play is pretty good. And this is what your mother
and I will do: When you are perfect in your parts,
we will have a private rehearsal. Then we will
invite about fifty of our friends to witness this
elegant entertainment, for which they must pay
_one pair of mittens apiece_ for the brave
soldiers. We will give them one week to make them,
which will be abundance of time; and I have no
doubt but what they will think it very cheap pay
for so much pleasure."

A long pause took place when the letter was finished; the children were so astonished, as well as delighted, at the new work prepared for them.

"Well!" cried Harry at last, "what _would_ George say, if he knew the monkeys and crabs would turn actors next?"

"He would think it splendid," answered Anna. "You know the poor soldiers, who were made prisoners at that dreadful Bull Run battle, acted plays in their prisons, to keep themselves from dying of home-sickness."

"I want to act," said Willie.

"I want to act," echoed Bennie.

"Well," said the Little Mother, "let us see how many characters there are."

They all crowded round while she unrolled the paper. "Here is the mother, Mrs. Langdon. You must take that, Anna; and Harry will be Edward, your son."

"If he is the bad boy," said Anna, laughing, "I'll give him a thrashing every morning before breakfast."

"That will give you an excellent appetite," returned Harry; "for I shall run away, and you will have to catch me, first."

"Clara must be Mary Brown, Edward's nurse."

"Oh, dear little fellow," said Clara, patting Harry, "old nursey will buy you a stick of candy."

"Ago-o-o," said Harry, like a little baby, which set them all laughing.

"Johnny shall be Mr. Sherwood, the tutor, because he is naturally such a sober little fellow," said the mother; "and we will invite Gus Averill, Harry's friend, to be Morris, because he and Harry are of the same age and height, and that will be excellent. Minnie can do Jane, the maid, very nicely; and Willie and Bennie can be Patrick and Andrew, the waiter and gardener."

So it was all settled; and the next morning the children began to study their parts--the larger ones assisting the little ones--so that they learned as quickly as the best. In the evening they repeated what they knew to their mother, working at the same time on their mittens, and were just as busy and happy as good and industrious children always are.

It was really surprising how soon they became perfect, and the rehearsal went off with complete success. Harry and Anna kept their faces very well; and only Bennie and Willie grinned a little when they first came on the stage, which was the back parlor.

The company were to sit in the front parlor, and some curtains were hung up between that and the back room, and made to draw quickly aside, and drop just as quickly.

The invitations had been sent out, and were every one accepted. This is one of them:

"An Entertainment for the Benefit
OF THE SOLDIERS:
AT THE LITTLE MOTHER'S HOUSE,
_Christmas Eve, Dec. 24, 1861_.
ADMISSION, ONE PAIR OF MITTENS."

The great evening came; and the children, ready dressed for their parts, were in a tremendous flutter. Even the little wee ones were to do something. They were stationed at the parlor door with baskets, and charged not to let a soul come in, unless the pair of mittens were paid into one of the baskets. I warrant you they took very good care of that, for their eyes were as sharp as needles; and the moment the door was opened they would all cry "Mitten money! mitten money! pay your mitten money!" which made the company laugh so they could hardly get the "mitten money" out of their pockets.

After they had all arrived, and were comfortably seated, each with a beautifully written play bill, with the names of the actors upon it, the entertainment began.

MASTER EDWARD'S TRIAL;

OR, DO AS YOU WOULD BE DONE BY.

A LITTLE PLAY.

CHARACTERS.

MRS. LANGDON. By Anna.

EDWARD, her son, thirteen years of age. By Harry.

MARY BROWN, his nurse. By Clara.

MORRIS, Mary's son, of the same age as Edward. By
Master Augustus Averill, a friend of Harry's.

MR. SHERWOOD, Edward's tutor. By Johnnie.

JANE, his mother's maid. By Minnie.

PATRICK, the waiter. By Willie.

ANDREW, the gardener. By Bennie.

SCENE--_A fine House in the Country. A Parlor opening into the Garden._

SCENE I.--MRS. LANGDON _and_ MR. SHERWOOD.

MR. SHERWOOD. No, madam; I have come to bid you adieu. It is impossible. I cannot, I will not stay here another day.

MRS. LANGDON. But, Mr. Sherwood, listen a moment!

MR. S. No! I have made up my mind! I am tired of losing my time and pains with Edward!

MRS. L. Please have a little patience. Try him once more.

MR. S. He has already abused my patience beyond all bounds. He is wilful, ungrateful, idle, and stupid; and all the blame will fall on me, whom you have employed to educate him.

MRS. L. Can you believe that I would blame you, who have been so kind to my son? Remember, that when my husband died, you promised me to devote yourself to my fatherless boy. Will you leave your work undone? He has talents, a good heart--

MR. S. No, madam; you deceive yourself. His heart is bad; his character unamiable; he is proud, vain, selfish, wicked.

MRS. L. What! wicked!

