 CHAPTER 17 COMPOSITION DAY Hurry up, boys, it's three o'clock, and Uncle Fritz likes us to be punctual, you know, said Frans, one Wednesday afternoon, as a bell rang, and a stream of literary-looking young gentlemen with books and paper in their hands were seen going toward the museum. Tommy was in the school room, bending over his desk, much bedobbed with ink, flushed with the ardor of inspiration, and in a great hurry as usual. For easy-going bangs never was ready till the very last minute. As Frans passed the door looking up laggards, Tommy gave one last blot and flourish, and departed out of the window, waving his paper to dry as he went. Nan followed, looking very important, with a large roll in her hand, and Demi escorted Daisy, both evidently brimful of some delightful secret. The museum was all in order, and the sunshine among the hot vines made pretty shadows on the floor, as it peeped through the great window. On one side sat Mr. and Mrs. Bear, on the other was a little table, on which the compositions were laid as soon as read, and in a large semicircle sat the children, on camp stools, which occasionally shut up and let the sitter down, thus preventing any stiffness in the assembly. As it took too much time to have all read, they took turns, and on this Wednesday the younger pupils were the chief performers, while the older ones listened with condescension and criticized freely. Ladies first, so Nan may begin, said Mr. Bear, when the settling of stools and rustling of papers had subsided. Nan took her place beside the little table, and with the preliminary giggle read the following interesting essay on The Sponge. The Sponge, my friends, is a most useful and interesting plant. It grows on rocks under the water, and is a kind of seaweed, I believe. People go and pick it, and dry it, and wash it, because little fish and insects live in the holes of the sponge. I found shells in my new one, and sand. Some are very fine and soft. Babies are washed with them. The Sponge has many uses. I will relate some of them, and I hope my friends will remember what I say. One use is to wash the face. I don't like it myself, but I do it, because I wish to be clean. Some people don't, and they are dirty. Here the eye of the reader rested sternly upon Dick and Dolly, who quailed under it, and instantly resolved to scrub themselves virtuously on all occasions. Another use is to wake people up. I allude to boys particularly. Another pause after the long word to enjoy the smothered laugh that went round the room. Some boys do not like it, and some do not like it. Some do not get up when called, and Mary Ann squeezes the water out of a wet sponge on their faces, and it makes them so mad they wake up. Here the laugh broke out, and emails said, as if he had been hit. Seems to me you are wandering from the subject. No, I ain't. We are to write about vegetables or animals, and I'm doing both. For boys or animals, aren't they? cried Nan, and, undaunted by the indignant no, shouted at her. She calmly proceeded. One more interesting thing is done with sponges, and this is when doctors put ether on it and hold it to people's noses when they have teeth out. I shall do this when I am bigger, and give ether to the sick, so they will go to sleep and not feel me cut off their legs and arms. I know somebody who killed cats with it, called out Demi, but was promptly crushed by Dan, who upset his camp stool and put a hat over his face. I will not be interrupted, said Nan, frowning upon the unseemly scrimmagers. Order was instantly restored, and the young lady closed her marks as follows. My composition has three morals, my friends. Somebody groaned, but no notice was taken of the insult. First is, keep your faces clean. Second, get up early. Third, when the ether sponge is put over your nose, breathe hard and don't kick, and your teeth will come out easy. I have no more to say. And Miss Nan sat down amid tumultuous applause. That is a very remarkable composition. Its tone is high, and there is a good deal of humor in it. Very well done, Nan. Now Daisy. And Mr. Bear smiled at one young lady as he beckoned the other. Daisy colored prettily as she took her place and said in her modest little voice, I am afraid you won't like mine. It isn't nice and funny like Nan's, but I couldn't do any better. We always like yours posies, said Uncle Fritz, and a gentle murmur from the boys seemed to confirm the remark. Thus encouraged Daisy read her little paper, which was listened to with respectful attention. The cat. The cat is a sweet animal. I love them very much. They are clean and pretty, and catch rats and mice, and let you pet them, and are fond of you if you are kind. They are very wise, and can find their way anywhere. Little cats are called kittens and are dear things. I have