Chapter IV: Part 4

Flag of the seas! On ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frightened waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack
Each dying wanderer of the sea
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home,
By angel hands to valor given;
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And freedom's banner streaming o'er us?
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

We will swing the rope for Baby dear,
So jump, jump, jump!
That you will trip her up I fear,
But jump, jump, jump!
Swing it easy and low,
Steady and slow,
Or down the dear tot will go.

A crafty Fox crept forth one day
And over the hills he scampered away
In search of a fine, fat hen;
But old dog Sport was keeping guard,
When Fox leaped into our chicken yard,
And chased him back to his den.

AUNT POLLY SHEDD'S BRIGADE.

"Something about the Battle of Hampden?" Grandma took off her spectacles and wiped them reflectively "It seems to me already I have told you everything worth telling; but there!" in a sudden burst of recollection, "did I ever tell you about Aunt Polly Shedd's Brigade? That was quite an affair to those of us that belonged to it!"

"Oh, no! do tell us about it!" called out the three childish voices in chorus; and Grandma only waited to knit by the seam needle.

"I've told you all about it so many times that I don't need to describe again that dreadful morning when the British man-of-war came up the river and, dropping her anchor just opposite our little village of Hampden, sent troops ashore to take possession of the place in the King's name. So what I am going to tell you now is how, and where, we youngsters spent the three days that the British occupied our houses. I was about twelve years old at the time. I remember that it was just as we were getting up from the breakfast-table that one of our neighbors, Sol Grant, old General Grant's youngest son, rushed in without knocking, his face as white as a sheet, and his cap on hind-side before, and called out hurriedly:

"'Mr. Swett, if you love your family, for God's sake find a place of safety for 'em! The British are coming ashore--three boat-loads of 'em, armed to the teeth--and they won't spare man, woman nor child!

"Mother's face grew very pale, but she stepped quietly around, with her baby on her arm, close to where father was standing, and laid one hand on his arm, while she said, in a firm, clear voice:

"'MY place is with you, Benjamin, but we must think of some place of safety for the children. Where can they go?'

"Sol was just rushing out of the door as unceremoniously as he had rushed in, but he stopped when he heard her ask that, long enough to say:

"'I forgot to tell you that Aunt Polly Shedd will take all the children put in her charge out to Old Gubtil's; that's so out of the way they won't be disturbed, 'specially as the old man's a Tory himself.'

"Mother kissed us all round, with a smile on her face that couldn't quite hide the tears with which her dear eyes were filled, and as she hastily bundled us in whatever garment came to hand, she bade us be good children, and make Aunt Polly and the Gubtils as little trouble as possible. Then we followed father out-of-doors and into the school-house yard where a score or more of children were already gathered--still as mice for intense terror. Aunt Polly, in her big green calash, and a pillow-case of valuables under one arm, was bustling to and fro, speaking an encouraging or admonitory word, as the case might be, and wearing upon her pinched, freckled little face such a reassuring smile that I soon felt my own courage rise and, dashing back the tears that had filled my eyes a moment before, I busied myself in pinning little Sally's blanket more closely about her neck and setting the faded sunbonnet upon the tangled curls that had not yet had their customary morning's dressing.

"'Come, children,' called out Aunt Polly cheerily, 'you're all here now, and we'll start right off. I'll go ahead, an' all you little ones had best keep close to me; the bigger ones can come along behind.'

"Obedient to her order we started, following her steps across the road by the beeches, and up by the grocery store where a crowd of excited men were congregated, talking loudly with wild gesticulations, while farther down, toward the shore, we could catch glimpses, through the thick morning fog, of the blue uniforms of our militia company that had been summoned in hot haste to defend the town. As we filed past, I remember I heard one of the men on the grocery steps speak:

"'I tell you they won't leave one stone on another if they get possession of the town, and they'll impress all the able-bodied men and all the big boys into the King's service besides.'

"A cold shiver ran over me and I caught so hard at little Sally's hand that the child cried out with pain, and Aunt Polly said anxiously:

"'Hurry up, dears! 'Tain't much more'n a mile out to Gubtil's, and you'll have a good nice chance to rest after we get there.'

"Just then the martial music of a fife and drum announced the landing of the enemy's troops, and I tell you it quickened the lagging footsteps of even the youngest child into a run, and we just flew, helter-skelter, over the rough, little-used road that led to the Gubtil farm. Aunt Polly's gentle tones were unheeded. All she could do was to carry the weakest in her arms over all the worst places, with a word of cheer, now and then, to some child who was not too much frightened to heed it.

"What a haven of safety the low, unpainted old farm-house looked to us, as we rushed, pell-mell, into the dooryard, never noticing, in our own relief, the ungracious scowl with which the master and mistress of the house regarded our advent.

"Aunt Polly soon explained matters, taking care to assure the inhospitable pair that our parents would amply recompense them for the trouble and expense we must, of course, be to them.

