 CHAPTER VII. A CURIOUS CALL. I have often wondered what the various statues standing about the city think of all day, and what criticisms they would make upon us and our doings if they could speak. I frequently stop and stare at them, wondering if they don't feel lonely, if they wouldn't be glad of a nod as we go by, and I always long to offer my umbrella to shield their uncovered heads on a rainy day, especially to good Ben Franklin, when the snow lies white on his benevolent forehead. I was always fond of this old gentleman, and one of my favorite stories when a little girl was that of his early life, and the time when he was so poor he walked about Philadelphia with a roll of bread under each arm, eating a third as he went. I never passed without giving him a respectful look, and wishing he could know how grateful I am for all he had done in the printing-line. For without types and presses, where would the books be? Well, I never imagined that he understood why the tall woman in the big bonnet stared at him, but he did, and he liked it, and managed to let me know it in a very curious manner, as you shall hear. As I look out, the first thing I see is the great guilt eagle on the city hall dome. There he sits, with open wings all day long looking down on the people, who must appear like ants scampering busily to and fro about an anthill. The sun shines on him splendidly in the morning, the gay flag waves and rustles in the wind above him sometimes, and the moonlight turns him to silver when she comes glittering up the sky. When it rains he never shakes his feathers, snow beats on him without disturbing his stately repose, and he never puts his head under his wing at night, but keeps guard in darkness as in day, like a faithful sentinel. I like the big lonely bird. Call him my particular fowl, and often wished he'd turn his head and speak to me—one night he did actually do it—or seemed to, for I've never been able to decide whether I dreamed what I'm going to tell you, or whether it really happened. It was a stormy night, and as I drew down my curtain I said to myself after peering through the driving snow to catch a glimpse of my neighbor, poor Goldie, we'll have a rough time of it. I hope this northeaster won't blow him off his perch. Then I sat down by my fire, took my knitting, and began to meditate. I'm sure I didn't fall asleep, but I can't prove it, so we'll say no more about it. All at once there came a tap at my door, as I thought, and I said, come in, just as Mr. Poe did when that unpleasant raven paid him a call. No one came, so I went to see who it was. Not a sign of a human soul in the long hall, only little Jesse, the poodle, asleep on her mat. Down I sat, but in a minute the tap came again, this time so loud that I knew it was at the window, and went to open it, thinking that one of my doves wanted to come in, perhaps. Up went the sash, and inbounced something so big and so bright that it dazzled and scared me. Don't be frightened, mom, it's only me," said a hoarse voice. So I collected my wits, rubbed my eyes, and looked at my visitor. It was the gold eagle off the city hall. I don't expect to be believed, but I wish you'd been here to see, for I'd give you my word it was a sight to behold. How he ever got in at such a small window I can't tell. But there he was, strutting majestically up and down the room, his golden plumage rustling, and his keen eyes flashing as he walked. I really didn't know what to do. I couldn't imagine what he came for. I had my doubts about the propriety of offering him a chair, and he was so much bigger than I expected that I was really afraid he might fly away with me, as the rock did with Sinbad. So I did nothing but sidle to the door ready to whisk out if my strange guest appeared to be peckishly inclined. My respectful silence seemed to suit him, for after a turn or two he paused, nodded gravely, and said affably, Good evening, ma'am. I stepped over to bring you old Ben's respects and see how you were getting on. I'm very much obliged, sir. May I inquire who old Ben is? I'm afraid I haven't the honour of his acquaintance. Yes, you have. It's Ben Franklin of City Hall Yard. You know him, and he wished me to thank you for your interest in him. Dear me, how very odd! Will you sit down, sir? Never sit! I'll perch here. And the great fowl took his accustomed attitude just in front of the fire, looking so very splendid that I couldn't keep my eyes off of him. Ah, you often do that. Never mind, I rather like it, said the eagle graciously, as he turned his brilliant eye upon me. I was rather abashed, but being very curious, I ventured to ask a few questions, as he seemed in a friendly mood. Being a woman, sir, I am naturally of an inquiring turn, and I must confess that I have a strong desire to know how it happens that you take your walks abroad when you are supposed to be permanently engaged at home. He shrugged his shoulders and actually winked at me as he replied. That's all people know of what goes on under or rather over their noses. Bless you, ma'am. I leave my roost every night and enjoy myself in all sorts of larks. Excuse the expression, but, being ornithological, it is more proper for me than for some people who use it. What a gay old bird! thought I, feeling quite at home after that. Please tell me what you do when the shades of evening prevail, and you go out for a frolic. I am a gentleman, therefore I behave myself—returned the eagle with a stately air. I must confess I smoke a great deal—that's not my fault, it's the fault of the chimneys. They keep it up all day, and I have to take it, just as you poor ladies have to take cigar smoke whether you like it or not. My amusements are of a wholesome kind. I usually begin by taking a long flight down the harbour, for a look at the lighthouses, the islands, the shipping, and the sea. My friends the Gauls bring their reports to me, for they are the harbour police, and I take notes of their doings. The school ship is an object of interest to me, and I often perch on the mast head to see how the lads are getting on. Then I take a turn over the city, gossip with the weather cocks, pay my compliments to the bells, inspect the fire alarm, and pick up information by listening at the telegraph wires. People often talk about a little bird who spreads news, but they don't know how that figure of speech originated. It is the sparrows sitting on the wires who receive the electric shock, and being hollow boned the news goes straight to their heads, and then they fly about, chirping it on the housetops, and the air carries it everywhere. That's the way rumors rise and news spread. If you'll allow, I'll make a note of that interesting fact," said I, wondering if I might believe him. He appeared to fall into a reverie while I jotted down the sparrow-story, and it occurred to me that perhaps I ought to offer my distinguished guest some refreshment. But when I modestly alluded to it, he said, with an aldermanic air, No thank you, I've just dined at the Parker House. Now I really could not swallow that, and so plainly betrayed my incredulity that the eagle explained. The savory smells which rise to my nostrils from that excellent hotel, with an occasional sniff from the Tremont, are quite sufficient to satisfy my appetite. For having no stomach I don't need much food, and I drink nothing but water. I wish others would follow your example in that latter habit, said I respectfully, for I was beginning to see that there was something in my bird, though he was hollow. Will you allow me to ask if the other statues in the city fly by night? They promenade in the parks, and occasionally have social gatherings, when they discuss politics, education, medicine, or any of the subjects in which they are interested. Ah, we have grand times when you are all asleep. It quite repays me for being obliged to make an owl of myself. Do the statues come from the shops to these parties? I asked, resolving to take a late walk the next moonlit night. Sometimes, but they get lazy and delicate, living in close warm places. We laugh at cold and bad weather, and are so strong and hearty that I shouldn't be surprised if I saw Webster and Everett flying round the common on the new fashion velocities, for they believed in exercise. Goethe and Schiller often step over from Deree's window to flirt with the goddesses, who come down from their niches on the horticultural hall. Nice robust young women are Pomona and Flora. If your niminy, piminy girls could see them run, they would stop tilting through the streets, and learn that the true Grecian bend is the line of beauty always found in straight shoulders, well-opened chest, and upright figure, firmly planted on active feet. In your rambles don't you find a great deal of misery? said I to change the subject, for he was evidently old-fashioned in his notions. Many sad sights. And he shook his head with a sigh, then added briskly. But there is a great deal of charity in our city, and it does work beautifully. By the by I heard of a very sweet charity the other day, a church whose Sunday school is open to all the poor children who will come, and there in pleasant rooms with books, pictures, kindly teachers, and a fatherly minister to welcome them, the poor little creatures find refreshment for their hungry souls. I like that. It's a lovely illustration of the text. Suffer little children to come unto me, and I call it practical Christianity. He did like it, my benevolent old bird, for he rustled his great wings as if he wanted to clap them, if there had only been room, and every feather shone as if a clear light than that of my little fire had fallen on it as he spoke. You are a literary woman, hey? he said suddenly, as if he'd got a new idea, and was going to pounce upon me with it. I do a little in that line, I answered with a modest cough. Then tell people about that place, write some stories for the children, go and help teach them, do something, and make others do what they can to increase the Sabbath sunshine that brightens one day in the week for the poor babies who live in shady places. I should be glad to do my best, and if I'd known before, I began. You might have known if you'd looked about you. People are so wrapped up in their own affairs they don't do half they might. Now, then, hand me a bit of paper, and I'll give you the address, so you won't have any excuse for forgetting what I tell you. Mercy, honest, what will he do next? Thought I, as he tweaked a feather out of his breast, gave the nib a peck, and then coolly wrote these words on the card I handed him. Church of the disciples, knock, and it shall be opened. There it was, in letters of gold, and while I looked at it, feeling reproach that I hadn't known it sooner, my friend—he didn't see Miss Stranger any more—said in a business-like tone as he put back his pen. Now I must be off. Old Ben reads an article on the abuses of the press at the present day, and I must be there to report. It must be very interesting. I suppose you don't allow mortals at your meetings," said I, burning to go in spite of the storm. No, ma'am! We meet on the common, and in the present state of the weather, I don't think flesh and blood would stand it. Bronze, marble, and wood are sterner stuff and can defy the elements. Good evening. Pray call again," I said hospitably. I will. Your eye resuits me. But don't expect me to call in the daytime. I'm on duty then, and can't take my eye off my charge. The city needs a deal of watching, my dear. Bless me, it's striking. Eight, your watch is seven minutes slow by the old south. Good night, good night. And as I opened the window, the great bird soared away like a flash of light through the storm, leaving me so astonished at the whole performance that I haven't got over it yet. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Of Aunt Joe's scrap bag. This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org, recording by Ellie. Aunt Joe's scrap bag belues me all caught. Chapter 8 Till is Christmas I am so glad tomorrow is Christmas, because I'm going to have lots of presents. So am I glad, though I don't expect any presents but a pair of mittens. And so am I, but I shan't have any presents at all. As these three little girls trudged home from school, they said these things, and as Tillie spoke, both the others looked at her with pity and some surprise. For she spoke cheerfully, and they wondered how she could be happy, and she was so poor she could have no presents on Christmas. Don't you wish you could find a purse full of money right here in the past? The Kate, the child who was going to have lots of presents. Oh, don't die, if I could keep it honestly until his eyes shone at the very sword. What would you buy? Ask Bessie, rubbing her cold hands and longing for her mittens. I'd buy a pair of large, warm blankets, a load of wood, a shawl for mother, and a pair of shoes for me. And if there was enough left, I'd give Bessie a new hat, and then she needn't wear Ben's old felt one, answered Tillie. The girls laughed at that. But Bessie pulled the funny hat over her ears and said she was much obliged, but she'd rather have candy. Let's look, and maybe we can find a purse. People are always going about with money at Christmas time, and someone will lose it here, said Kate. So as they went along the snowy road, they looked about them, half in earnest, half in fun. Suddenly Tillie sprang forward exclaiming, I see it, I've found it. The others followed, but all stopped disappointed, for it wasn't a purse, it was only a little bird. It lay upon the snow with its wings spread and feebly flattering, as if too weak to fly. Its little feet were benumped with cold, its one-spread eyes were dull with pain, and instead of a blight song, it could only utter a faint chirp, now and then, as if crying for help. Nothing but this stupid old robin, how provoking, cried Kate, sitting down to rest. I shan't touch it, I found one once and took care of it, and then great first thing flew away the minute it was well, Bessie gripping under Kate's shawl and putting her hands under her chin to warn them. Poor little birdie, how pitiful it looks, and how glad he must be to see someone coming to help him. I'll take him up gently and carry him home to mother. Don't be frightened, dear, I'm your friend, and Tillie nailed down in the snow, stretching her hand to the bird with the tenderest pity in her face. Kate then Bessie laughed, Don't stop for that thing, it's getting late and cold, let's go on and look for the purse, they said moving away. You wouldn't leave it to die, cried Tillie, I'd rather have the bird than the money, so I shan't look any more, the purse wouldn't be mine, and I should only be tempted to keep it. But this poor thing will thank me and love me, and I'm so glad I came in time. Gently lifting the bird, Tillie felt its tiny cold claws cling to her hand, and saw its dim eyes brighten as it nestled down with a grateful chirp. Now I've got the Christmas present after all, she said smiling as they walked on, I always wanted the bird, and this one will be such a pretty pet for me. He'll fly away the first chance he gets, and die anyhow, so you'd better not waste your time over him, said Bessie. He can't pay you for taking care of him, and Mother says it isn't worthwhile to help folks that can't help us, and it Kate. My Mother says, Do as you'd be done by, and I'm sure it'd like anyone to help me if I was dying of cold and hunger. Love your neighbour as yourself is another of her sayings. This bird is my little neighbour, and I'll love him and take care of him, as I often wish our rich neighbour would love and take care of us, answered Tillie, praising her warm press over the little benumped bird who looked up at her with confiding eyes, quick to feel and know a friend. What a funny girl you are, said Kate, caring for that silly bird, and talking about loving your neighbour in that sober way. Mr. King don't care a bit for you, and never will, though he knows how poor you are, so I don't think you blend amounts too much. I believe it though, and shall do my part anyway. Good night, I hope you'll have a merry Christmas and lots of pretty things, and that Tillie has departed. Her eyes were full, and she felt so poor as she went on alone to a little house where she lived. It would have been so pleasant to know that she was going to have some pretty things, old children left to find in their full stockings on Christmas morning, and pleasant as still to have been able to give her mother something nice. So many comforts were needed, and there was no hope of getting them, for they could barely get food and fire. Never mind, birdie, we'll make the best of what we have and be merry in spite of everything. You shall have a happy Christmas anyway, and I know God won't forget us if everyone else does. She stopped for a minute to wipe her eyes and lean her cheek against the bird's soft breast, finding great comfort in the little creature, though it could only laugh her, nothing more. See, mother, what a nice present I found, she cried going in with a cheery face, that was like sunshine in the dark room. I'm glad of that, Deary, for I haven't been able to get my little girl anything but the rosy apple. Poor bird, give it some of your warm brightened milk. My mother, what a big bowlful! I'm afraid you gave me all the milk, that Tilly is smiling over the nice, steaming supper that's so ready for her. I've had plenty, dear. Sit down and dry your wet feet, and put the bird in my basket and this warm flannel. Tilly peered into the closet and saw nothing there but dry bread. Mother's giving me all the milk and is going without her team, cause she knows I'm hungry. Now I surprise her, and she shall have a good supper too, she's going to Splitwood, and I'll fix it while she's gone, so Tilly put down the old teapot, carefully put out part of the milk, and from her pocket produced a night blummy pun that one of the school children had given her, and she had saved for her mother. A slice of dry bread was nicely toasted, and a bit of butter set by for her to put on it. When her mother came in, there was the table drawn up in a warm place, a hot cup of tea ready, and Tilly and the bird waiting for her. Such a poor little supper, and yet such a happy one. For love, charity and contentment were guests there, and that Christmas Eve was a blighter one, then dead up at the great house, where light shone, fires blazed, and the great tree glittered, and music sounded as the children danced and played. We must go to bed early, for we've only worth enough to last over tomorrow. I shall be paid for my work the day after, and then we can get some. The Tilly's mother is deceptive by the fire. If my bird was a fairy bird, and would give us three wishes, how nice it would be! Poor dear, he can't give me anything. But it's no matter, and so Tilly, looking at the robin who lay in the basket with his head under his wing, a mere feathery bunch. He can give you one thing, Tilly, the pleasure of doing good. This is one of the sweetest things in life, and the poor can enjoy it as well as the rich. As her mother spoke with a tired hand, softly stroking her little daughter's hair, Tilly suddenly started and pointed to the window, saying in a frightened whisper, I saw a face, a man's face looking in. It's gone now, but I truly saw it. Some dribble I directed by the light, perhaps. I'll go in see, and Tilly's mother went to the door. No one was there. The wind blew cold, and the stars shone, the snowy white on the field and wood, and the Christmas moon was glittering in the sky. What sort of face was it? asked Tilly's mother, coming back. A pleasant sort of face, I think, but I was so startled I don't quite know what it was like. I wish we had a curtain there, said Tilly. I liked her for a light shine out in the evening, for the road is dark and lowly just here, and the twinkle of our lamp is so pleasant to people's eyes as they go by. We can do so little for our neighbours. I'm glad to cheer the way for them. Now put these poor shoes to try and go to bed, Tilly. I'll come soon. Tilly went, taking her bird with her to sleep in his basket nearby, lest she should be lonely in the night. Soon the little house was dark and still, and no one saw the Christmas spirit at the work that night. When Tilly opened the door next morning, she gave a loud cry, clapped her hands and then stood still, quiet speechless with wonder and delight. There before the door lay a great pile of food all ready to burn, a big bundle in the basket. With a lovely nose gear of winter roses, holy and evergreen tied to the handle. O mother, did the fairies do it? Cried Tilly pale with her happiness as she seized the basket while her mother took in the bundle. Yes, dear, the best and dearest fairy in the world, called Charity, she walks abroad at Christmas time, does beautiful deeds like this and does not stay to be sanked, answered her mother with full eyes as she ended the parcel. There they were, the warm, sick blankets, the comfortable shawls, the new shoes, and best of all, a pretty winter hat for Bessie. The basket was full of good things to eat, and on the flowers lay a paper saying, for the little girl who loves her neighbor as herself. Mother, I really think my bird is a fairy bird, and all the splendid things come from him, said Tilly loving and crying with joy. It really did seem so, for as she spoke, the robin flew to the table, hopped into the nose gear and perched among the roses, began to chirp with all his little might. The sun streamed in on the flowers, bird and happy child, and no one saw the shadow glide away from the window. No one ever knew that Mr. King had seen and heard the little girls the night before, or dreamed that the rich neighbor had learned a lesson from the poor neighbor. And Tilly's bird was a fairy bird, for by her love and tenderness to the helpless thing she brought good gifts to herself, happiness to the unknown giver of them, and the faithful little friend who did not fly away, but stayed with her till the snow was gone, making some of her in the wintertime. End of Chapter 8, Recording by Ellie, January 2010 Chapter 9 of Aunt Joe's Scrabbag This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dirk Eichhorn Aunt Joe's Scrabbag by Luisa May Alcott Chapter 9 My Little Gentleman No one would have thought of calling him so, this ragged, bare-footed, freckled-faced cheque, who spent his days carrying market baskets for the butcher, or clean clothes for Mrs. Quinn, selling chips, or scrubbing in the ash heaps for cinders. But he was honestly earning his living, doing his duty as well as he knew how, and serving those poorer and more helpless than himself. And that is being a gentleman, in the best sense of that fine old word. He had no home but Mrs. Quinn's carrot, and for this he paid by carrying the bundles and getting the cinders for her fire. Food and clothes he picked up as he could, and his only friend was little nanny. Her mother had been kind to him when the death of his father left him all alone in the world. And when she, too, passed away, the boy tried to show his gratitude by comforting the little girl, who thought there was no one in the world like her cheque. Old Mrs. Quinn took care of her, waiting till she was strong enough to work for herself. But nanny had been sick and still sad about, a pale little shadow of her former self, with the white film slowly coming over her pretty blue eyes. This was Jack's great trouble, and he couldn't whistle it away as he did with his own buries. For he was a cheery lad, and when the baskets were heavy, the whale long, the weather bitter cold, his poor cloth in rags, or his stomach empty, he just whistled, and somehow things seemed to get right. On the day he carried nanny the fair stand-aligns, and she felt of them, instead of looking at them, as she said, with such pathetic patience in her little face, I don't see him, but I know they are pretty, and I like them lots. Jack felt as if the blythe spring sunshine was all spoiled, and when he tried to cheer himself up with a good whistle, his lips trembled so they wouldn't pucker. The poor deer's eyes could be cured. I ain't a doubt, but it would take a side of money, and who's going to pay it? said Mrs. Quinn, scrubbing away at her tub. How much money? asked Jack. A hundred dollars, I dare say. Dr. Wilkinson's cook told me once that he'd done something to a lady's eyes, and asked a thousand dollars for it. Jack sighed a long, hopeless sigh, and went away to fill the water pails, but he remembered the doctor's name, and began to wonder how many years it would take to earn a hundred dollars. Nanny was very patient, but by and by Mrs. Quinn began to talk about sending her to some almshouse, for she was too poor to be burned with a helpless child. The fear of this nearly broke Jack's heart, and he went about with such an anxious face that it was a mercy Nanny did not see it. Jack was only twelve, but he had a hard load to carry just then, for the thought of his little friend doomed to life-long darkness for want of a little money tempted him to steal more than once, and gave him the first fierce bitter feeling against those better off than he. When he carried nice dinners for the great houses, and saw the plenty that