two, named huzz and buzz, and their mother is topaz, because she has yellow eyes. Uncle told me a pretty story about a man named Mohomet. He had a nice cat, and when she was asleep on his sleeve and he wanted to go away, he cut off the sleeve so as not to wake her up. I think he was a kind man. Some cats catch fish. So do I, cried Teddy, jumping up eager to tell about his trout. Hush, said his mother, setting him down again as quickly as possible. For orderly Daisy hated to be interrupted, as Nan expressed it. I read about one who used to do it very slyly. I tried to make topaz, but she did not like the water, and scratched me. She does like tea, and when I play in my kitchen, she pats the teapot with her paw till I give her some. She is a fine cat. She eats apple pudding and molasses. Most cats do not. That's a first rater, called out Nat, and Daisy retired, pleased with the praise of her friend. Demi looks so impatient we must have him up at once, or he won't hold out, said Uncle Fritz, and Demi skipped up with alacrity. Mine is a poem he announced in Tone of Triumph, and read his first effort in a loud and solemn voice. I write about the butterfly. It is a pretty thing, and flies about like the birds, but it does not sing. First it is a little grub, and then it is a nice yellow cocoon, and then the butterfly eats its way out soon. They live on dew and honey, they do not have any hive, they do not sting like wasps and bees and hornets, and to be as good as they are we should strive. I should like to be a beautiful butterfly, all yellow and blue and green and red, but I should not like to have Dan put camphor on my poor little head. This unusual burst of genius brought down the house, and Demi was obliged to read it again. A somewhat difficult task, as there was no punctuation whatever, and the little poet's breath gave out before he got to the end of some of the long lines. He will be as Shakespeare yet, said Aunt Joe, laughing as if she would die, for this poetic gem reminded her of one of her own, written at the age of ten, and beginning gloomily. I wish I had a quiet tomb beside a little rill, where birds and bees and butterflies would sing upon the hill. Come on, Tommy, if there is as much ink inside your paper as there is outside, it will be a long composition, said Mr. Bear, when Demi had been induced to tear himself from his poem and sit down. It isn't a composition, it's a letter. You see, I forgot all about its being my turn till after school, and then I didn't know what to have, and there wasn't time to read up. So I thought you wouldn't mind my taking a letter that I wrote to my grandma. It's got something about birds in it, so I thought it would do. With this long excuse, Tommy plunged into a sea of ink and floundered through, pausing now and then to decipher one of his own flourishes. My dear grandma, I hope you are well. Uncle James sent me a pocket rifle. It is a beautiful little instrument of killing, shaped like this. Here Tommy displayed a remarkable sketch of what looked like an intricate pump, or the inside of a small steam engine. Forty-four are the sights. Six is a false stock that fits in, at A. Three is the trigger, and two is the cock. It loads at the breach and fires with great force and straightness. I'm going out shooting squirrels soon. I shot several fine birds for the museum. They had speckled breasts, and Dan liked them very much. He stuffed them tip-top, and they sit on the tree quite natural. Only one looks a little tipsy. We had a Frenchman working here the other day, and Asia called his name so funnily that I will tell you about it. His name was Jermaine. First she called him Jerry, but we laughed at her, and she changed it to Jeremiah. But ridicule was the result, so it became Mr. Germany. But ridicule, having been again resumed, it became Jeremon, which it has remained ever since. I do not write often, I am so busy, but I think of you often, and sympathize with you, and sincerely hope you get on as well as you can be expected. Without me. Your affectionate grandson, Thomas Buckminster Bangs. P.S., question mark. If you come across any postage stamps, remember me. N.B. Love to all, and a great deal to Aunt Elmyra. Does she make any nice plum cakes now? P.S., question mark. Mrs. Bear sends her respects. P.S., question mark. And so would Mr. B. if he knew I was in act to write. N.B. Father is going to give me a watch on my birthday. I am glad as, at present, I have no means of telling time, and am often late at school. P.S., question mark. I hope to see you soon. Don't you wish to send for me? T.B.B. As each post-script was received with a fresh laugh from the boys, by the time he came to the sixth and last, Tommy was so exhausted that he was glad to sit down and wipe his ready face. I hope the dear old lady will