"The farmer held a whispered consultation with his wife, and I remember well his harsh, loud tones as he came back to Aunt Polly:

"'They'll HAVE to stay, I s'pose; there don't seem no help for it now. There's pertaters in the cellar, an' they can roast an' eat what they want. I'll give 'em salt an' what milk an' brown bread they want, an' that's what they'll have to live on for the present. As for housin' 'em, the boys can sleep on the hay in the barn, an' the girls can camp down on rugs an' comforters on the kitchen floor, that's the best I can do, an' if they ain't satisfied they can go furder.'

"I remember just how he looked down at the troubled, childish faces upturned to his own, as if half hoping we might conclude to wander yet farther away from our imperilled homes; but Aunt Polly hastened to answer:

"'Oh, we'll get along nicely with milk for the little ones, and potatoes and salt for the big boys and girls, and we won't trouble you any more nor any longer than we can help, Mr. Gubtil.'

"She stood upon the door-stone beside him as she spoke, a little, bent, slightly deformed figure, with a face shrivelled and faded like a winter-russet apple in spring-time, and a dress patched and darned till one scarcely could tell what the original was like, in a striking contrast to the tall, broad-shouldered, hale old man, whose iron frame had defied the storms of more than seventy winters; but I remember how he seemed to me a mere pigmy by the side of the generous, large-hearted woman whose tones and gestures had a protectiveness, a strength born of love and pity, that reassured us trembling little fugitives in spite of our ungracious reception. We felt that Aunt Polly would take care of us, let what would come.

"The hours dragged slowly away. Aunt Polly told us that the distant firing meant that our men had not retreated without an effort to defend the village. When this firing ceased, we began to watch and hope that some message would come from our fathers and mothers. But none came. We wondered among our little selves if they all had been put to death by the British, and even the oldest among us shed some dreary tears.

"Dan Parsons, who was the biggest boy among us and of an adventurous turn, went in the gathering twilight gloom down as near the village as he dared. He came shivering back to us with such tales of vague horror that our very hearts stopped beating while we listened.

"'I crep' along under the shadder of the alders and black-berry bushes,' he began, ''til I got close ter De'con Milleses house. 'Twas as still as death 'round there, but jest as I turned the corner by the barn I see somethin' gray a-flappin' and a-flutterin' jest inside the barn door. I stopped, kind o' wonderin' what it could be, when all at once I thought I should 'a' dropped, for it came over me like a flash that it might be'--

"'What, what, Dan?' cried a score of frightened voices; and Dan replied solemnly:

"'THE OLD DEACON'S SKULP!'

"'Oh dear! oh dear!' sobbed the terrified chorus.

"Aunt Polly could do nothing with us; and little Dolly Miles, the deacon's granddaughter, burst into a series of wild lamentations that called Farmer Gubtil to the door to know the cause of the commotion.

"'What's all this hullabaloo about?' he asked crossly; and when he had heard the story he seized Dan and shook him till his teeth chattered.

"'What do you mean by tellin' such stuff an' scarin' these young ones ter death?' he demanded.

"Dan wriggled himself from his grasp and looked sulkily defiant:

"'I didn't say 'TWAS that,' he muttered. 'I said it MIGHT be, an' p'r'aps 'twas; or it might 'a' been the deacon's old mare switchin' 'er tail ter keep off the flies. I'm sure _I_ don't know which 'twas. But girls are always a-squealin' at nothin'.'

"And with this parting fling at us tearful ones, Dan turned in the direction of the barn; but I was too anxious to hear from father and mother to let him go without a word more. 'Dan,' I whispered with my hand on his arm, 'did you see or hear anything of OUR folks?'

"'No!' was the rather grump reply; 'after what I saw at the deacon's I didn't want ter ventur' furder, but from there I could see 'em lightin' fires in the village, an' I don't doubt by this time that most o' the houses is in flames.'

"With this comforting assurance Dan went off to his bed upon the haymow, and I crept back into the house and laid my tired head down upon Aunt Polly's motherly lap, where, between my sobs, I managed to tell what Dan had told me.

"Aunt Polly laid a caressing hand upon my hair: 'La, child,' said she soothingly, 'don't you worry yourself a bit over Dan Parson's stories. That boy was BORN to tell stories. The Britishers are bad enough, but they ain't heathen savages, an' if the town has surrendered, as I calc'late it has, the settlers will be treated like prisoners o' war. There won't be no sculpin' nor burnin' o' houses--no, dear. And now,' giving me a little reassuring pat, 'you're all tired out, an' ought ter be asleep. I'll make up a bed on this rug with a cushion under your head, an' my big plaid shawl over you, an' you'll sleep jest as sound as if you was ter home in your own trundle-bed.'

"Little Sally shared my rug and shawl, and Aunt Polly, gently refusing the ungracious civility of the old couple, who had offered her the use of their spare bedroom, after seeing every little, tired form made as comfortable as possible with quilts and blankets from the farmwife's stores, laid herself down upon the floor beside us, after commending herself and us to the God she loved and trusted, raised her head and spoke to us once more in her sweet, hopeful, quavering old tones:

"'Good night, dears! Go to sleep and don't be a bit afraid. I shouldn't wonder if your folks come for you in the mornin'.'