MR. S. Yes, madam. Does he not treat your servants as if they were slaves? Does not everybody hate him?

MRS. L. Oh, how severe you are! My dear son is young: he has pride, to be sure; and that very pride once caused you to say that you would make a great and good man of him.

MR. S. Yes, I said so; and perhaps I might have succeeded without you--

MRS. L. Without me! Why, what can you mean?

MR. S. Do you wish me to be frank with you?

MRS. L. Certainly. I shall feel obliged to you.

MR. S. Well; it is you who spoil the effect of all my lessons. It is you who spoil Edward. Excuse me, but I must say it.

MRS. L. I, Mr. Sherwood! I confess I love him above all other earthly possessions; but that is surely excusable. He is the image of a husband taken away from me in the first year of our marriage. You remember my grief was so excessive that I could not nourish my poor child; and by the advice and entreaties of my relatives and physician, I consented that he should be taken into the country by my humble, faithful friend, Mary Brown, who nursed him for eighteen months with her own child, while I was sent to the West Indies, and afterward to Europe, to recover my health. Edward is all I have.

MR. S. If you love him so much, send him to boarding school.

MRS. L. Impossible! I cannot part with him. But I will put him entirely under your control. Only stay, and you shall govern him just as you like.

SCENE II.--_Enter_ PATRICK.

MRS. L. Patrick, where is my son?

PATRICK. I don't know, ma'am.

MRS. L. What? You don't know?

PATRICK. No, ma'am. After taking his lessons this morning, he made me dress him three times. Yes, ma'am, three times! and by way of paying me for my trouble, he hit me a blow on the side of my head, and crying, "Take that, old bog-trotter"--he ran off laughing; and five minutes after that, when I was talking with Andrew on the edge of the hill at the back of the house, he came suddenly up behind and upset us both. My back is all but cracked.

[_Rubs his back._

MR. S. You see how he treats your servants!

MRS. L. Well! but he did it laughing. It was only his fun, dear little fellow! Patrick, go find him, and bring him here.

PATRICK. And suppose, ma'am, he won't come?

MRS. L. Tell him his _mother_ wants him.

SCENE III.--_Enter_ ANDREW.

PATRICK (_going out, to Andrew_). Where am I to find him? Have you seen him?

ANDREW. Seen who?

PATRICK. Master Ned.

ANDREW. Yes, I have seen him; I see a great deal too much of him; he has just chased me out of the garden with a hay fork.

PATRICK. Is he there now?

ANDREW. Oh yes; he tied an old hen fast by the leg to the fence, and is shooting at her with his bow and arrows.

MRS. L. What a boy! how thoughtless! Patrick, go and get him.

[_He goes out._

SCENE IV.--_Enter_ JANE.

ANDREW (_twisting his hat about, and standing first on one leg, then on the other_). Mrs. Langdon--

MRS. L. Well, Andrew, what is it?

ANDREW. I am your gardener, ma'am; am I not?

MRS. L. Yes, Andrew.

ANDREW. I have always tried to give you satisfaction?

MRS. L. Certainly. You have been very faithful.

ANDREW. You have fed me well, paid me well, and, what is far better, you are good and kind to me, which I like more than money, because the one you owe me, and the other you give me of your own free will.

MRS. L. Well, Andrew--

ANDREW. Well, Mrs. Langdon, I am going to leave you against my own desire. You are an excellent mistress, and I don't want to leave you, but it must be--

MRS. L. Andrew, I am surprised! Why do you wish to leave me? Have you anything to complain of? Have I done you any injustice?

ANDREW. Oh no, ma'am! You are all kindness and goodness; neither proud, scolding, nor brutal; _but everybody is not like you_.

MRS. L. Do the other servants impose upon you?

ANDREW. Oh dear, no, ma'am! they are good and honest.

MRS. L. What do you complain of, then?

ANDREW. Why, ma'am, since I have begun, I will go on. Every man who respects himself, takes a pride in his work. If he is a gardener, he likes to hear people say, "There is a capital garden! Those vegetable beds are very nicely kept!" Well, it makes me mad to see your money and my work all wasted and destroyed.

MRS. L. But how?

ANDREW. That's just it. I know how, and you don't.

MRS. L. Will you tell me?

ANDREW. Well, it's Master Ned.

MRS. L. Master Ned?

ANDREW. Yes, ma'am. He is a perfect little Satan; he keeps me running after him, till I am out of breath, and perfectly hoarse with talking.

MRS. L. Why! What has he done?

ANDREW. The same he does every day: ten ground moles, fifteen chickens, twenty pigs, would do less injury in a year than he does in one day. He upsets the planks, tears up the walks, breaks the windows of the hot beds, tramples on the flowers, breaks down the pear trees, plays the mischief in the vegetable garden, and runs off with my tools. I can't stop him; and when I say, "Master Ned, you must not hinder me so in my work; if you want to turn double somersets, go and do it in your dear mamma's parlor; go and plague Mr. Sherwood, or Patrick, or, still better, torment Jane, and leave me to plant my cabbages." Do you know how he answers? By cracking me over the shoulders with his switch, and crying out, "Look out, old potato top, or I'll tumble you into the pond." I might as well ask the river to run up hill. And look here, ma'am, see this picture (_shows picture_) he drew of me, watering the garden in a thunder storm, as if I ever did such a thing! or looked like that, either!