prevailed there, he couldn't help feeling that it wasn't fair for some to have so much, and others, so little. When he saw pretty children playing in the park, or driving with their mothers, so gay, so well cared for, so tenderly loved, the poor boy's eyes would fill to think of poor little Nanny, with no friend in the world but himself, and he so powerless to help her. When he one day mustered courage to ring at the great doctor's bell, begging to see him a minute, and the servant answered craftily as he shut the door, go along, he can't be bothered with the like of you. Jack clenched his hands hard as he went down the steps, and said to himself with the most unboyish tone, I'll get the money somehow, and make him let me in. He did get it, and in the most unexpected way. But he never forgot the desperate feeling that came to him that day, and all his life long he was very tender to people who were tempted in their times of trouble, and yielded as he was saved from doing, by what seemed an accident. Some days after his attempt at the doctor's, as he was scrubbing in a newly deposited ash heap, with the bitter feeling very bad, and the trouble very heavy, he found a dirty old pocketbook, and put it in his bosom without stopping to examine it, for many boys and girls were scratching, like a brood of chickens all around him, and the pickings were unusually good, so no time must be lost. Findings is heavings, was one of the laws of the ash heap hunters, and no one thought of disputing another's right to the spoons and knives that occasionally found their way into the ash bells, while bottles, old shoes, rags, and paper, were regular articles of traffic among them. Jack got a good basketful that day, and when the hurry was over sat down to rest, and clear the dirt of his face with an old silk duster, which he had picked out of the rubbish, thinking Mrs. Quinn might wash it up for a handkerchief. But he didn't wipe his dirty face that day, four with the rag outtumbled a pocketbook, and on opening it he saw money. Yes, a roll of bills with two figures on all of them, three tans, and one twenty. It took his breath away for a minute. Then he hugged the old book tight in both his crimy hands, and dropped to and fro all in a heap among the oyster shells, and rusty tin kettles, saying to himself, with tears running down his cheeks, oh nanny, oh nanny, now I can do it. I don't think a basket of cinders ever travelled at such a rate before as Mrs. Quinn's did that day, for Jack tore home at a great pace, and burst into the room waving the old duster and shouting, Hooray! I've got it! I've got it! It is no wonder Mrs. Quinn thought he had lost his wits. For he looked like a wild boy, with his face all streaked with tears and red ashes, as he danced a double shuffle till he was breathless, then showered the money into nanny's lap, and hugged her with another, Hooray! which ended in a joke. When they got him quiet and heard the story, Mrs. Quinn rather damped his joy by telling him the money wasn't his, and he ought to advertise it. But I want it for nanny, cried Jack. And how can I ever find who owns it, when there was ever so many barrels emptied in that heap, and no one knows where they came from? It's very like you won't find the owner, and you can do as you please. But it's honest to try, I'm thinking, for some poor girl may have lost her earnings this way, and we wouldn't like that ourselves, said Mrs. Quinn, turning over the shabby pocketbook, and carefully searching for some clue to its owner. Nanny looked very sober, and Jack grabbed up the money as if it were too precious to lose. But he wasn't comfortable about it, and after a hard fight with himself, he consented to let Mrs. Quinn ask their policeman what they should do. He was a kindly man, and when he heard the story, said he'd do what was right. And if he couldn't find an owner, Jack should have the fifty dollars back. How hard it was to wait. How Jack thought and dreamed of his money, day and night. How nanny ran to the door to listen when a heavy step came up the stairs. And how wistfully the poor darkened eyes turned to the light, which they longed to see again. Honest, John Floyd did his duty, but he didn't find the owner. So the old purse came back at last, and now Jack could keep it with a clear conscience. Nanny was asleep when it happened, and as they said, counting the dintry bills, Mrs. Quinn said to the boy, Jack, you'd better keep this for yourself. I doubt if it's enough to do the child any good, and you need clothes and shoes and a heap of things, let alone the books you hanker after so much. It ain't likely you'll ever find another wallet. It's all luck about Nanny's eyes, and maybe you are only throwing away a chance you'll never have again. Jack leaned his head on his arms and stared at the mummy, all spread out there, and looking so magnificent to him that it seemed as if it could buy half the world. He did need clothes. His hearty boy's appetite did long for better food, and oh, how splendid it would be to go and buy the books he had wanted so long. The books that would give him a taste of the knowledge which was more enticing to his wide awake young mind than clothes and food to his poor little buddy. It wasn't an easy thing to do, but he was so used to making small sacrifices that the great one was less hard, and when he had brooded over the money a few minutes in thoughtful silence his eye went from the precious bits of paper to the dear little face in the trundle bed, and he said with a decided nod, I'll give Nanny the chance, and work for my things or go without them. Mrs. Quinn was a matter-of-fact buddy, but her hard old face softened when he had said that, and she kissed him good night almost as gently as if she'd been his mother. Next day Jack presented himself at Doctor Wilkinson's door with the money in one hand and Nanny in the other, saying boldly to the craft servant, I want to see the doctor. I can pay, so you'd better let me in. I'm afraid Crust Thomas would have shut the door in the boy's face again if it had not been for the little blind girl who looked up at him so imploringly that he couldn't resist the mute appeal. The doctor's going out, but maybe he'll see you a minute, and with that he let them into a room where stood a tall man putting on his gloves. Jack was a modest boy, but he was so afraid that Nanny would lose her chance that he forgot himself and told the little story as fast as he could, told it well too, a fancy, for the doctor listened attentively, his eye going from the boy's eager flushed face to the pale patient one beside him, as if the two little figures, Chevy though they were, illustrated the story better than the finest artists could have done. When Jack ended, the doctor said Nanny on his knee, gently lifted up the half-shut eyelids, and after examining the film a minute, stroked her pretty hair and said so kindly that she nestled her little hand confidingly into his. I think I can help you, my dear. Tell me where you live, and I'll attend to it at once, for it's high time something was done. Jack told him, adding with a manly air as he showed the money, I can pay you, sir, if fifty dollars is enough. Quite enough, said the doctor, with a droll smile. If it isn't, I'll work for the rest. If you'll trust me, please save Nanny's eyes, and I'll do anything to pay you, cried Jack, getting red and jokey in his earnestness. The doctor stopped smiling, and held out his hand in a grave respectful way, as he said. I'll trust you, my boy, we'll cure Nanny first, and you and I will settle the bill afterward. Jack liked that, it was a gentle manly way of doing things, and he showed his satisfaction by smiling all over his face, and giving the big white hand a hearty shake with both his rough ones. The doctor was a busy man, but he kept them some time, for there were no children in the fine house, and it seemed pleasant to have a little girl sit on his knee, and a bright boy stand beside his chair. And when, at last, they went away, they looked as if he had given them some magic medicine, which made them forget every trouble they had ever known. Next day, the kind man came to give Nanny her chance. She had no doubt, and very little fear, but looked up at him so confidingly when all was ready, that he stooped down and kissed her softly before he touched her eyes. Let Jack hold my hands, then I'll be still, and not mind if it hurts me, she said. So Jack, pale with anxiety, knelt down before her, and kept a little hand steadily in his, all through the minutes that seemed so long to him. What do you see, my child? asked the doctor, when he had done something to both eyes with a quick skillful hand. Nanny leaned forward with the firm all gone, and answered with a little cry of joy that went to the hearts of those who hurt it. Jack's face! I see it! Oh, I see it! Only a freckled round face, with wet eyes and tightly set lips. But to Nanny it was as beautiful as the face of an angel. And when she was led away with bandaged eyes to rest, it haunted all her dreams, for it was the face of the little friend who loved her best. Nanny's chance was not a failure. And when she saw the next standalines he brought her, all the sunshine came back into the world brighter than ever for Jack. Well, might it seem so, for his fifty dollars bought him many things that money seldom buys. The doctor wouldn't take it at first. But when Jack sat in the mindful tone the doctor liked, although it made him smile, it was a bargain, sir. I wish to pay my debts, and I shan't feel happy if Nanny don't have it all for her eyes. Please do, I'd rather... Then he took it. And Nanny did have it, not only for her eyes, but in clothes, and food, and care, many times over, for it was invested in a bank that pays good interest on every might so given. Jack discovered that fifty dollars was far less than most people would have had to pay, and begged earnestly to be allowed to work for the rest. The doctor agreed to this, and Jack became his errand boy, serving with a willingness that made a pleasure of cutie, soon finding that many comforts quietly got into his life, that much help was given without words, and that the days of hunger and rags, heavy burns and dusty ash heaps, were gone by forever. The happiest hours of Jack's day were spent in the doctor's chairs when he made his round of wizards. For while he waited, the boy studied or read, and while they drove hither and hither, the doctor talked with him, finding an eager mind as well as a tender heart and a brave spirit, under the rough jacket of his little serving man. But he never called him that. For remembering the cheerfulness, self-denial, honesty, and loyalty to those he loved, shown by the boy, the good doctor proved his respect for the virtues all men should covet, wherever they are found, and always spoke of Jack with a smile, as my little gentleman. As I sit working at my back window, I look out on a long row of other people's back windows, and it is quite impossible for me to help seeing and being interested in my neighbours. There are a good many children in those houses, and though I don't know one of their names, I know them a great deal better than they think I do. I never spoke a word to any of them, and never expect to do so, yet I have my likes and dislikes among them, and could tell them things that they have said and done, which would astonish them very much, I assure you. First, the babies. For there are three. The aristocratic baby, the happy-go-lucky baby, and the forlorn baby. The aristocratic baby lives in a fine, well-furnished room, has a pretty little mama, who wears white gowns and pink ribbons in her cap. Likewise, a fond young papa, who evidently thinks this the most wonderful baby in Boston. There is a stout motherly lady, who is the grandma, I fancy, for she is always hovering about the deer, with cups, blankets, or a gorgeous red-worsted bird to amuse it. Baby is a plump, rosy, sweet-faced little creature, always smiling and kissing its hand to the world in general, in its pretty white frocks with its own little pink or blue ribbons, and its young mama proudly holding it up to see and be seen. My aristocratic neighbor has an easy life of it, and is evidently one of the little lilies who do nothing but blossom in the sunshine. The happy-go-lucky baby is just able to tattle, and I seldom pull up my curtain in the morning without seeing him at his window in his yellow flannel nightgown, taking a look at the weather. No matter whether it rains or shines, there he is, smiling and nodding and looking so merry, that it is evident he has plenty of sunshine bottled up in his own