"What comfort there was in her words! And even the very little ones, who had never been away from their mothers a night before in their lives, stopped their low sobbing and nestled down to sleep, sure that God and Aunt Polly would let no harm come to them.

"The next day passed slowly and anxiously for us all. From a stray traveller Aunt Polly learned that the village was still in the hands of the British and--what was no little comfort to us--that no violence had been done to the place or its inhabitants. Some of the older boys were for venturing to return, but Aunt Polly held them back with her prudent arguments. If their parents had considered it safe for them to come home they would have sent for them. The British, she said, had been known to impress boys, as well as men, into service, and the wisest way was to keep out of their sight.

"The gentle, motherly advice prevailed, and even Dan Parsons contented himself with climbing the tallest trees in the vicinity, from which he could see the chimneys of several of the nearest houses. From these pinnacles he would call out to us at intervals:

"'The smoke comin' out o' Deacon Mileses chimly has a queer look, somethin' like burnin' feathers I shouldn't wonder a mite if them Britishers was burnin' up his furnitoor! Sam Kelly's folks hain't had a spark o' fire in their fireplace to-day. Poor critters! Mebbe there ain't nobody left ter want one.'

"With these dismal surmises, Dan managed to keep our forlorn little flock as uncomfortable as even he could wish; and as the second night drew on, I suppose the homesickness of the smaller ones must have been pitiful to see. Aunt Polly patted and cuddled the forlorn little things to the best of her ability, but it was past midnight before the last weary, sobbing baby was fairly asleep, while all night long one or another would start up terrified from some frightful dream, to be soothed into quiet by the patient motherly tenderness of their wakeful protector.

"Next morning the brow of the farmer wore an ominous frown, and his wife, as she distributed to each the scant measure of brown bread and milk remarked, grudgingly, that she should think 'twas 'bout time that her house was cleared of a crowd o' hungry, squallin' young ones; and then Mr. Gubtil took out his account-book and wrote down the name of each child, with an estimate of the amount of bread, milk and potatoes consumed by each. He did this with the audible remark that 'if folks thought he was a-feedin' an' a-housin' their young ones for nothin' they'd find themselves mightily mistaken.'

"The third morning dragged slowly away. Dinner was over and still no message for us forlorn little ones. At last Aunt Polly slowly arose from her seat upon the doorstep, with the light of a strong, courageous resolve on her little face.

"Children!' she called loudly, and after we had gathered at her call, she spoke to us with an encouraging smile:

"'I've made up my mind that 'twon't be best for us to stay here another night. We're in the way, and the little ones would be better off at home with their mothers. We know that the fightin' is all over, and I don't believe the English soldiers'll be bad enough to hurt a lot o' little helpless children, 'specially if they're under a flag o' truce.'

"Here she drew a handkerchif from her pocket. This she fastened carefully to a stick. Then putting it into the hands of my brother Ben, a well-grown lad of twelve, she went on with her directions:

"'We'll form in procession, just as we came, and you, Benjie, may march at the head with this white flag a-wavin' to let them know that we come in peace. I'll follow next with the biggest boys, and the girls, with the little ones, must keep behind where it's safest.'

"Perhaps it was the contagion of Aunt Polly's cheerful courage, but more likely it was the blessed hope of seeing home and father and mother again, that made the little folks so prompt to obey her directions. We formed ourselves in line in less time than it takes to tell about it; we elder girls took charge of the wee ones who were so rejoiced to leave the inhospitable roof of the Gubtils' that they forgot all their fears of the terrible English, and trotted along as blithely over the deserted road as if not a fear had ever terrified their childish hearts, and as if English soldiers were still simply those far-off monsters that had served as bugbears to frighten them now and then into obedience to maternal authority.

"The Gubtils watched us off without a word of encouragement or friendliness. Aunt Polly walked close behind the flag-bearer with a firm step, but I could see that she was very pale, and when we came to descend the little hill that led into the village, and when just at its foot, where then stood the grocery of old Penn Parker, we caught a glimpse of the scarlet uniforms of several soldiers loafing about--then even we children could see that her steps faltered; and I remember I thought she was fearful of some violence.

"But the next moment she was walking steadily along again as if no thought of danger or retreat had ever entered her mind; and as we came opposite the grocery and a tall man in an officer's uniform strolled out toward us with a curious, questioning look upon his handsome face, she gave the word of command to her little brigade in a voice as clear as a bell:

"'Halt, children!'

"We all stood still as mice, eying the stranger with looks in which fear and admiration were probably curiously blended, while Aunt Polly, taking the white flag from her color-bearer, advanced with a firm front to meet the foe who now, reinforced by several men, stood beside the way, evidently wondering what this queer parade was about.