MR. S. In a short time, no one will be able to live with him.

MRS. L. Dear me! It is nothing but his high spirits and love of mischief! But I own you are not unreasonable, Andrew. I don't want my son to tease you, much less ill-treat you. I will forbid him, before you, from going in the garden.

ANDREW. Good! Only do that, and I will give him my finest flowers, and my best fruits, if he will only keep away.

MRS. L. (_sighing_). I seem to have made twenty excuses for my son in ten minutes; but you shall be satisfied.

JANE. Mrs. Langdon, I must also speak to you about Master Ned.

MRS. L. Well.

JANE. This morning he opened the cage door and let your canary fly away, and twisted poor Poll's neck because she said, "Bad boy!"

MRS. L. Oh! oh! my parrot's neck!

JANE. Yes, ma'am.

MR. S. Now, madam, this is not thoughtlessness: it is a case of actual badness.

JANE. Yes, and he does something as bad every day.

ANDREW. Why, he is worse than Lucifer!

JANE. Every morning, ma'am, he overturns your toilet table, spills the cologne water, upsets your work box, makes your finest letter paper into boats, and puts the kitten to sleep in the crown of your best bonnet; and then, when I beg him to behave, he calls me an old cat, and a buzzard, and a red-headed crab.

MRS. L. Why have you not told me this before?

JANE. Why, ma'am, I have; but it has always ended by his being excused and I scolded.

MRS. L. Stay here. You shall see if I excuse him! He might change his clothes ten times, pull up a plant or two, pick a few flowers, or even trouble you at your work. I don't see anything so very dreadful in all that. But to twist my parrot's neck! Oh!--

SCENE V.--_Enter_ PATRICK.

MRS. L. Well, Patrick--

PATRICK (_rubbing his legs and making wry faces_). He is coming, ma'am--

MRS. L. What's the matter?

PATRICK. Master Ned has been breaking a stick over my legs.

MRS. L. (_very angry_). The child's a demon! I am outrageous! I am furious!

MR. S. Control yourself, madam! do not fly so suddenly from extreme indulgence to severity; do not correct a child when you are in a passion.

MRS. L. You may be right, sir, but I shall punish him as he deserves.

ANDREW. Please don't beat him, ma'am. Here he comes.

SCENE VI.--_Enter_ EDWARD, _who runs up to his mother, and is about to kiss her_.

EDWARD. Were you asking for me, mamma? dear, pretty mamma!

MRS. L. Stand back, sir! I don't kiss a bad boy!

EDWARD. A bad boy! Why, mamma, what have I done?

MRS. L. Do you dare to pretend that you do not know? Look at Andrew, Patrick, and Jane!

EDWARD. I see them. Have they been complaining of me?

MRS. L. Yes, and I am astonished at what they tell me.

EDWARD. The mean things! Mamma, they--

MRS. L. Take care, sir! Don't add lying to your other crimes.

EDWARD (_looking angry_). But what do they say I have done? You scamp of a turnip top, Andrew! is it you who are trying to rob me of my mother's love? Such a good boy as I am, too!

ANDREW. You a good boy! about as much as the old gray donkey is a robin redbreast. No! you are a nuisance, and ought to live up in the air in a balloon by yourself. You have ruined my garden; and whenever I beg you to stop, you answer me with your switch over my legs.

EDWARD. Oh, mamma, that is too cruel! I only wish to make you a bouquet, when Andrew comes up, yelling like a tiger, "Don't touch those violets! Let that pansy alone! Stop! you shan't take a rose!" Well, what can I do? So I dug up a little plot, pulling out a few vegetables, so as to raise some flowers for you myself. Then Andrew screams out, "What have you done? You have pulled out all my onions!" Then I take another place, and old Sourcrout bawls, "The beets are planted there." I declare it's too bad! I wish to cultivate the earth, because Mr. Sherwood says the most respectable men in the world are farmers; and Andrew, mad as fury, comes and drives me away. Suppose I do spoil some of his stupid cabbages; if I could present you with a flower raised by my own hand, it would be worth all his cabbage heads, and his own too.

MRS. L. The darling! How he loves me! Andrew, you are a brute!

ANDREW. Thank you, ma'am. That's what I call justice.

MRS. L. My dear son was only seeking to gratify me, and you did very wrong to hinder him. Dear child! he was willing to work like a farmer to please me.