little heart for private use. I depend on seeing him, and feel as if the world was not right until this golden little sun rises to shine upon me. He doesn't seem to have any one to take care of him, but trots about all day and takes care of himself. Sometimes he is up in the chambers with the girl while she makes beds, and he helps, then he takes a stroll into the parlor and spins the gay curtain tassels to his heart's content. Next he dives into the kitchen. I hope he does not tumble down stairs, but I dare say he wouldn't mind if he did, and he gets pushed about by all the busy women as they fly round. I rather think it gets too hot for him there about dinner time, for he often comes out into the yard for a walk at noon, and seems to find endless wonders and delights in the ash barrel, the water-but, two old flower-pots, and a little grass-plat, in which he plants a choice variety of articles. In the firm faith they will come up in full bloom. I hope the big spoon and his own red shoe will sprout and appear before any trouble is made about their mysterious disappearance. At night I see a little shadow bobbing about on the curtain, and watch it till with a parting glimpse at a sleepy face at the window my small sun sets, and I leave him to his dreams. The forlorn baby roars all day long, and I don't blame him, for he is trotted, shaken, spanked, and scolded by a very cross nurse, who treats him like a meal-bag. I pity that little neighbour, and don't believe he will stand it long, for I see him double up his tiny fists and spar away at nothing, as if getting ready for a good tussle with the world by and by, if he lives to try it. Then the boys bless their buttons, how amusing they are. One young man, aged about ten, keeps hens, and the trials of that boy are really pathetic. The bitties get out every day or two and fly away all over the neighbourhood, like feathers when you shake a pillow. They cackle and crow and get up on sheds and fences, and trot down the streets all at once, and that poor fellow spins round after them like a distracted top. One by one he gets them and comes lugging them back upside down in the most undignified attitude, and shuts them up and hammers away, and thinks they are all safe, and sits down to rest. When a triumphant crow from some neighbouring shed tells him that that rascally black rooster is out again for another promenade, I'm not bloodthirsty, but I really do long for thanksgiving that my neighbour Henry may find rest for the soul of his foot, for not till his poultry are safely eaten will he ever know where they are. Another boy has a circus about once a week, and tries to break his neck jumping through hoops, hanging to a rope by his heels, turning somersaults in the air, and frightening his mother out of her wits by his pranks. I suspect that he is being to see Leotard, and I admire his energy, for he is never discouraged, and after tumbling flat half a dozen times he merely rubs his elbows and knees, and then gets up and takes another. There is a good domestic boy who brushes and curls his three little sisters hair every morning, and must do it very gently, for they seem to like it, and I often see them watch at the back gate for him, and clap their hands, and run to meet him, sure of being welcomed as little sisters like to be met by the big brothers whom they love. I respect that virtuous boy. The naughty boy is very funny, and the running fight he keeps up with the cross cook is as good as a farce. He is a torment, but I think she could tame him if she took the right way. The other day she would let him in because she had washed up her kitchen and his boots were muddy. He wiped them on the grass, but that wouldn't do, and after going at her with his head down, like a battering-ram, he gave it up, or seemed to. For the minute she locked the door behind her and came out to take in her clothes, that sly dog whipped up one of the low windows, scrambled in, and danced a hornpipe all over the kitchen, while the fat cook scolded and fumbled for her key, for she couldn't follow through the window. Of course he was off upstairs by the time she got in. But I'm afraid he had a shaking, for I saw him glowering fiercely as he came out later with a basket, going some confounded errand. Occasionally his father brings him out and whips him for some extra bad offense, during which performance he howls dismally. But when he is left sitting despondently and miraculously on an old chair without any seat, he soon cheers up, booze at a strange cat, whistles to his dog, who is just like him, or falls back on that standing cure for all the ills that boys are heir to, and whittles vigorously. I know I ought to frown upon this reprehensible young person and morally close my eyes to his pranks, but I really can't do it, and I'm afraid I find this little black sheep the most interesting of the flock. The girls have tea parties, make calls, and play mother, of course, and the sisters of the good boy have capital times up in a big nursery, with such large dollies that I can hardly tell which are the babies in which the mamas. One little girl plays about at home with a dirty face, tumbled hair, and an old pinaforon. She won't be made tidy, and I see her kick and cry when they try to make her neat. Now and then there is a great dressing and curling, and then I see her prancing away in her light boots, smart hat, and pretty dress, looking as fresh as a daisy. But I don't admire her, for I've seen behind the scenes you see, and I know that she likes to be fine rather than neat. So is the girl who torments her kitty, slaps her sister, and runs away when her mother tells her not to go out of the yard. But the housewife little girl who tends the baby washes the cups, and goes to school early with a sunshiny face and kiss all around. She now is a neighbor worth having, and I'd put a good mark against her name, if I knew it. I don't know as it would be proper for me to mention the grown-up people over the way. They go on very much as the children do, for there is the lazy, dandified man who gets up late and drinks, the cross-man who swears at the shed door when it won't shut, the fatherly man who sits among his children every evening, and the cheery old man up in the attic, who has a flower in his window, and looks out at the world with very much the same serene smile as my orange-coloured baby. The women, too, keep house, make calls, and play mother, and some don't do it well either. The forlorn baby's mama never seems to cuddle and comfort him, and some day when the little fist lies cold and quiet I'm afraid she'll wish she had. Then, the naughty boy's mother, I'm very sure if she put her arms round him sometimes and smoothed that rough head of his, and spoke to him as only mothers can speak, that it would tame him far better than the scoldings and thrashings. For I know there is a true boy's heart, warm and tender, somewhere under the jacket that gets dusted so often. As for the fine lady who lets her children do as they can while she trims her bonnet or makes paniers, I wouldn't be introduced to her on any account. But, as some might think it was unjustifiable curiosity on my part to see these things, and an actionable offence to speak of them, I won't mention them. I sometimes wonder if the kind spirits who feel an interest in mortals ever take a look at us on the shady side which we don't show the world, seeing the trouble, vanities, and sins which we think no one knows. If they love, pity, or condemn us, what records they keep, and what rewards they prepare for those who are so busy with their work and play, that they forget to maybe watching their back windows, with clear eyes and truer charity, than any inquisitive old lady with a pen in her hand. CHAPTER 11 LITTLE MARIE OF LEON Here comes our pretty little girl, I said to Kate, as we sat resting on the seat beside the footpath that leads from Dinan on the hill to Leone in the valley. Yes, there she was, trotting toward us in her round cap, blue woollen gown, white apron, and wooden shoes. On her head was a loaf of buckwheat bread as big as a small wheel, in one hand a basket full of green stuff, while the other led an old goat, who seemed in no hurry to get home. We had often seen this rosy bright-eyed child, had nodded to her, but never spoken, for she looked rather shy, and always seemed in haste. Now the sight of the goat reminded us of an excuse for addressing her. And as she was about to pass with the respectful little curtsy of the country, my friend said in French, Stay, please, I want to speak to you. She stopped at once, and stood looking at us under her long eyelashes in a timid yet confiding way, very pretty to see. We want to drink goat's milk every morning. Can you let us have it, little one? Oh, yes, mademoiselle! Nanette gives fine milk, and no one has yet engaged her, answered the child, her whole face brightening at the prospect. What name have you? Marie-Rosier, mademoiselle. And you live at Leone? Yes, mademoiselle. Have you parents? Truly, yes, of the best. My father has a loom, my mother works in the field, and mill with brother Yvonne. And I go to school, and care for Nanette, and nurse little baby. What school? At the convent, mademoiselle. The good sisters teach us the catechism, also to write, and read, and so I like it much. And Marie glanced at the little prayer in her apron pocket, as if proud to show she could read it. What age have you? Ten years, mademoiselle. You are young to do so much, for we often see you in the market buying and selling, and sometimes digging in your garden there and bringing water from the river. Do you love work as well as school? Ah, no, but mademoiselle knows it is necessary to work, everyone does, and I'm glad to do my part. Yvonne works much harder than I, and the father sits all day at his loom, yet he's sick, and suffers much. Yes, I am truly glad to help. And little Marie settled the big loaf, as if quite ready to bear her share of the burdens. Shall we go and see your father about the goat? And if he agrees, will you bring the milk fresh and warm every morning, I asked, thinking that a side of that blooming face would brighten our days for us? Oh, yes, I always do it for the ladies, and you will find the milk quite fresh and warm, hey Nanette? And Marie laughed as she pulled the goat from the hedge where she was nibbling the young leaves. We followed the child as she went clattering down the stony path, and soon came into the narrow street bounded on one side by the row of low stone houses, and on the other by the green wet meadow full of willows and the rapid mill stream. All along this side of the road sat women and children, stripping the bark from willow twigs to be used in basket-making. A busy sight and a cheerful one, for the women gossiped in their high clear voices, the children sang and laughed, and the babies crept about as freely as young lambs. We found Marie's home a very poor one. Only two rooms in the little hut, the lower one with its earthen floor, beds in the wall, smoky fire, and single window where the loom stood. At it sat a pale dark man who stopped work as we entered, and seemed glad to rest while we talked to him, or rather while Kate did, for I could not understand his odd French and preferred to watch Marie during the making of the bargain. Yvonne, a stout lad of twelve, was cutting up brush with an old sickle, and little baby, looking like a Dutch doll in her tiny round cap, tight blue gown and bits of sabbets, clung to Marie as she got the supper. I wondered what the children at home would have said to such a supper. A few cabbage leaves made the soup, and this with the dry black bread and a sip of sour wine, was all they had. There were no plates or bowls, but little hollow places in the heavy wooden table near the edge, and into these fixed cups Marie ladled the soup, giving each a wooden spoon from a queer rack in the middle. The kettle stood at one end, the big loaf lay at the other, and all stood round eating out of their little troughs, with Nanette and a rough dog close by to receive any crusts that might be left. Presently the mother came in, a true Breton woman, rosy and robust, neat and cheery, though her poor clothes were patched all over, her hands more rough and worn with hard work than any I ever saw, and the fine hair under her picturesque cap gray at 30, with much care. I saw then where Marie got the brightness that seemed to shine in every feature of her little face, for the mother's coming was like a ray of sunshine in that dark place, and she had a friendly word and look for everyone. Our little arrangement was soon made, and we left them all