"'Sir!' and Aunt Polly's voice trembled perceptibly but she waved the white flag manfully under his very nose, 'sir, I demand a safe passage for these innocent children to their different homes.'

"The officer stared, and his mouth twitched mischievously as if he had hard work to keep from laughing outright. But he was a gentleman; and when he spoke, he spoke like one.

"'My good woman,' he said kindly, 'these children are nothing to me. If you wish permission for them to go to their own homes you are welcome to it, though in what way the matter concerns me I must confess I am at a loss to imagine."

Then, and not till then, Aunt Polly broke down and sobbed aloud:

"'Run, children,' she cried as soon as she could speak; 'go home just as fast as you can scud; an' tell your folks,' she added with a gust of gratitude, 'that there's worse folks in the world than an Englishman.'

"You may be sure that we waited for no further urging; and as we flew, rather than ran, in the direction of our different homes, I heard the irrepressible burst of laughter with which the officer and his men received the grateful spinster's compliment which, to the day of her death, she loved to repeat whenever she told the thrilling story of her adventure with the English officer, 'when Hampden was took by the British in 1814;' always concluding with this candid admission:

"'An' really, now, if he'd 'a' been anybody but an Englishman, an' an inimy, I should 'a' said that I never sot eyes on a better-built, more mannerly man, in all my born days.'"

Heigho! Baby Mine!
Now where are you creeping,
With such a rapid pace
across the nursery floor?
Only out to Mamma
who'll give you royal greeting,
With coddling and petting
and kisses
galore.

CORINNE'S MUSICALE.

Inside of me says I am naughty,
But truly, I know I am not;
For if Brother Joe could see me
Right in this very same spot,
He'd let me do just
what I'm doing,
I'm very sure; that is,
perhaps. Oh dear! however do
big folks
Hold this thing
straight in their
laps?

It slips, an' it slips, an'
it slips,
You naughty old
Banjo, oh dear!

Is he coming? then what
will he do
To find me sitting up
here! Ho, ho! 'twas a mouse
--how silly
An' frightened I've actually been;
For he'd say, "If you hold it quite still,
You may take it, I'm willing, Corinne!"

I know: so now I'll begin it;
How does he go "tum-ty tum ting,"
An' make such beautiful tunes;
Too lovely for anything?
I ain't a bit 'fraid they may hear,
--The house-people 'way off below--
Me playing in Brother Joe's room,
Still I better be careful, you know.

If they didn't say 'twas amusing,
I sh'd think 'twas stupid to play,
To tug at such tiresome strings
An' make them come over this way;
But it must be delightful. I'll pull
A very fine tune at first;
Now, "tum-ty ting tw-a-n-g!"
It sound's as if something had burst!

That string must 'a' truly been cracked,
Don't you s'pose? or moth-eaten, p'raps;
'Tisn't pleasant to practice, I'm sure,
But forlorn, when anything flaps.
So I guess I have finished; hark, hark!
He really IS coming--Oh my!
Now, Banjo, I know mamma wants me,
An' so I must bid you good-by!
MARGARET SIDNEY.

Mr. Bunny was a rabbit,
Mr. Bunny was a thief!
He hopped into my garden
And stole a cabbage leaf.

He ate up all my parsnips
Without asking if he may,
And when I tried to catch him
Kicked up his heels
and ran away.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall,
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall--

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town--

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down:

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat, left and right,
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

"Halt"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast,
"Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick as it fell from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

"Shoot if you must this old gray head,--
But spare your country's flag," she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word.

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet.

All day long that free flag tossed
Over the heads of the rebel host;

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps, sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her!--and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union wave!

Peace, and order, and beauty, draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below at Frederick town!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

A sturdy cow-boy I would be
And chase this buffalo out in the West.
An Indian pony I know I could ride,
And "round up" with all the rest.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

(Used by special arrangement with J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, publisher of Mr. Read's Poems.)

Up from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble and rumble and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wilder still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar,
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good, broad highway leading down;
And there through the flash of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass as with eagle's flight--
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with the utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell--but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Still sprung from these swift hoofs, thundering South,
The dust, like the smoke from the cannon's mouth,

Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster;
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master,
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed;
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind.
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire,
But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire--
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
What was done--what to do--a glance told him both,
And striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzahs,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there because
The sight of the master compelled it to pause.
With foam and with dust the black charger was gray,
By the flash of his eye, and his red nostrils' play,
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester down to save the day!"

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan!
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!

And when their statues are placed on high
Under the dome of the Union sky--
The American soldiers' Temple of Fame--
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester--twenty miles away!"
T. B. READ.

See-saw, Margery Daw,
Jenny shall have a new master,
She shall have but a penny a day,
Because she can't work any faster.

An old Hippopotamus lived on the Nile,
If she hasn't gone away, she's been there quite a while.
She gives all her children a ride on her back,
Broad enough to accommodate the whole scrambling pack.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR

Between the dark and daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamp-light,
Descending the broad hall-stair,
Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence;
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret,
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me,
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses;
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old Mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down in the dungeon,
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there I will keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

I will dig me a garden and plant it with seeds,
I will hoe and water it and keep down the weeds;
Then perhaps some of these bright summer days,
To mamma I can carry big boquets.