live through it, said Mr. Bear, under cover of the noise. We won't take any notice of the broad hint given in that last P.S. The letter will be quite as much as she can bear without a visit from Tommy, answered Mrs. Joe, remembering that the old lady usually took to her bed after a visitation from her irrepressible grandson. Now me, said Teddy, who had learned a bit of poetry, and was so eager to say it that he had been bobbing up and down during the reading, and could no longer be restrained. I'm afraid he will forget it if he waits, and I have had a deal of trouble teaching him, said his mother. Teddy trotted to the rostrum, dropped to curtsy, and nodded his head at the same time, as if anxious to suit every one. Then, in his baby voice and putting the emphasis on the wrong words, he said his verse all in one breath. Little drops of water, little drains of sand, mate a mite oakum, ocean, and a peasant land, little words of kindness, poking every day, make a home a heaven, and help us on a way. Clapping his hands at the end, he made another double salutation, and then ran to hide his head in his mother's lap, quite overcome by the success of his piece, for the applause was tremendous. Dick and Dolly did not write, but were encouraged to observe the habits of animals and insects, and report what they saw. Dick liked this, and always had a great deal to say, so when his name was called he marched up, and looking at the audience with his bright confiding eyes, told his little story so earnestly, that no one smiled at his crooked body, because the straight soul shone through it beautifully. I've been watching dragonflies, and I read about them in Dan's book, and I'll try and tell you what I remember. There's lots of them flying round on the pond, all blue with big eyes, and sort of lay swings, very pretty. I caught one and looked at him, and I think he was the handsomest insect I ever saw. They catch littler creatures than they are to eat, and have a queer kind of hook thing that folds up when they ain't hunting. It likes the sunshine and dances round all day. Let me see, what else was there to tell about? Oh, I know. The eggs are laid in the water, and go down to the bottom, and are hatched in the mud. Little ugly things come out of them. I can't say the name, but they are brown, and keep having new skins, and getting bigger and bigger. Only think. It takes them two years to be a dragonfly. Now this is the curious part of it, so you listen tight, for I don't believe you know it. When it is ready it knows somehow, and the ugly grubby thing climbs up out of the water on a flag or a bull rush, and bursts open its back. Come, I don't believe that, said Tommy, who was not an observant boy, and really thought Dick was making up. It does burst open its back, don't it? And Dick appealed to Mr. Bear, who not at a very decided affirmative, to the little speaker's great satisfaction. Well out comes the dragonfly all whole, and he sits in the sun sort of coming alive, you know, and he gets strong, and then he spreads his pretty wings and flies away up in the air, and never is a grub any more. That's all I know, but I shall watch and try to see him do it, for I think it's splendid to turn into a beautiful dragonfly, don't you? Dick had told his story well, and when he described the flight of the newborn insect, had waved his hands, and looked as if he saw, and wanted to follow it. Something in his face suggested to the minds of the elders, listeners, the thought that some day little Dick would have his wish, and after years of helplessness and pain, would climb up into the sun some happy day, and leaving his poor little body behind him, find a new lovely shape in a fairer world than this. Mrs. Joe drew him to her side and said, with a kiss on his thin cheek, that is a sweet little story, dear, and you remembered it wonderfully well. I shall write and tell your mother all about it. And Dick sat on her knee, contentedly smiling at the praise, and resolving to watch well, and catch the dragonfly in the act of leaving its old body for the new, and see how he did it. Dolly had a few remarks to make upon the duck, and made them in a sing-song tone, for he had learned it by heart, and thought it a great plague to do it at all. While ducks are hard to kill, men hide and shoot at them, and have tame ducks to quack and make the wild ones come, where the men can fire at them. They have wooden ducks made, too, and they sail round, and the wild ones come to see them. They are stupid, I think. Our ducks are very tame. They eat a great deal, and go poking round in the mud and water. They don't take good care of their eggs, but them spoil, and— Mine don't, cried Tommy. Well, some peoples do, Silas said so. Hens take good care of little ducks, only they don't like to have them