smiling and nodding, as if the few francs we were going to pay would be a fortune to them. Early next morning we were awakened by Francoise the maid, who came up to announce that the goat's milk had arrived. Then we heard a queer quick tapping sound on the stairs, and to our great amusement, Nanette walked into the room, straight up to my bedside, and stood there looking at me with her mild yellow eyes, as if she was quite used to seeing nightcaps. Marie followed with a pretty little bowl in her hand, and said, laughing at our surprise, See, Jim mademoiselle, in this way I make sure that the milk is quite fresh and warm, and kneeling down she milked the bowl full in a twinkling, while Nanette quietly chewed her cud and sniffed at a plate of rolls on the table. The warm draft was delicious, and we drank each our portion with much merriment. It is our custom, said Francoise, who stood by with her arms folded and looked on in a lofty manner. What had you for your own breakfast, I asked, as I caught Marie's eye hungrily fixed on the rolls, and some tempting little cakes of chocolate left from our lunch the day before. My good bread, as usual mademoiselle, also soro salad and, watche, answered Marie, as if trying to make the most of her scanty meal. Will you eat the rolls and put the chocolate in your pocket to nibble at school? You must be tired with this long walk so early. She hesitated, but could not resist, and said in a low tone, as she held the bread in her hand without eating it. Would mademoiselle be angry if I took her to bébé? She hess never tasted so beautiful white bread, and it would please her much. I emptied the plate into her basket, tucked in the chocolate, and added a gay picture for baby, which unexpected treasures caused Marie to clasp her hands and turn quite red with delight. After that she came daily, and we had merry times with old Nanette and her little mistress, whom we soon learned to love, so busy, blithe, and grateful was she. We soon found a new way to employ her, for the boy who drove our donkey did not suit us, and we got the donkey woman to let us have Marie in the afternoon when her lessons were done. She liked that, and so did we, for she seemed to understand the nature of donkeys, and could manage them without so much beating and shouting as the boy thought necessary. Such pleasant drives as we had, we too big women in the droll wagon, drawn by the little grey donkey that looked as if made of an old trunk. So rusty and rough was he as he went trotting along, his long ears wagging, and his small hoofs clattering over the fine hard road, while Marie sat on the shaft with a long whip, talking and laughing, and giving André a poke now and then, crying, to make him go. We found her a capital little guide and storyteller, for her grandmother had told her all the tales and legends of the neighborhood, and it was very pleasant to hear her repeat them in pretty peasant French, as we sat among the ruins, while Kate sketched. I took notes, and Marie held a big parasol over us. Some of these stories were charming, at least as she told them, with her little face changing from gay to sad, as she gesticulated most dramatically. The romance of Gilles de Bretagne was one of her favorites, how he carried off his child-wife, when she was only twelve, how he was imprisoned and poisoned, and at last left to starve in a dungeon, and would stand at his window crying, Bread, bread, for the love of God! Yet no one dared to give him any, till a poor peasant woman went in the night, and gave him half her black loaf. Not once, but every night for six months, though she robbed her children to do it, and when he was dying, it was she who took a priest to him, that he might confess through the bars of his cell. So good, ah, so good is poor woman, it is beautiful to hear of that mademoiselle, little Marie would say, with her black eyes full, and her lips trembling. But the story she liked best of all, was about the peasant girl and her grandmother. See, Saint-Dear Ladies, it was in this way. In the time of the Great War, many poor people were shot, because it was feared they would burn the chateaus. In one of these so sad parties being driven to Saint-Malo to be shot, was this young girl, only fifteen, dear ladies, do you hold how young is this? And see, the brave thing she did, with her went the old grandmother, whom she loved next to the good God. They went slowly, she was so old, and one of the officers who guarded them had pity on the pretty girl, and said to her as they were a little apart from the rest, Come, you are young and can run, I will save you. It is a pity so fine a little girl should be shot. Then she was glad and thanked him much, saying, And the grandmother also, you will save her with me? It is impossible, says the officer. She is too old to run. I can't save but one, and her life is nearly over. Let her go and do your fly into the net wood. I will not betray you, and when we come up with the gang, it will be too late to find you. Then the great temptation of Satan came to this girl. She had no wish to suffer, but she could not leave the good old grandmother to die alone. She wept, she prayed, and the saints gave her courage. No, I will not go, she said, and in the morning it said Malo, she was shot with the old mother in her arms. Could you do that for your grandmother, I once asked, as she stopped for breath, because this tale always excited her. She crossed herself devoutly and answered with fire in her eyes and a resolute gesture of her little brown hands. I should try, mademoiselle. I think she would, and succeed too, for she was a brave and tender-hearted child, as she soon after proved. A long drought parched the whole country that summer, and the gardens suffered much, especially the little plots in Leon, for most of them were on the steep hillside behind the huts, and unless it rained, water had to be carried up from the stream below. The cabbages and onions on which these poor people depend, when fresh salads are gone, were dying in the baked earth, and a hard winter was before them if this store failed. The priests prayed for rain in the churches, and long processions streamed out of the gates to visit the old stone cross, called the Qua de Sentis Fui, and kneeling there in crowds, the people implored the blessing of rain to save their harvest. We felt great pity for them, but liked little Marie's way of praying best. She did not come one morning, but sent her brother, who only laughed and said Marie had hurt her foot when we inquired for her, anxious to know if she was really ill, we went to see her in the afternoon and heard a pretty little story of practical Christianity. Marie lay asleep on her mother's bed in the wall, and her father, sitting by her, told the tale in a low voice, pausing now and then to look at her, as if his little daughter had done something to be proud of. It seems that in the village there was an old woman frightfully disfigured by fire, and not quite sane, as the people thought. She was harmless, but never showed herself by day, and only came out at night to work in her garden or take the air. Many of the ignorant peasants feared her, however, for the country abounds in fairy legends and strange tales of ghosts and goblins, but the more charitable left bread at her door, and took in return the hose she knit, or the thread she spun. During the drought, it was observed that her garden, though the steepest and stoniest, was never dry. Her cabbages flourished when her neighbors withered, and her onions stood up green and tall, as if some special rain spirit watched over them. People wondered and shook their heads, but could not explain it, for Mother Lobinó was too infirm to carry much water up the steep path, and who would help her, unless some of her own goblin friends did it? This idea was suggested by the story of a peasant returning late at night, who had seen something white flitting to and fro in the garden patch, and when he called to it, saw it vanish most mysteriously. This made quite a stir in the town, others watched also, saw the white phantom in the starlight, and could not tell where it went when it vanished behind the chestnut trees on the hill, till one man, braver than the rest, hid himself behind those trees and discovered the mystery. The sprite was Marie, in her little shift, who stepped out of the window of the loft, where she slept, onto a bow of the tree, and thence to the hill, for the house was built so close against the bank, that it was but a step from Garrett to garden, as they say in Mollay. In trying to escape from this inquisitive neighbor, Marie heard her foot, but was caught, and confessed that it was she who went at night to water poor mother Lobo-nose cabbages, because if they failed, the old woman might starve, and no one else remembered her destitute and helpless state. The good-hearted people were much touched by this silent sermon on loving one's neighbor as one's self, and Marie was called the little saint, and tended carefully by all the good women. Just as the story ended, she woke up, and at first seemed inclined to hide under the bed-clothes. But we had her out in a minute, and presently she was laughing over her good deed, with the true child's enjoyment of a bit of roguery, saying in her simple way, Yes, it was so droll to go running about An-chamise, like the girl in the tale of Midsummer Eve, where she pulls the Saint-John's-word flower, and has her wish to hear all the creature's talk. I liked it much, and Yvonne slept so like the door-mouse, that he never heard me creep in and out. It was hard to bring much water, but the poor cabbages were so glad, and Mother Lobbino felt that all had not forgotten her. We took care that little Saint Marie was not forgotten, but quite well, and all ready for her confirmation when the day came. This is a pretty sight, and for her sake, we went to the old church of Saint-Sauveur to see it. It was a bright spring day, and the gardens were full of early flowers, the quaint streets gay with proud fathers and mothers in holiday dress, and flocks of strangers pausing to see the long procession of little girls with white caps and veils, gloves and gowns, prayer-brooks and rosaries, winding through the sunny square into the shadowy church with chanting and candles, garlands and crosses. The old priest was too ill to perform the service, but the young one who took his place announced, after it was over, that if they would pass the house the good old man would bless them from his balcony. That was the best of all, and a sweet sight, as the feeble fatherly old priest leaned from his easy chair to stretch his trembling hands over the little flock so like a bed of snow-drops, while the bright eyes and rosy faces looked reverently up at him, and the fresh voices chanted the responses as the curly heads under the long veils bowed and passed by. We learned afterwards that our Marie had been called in and praised for her secret charity, a great honour, because the good priest was much beloved by all his flock, and took a most paternal interest in the little ones. That was almost the last we saw of our little friend, for we left in on soon after, bidding the León family goodbye, and leaving certain warm souvenirs for wintertime. Marie cried and clung to us at parting, then smiled like an April day, and waved her hand as we went by, never expecting to see her any more. But the next morning, just as we were stepping on board the steamer to go down the ronds to San Malo, we saw a little white cap come bobbing through the marketplace, down the steep street, and presently Marie appeared with two great bunches of pale yellow prim roses and wild blue hyacinths in one hand, while the other held her sabbets that she might run the faster. Rosie and smiling and breathless with haste, she came racing up to us crying, Behold my souvenir for the dear ladies! I do not cry now, No, I am glad the day is so fine. Bon voyage, bon voyage! We thanked and kissed and left her on the shore, bravely trying not to cry, as she waved her wooden shoes and kissed her hand till we were out of sight, and had nothing but the soft colors and sweet breath of our nose gaze to remind us of little Marie of León. 12 My May Day Among Curious Birds and Beasts Being alone in London, yet wishing to celebrate the day, I decided to pay my respects to the lions at the zoo-logical gardens. A lovely place it was, and I enjoyed myself immensely, for May Day in England is just what it should be. Mild, sunny, flowery, and spring-like. As I walked along the well-kept paths between white and rosy Hawthorne hedges, I kept coming upon new and curious