CARYL'S PLUM.

"He put in his thumb
And pulled out a plum."

So sang Caryl over the stairs.

"Now if HE pulled out a plum, why shouldn't SHE?" she said to herself, halting a bit by the landing window. "And a good big plum too--nice and juicy. O Aunt Sylvia, Aunt Sylvia!"

She fairly hugged herself in glee, then drew one long breath and dashed on to her own poor little room.

"Oh, you here, Viny?" she exclaimed in surprise as she flung open the door.

A small figure rose to a perpendicular position in front of the old bureau, while a shoving-to of the under drawer proclaimed some attention having been paid to the pretty laces, ribbons, and various other adornments packed away for safe keeping.

Caryl remembered leaving the key in the drawer after taking out a bit of lavender ribbon the night before for Aunt Sylvia's cap.

"What have you been doing?" she asked sharply; and taking hold of the small wiry shoulder, she looked down into a little black face whose eyes were staring solemnly into the farthest corner of the room.

"Ben doin'?" repeated Viny, scared almost to death inwardly, but preserving a cool exterior. "Nothin', only shettin' the draw'; plaguey thing wouldn't stay put. Tore my dress," she added mumblingly to fill out the pause.

"Where?" said Caryl, looking sharply at her.

"Dar," said Viny, with a violent twist, so that she could compass the back breadths of her blue gingham frock, and she pointed abruptly to a cat-a-cornered rent.

"Oh, no, you didn't," contradicted Caryl, looking her through and through, and giving her a small shake, "tear that either; I heard Maum Patty scold you yesterday for letting Jip bite it and snip out a piece."

"Well, somefin tore," said Viny. "I donno whar 'tis, but it's somewhars. A mighty smart tare, too, Miss Ca."

"I'll lock, and lock, and lock," declared the young girl, now down on her knees before her precious drawer, "before I run the chance of your rummaging fingers getting here again. Now then, Viny!"

"Yes'm," said the little black girl obsequiously, and rolling her eyes to all quarters; "Oh, yes'm!"

"We are going to move, Viny," said her young mistress, taking the key out of its lock, and turning her back on drawers and contents, to sit on the floor with hands folded in her lap while she watched the effect of her words.

"MOVE?" echoed Viny with a start; "Oh, lawks! whatever's dat, Miss?"

"Why, go to a new place," said Caryl, laughing in spite of herself. "For mercy's sake, child, do take your eyes in! It'll be very fine, Viny, oh, so fine!" she cried enthusiastically.

"An' lib here nebber no mo'?" cried the little black figure in a shrill scream; "wot, an' hev no leaky sink dat keps me a-swashin' and a-swashin', an' no old ruf dat lets in hull buckets full o' water onter de bed, an'--"

"No," said Caryl, interrupting the steady stream of invective against the old heuse, "everything's to be as new and nice and neat as a pin, Viny--sinks and everything else; you can't begin to think how splendid it's to be!"

"I'm goin' to tell gramma," cried Viny, wholly off her balance, "dis berry same minnit. Lawks! but won't she be tickled to leave the ole shell! Den I'll git my bunnet an' go wid yer, Miss Ca, in tree shakes of a lobster's whisker!"

She scampered in the greatest excitement to the door, when a detaining pull on the end of her long apron, brought her to a full stop.

"You are crazy, child!" exclaimed Caryl, bursting into a laugh and holding her fast. "We can't go this moment, no matter how bad the old house is. Listen, Viny!"

But the small figure flung itself into a heap on the floor so suddenly that she nearly pulled her young mistress with her, while the little black hands clapped themselves over the bead like eyes, wail after wail of disappointment making the room to ring.

"Will you STOP!" cried Caryl in perfect despair. "Aunt Sylvia's head will snap with your noise! If you don't stop crying, Viny, you sha'n't go when the rest of us are ready to move, so there, now."

Threats had the power to do what nothing else could. Viny wiped off all the tears with the backs of her grimy little paws, gave two or three concluding sniffs, sat up straight, and was immediately all right for further developments.

"Now then"--Caryl pointed off her sentences briskly on the tips of her rosy fingers--"you must try to help--well, an awful great deal, Viny, yourself, or else it can't be a moving for any single one of us."

Viny's eyes widened fearfully, but she didn't stir.

"If you will take care--mind! SPLENDID care of Aunt Sylvia every morning," said Caryl slowly and with extreme empressment--"watch and get her everything she wants, not wait for her to ask for anything, then I can go off down street and make lots and lots of money, Viny. Think of that, lots and lots! Then we can move, and Aunt Sylvia will maybe get well."

Caryl's gray eyes were only a thought less big than those of her small black audience, who presently caught the infectious enthusiasm and emitted several lusty crows.