go in the water, and make a great fuss. But the little ones don't care a bit. I like to eat ducks with stuffing in them, and lots of applesauce. I have something to say about owls, began Nat, who had carefully prepared a paper upon this subject, with some help from Dan. Owls have big heads, round eyes, hooked bills, and strong claws. Some are gray, some white, some black and yellowish. Their feathers are very soft, and stick out a great deal. They fly very quietly and hunt bats, mice, little birds, and such things. They build nests in barns, hollow trees, and some take the nests of other birds. The great horned owl has two eggs bigger than a hens, and reddish brown. The tawny owl has five eggs, white and smooth. And this is the kind that hoots at night. Another kind sounds like a child crying. They eat mice and bats whole, and the parts that they cannot digest and make into little balls and spit out. My gracious, how funny! Nan was heard to observe. They cannot see by day, and if they get out into the light, they go flapping around half blind, and the other birds chase and peck at them, as if they were making fun. The horned owl is very big, most as big as the eagle. It eats rabbits, rats, snakes, and birds, and lives in rocks and old tumbledown houses. They have a good many cries and scream like a person being choked and say, wow, wow! And it scares people at night in the woods. The white owl lives by the sea and in cold places, and looks something like a hawk. There is a kind of owl that makes holes to live in like moles. It is called the burrowing owl, and is very small. The barn owl is the commonest kind, and I have watched one sitting in a hole in a tree, looking like a little grey cat, with one eye shut and the other open. He comes out at dusk and sits around watching for the bats. I caught one, and here he is. With that, Nat suddenly produced from inside his jacket a little downy bird who blinked and ruffled his feathers, looking very plump and sleepy and scared. Don't touch him. He is going to show off, said Nat, displaying his new pet with great pride. First he put a cocked hat on the bird's head, and the boys laughed at the funny effect. Then he added a pair of paper spectacles, and that gave the owl such a wise look that they shouted with merriment. The performance closed with making the bird angry and seeing him cling to a handkerchief upside down pecking and clucking, as Rob called it. He was allowed to fly after that, and settled himself on the bunch of pine cones over the door, where he sat staring down at the company with an air of sleepy dignity that amused them very much. Have you anything for us, George? asked Mr. Bear, when the room was still again. Well, I read and learned ever so much about moles, but I declare I've forgotten every bit of it, except that they dig holes to live in, that you catch them by pouring water down, and that they can't possibly live without eating very often. And stuff he sat down wishing he had not been too lazy to write out his valuable observations. For a general smile went round when he mentioned the last of the three facts, which lingered in his memory. Then we are done for today, began Mr. Bear. But Tommy called out in a great hurry. No, we ain't. Don't you know? We must give the thing. And he winked violently as he made an eyeglass of his fingers. Bless my heart, I forgot. Now is your time, Tom. And Mr. Bear dropped into his seat again, while all the boys but Dan looked mightily tickled at something. Nat, Tommy, and Demi left the room, and speedily returned with a little red Morocco box set forth in state on Mrs. Joe's best silver salver. Tommy bore it, and still escorted by Nat and Demi marched up to unsuspecting Dan, who stared at them as if he thought they were going to make fun of him. Tommy had prepared an elegant and impressive speech for the occasion. But when the minute came it all went out of his head, and he just said straight from his kindly boyish heart, Here, old fellow, we all wanted to give you something to kind of pay for what happened a while ago, and to show how much we liked you for being such a Trump. Please take it, and have a jolly good time with it. Dan was so surprised he could only get as red as the little box, and mutter, thank you boys, as he fumbled to open it. But when he saw what was inside his face lighted up, and he seized the long-desired treasure saying so enthusiastically that everyone was satisfied, though his language was anything but polished. What a stunner! I say, you fellows are regular bricks to give me this, it's just what I wanted. Give us your paw, Tommy. Many paws were given and heartily shaken, for the boys were charmed with Dan's pleasure, and crowded round him to shake hands and expatiate on the beauties of their gift. In the midst of this