sights, for the birds and beasts are so skillfully arranged that it is more like traveling through a strange and pleasant country than visiting a menagerie. The first thing I saw was a great American bison, and I was so glad to meet with any one from home that I'd have padded him with pleasure if he had shown any cordiality toward me. He didn't, however, but stared savagely with his fierce eyes and put down his immense head with a sullen snort, as if he'd have tossed me with great satisfaction. I did not blame him, for the poor fellow was homesick, doubtless for his own wide prairies and the free life he had lost. So I threw him some fresh clover and went on to the pelicans. I never knew before what handsome birds they were, not graceful, but with such snowy plumage, tinged with pale pink and faint yellow. They had just had their bath and stood arranging their feathers with their great bills, uttering a queer cry now and then, nodding to one another sociably. When fed, they gobbled up the fish, never stopping to swallow it until the pouches under their bills were full, then they leisurely emptied them and seemed to enjoy their lunch with the grave deliberation of regular Englishmen. Being in a hurry to see the lions, I went on the long row of cages and there found a splendid sight. Six lions and lionesses in three or four different cages, sitting or standing in dignified attitudes and eyeing the spectators with a mild expression in their fine eyes. One lioness was ill and lay on her bed, looking very pensive, while her mate moved restlessly about her, evidently anxious to do something for her and much afflicted by her suffering. I liked this lion very much for, though the biggest, he was very gentle and had a noble face. The tigers were rushing about, as tigers usually are, some creeping noiselessly to and fro, some leaping up and down, and some washing their faces with their velvet paws. All looked and acted so like cats that I wasn't at all surprised to hear one of them purr when the keeper scratched her head. It was a very loud and large purr, but no fireside pussy could have done it better and everyone laughed at the sound. There were pretty spotted leopards, panthers, and smaller varieties of the same species. I sat watching them a long time, longing to let some of the wild things out for a good run. They seemed so unhappy, barred in those small dens. Suddenly the lions began to roar, the tigers to snarl, and all to get very much excited about something, sniffing at the openings, thrusting their paws through the bars, and lashing their tails impatiently. I couldn't imagine what the trouble was till, far down the line, I saw a man with a barrel full of lumps of raw meat. This was their dinner, and as they were fed, but once a day they were ravenous. Such roars and howls and cries as arose while the man went slowly down the line, gave one a good idea of the sounds to be heard in Indian forests and jungles. The lions behaved best, for they only paced up and down with an occasional cry, but the tigers were quite frantic, for they tumbled one over the other, shook the cages, and tried to reach the bystanders just out of reach behind the bar that kept us at safe distance. One lady had a fright, for the wind blew the end of her shawl within reach of a tiger's great claw, and he clutched it, trying to drag her nearer. The shawl came off, and the poor lady ran away screaming, as if the whole family of wild beasts were after her. When the lumps of meat were thrown, it was curious to see how differently the animals behaved. The tigers snarled and fought and tore and got so savage I was very grateful that they were safely shut up. In a few minutes nothing but white bones remained, and then they howled for more. One little leopard was better bred than the others, for he went up on a shelf in the cage and ate his dinner in a quiet, proper manner, which was an example to the rest. The lions ate in dignified silence, all but my favorite, who carried his share to his sick mate, and by every gentle means in his power tried to make her eat. She was too ill, however, and turned away with a plaintive moan which seemed to grieve him sadly. He wouldn't touch his dinner, but laid down near her with the lump between his paws, as if guarding it for her. And there I left him patiently waiting, in spite of his hunger, till his mate could share it with him. As I took a last look at his fine old face, I named him Douglas and walked away, humming to myself the lines of the ballad. Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. As a contrast to the wild beasts, I went to see the monkeys who lived in a fine large house all to themselves. Here was every variety from the great ugly chimpanzee to the funny little fellows who played like boys and cut up all sorts of capers. A mama sat tending her baby and looking so like a little old woman that I laughed till the gray monkey with the blue nose scolded at me. He was a cross old party and sat huddled up in the straw, scowling at everyone, like an ill-tempered old bachelor. Half a dozen little ones teased him capitally by dropping bits of bread, nutshells, and straw down on him from above as they climbed about the perches or swung by their tails. One poor little chap had lost the curly end of his tail. I'm afraid the gray one bit it off, and kept trying to swing like the others, forgetting that the strong curly end was what he held on with. He would run up the bare boughs and give a jump, expecting to catch and swing, but the lame tail wouldn't hold him, and down he'd go, bounce on to the straw. At first he'd sit and stare about him, as if much amazed to find himself there. Then he'd scratch his little round head and begin to scold violently, which seemed to delight the other monkeys. And finally he'd examine his poor little tail and appear to understand the misfortune which had befallen him. The funny expression of his face was irresistible, and I enjoyed seeing him very much, and gave him a bun to comfort him when I went away. The snake house came next, and I went in on my way to visit the rhinoceros family. I rather like snakes since I had a tame green one who lived under the doorstep, and would come out and play with me on sunny days. These snakes I found very interesting. Only they got under their blankets and wouldn't come out, and I wasn't allowed to poke them. So I missed seeing several of the most curious. An ugly cobra lay and blinked at me through the glass, looking quite as dangerous as he was. There were big and little snakes, black, brown, and speckled, lively and lazy, pretty and plain ones. But I liked the great boa best. When I came to his cage I didn't see anything but the branch of a tree, such as I had seen in other cages, for the snakes to wind up and down. Where is he, I wondered. I hope he hasn't got out, I said to myself, thinking of a story I read once of a person in a menagerie who turned suddenly and saw a great boa gliding toward him. As I stood wondering if the big worm could be under the little flat blanket before me, the branch began to move all at once, and with a start I saw a limb swing down to stare at me with the boa's glittering eyes. He was so exactly the color of the bear bow, and lay so still I had not seen him till he came to take a look at me. A very villainous looking reptile he was, and I felt grateful that I didn't live in a country where such unpleasant neighbors might pop in upon you unexpectedly. He was kind enough to take a promenade and show me his size, which seemed immense, as he stretched himself, and then nodded his rough grayish body into a great loop with the fiery-eyed head in the middle. He was not one of the largest kind, but I was quite satisfied, and left him to his dinner of rabbits, which I hadn't the heart to stay, and see him devour alive. I was walking toward the camel's pagoda, when all of a sudden a long dark curling thing came over my shoulder, and I felt warm breath in my face. It's the boa, I thought, and then gave a skip which carried me into the hedge where I stuck, much to the amusement of some children riding on the elephant whose trunk had frightened me. He had politely tried to tell me to clear the way, which I certainly had done with all speed. Picking myself out of the hedge, I walked beside him, examining his clumsy feet and peering up at his small intelligent eye. I'm very sure he winked at me, as if enjoying the joke, and kept poking his trunk into my pocket, hoping to find something eatable. I felt as if I had got into a foreign country as I looked about me, and saw elephants and camels walking among the trees, flocks of snow-white cranes stalking over the grass on their long scarlet legs, striped zebras racing in their paddock, queer kangaroos hopping about with little ones in their pouches, pretty antelopes chasing one another, and in an immense wire-covered aviary, all sorts of brilliant birds were flying about as gaily as if at home. One of the curiosities was a sea cow, who lived in a tank of salt water, and came at the keeper's call to kiss him, and flounder on its flippers along the margin of the tank after a fish. It was very like a seal, only much larger, and had four fins instead of two. Its eyes were lovely, so dark and soft and liquid. But its mouth was not pretty, and I declined one of the damp kisses which it was ready to dispense at word of command. The great polar bear lived next door, and spent his time splashing in and out of a pool of water or sitting on a block of ice, panting as if the mild spring day was blazing midsummer. He looked very unhappy, and I thought it a pity that they didn't invent a big refrigerator for him. These are not half of the wonderful creatures I saw, but I have not room to tell more. Only I advise all who can to pay a visit to the zoological gardens when they go to London, for it is one of the most interesting sights in that fine old city. End of Chapter 12. Recording by George Elto, San Antonio, Texas Arley Hill Newsboy Hurrying to catch a certain car at a certain corner late one stormy night, I was suddenly arrested by the sight of a queer-looking bundle lying in a doorway. Bless my heart, it's a child! Oh, John! I'm afraid he's frozen! I exclaimed to my brother, as he both bent over the bundle. Such a little fellow as he was, in the big ragged coat, such a tired baby face under the fuzzy cap, such a purple little hand still holding fast a few papers. Such a pathetic sight altogether was the boy, lying on the stone step, with the snow drifting over him, that it was impossible to go by. He is asleep, but he'll freeze if left so long. Here, wake up, my boy, and go home as fast as you can, cried John, with a gentle shake, and a very gentle voice, for the memory of a dear little lad, safely tucked up at home, made him fatherly kind to the small wagon-bond. The moment he was touched, the boy tumbled up, and, before he was half awake, began his usual cry with an eye to business. Paper sir, Harold, transcript, lost, a great gift swaddled up the last addition, and he stood blinking at us like a very chilly young owl. I'll buy a mole if you'll go home, my little chap. It's high time you were in bed, said John, whisking to them papers into one pocket, and his purse out of another, as he spoke. All of them? Why, there's six, croaked a boy, for he was as hoarse as a raven. Never mind, I can kindle the fire with them. Put it in your pocket, and throw it home, my man, as fast as possible. Where do you live? I asked, picking up the fifty cents that fell from the little fingers, to be numbed to hold it. Mill's court, out of Hanover, cold, ain't it? said the boy, blowing on his purple hands, and hoping feebly from one leg to the other, to take the stiffness out. He can't go all the way in this storm, such a might, and so used up with cold and sleep, John. Of course he can't. We'll put him in the car, John began, when the boy wheezed out. Now I've got to wait for Sam. He'll be along as soon as the theatre's done. He said he would, and so I am waiting. Who is Sam? I asked. He's the fella I lives with. I ain't got any folks, and he takes care of me. Nice care indeed, leaving a baby like you to wait for him here such a night as this, I said grossly. Oh, he's good to me, Sam is, though he does knock me around sometimes, when I ain't spry. The big fella shows me back, you see, and I get cold and can't sing out loud, so I don't sell my papers, and has to work them off late. Here the child talk, one would think he was sixteen instead of six, I said half laughing. I moaned ten. Hi, ain't that a owner? cried the boy, as a gust of sleet slept from his face, when he peeped to see if Sam was