"Jiminy--oh, I DIDN'T say it--I didn't--I didn't! O Jiminy, I didn't--I didn't--O Jimmy, I--"

"Stop saying it, then," exclaimed her young mistress decidedly, and enforcing her words by a vigorous shake.

"Oh, I didn't--I will--O Jiminy! yes, I will!" cried the little black delinquent, the full tide of original sin taking an unfair advantage of her excitement to engulf her. "Oh--er--oh--er--r--"

Caryl came to her rescue by giving her a new idea.

"See how splendid you can be, Viny dear," she said kindly. "You can be such a good little helper, so that part of the new home will be of your getting; for I never could have the chance to earn anything if you didn't take my place and be Aunt Sylvia's nurse."

"I know how," said Viny, perfectly overcome with the greatness thrust upon her; "it's to slip crickets under her feet to put her toes onter. I'll slip 'em all day. An' it's to wipe her specs, an' to say yes, no, an' to--"

"To be good," finished Caryl solemnly; "that comprehends the whole business."

"To be good," repeated the small nurse yet more solemnly, "an' to compren' the whole bus'ness; I will."

"You are a ridiculous child," cried Caryl impatiently; "I don't really suppose you are fit to be trusted, but then, it's the only thing to try."

Viny, having been duly elected to office, considered her honors settled, so she was little disturbed by any opinions that might be held concerning her. Therefore she squatted and wriggled in great delight, grinning at every word that fell from her young mistress' lips.

"You see, Viny," Caryl was saying, beginning on her confidence, "I've got an order to teach the little Grant girls how to paint, and if I can run down there two hours every morning, I'm to have twenty-five dollars, and Madam Grant is going to give it to me in advance; that is, after the first quarter. Think, Viny, TWENTY-FIVE dollars! That's what we want to move with into Heart's Delight!"

This was the upstairs southwest corner of a little cottage that for a year or more had been the desideratum of the young girl's highest hopes that had to wear themselves out in empty longings, the invalid's scanty exchequer only sufficing for doctor's bills and similar twelvemonth, along with several other broken-down lodgers whose slender means compelled them to call this place "home"--this place where never a bit of sunshine seemed to come; where even the birds hated to stop for a song as they flew merrily over the tree-tops. And no wonder. The trees were scraggy, loppy old things hanging down in dismal sweep over the leaky roof and damp walls. They had to stay--the lodgers, but the birds and the sunshine tossed off the whole responsibility of life in such a gloomy old home, and flitted to gayer quarters. But now, what if Heart's Delight could really be theirs!

"Yer goin' ter tell 'em how to paint dem tings yer daub?" broke in Viny, and snapping off this delightful thought.

"You shouldn't speak so, child," said Caryl with the greatest dignity; "it's very fine work, and you couldn't possibly understand it. It's art, Viny."

"Ho, ho!" laughed the small black figure, nowise impressed and cramming her stumpy fingers up to her mouth to keep the laugh in as she saw her young mistress' displeasure. "It's an awful old dirty muss, an' I wish I could do it," she added under her breath.

"And I shall begin tomorrow," declared Caryl with still greater dignity, and drawing herself to her full height. "Aunt Sylvia says she'll try you. Now you'll be good, won't you?" she added anxiously. "It's only for two hours a day, Viny."

"I'll be good," declared Viny, "'strue's I live an' breeve." Meanwhile the darkest of plans ran riot in her little black head.

"Heart's Delight--Heart's Delight!" sang Caryl's happy voice all that day; and like St. Patrick's poor imprisoned snake, she began to feel that to-morrow would never come.

But hours come and go, and Caryl awoke the next morning, the brightest, cheeriest morning that ever called a happy girl out of bed.

"Aunt Sylvia won't have many more days in that dark little room of hers," she cried to herself, throwing on her clothes rapidly. "Oh, dear, where ARE the pins? I can't bear to wait a minute any more than Viny, when I think of that dear lovely nest, and the bay-window, and all that sunshine. I'll always have it full of flowers, and the bird shall sing all the time, and--and--and--"

The rest was lost in a dash of cold water over the rosy face, and Caryl soon presented herself at her aunt's bedside.

"I'll do well enough while you are gone," said her aunt, smiling up from the pillows into the bright face above hers. "Now you're not to worry about me in the least, for you cannot do justice to yourself if your mind is troubled. Remember, Caryl, and be thorough in your efforts to teach your little pupils."

"And Madam Grant is going to buy some of my panels and little plaques, I almost know," cried Caryl, bustling around for her aunt's long woolen wrapper and her day slippers, "for she told me she should want to see them some time. Then, Auntie--oh, then!"

The young girl in her eagerness climbed upon the old bed to lay her fresh young cheek against the pale thin one. How she longed to put brightness into the poor invalid's life!

"Remember," said Aunt Sylvia lightly, to hide the tears in her voice, "your fortune's to be made. Only be prompt and thorough, and put your whole mind to your work. That is the secret of success."