ANDREW. I'm dumb! If you wish it, he may scratch up the whole garden, and empty it into the duck pond; he may break down fifty trees a day; he may have a mass meeting of the dogs, pigs, chickens, ducks, turkeys, and the old gray donkey, in the best flower beds; and end by inviting Farmer Green's bull Sampson to dance a hornpipe through the glass into the conservatory. Nothing now will astonish me.

MRS. L. That will do. My son, I forgive your capers in the garden, but I have a more serious charge against you. How can you excuse yourself for letting my canary fly away? and above all, why did you twist my poor Poll's neck?

EDWARD. Well, mamma, you would have done the same. I did open the door of the canary's cage. He was poking his poor little bill through the bars, and I was so sorry for him! I thought he wanted to go to his mother, who, perhaps, might be perched up in the tree opposite, and so I gave him his liberty. Mr. Sherwood has often told me that kindness to animals is one of the finest virtues.

MRS. L. Oh! was twisting my parrot's neck another proof of your kindness? What had the poor bird done to you?

EDWARD. Nothing to me, mamma; but the wicked little squinting thing had bitten Jane's finger, when she was kindly giving him some sugar; and she cried, and seeing the tears rolling down her cheeks, I got very angry, quite in a rage. I am very sorry, but I did not think that Jane would have been the one to accuse _me_.

MRS. L. There, Jane! you are an ungrateful creature! You have tried to poison my mind against my son!

JANE. But, Mrs. Langdon--

MRS. L. Be silent! Your affair is settled. But, Edward, when Patrick came to call you, why did you break a stick over his legs?

EDWARD. It was very wrong in me, mamma; but I had just gathered some splendid roses for you: they were on the ground, and the clumsy fellow trampled upon them without seeing them. It put me in such a passion, I did whack him once or twice. I beg his pardon, mamma.

MRS. L. He should ask yours, you dear boy! I order you all to apologize to my son, or I shall discharge you. You first, Jane. My son would not for twenty gardens, or poll parrots, do a mean thing or tell a lie; he shall be respected and obeyed as I am; and those who don't like it can leave.

ANDREW (_ironically_). I beg your pardon, Master Edward, for the good switching you so kindly gave me; I beg your pardon for the damage you did to the garden; you will oblige me by continuing to tumble everything topsy-turvy, and break all the rest.

PATRICK. Forgive me, Master Edward, for all the pretty little capers you cut up.

EDWARD. Oh, certainly. Mamma, they are good sort of people, after all; and I hope you will excuse their coming to complain of me.

MRS. L. To oblige you, my dear son, I will. You see, all of you, how amiable he is. And now remember, the very first complaint he makes of _you_, I will discharge you. Leave the room.

ANDREW _to_ PATRICK (_going out_). Here's a pretty how-d'ye-do! He has made his mother believe that black is white.

SCENE VII.

MRS. L. You see, my son, though I do not wish the servants to be disrespectful to you, I require you to treat them with kindness. They are human beings like you.

EDWARD (_contemptuously_). Like _me_! I should think not.

MR. S. Yes, sir! They are not rich, to be sure, or born of a high family, nor is it likely that their heads will ever burst with the knowledge a fine, thorough education gives; but they are capable of every good and noble quality of the heart. Do you understand?

EDWARD. Yes, Mr. Sherwood.

MRS. L. Try to make everybody love you.

EDWARD. Dear mamma, I don't care for any love but yours.

MR. S. But you must care for the respect and friendship of others; which, as Addison says, "improves happiness and abates misery, by doubling our joys and dividing our griefs."

EDWARD (_sneeringly_). He talks like a book, don't he, mamma?

MRS. L. He does, indeed; and if you love me, you will profit by his advice and lessons. Perhaps you owe more to him than to me. Love him, and be grateful to him, for his constant endeavor to cultivate your virtues and talents.

EDWARD. Love him--I cannot promise that.

MRS. L. Why not, my son?

EDWARD. Because I have given all my love to my dear mamma (_kissing her_).

MRS. L. You darling! kiss me again! Ah, Mr. Sherwood! can you blame me if I almost adore him?

[_Exit_ MRS. L.

SCENE VIII.

MR. SHERWOOD. You are ungrateful, to vex and grieve a mother who loves you so dearly. If you loved her as much, you would obey her if she only held up her little finger; but it seems to me a cat-o'nine-tails flourished before you might have a very good effect.

EDWARD. I am sorry that--

MR. S. Did you take your writing lesson to-day?

EDWARD. No, sir. I don't like writing lessons. They are a perfect plague. They give me the cramp in my thumb, and kinks in my fingers.

MR. S. Essence of switch on the fingers is good for taking out kinks. Has your dancing master been here?

EDWARD. Oh yes! I love him dearly, he is so funny! He tells me comical stories, and can imitate everybody in the house. Andrew's lumbering, poking walk, Jane's prinking ways, and even you, with your long dismal face, your eyes staring at a book like a cat looking at a fish, and your solemn walk, oh, it would make you die a-laughing! His lessons always seem too short.

MR. S. What is that sticking out of your pocket?