coming. Hello, the lights is out. Why, the play is done, and the fold's gone, and Sam's forgot me. It was very evident that Sam had forgotten the little protege, and a strong desire to shake Sam possessed me. No use waiting any longer, and now my papers is sold, I ain't afraid to go home, said the boy, stepping down like little old men with the rheumatism, and preparing to charge away through the storm. Stop a bit, my little Casabianca. A car will be along in fifteen minutes, and while waiting you can warm yourself over there, said John, with the purple hand on his. My name's Jack Hill, not Cassie Banks, please, sir, said the little party with dignity. Have you had your supper, Mr Hill? asked John, laughing. I had some peanuts, and two socks of Joe's orange, but it weren't very filling, he said, gravely. I should think not. Here, once to, and be quick, please, cried John, as we sat down in a warm corner of the confectioner's opposite. While little Jack showered in the whole oysters, with his eyes shutting up now and then in spite of himself, we looked at him, and thought again of little rosy face at home, safe in his warm nest, with mother love watching over him. Notting towards the ragged, grimy, forlorn little creature, dropping asleep over his supper, like a tired baby, I said. Can you imagine our Freddy out alone at this hour, trying to work off his papers, because afraid to go home till he has? I'd rather not try, answered brother John, winking hard, as he stroked a little head beside him, which, by the by, looked very like a ragged, yellow dormant. I thanked brother John, winking hard, but I can't be sure, for I know I did, and for a minute there seemed to be a dozen little new boys dancing before my eyes. There goes our car, and it's the last, said John, looking at me. Let it go, but don't leave the boy, and I frowned at John for hinting at such a thing. Here is his car. Now, my lad, Poulture lost oyster, and come on. Good night, ma'am, thank ye, sir, croaked a grateful little voice, as the child was scothed up in John's strong hands, and sat down on the car step. With a word to the conductor, and a small business transaction, we left Jack called up in a corner to finish his nap as tranquillity as if it wasn't midnight, and the knocking-ground might not wait him at his journey's end. We didn't mind the storm much as we plodded home, and when I told the story to Rosy Face next day, his interest-quiet reconciled me to the sniffs and sneeze of a bad cold. If I saw that little poor boy on Joe, I'd love him lots, said Freddy, with a word of pity of his beautiful child's eyes, and believing that others also would be kind to little Jack, and such as he, I told the story. When busy fathers hurry home at night, I hope they'll buy their paper of the small boys who get shoved back, the feeble ones who grow horse and can't sing out, the shabby ones who evidently have only forgetful sams to take care of them, and the hungry-looking ones who don't get what is filling. For love of the little sons and daughters safe at home, say a kind word, buy a paper, even if you don't want it, and never pass by, leaving them to sleep forgotten in the streets at midnight, with no pillow but a stone, no coverlet but the pitiless snow, and not even a tender-hearted robin to drop leaves over them. 14. Patty's Patchwork I perfectly hate it, and something dreadful ought to be done to the woman who invented it, said Patty in a pet, sending a shower of gay pieces flying over the carpet, as if a small whirlwind in a rainbow had got into a quarrel. Puss did not agree with Patty, for, after a surprised hop when the flurry came, she calmly laid herself down on a red square, purring comfortably, and winking her yellow eyes as if she thanked the little girl for the bright bed that set off her white fur so prittly. This cool performance made Patty laugh, and say more pleasantly, Well it is tiresome, isn't it, Aunt Penn? Sometimes, but we all have to make Patchwork, my dear, and do the best we can with the pieces given us. Do we? And Patty opened her eyes in great astonishment at this new idea. Our lives are Patchwork, and it depends on us a good deal how the bright and dark bits get put together so that the whole is neat, pretty, and useful when it is done, said Aunt Penn soberly. Dearie me, now she was going to preach, thought Patty, but she rather liked Aunt Penn's preachments, for a good deal of fun got mixed up with the moralizing, and she was so good herself that children could never say in their naughty little minds, You are just as bad as we, so you needn't talk to us, ma'am. I gave you that Patchwork to see what you would make of it, and it is as good as a diary to me, for I can tell by the different squares how you felt when you made them, continued Aunt Penn with a twinkle in her eye, as she glanced at the many colored bits on the carpet. Can you truly just try and see, and Patty looked interested at once. Pointing with the yard measure, Aunt Penn said, tapping a certain dingy, puckered, brown, and purple square. That is a bad day, don't it look so? Well, it was, I do declare, for that was the Monday piece when everything went wrong, and I didn't care how my work looked, cried Patty, surprised at Aunt Penn's skill in reading the calico diary. This pretty pink and white one, so neatly sewed, is a good day. This funny mixture of red, blue, and yellow, with the big stitches, is a merry day. That one, with spots on it, is one that got cried over. This with the gay flowers, is a day full of good little plans and resolutions. And that one made of dainty bits, all stars and dots and tiny leaves, is the one you made when you were thinking about the dear new baby there at home. Why Aunt Penn, you are a fairy! How did you know? They truly are just as you say, as near as I can remember. I rather like that sort of patchwork, and Patty sat down upon the floor to collect, examine, and arrange her discarded work with a new interest in it. I see what is going on, and I have queer plays in my mind just as you little folks do. Suppose you make this a moral bed quilt, as some people make album quilts. See how much patience, perseverance, good nature, and industry you can put into it. Every bit will have a lesson, or a story, and when you lie under it, you will find it a real comforter, said Aunt Penn, who wanted to amuse the child and teach her something better even than the good old-fashioned accomplishment of needlework. I don't see how I can put that sort of thing into it, answered Patty, as she gently lifted Puss into her lap, instead of twitching the red bit roughly from under her. There goes a nice little piece of kindness this very minute, laughed Aunt Penn, pointing to the cat and the red square. Patty laughed also, and looked pleased as she stroked Mother Bunch, while she said thoughtfully, I see what you mean now. I am making two kinds of patchwork at the same time, and this that I see is to remind me of the other kind that I don't see. Every task, no matter how small or homely, that gets well and cheerfully done, is a fine thing, and the sooner we learn to use up the dark and bright bits, the pleasures and pains, the cares and duties, into a cheerful, useful life, the sooner we become real comforters, and everyone likes to cuddle about us. Don't you see, dearie? That's what you are, Aunt Penn, and Patty put up her hand to hold fast by that other strong, kind, helpful hand that did so much, yet never was tired or cold or empty. Aunt Penn took the chubby little one in both her own, and said smiling, yet with meaning in her eyes, as she tapped the small forefinger, rough, with impatient and unskillful sewing, shall we try and see what a nice little comforter we can make this month, while you wait to be called home to see Mama and the dear new baby? Yes, I'd like to try, and Patty gave Aunt Penn's hand a hearty shake, for she wanted to be good, and rather thought the new fancy would lend a charm to the task which we all find rather tiresome and hard. So the bargain was made, and the patch Patty sewed that day was beautiful to behold, for she was in a delightful moral state of mind, and felt quite sure that she was going to become a model for all children to follow if they could. The next day her ardor had cooled a little, and being in a hurry to go out and play, she slighted her work, thinking no one would know. But the third day she got so angry with her patch, that she tore it in two, and declared it was all nonsense to fuss about being good and thorough, and all the rest of it. Aunt Penn did not say much, but made her mend and finish her patch, and add it to the pile. After she went to bed that night, Patty thought of it, and wished she could do it over, it looked so badly. But as it could not be, she had a pentonant fit, and resolved to keep her temper while she sewed at any rate, for Mama was to see the little quilt when it was done, and would want to know all about it. Of course she did not devote herself to being good all the time, but spent her days in lessons, play, mischief, and fun, like any other lively ten-year-older, but somehow, whenever the sewing-hour came, she remembered that talk, and as she worked she fell into the way of wondering whether Aunt Penn could guess from the patches what sort of days she had passed. She wanted to try and see, but Aunt Penn refused to read any more calico till the quilt was done. Then, she said in a queer, solemn way, she should make the good and bad days appear in a remarkable manner. This puzzled Patty very much, and she quite ached to know what the joke would be. Meantime the pile grew steadily, and every day, good or bad, added to that other work called Patty's life. She did not think much about that part of it, but unconsciously the quiet sewing-time had its influence on her, and that little conscience-hour, as she sometimes called it, helped her very much. One day she said to herself as she took up her work, now I'll puzzle Aunt Penn. She thinks my naughty tricks get into the patches, but I'll make this very nicely and have it gay, and then I don't see how she will ever guess what I did this morning. Now you must know that Tweedle D., the canary, was let out every day to fly about the room and enjoy himself. Mother Bunch never tried to catch him, though he often hopped temptingly near her. He was a droll little bird, and Patty liked to watch his promenades, or he did funny things. That day he made her laugh by trying to fly away with a shawl, picking up the fringe with which to line the nest he was always trying to build. It was so heavy he tumbled on his back in lay-kicking and pulling, but had to give it up and content himself with a bit of thread. Patty was forbidden to chase or touch him at these times, but always felt a strong desire to have just one grab at him and see how he felt. That day, being alone in the dining-room, she found it impossible to resist, and when Tweedle D. came tripping pertly over the tablecloth, cocking his head on one side with shrill chirps and little prancing, she caught him, and for a minute held him fast in spite of his wrathful pecking. She put her thimble on his head, laughing to see how funny he looked, and just then he slipped out of her hand. She clutched at him, missed him, but alas, alas, he left his little tail behind him. Every feather in his blessed little tail, I do assure you, and there sat Patty with the yellow plumes in her hand and dismay in her face. Poor Tweedle D. retired to his cage much afflicted and sunk no more that day, but Patty hid the lost tail and never said a word about it. Aunt Penn is so nearsighted, she won't mind, and maybe he will have another tail pretty soon, or she will think he is molting. If she asks, of course, I shall tell her. Patty settled it in that way, forgetting that the slide was open, and Aunt Penn in the kitchen, so she made a neat blue and buff patch, and put it away, meaning to puzzle Auntie when the reading time came. Patty got the worst of it, as you will see by and by. Another day she strolled into the storeroom and saw a large tray of fresh buns standing there. Now it was against the rule to eat between meals, and new hot bread or cake was especially forbidden. Patty remembered both these things, but could not resist temptation. One plump brown bun with a lovely plum right in the middle was so fascinating it was impossible to let it alone, so Patty whipped it into her pocket, ran to the garden, and hiding behind the big lilac bush, ate it in a great hurry. It was just out of the oven, and so hot it burned her throat, and lay like a live coal in her little stomach after it was down, making her very uncomfortable