"I will, Auntie, oh, I WILL!" cried Caryl happily, "and Viny will do well, I guess," she added, the gleeful tones dropping down with an anxious note.

"Viny will prove a capital little nurse, I expect," said Miss Sylvia cheerfully; "now the day won't wait, Caryl, so get your old auntie up."

"My old auntie is just LOVELY," cried the girl, hopping off from the bed, and flying around merrily, well pleased at last when the invalid was in her chair, to see a little faint, pink color stealing up the wan cheek.

"The best cap, Aunt Sylvia--the best cap!" she cried, running for the one with the fresh lavender ribbons.

"What an extravagant puss!" exclaimed Aunt Sylvia, willing to humor the gay little heart, and tapping her cheek as the young girl settled the cap on the lovely gray hair.

"Everything must be best to-day," cried Caryl recklessly. "It's all fresh and new and fine! All the world is made just for us."

Maum Patty saw Caryl run down the dirty little brick path that served for all the lodgers in the old house as a walk to the broken-down gate, with her color-box under her arm, and her little roll of pictures in her hand, and heaved a sigh from her ample bosom.

"Dat chile can't make no fortin' like she's a-tinkin' of, but laws! let her try. Here, yer Viny, yer, be off up to de Missis' room. Scat now! De pore lettle lamb," she mourned, as her hopeful grandchild unwillingly dragged her recreant feet off to her duties, leaving her grandmother to pursue her reflections in peace, "it mos' busts my heart to see her a-workin' an' de Missis keepin' up an' pretendin' she's as fine as a queen. 'Twarn't so in ole Patty's day. Den dar wos plenty-pies and turkeys. Lors, what stumpers! An' hull bar'ls o' flour, an' sugar, an' a creation sight of eberyting in de beyeutiful house, an' now look at dis ole shell!"

Maum Patty tossed her turban in intense scorn at each of the dark soot-begrimed walls of the place called kitchen.

"Missis ud feel more like folks," she said at each disdainful scrutiny, "an' like as not git well, ef we cud cut sticks inter anudder home. Ef de chile only CUD do it!"

She peered anxiously down the dirty little brick walk again, then fetched a still longer sigh.

"I don't darst to!" she declared in a mighty burst at last. "I don't, cos wot ud keep us all from the pore-'us den. It's every speck I kin do ter keep along of de Miss an' Car'l an' take keer of 'em wi'dout a cent o' pay; I don't darst tech my stockin' bag in de bank."

Maum Patty always spoke of her scanty savings deposited in the neighboring bank, in this way, fondly supposing them in the original condition in which ten years ago, she had taken them there for future shield against sickness and old age.

Meantime the little black nurse had begun her work.

Peering around Miss Sylvia's half-closed door, Viny exclaimed to herself, "Umph! she don't want me; guess she's a'readin' now. I'll git into Miss Ca's room an' try on all her clo'es an' pertend I'm makin' calls, an' peek inter ebery single place whar I kin, an' I'll be a lady, an' dar sha'n't no one scold Viny."

"Viny," called Miss Sylvia's soft voice, hearing a rustle at the door.

"Dat's Jip she's a-talkin' ter, I reckon," said Viny, stealing off on her tiptoes down the hall, and sticking her fingers in her ears that she might hear no more troublesome conscience calls; "I seen him on de rug when I peeked in de crack. Now den--Whoop, says I, WHOOP!"

She was safe now in Caryl's room, where the first thing she did was to indulge in a series of somersaults over the floor, and also, for variety, over the neat little white bed. These afforded her intense comfort. When she came up bright and shining after this celebration of her independence, she drew herself up with a serious face and proceeded at once to stern business.

"Two hours ain't long," she observed wisely, "an' I mus' be back some of de time. Jiminy! she's forgot de key again!" In truth, Caryl in her great excitement of hunting for some pictures packed away in her precious drawer, had forgotten to pocket the key that protected her few treasures.

Ruthlessly, then, they were pulled out and overhauled, while Viny reveled in each new discovery, chattering softly to herself in glee. She tied on all the bright bits of ribbons she could lay her hands on, to the little tiny tails adorning her head. She twisted with great difficulty into a delicate white spenser that Caryl's mother had worn when a girl, saved for its tender reminiscence, and for the soft, fine old lace that would be of use to the young daughter by and by. Viny was nowise disturbed in her enjoyment at certain ominous crackings and creakings that proclaimed the giving way of the delicate material. Arrayed at last to her satisfaction, although the lace did hang down in some shreds where her impatient fingers had clutched it, she whirled and whirled in front of the old-fashioned glass with many grimaces, trying the effect of her new costume.

"I want sumfin to shine," she said at last, tired of this; "jew-EL-lery an' stuns. Le's see ef she's got any."