EDWARD (_pulling it out and looking at it_). Oh! ha, ha! It's a portrait I drew of you, as you look when I don't know my lessons.

MR. S. Give it to me. (_He takes the caricature and looks at it, but shows no anger._) So you prefer to spend your time in an unamiable, contemptible occupation like this, to acquiring useful lessons.

EDWARD (_looking a little ashamed_). Well, I like to be amused. It was only a little fun. It was not meant for you to see.

MR. S. Will you give me an account of your reading to-day?

EDWARD. I--I--have not been reading, sir.

MR. S. Not reading? Why?

EDWARD. Because the book you gave me had so many long, stupid words, that I couldn't understand what it was all about, so I just pitched it out of the window.

MR. S. You call a book stupid which has such a thrilling account of the bombardment of Vera Cruz, with a fine engraving showing you the great General Scott and his brave soldiers? I wonder at you! You have a head, and so has a drum; both empty.

SCENE IX.--_Enter_ MRS. LANGDON, MARY BROWN, _and_ MORRIS, _her son_.

MRS. L. See, my son, I bring you one of your best friends--your dear old nurse Mary, and her son, who is almost your brother.

MARY (_running up to kiss him_). How do you do, dear, dear child! how handsome you are! Here's your old play-fellow, Morris; don't you remember him?

EDWARD. No!

MORRIS (_who has a nice little cream cheese wrapped up in a napkin_). I remember you. You're my dear brother Edward. See--I have brought you this cream cheese; my mother made it on purpose for you--take it--don't you know me now?

EDWARD (_who recoils, and takes twenty-five cents out of his pocket_). Here, take this, Morris.

MORRIS (_coloring indignantly_). I did not ask you for money; I don't want it; I am not a beggar.

EDWARD. But I ought to pay you for the cheese.

MORRIS (_with emotion_). Do you think I brought it to you for money? I would rather have thrown it out of the window.

MRS. L. Never mind, Morris, take the cheese home to your father; it will do him good to eat it.

MORRIS (_taking it and giving it to his mother, and saying, in a disappointed tone_), Well, take it, mother.

MARY (_looking lovingly at Edward_). How handsome he is! how he has grown! My heart warms to him.

MRS. L. Well, Edward, your kind nurse must have some lunch--go and order some.

EDWARD (_scornfully_). Isn't Patrick here?

MARY. No, my son. I asked him to give my old pony some water.

MRS. L. Go, my son, go; it will gratify me.

EDWARD. Oh! then I will fly. What shall I order?

MRS. L. The very best in the house.

MORRIS (_running after him_). Wait, Edward, I will go with you, and help you give the order. I know what my mother likes.

SCENE X.

MRS. L. Well, dear nurse, how do you get on since you have moved into your new cottage?

MARY. Oh! capitally, ma'am.

MRS. L. And your husband, big Peter--is he pleased and contented?

MARY. He is so, ma'am, as happy as a king! Daisy--that's our cow, ma'am--has just given us a beautiful calf; we have fifty chickens, twenty geese, and a good old pony who carries our vegetables to the railroad station for the New York market. I thank God, and you who have been so good to us.

MRS. L. Is big Peter industrious, and does he bring up Morris in the right way?

MARY. Oh! thank God again for all his mercies. I am not proud; but my boy is the best boy in the whole neighborhood, and so smart! he reads in the biggest books; he does the most terrible long sums, almost like a flash of lightning--his schoolmaster is astonished at his quickness; his head is just as full as it can hold of learning, and his heart is just as full of love for his father and mother. (_She falters, and the tears rush into her eyes_).

MRS. L. (_very kindly_). I am delighted to hear this; he will always be a comfort to you if he is so good now. But here he comes--he looks distressed.

SCENE XI.--MRS. LANGDON, MARY, MR. SHERWOOD, _and_ MORRIS.

MORRIS (_crying and rubbing his eyes_). Oh, dear!

MARY. What's the matter, my son? Have you had a tumble?

MORRIS. No, mother; never mind.

MARY. But tell me, what has happened?

MORRIS (_trying to lead her away_). Come, mother, let us go away.

MRS. L. Where Is Edward?

MORRIS. In the garden, ma'am. Come, mother, come; I want to go home. I don't like this place.

MRS. L. No doubt Edward is picking a basket of fruit for you.

MORRIS. I rather think not. Mother, I beg you to let us leave at once. I have my reasons.

MR. S. And I can guess them. Edward has been beating you--has he not?

MRS. L. Impossible!!!

MORRIS. Very possible, indeed. In fact, quite certain.

MRS. L. Dear me! did he hurt you much?

MORRIS. It is not the pain. I could have beaten him twice as hard if I wanted to. What hurts me most is what he said.

MRS. L. And, pray, what did he say?

MORRIS. Well, ma'am, when I wanted to hug old Beppo, he told me to take my paws from the dog's neck; that I was a country bumpkin, and a big clumsy booby, and no brother of his; and the sooner I skedaddled home the better he should be pleased.