for several hours. Why do you keep sighing, asked Aunt Penn as Patty sat down to her work? I don't feel very well. You have eaten something that disagrees with you. Did you eat hot biscuits for breakfast? No, ma'am, I never do, and Patty gave another little gasp for the bun lay very heavily on both stomach and conscience just then. A drop or two of ammonia will set you right, and Aunt Penn gave her some. It did set the stomach right, but the conscience still worried her, for she could not make up her mind to fest the sly, greedy things she had done. Put a white patch in the middle of those green ones, said Aunt Penn, as Patty sat soberly sowing her daily square. Why, asked the little girl, for Auntie Seldom interfered in her arrangement of the quilt. It will look pretty, and match the other three squares that are going at the corners of that middle piece. Well, I will, and Patty sowed away, wondering at this sudden interest in her work, and why Aunt Penn laughed to herself as she put away the ammonia bottle. These are two of the naughty little things that got worked into the quilt, but there were good ones also, and Aunt Penn's sharp eyes saw them all. At the window of a house opposite, Patty often saw a little girl who set their playing with an old doll or a torn book. She never seemed to run about or go out, and Patty often wondered if she was sick. She looked so thin and sober, and was so quiet. Patty began by making faces at her for fun, but the little girl only smiled back, and nodded so good naturedly, that Patty was ashamed of herself. Is that girl over there poor? She asked suddenly as she watched her one day. Very poor. Her mother takes in sewing, and the child is lame, answered Aunt Penn, without looking up from the letter she was writing. Her doll is nothing but an old shawl tied round with a string, and she doesn't seem to have but one book. Under if she'd like to have me come and play with her, said Patty to herself, as she stood her own big doll in the window, and nodded back at the girl who bobbed up and down in her chair with delight at this agreeable prospect. You can go and see her some day, if you like, said Aunt Penn, scribbling away. Patty said no more then, but later in the afternoon she remembered this permission, and resolved to try if Auntie would find out her good-doings as well as her bad ones. So tucking Blanche Augusta Arabella Mod under one arm, her best picture book under the other, and gathering a little nose-gay of her own flowers, she slipped across the road, knocked, and marched boldly upstairs. Mrs. Brown, the sewing woman, was out. And no one there, but Lizzie and her chair at the window, looking lonely and forlorn. How do you do? My name is Patty, and I live over there, and I've come to play with you, said one child in a friendly tone. How do you do? My name is Lizzie, and I'm very glad to see you. What a lovely doll! returned the other child gratefully, and then the ceremony of introduction was over, and they began to play as if they had known each other for ever so long. To poor Lizzie, it seemed as if a little fairy had suddenly appeared to brighten the dismal room with flowers and smiles and pretty things, while Patty felt her pity and goodwill increase as she saw Lizzie's crippled feet, and watched her thin face brighten and glow with interest and delight over book and doll and posy. It felt good, as Patty said afterwards, sort of warm and comfortable in my heart, and I liked it ever so much. She stayed an hour, making sunshine in a shady place, and then ran home, wondering if Aunt Penn would find that out. She found her sitting with her hands before her, and such a sad look in her face that Patty ran to her saying anxiously, What's the matter, auntie? Are you sick? No, dear, but I have sorrowful news for you. Come, sit in my lap, and let me tell you as gently as I can. Mama is dead, cried Patty with a look of terror in her rosy face. No, thank God, but the dear new baby only stayed a week, and we shall never see her in this world. With a cry of sorrow, Patty threw herself into the arms outstretched to her, and on Aunt Penn's loving bosom sobbed away the first bitterness of her grief and disappointment. Oh, I wanted a little sister so much, and I was going to be so fond of her, and was so glad she came, and now I can't see or have her even for a day. I'm so disappointed, I don't think I can bear it, sobbed Patty. Think of poor Mama, and bear it bravely for her sake, whispered Aunt Penn, wiping away her own and Patty's tears. Oh, dear me! There's the pretty quilt I was going to make for baby, and now it isn't any use, and I can't bear to finish it, and Patty broke out afresh at the thought of so much love's labor lost. Mama will love to see it, so I wouldn't give it up. Work is the best cure for sorrow, and I think you never will be sorry you tried it. Let us put a bright bit of submission with this dark trouble, and work both into your little life as patiently as we can, dearie. Patty put up her trembling lips and kissed Aunt Penn, grateful for the tender sympathy and the helpful words. I'll try, was all she said, and then they sat talking quietly together about the dear dead baby who only stayed long enough to make a place in everyone's heart and leave them aching when she went. Patty did try to bear her first trouble bravely, and got on very well after the first day or two, except when the sewing-hour came, then the sight of the pretty patchwork recalled the memory of the cradle it was meant to cover, and reminded her that it was empty now. Many quiet tears dropped on Patty's work, and sometimes she had to put it down in sob, for she had longed so for a little sister, and it was very hard to give her up and put away all the loving plans she had made for the happy time when baby came. A great many tender little thoughts and feelings got sewed into the gay squares, and if a small stain showed here and there, I think they only added to its beauty in the eyes of those who knew what made them. Aunt Penn never suggested picking out certain puckered bits and grimy stitches, for she knew that just there the little fingers trembled and the blue eyes got dim as they touched and saw the delicate, flowery bits left from baby scounds. Lizzie was full of sympathy, and came hopping over on her crutches with her only treasure, a black rabbit, to console her friend. But of all the comfort given, Mother Bunch's share was the greatest and best, for that very first sad day, as Patty wandered about the house disconsolently, Puss came hurrying to meet her, and in her dumb way begged her mistress to follow and see the fine surprise prepared for her. Four plump kits as white as snow, with four gray tails all wagging in a row as they laid on their proud mama's downy breast, while she purred over them, with her yellow eyes full of supreme content. It was in the barn, and Patty lay for an hour with her head close to Mother Bunch, and her hands softly touching the charming little bunches, who squeaked and tumbled and sprawled about with their dim eyes blinking, their tiny pink paws bumbling, and their dear gray tails waggling in the sweetest way. Such a comfort as they were to Patty, no words could tell, and nothing will ever convince me that Mrs. Bunch did not know all about Baby, and so lay herself out to cheer up her little mistress like a motherly loving old Puss as she was. As Patty lay on the rug that evening while Aunt Penn sung softly in the twilight, a small white figure came pattering over the straw carpet, and dropped a soft warm ball down by Patty's cheek, saying as plainly as a loud confiding purr could say it, There, my dear, this is a lonely time for you, I know, so I've brought my best and prettiest darling to come for you, and with that Mother Bunch sat down and washed her face, while Patty cuddled little Snowdrop, and forgot to cry about Baby. Soon after this came a great happiness to Patty, in the shape of a letter from Mama, saying she must have her little girl back a week earlier than they had planned. I'm sorry to leave you, Auntie, but it is so nice to be wanted, and I'm all Mama has now, you know, so I must hurry and finish my work to surprise her with. How shall we finish it off? There ought to be something regularly splendid to go all around, said Patty in a great bustle as she laid out her pieces, and found that only a few more were needed to complete the moral bed quilt. I must try and find something. We will put this little white star with the blue rounded in the middle, for it is the neatest and prettiest piece in spite of the stains. I will sew in this part, and you may finish putting the long strips together, said Aunt Penn, rummaging her bags and bundles for something fine to end off with. I know I've got something, in a way hurried Lizzie, who was there and much interested in the work. She came hopping back again presently, with a roll in her hand, which she proudly spread out, saying, There! Mother gave me that ever so long ago, but I never had any quilt to use it for, and now it's just what you want. You can't buy such chints nowadays, and I'm so glad I had it for you. It's regularly splendid, cried Patty in a rapture, and so it was, for the pink and white was all covered with animals, and the blue was full of birds and butterflies and bees flying about as naturally as possible. Really lovely were the little figures and the clear soft colors, and Aunt Penn clapped her hands while Patty hugged her friend, and declared that the quilt was perfect now. Mrs. Brown begged to be allowed to quilt it when the patches were all nicely put together, and Patty was glad to have her, for that part of the work was beyond her skill. It did not come home till the morning Patty left, and Aunt Penn packed it up without ever unrolling it. We will look at it together when we show it to Mama, she said, and Patty was in such a hurry to be off that she made no objection. A pleasant journey, a great deal of hugging and kissing, some tears and tender laments for baby, and then it was time to show the quilt, which Mama said was just what she wanted to throw over her feet as she lay on the sofa. If there were any fairies, Patty would have been sure they had done something to her bed cover, for when she proudly unrolled it, what do you think she saw? Right in the middle of the white star, which was the centerpiece, delicately drawn with indelible ink was a smiling little cherub, all head and wings and under it these lines, while Sister Dear lies asleep, baby careful watch will keep. Then in each of the four gay squares that were at the corners of the strip that framed the star, was a white bit bearing other pictures and couplets that both pleased in a bashed Patty as she saw and read them. In one was seen a remarkably fine bun with the lines, who stole the hot bun and got burnt well? Go ask the lilac bush, guess it can tell. In the next was a plump, tailless bird, who seemed to be saying mournfully, my little tail, my little tail, this bitter loss I still bewail, but rather nare have tail again, than Patty should deceive Aunt Penn. The third was less embarrassing, where it was a pretty bunch of flowers so daintily drawn one could almost think they smelt them, and these lines were underneath. Every flower to others given, blossoms fair and sweet in heaven. The fourth was a picture of a curly haired child sowing, with some very large tears rolling down her cheeks and tumbling off her lap like marbles, while some tiny sprites were catching and flying away with them as if they were very precious. Every tender drop that fell, loving spirits caught and kept, and Patty's sorrows lighter grew, for the gentle tears she wept. Oh, Auntie, what does it all mean, cried Patty, who had looked both pleased and ashamed as she glanced from one picture to the other? It means, dear, that the goods and bads got into the bed quilt in spite of you, and there they are to tell their own story. The bun in the lost tale, the posy you took to poor Lizzie, and the trouble you bore so sweetly. It is just so with our lives, though we don't see it quite as clearly as this. Invisible hands paint our faults in virtues, and by and by we have to see them, so we must be careful that they are good and lovely, and we are not ashamed to let the eyes that love us best read there the history of our lives. As Aunt Penn spoke, and Patty listened with a thoughtful face, Mama softly drew the pictured coverlet over her, and whispered as she held her little daughter close. My Patty will remember this, and if all her years tell as good a story as this month, I shall not fear to read the record, and she will be in truth my little comforter.