Now in one corner of Caryl's drawer was a small black box; unfortunately, the lock was broken in childhood, and there had been no money to spare for repairs of anything of that sort, so she had tied it securely with the strongest of twine, and written on the cover in big schoolgirl hand the words, "DON'T ANY ONE DARE TO TOUCH!" Although Viny was unable to decipher the writing in the least, it was fun enough to attack the string, which presently succumbed to the violent onslaught of tooth and nail, and the precious, precious bits of brightness were soon at the mercy of the little black fingers.

Maum Patty was droning away in the kitchen some old Methodist hymns. Viny was dimly conscious of a faint call from the invalid's room, as she drew out in the utmost delight an old-fashioned brooch with a green centre around which were some little sparkling things.

She couldn't even say "Jiminy!" but simply held the pretty thing which seemed glad of its freedom from solitary confinement, and thus delighted to sparkle more than ever in its resting-place in the little black hand. With trembling fingers she fastened it into the centre of the lace spenser, above her naughty little bosom, hurrying to the glass to do so, and had just taken one look, when a low cry of distress struck upon her ear.

It filled her whole soul with dismay, rooting her like a little frozen thing to the spot. It was Miss Sylvia, she knew.

With one mighty effort she tore herself from the spot, and rushed headlong into the hall. "Oh--oh--OH!" came from the invalid's room.

At that Viny wrung her hands and writhed in dire distress.

"She's a-dyin'!" she gasped, her knees knocking together in a lively manner; "I don't darst to look--I don't!--I've killed her!" And the whole flood of remorse sweeping her very soul, she turned and scuttled down the crooked little stairs and into the street.

"A doctor!" was all her thought. She remembered hearing Caryl say he lived in a big brown house that had lots of flowers in the windows. But where upon the face of the earth the house was situated, Viny knew no more than a bird. However, she must get him, so she dashed blindly on, turning the first corner to run headlong into the arms of a portly old lady who was placidly enjoying the fresh air and sunshine at the same time that she displayed her rich street attire.

"Oh, my goodness!" cried the old lady, startled out of all fine speeches by the collision, and jumping in fright to the extreme edge of the curbstone. Then seeing the cause, she cried in anger, "You miserable, dirty little thing you, you ve nearly killed me!"

At the word "killed," Viny began to dance in terror on the sidewalk. "I know it," she cried, "oh, dear, I know it! she's dead, an' grandma 'll beat me."

"And if you don't know any better," cried the old lady, vainly trying to settle her gray puffs as they were before, "than to run into people in this way, I'll have you arrested, I will!"

At this Viny was completely overcome. Her guilty conscience pictured all sorts of punishments; worse, far worse, than "grandma's" judgments, and, falling on her knees, she grasped the old lady's black satin gown and implored for mercy.

The old lady, now her attention was drawn off from her own annoyance, settled her eyes on the brooch half concealed by a fold of the little lace spenser.

"You wicked, bad child!" she exclaimed, seizing her arm and pouncing one stiffly gloved hand on the sparkling brooch; "you've stolen that! It's bad enough to be run into by a dirty little thing fresh from Bedlam, without being wicked into the bargain. That's TOO much!"

The little black figure being too wretched to hear this tirade, could only mumble and wail and wriggle closer and closer into the folds of the rich gown.

"Get out of my dress!" cried the old lady excitedly. "Here, I'll call the police; if you don't let go of me this instant! Stop, I say! Po-o-lice!"

Viny gave one violent jerk that brought her up to her feet, and with eyes distended in terror, started in wild despair across the street. A pair of handsome bays were coming in their best step down from the Square, drawing a carriage full of people who seemed in the very best of spirits.

"WHOA-A!" A click, a rapid pull-up with all Thomas's best strength, and the horses fell back on their haunches just in time for the little lithe figure to dart under their pawing hoofs and be saved! Everybody leaned out of the carriage for a glimpse of the child.

"Why--why"--A young girl's face paled, while the gray eyes flashed, and with one spring she was out and rushing after the small flying figure who in her fright had turned to flee the other way.

"Look out, Caryl!" called the others in the carriage after her.

"Oh, she'll be killed," moaned a little girl leaning out as far as she dared over the wheels.

"And then she can't ever get into the pretty new house," wailed another. "Oh, what shall we do! Come back, Bessie!" she cried, tugging at her sister's skirts. "Grandmamma, make her come into the carriage, I can't hold her!"

But a crowd of people surging up around them at this moment, took off all attention from Bessie and everybody else but the little fugitive and her kind pursuer. Caryl made her way through the crowd with flushed face, her little brown hat hanging by its strings around her neck, pantingly dragging after her the little black girl.

"It's our Viny," she said, "and something is the matter with Aunt Sylvia! Oh, Madam Grant!"

"My poor child," said a sweet-faced woman, reaching out a kind arm, while the children seized hold of Caryl at every available point, between them dragging her and her charge into shelter, "don't be troubled. Drive just as fast as you can, Thomas, to No. 27, you know," she commanded hurriedly.

Then the first thing Caryl did was to turn upon Viny and unhook the precious brooch as a low sob came from her white lips. "If it had been lost!"