MARY. Oh! the unnatural, wicked boy! You are right, my son; we will go home, where we are not despised. Good bye, Mrs. Langdon; Master Edward is your son; but I no longer think of him as the child I fed at my breast, and loved nearly as my own. He has struck his brother! Come, my son, you are not his equal; therefore you cannot be his friend.

MRS. L. But listen one moment, Mary.

MARY. No, ma'am; we will not stay where we have been so humbled; we are plain country folks, but we have hearts and feelings, and your son has neither. God will never bless him. Such pride has no place in heaven.

MRS. L. You are right, Mary; but perhaps Morris offended him. You have not heard both sides.

MORRIS. Yes, I offended him. I put my arms round his neck to hug him, when he threw me off; and when I said that that was not the way to treat a brother, he struck me!--more than once, too!--and said those mean, cruel things.

MARY. Oh, the little villain!

MR. S. Are your eyes still blinded, Mrs. Langdon? Can you still find excuses? Will you praise his good heart when he dares to ill-treat and strike his nurse's son?

MRS. L. (_weeping_). No, I cannot excuse him; his ingratitude and wicked conduct have nearly broken my heart. What shall I do?

MR. S. I have just thought of a plan, madam. It is a desperate remedy; but I know of nothing else in the wide world that will cure him.

MRS. L. Tell me--what is it?

MR. S. (_aside_). Nurse, send away your son for a few moments; he must not know what I am about to say.

MARY. I understand, sir. Morris, go to the stable, and see if old Whitenose has eaten all he wants.

MORRIS (_jumping up with animation_). I am to put him to the wagon, am I not? and then we are to go home. Oh, I am so very glad.

[_Exit._

SCENE XII.

MRS. L. We are alone now, Mr. Sherwood. Ah, if you knew how much I loved my son, and how unhappy I am!

MARY. I love him, too, in spite of his bad heart.

MRS. L. Well, what are you going to propose? To have him beaten black and blue? I am ready for anything.

MR. S. Don't be alarmed, madam. It is his heart that is to be put to the trial; reverses and adversity often soften the heart; when one has suffered, he knows better how to pity the deprivations and sufferings of others. Your son has never been contradicted; he may be unkind and cruel sometimes from thoughtlessness and ignorance. Now, let us put his heart to a severe trial. Let us pretend that he is Mary's son, and Morris is really your son. Push the experiment so far as to send him to live with her, until he is thoroughly humbled, and his faults disappear.

MARY (_starting up_). Oh, no! no! Your trial may all be very fine, but I will not lend myself to it. No, sir. We are not rich, but we have always been honest, and I will not have anybody suppose for a moment that I could have committed such a dishonorable, such an unnatural act. Say that Morris is not my son? If I should join in such a trick, my husband would hate and despise me, and rightly too.

MR. S. But, nurse, you forget. It is only supposing.

MARY. Suppose as much as you please, sir; even the suspicion of such a plot would blacken my name forever. Oh! would any woman deny her own child?

MRS. L. Listen to me, Mary. I love Edward as much as you do Morris. Do you think I would abandon my child or disgrace you? Far from despising you, I shall take care to let everybody know the sacrifice you are making for my son's sake; and every one will praise you for helping me, and believe that love for Edward has alone induced you to consent to this plan. If he should grow up to be a man with such selfish, cruel ways, it will break my heart. I should be in my grave before many years, killed by the misconduct of my only child. I have but one objection to what we are about to do. We shall practise a deception.

MARY (_weeping_). Oh, ma'am, and my son, my poor little Morris, he too must be deceived; he cannot be in the secret.

MRS. L. I will try to make him happy. I will treat him like my own child. Remember it is only for a week or two, perhaps only for a day or two.

MARY. Oh yes, ma'am, I know you will be kind; but suppose in that week, your fine house, your gay clothes, your grand dinners and suppers should turn his head, and ruin his loving heart for his parents. If he should return to us, despising our humble life,--oh! I can't bear it! My child would be worse than lost to me!

MRS. L. Fear nothing, Mary. Morris is an excellent boy, and not so easily spoiled. I promise you, that I will so arrange matters, that he shall be only too glad to come back to you, and be Morris again.

MARY (_coming to Mrs. L. and taking her hand_). Are you sure? will you solemnly promise this?

MRS. L. (_raising her hand_). I solemnly promise.

MARY (_still weeping_). Well, then, try your trick; but, oh! do not let it last too long.

MRS. L. (_rings the bell; the servant appears_). Call Master Edward and Morris here.

_Enter_ EDWARD _and_ MORRIS.

EDWARD. Dear mamma, do you want me?

MRS. L. I told you to order some luncheon for your nurse, and your brother.

EDWARD. Well, I thought when they were ready, they could go into the kitchen.

MRS. L. (_covering her face_). Oh! Edward--

EDWARD. What is the matter, dear mamma?

MRS. L. (_aside_). Oh! how shall I say it! (_Aloud._) Do not give me that sweet title any more.

EDWARD. What? Mamma, what do you mean?

MRS. L. Edward, I am about to tell you something that will pierce your heart; turn your dear face away from me. You--_you are not my child_.

EDWARD (_turning deadly pale_). Not your child?

MR. S. No, sir; and perhaps what seems to be so great a misfortune now coming upon you, may prove a blessing in disguise.

EDWARD (_clasping his hands convulsively together_). Not your child?

MR. S. Yes; through love and ambition for their own son, Mary and her husband were weak enough to change you for the son of Mr. Langdon; to change the name and dress of the two infants, was all that was necessary.

MRS. L. And now, Mary, repenting of this, has made me a confession. Morris is my son and you are hers.

EDWARD. You are _not_ my mother?

MRS. L. No, Edward; but take heart. I shall still love you and take care of you. Come, Morris; come, my real son, do not cry; come to me.

MORRIS (_rushing into Mary's arms_). Oh, no! no! Mr. Edward has been your son for so long; keep him, keep him. I cannot leave my mother, I must go home with her (_bursting into tears_).

MARY. But, Morris, he is my son.

MORRIS. Oh no, dear mother, he will never love you as I do! do not drive me from you! do not turn your face away! kiss me, mother, and tell me you will take me away with you. Oh, I see! I must believe it (_wringing his hands with grief_).

MRS. L. Morris, you are ungrateful! Do you not see what a splendid change this is for you?

MORRIS. Please excuse me, ma'am; I honor and respect you; but my mother, who nursed me, and has taken care of me all these years, I _love_ her. Edward is much handsomer, and far more genteel than I. Oh! keep him and let me go with my mother!--(_clasps his hands and kneels, while large tears roll down his cheeks_).

MRS. L. I order you to come with me. I _will_ have it!

MR. S. Remember, she is your mother.

MORRIS (_weeping bitterly_). Oh, how miserable I am!

[_They go out._

EDWARD (_who now thinks himself_ MORRIS, _remains_).

MARY. Well, Morris; that's your name now, you know--what's the matter? are you sorry to have me for a mother? I shall have to sleep with one eye open, to keep you out of mischief; but if you are good and work hard, though I can't give you such fine clothes, I will love you as much as Mrs. Langdon did.

EDWARD (_his lips quivering_). Oh! she is no longer my mother!

MARY. Well, am I not as good? I don't live in such a fine house, crammed full of gimcracks; but I've got a dictionary that you can study in, and big Peter, your father, shall hang a great switch over the mantelpiece, to remind you that he won't stand any nonsense, or idleness, from you. Dear me! how glad he will be to see you! Come, run with a hop, skip, and jump, to the stable, and harness up old Whitenose: it's high time we were off.

EDWARD (_sighing_). Yes, mother.

MARY. But first bid Mr. Sherwood good-by, and the rest. Thank them all for their kindness to you; wait here a moment, till I come back.

[_Exit._

MR. S. Well, Edward, or Morris I should say, you see that nothing is sure in this world: and I cannot but think that this reverse will do you good. You treated every one except your mother--as you supposed Mrs. Langdon was--with harshness, insult, and insolence: perhaps now you will learn, in the very strongest manner, the exact meaning and intention of the Golden Rule.

EDWARD. Oh, how unhappy I am! The very servants are more fortunate! They at least can live with Mrs. Langdon.

MR. S. You despised and insulted your own mother; you struck your brother; suppose he in return should--

EDWARD (_weeping_). Oh stop, I beg, Mr. Sherwood!

MR. S. You weep because you are only the son of Mary and big Peter, a poor country farmer.

EDWARD. Oh no, sir! if they are my father and mother, I will try to respect them, but to leave Mrs. Langdon--to be no longer her son--that is what is driving me to despair. Oh, I shall die! I shall die!

MR. S. Do not be so distressed. Mrs. Langdon will still be very kind to you. She will love you still.

EDWARD. If she will only think of me sometimes. Will you speak, sir, of me to her, after I am gone? Will you tell her that my greatest grief, is leaving her; that I shall never, never, never forget her? Will you do this, dear Mr. Sherwood?

MR. S. (_with agitation_). Yes, my dear boy, I will.

EDWARD. And will you forgive me for having profited so little by your lessons; and being so often disrespectful? Please forgive me, sir.

MR. S. Willingly, my child. This is a great change of fortune. An hour ago, you were rich and well born, now you are the son of a poor farmer. Try to do your part well in this altered sphere; be gentle and good, and God will not desert you. Good-by.

[_Exit._

_Enter_ JANE, _with a coarse cap and jacket_, PATRICK _following_.

JANE (_ironically_). How do you do, Mr. Morris?

PATRICK. (_ditto_). Your humble servant, Mr. Morris.

JANE. Will Mr. Morris allow me to show him his new dress?

PATRICK. Will Mr. Morris give me leave to help him on with his jacket?

JANE. Dear me! it fits him to a hair! and the cap too! My! I'm a thinking you won't be so proud after this; you can't treat _me_ any more as a servant.

PATRICK. Nor me! You won't beat a double tattoo about my shins again in a hurry!

JANE. I shan't be snubbed all day long, and told that my nose is as red as my hair, and my eyes as green as my understanding. What a comfort!

PATRICK (_cutting a caper in the air, and singing_). Hi fol-de-rol! how happy we shall all be! tide-o riddle rol-de-da!

JANE. What are you crying for, Master Morris?

EDWARD. Oh, how you treat me!

JANE. Why! Is not that the way to read the proverb? "As you have done to others, they shall do to you."

PATRICK. You don't seem to see it. We are only giving tit for tat.

EDWARD. You are right, I deserve it all! Jane, Patrick, forgive me! I beg your pardon.

JANE (_looking very sorry_). Poor child! poor little fellow!

PATRICK. After all, he has not a bad heart!

EDWARD. Please forget all the injuries I have done to you, and try not to hate me when I am gone. Will you, dear Jane? will you Patrick?

JANE (_bursting out crying_). Oh! oh! what a pity, what a pity!

PATRICK. It is dreadful!

JANE. He will have to plough and hoe in the ground!

PATRICK. And kill pigs, and drive the cow!

JANE. Why couldn't that stupid Mary hold her tongue after keeping the secret thirteen years, and settle down for life with that clumsy Edward. I hate the sight of him! I don't believe, but what it is all a trick she is trying to play off.

PATRICK. I'll bet my head, it is!

EDWARD. Don't insult my mother. She is poor, but honest. I cannot hear you accusing her.

_Enter_ ANDREW _with a basket, shovel, and rake._

ANDREW (_whistles_). Wheugh! Is it true then, that Master Edward is not Mrs. Langdon's son?

JANE. Yes, indeed! Just look at the poor boy; we are so sorry for him! and though he has teazed us a great deal, we feel for him with all our hearts.

ANDREW. Just so with me. He has put me in a rage no end of times, and when I was scolded before you all, this morning, I was as mad as a wasp with the toothache. But since I have heard of his great misfortune, I am sure, I would not bear him malice for the world; so I have come to make friends with him, before he goes away.

EDWARD. Dear Andrew! (_He weeps again._)

ANDREW. Here! I have brought you a basket and some tools; they will be useful to you in your new situation; and here is my silver watch, it goes splendidly! but you must not wear it every day, you must save it for Sundays. I give it to you, that you may remember me, and say, "My friend Andrew gave me this watch, because he loved me."

EDWARD. How kind you are to me, who have deserved it so little! Pray forgive me, and forget my bad conduct.

ANDREW. I forgive you with all my heart! and now that you are in trouble, I remember nothing. I will come to see you next Sunday evening, and bring you some nice little present. Keep up a stout heart, and a stiff upper lip; you are not used to work, and at first it will come very hard; ploughing is not quite so easy as playing cat's cradle, and backgammon in the parlor. You will have no dancing, unless a mad bull gallops after you, when, no doubt, you will practise double quickstep to perfection. All the gay pleasures you have now, will be lost to you; but there is one happiness, worth all the rest, which you can keep if you please; and _that is a clear conscience_. Serve God, love your parents, and work faithfully, and you will be sure to possess this great blessing, and consequently be happy.

EDWARD. Thank you, Andrew, for such good advice; but will you all love me when I am gone?

ALL THREE AT ONCE. Yes, indeed! Always!

EDWARD. Will you then promise, sometimes to speak kindly of me to Mrs. Langdon?

ANDREW. We promise.

JANE (_crying bitterly_). Oh! oh! this is too much. I can't bear it. Good-by, dear Master Morris.

EDWARD. Won't you kiss me, Jane?

JANE. Oh, yes, with all my heart. (_Kisses him._)

PATRICK. Please shake hands with me, Master Morris.

ANDREW. And me too.

EDWARD. Good-by, good-by; all my dear friends!

_Enter the real_ MORRIS.

EDWARD (_who has turned away and don't see him_). And this is the dress I am always to wear. I am Morris, son of Mary and big Peter! Oh, I can bear that; but to leave Mrs. Langdon--to be no longer her son--to have no right to her love--oh! oh! I shall die!

MORRIS. Good morning, brother.

EDWARD (_without turning round_). Good morning, Master Edward.

MORRIS. You seem angry with me; but you are wrong. If I have injured you, it is not my fault. _I_ did not do it of my own will; and yet I have come to beg your pardon.

EDWARD. It is not your fault.

MORRIS. But--don't you love me?

EDWARD. Why do you ask, sir?

MORRIS. I call you "_brother_," and you call me "_sir_."

EDWARD (_with effort_). Well, if you wish it, I will call you _brother_.

MORRIS. And love me like one?

EDWARD. Yes.