pleasant chatter, Dan's eye went to Mrs. Joe, who stood outside the group enjoying the scene with all her heart. No, I had nothing to do with it. The boys got it up all themselves, she said. Answering the grateful look that seemed to thank her for that happy moment, Dan smiled and said in a tone that only she could understand. It's you all the same, and making his way through the boys he held at his hand first to her, and then to the good Professor, who was beaming benevolently on his flock. He thanked them both with a silent hearty squeeze he gave the kind hands that had held him up, and led him into the safe refuge of a happy home. Not a word was spoken, but they felt all he would say, and Little Teddy expressed his pleasure for them as he leaned from his father's arm to hug the boy and say, in his baby way, My good Danny, everybody loves him now. Come here, show off your spyglass, Dan, and let us see some of your magnified polywogs and animal comisms, as you call them, said Jack, who felt so uncomfortable during the scene that he would have slipped away if email had not kept him. So I will. Take a squint at that and see what you think of it, said Dan, glad to show off his precious microscope. He held it over a beetle that happened to be lying on the table, and Jack went down to take his squint, but looked up with an amazed face saying, My eye, what nippers the old thing has got! I see now why it hurts so confoundedly when you grab a door bug and he grabs back again. He winked at me, cried Nann, who had poked her head under Jack's elbow and got the second peep. Everyone took a look, and then Dan showed them the lovely plumage on a moth swing. The four feathery corners to a hair, the veins on a leaf, hardly visible to the naked eye, but like a thick net through the wonderful little glass, the skin on their own fingers, looking like queer hills and valleys, a cobweb like a bit of coarse sewing silk and the sting of a bee. It's like the fairy spectacles in my storybook, only more curious, said Demi, enchanted with the wonders he saw. Dan is a magician now, and he can show you many miracles going on all around you, for he has two things, needful patience and a love of nature. We live in a beautiful and wonderful world, Demi, and the more you know about it, the wiser and the better you will be. This little glass will give you a new set of teachers, and you may learn fine lessons from them if you will, said Mr. Bear. Glad to see how interested the boys were in the matter. Could I see anybody's soul with this microscope if I looked hard, asked Demi, who was much impressed with the power of the bit of glass? No, dear, it's not powerful enough for that, and never can be made so. You must wait a long while before your eyes are clear enough to see the most invisible of God's wonders, but looking at the lovely things you can see will help you to understand the lovelier things you cannot see, answered Uncle Fritz, with his hand on the boy's head. Well, Daisy and I both think that if there are any angels, their wings look like that butterfly's as we see it through the glass, only more soft and gold. Believe it if you like, and keep your own little wings as bright and beautiful, only don't fly away for a long time yet. No, I won't, and Demi kept his word. Goodbye, my boys, I must go now, but I leave you with our new professor of natural history, and Mrs. Joe went away well pleased with that composition day. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of Little Men 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 Mary Anderson. Little Men, Life at Plumfield with Joe's Boys by Louisa May Alcott Chapter 18 Crops The gardens did well that summer, and in September the little crops were gathered in with much rejoicing. Jack and Ned joined their farms and raised potatoes, those being a good saleable article. They got twelve bushels counting little ones and all, and sold them to Mr. Bear at a fair price. For potatoes went fast in that house. E-mail and frans devoted themselves to corn, and had a jolly little husking in the barn, after which they took their corn to the mill, and came proudly home with meal enough to supply the family with hasty pudding and Johnny cake for a long time. They would not take money for their crop, because as frans said, we never can pay uncle for all he has done for us if we raised corn for the rest of our days. Nat had beans in such abundance that he despaired of ever shelling them, till Mrs. Jope reposed a new way which succeeded admirably. The dry pods were spread upon the barn floor. Nat fiddled, and the boys danced quadrills on them, till they were thrashed out with much merriment and very little labor. Tommy's six-weeked spines were a failure, for a dry spell early in the season hurt them, because he gave them no water. And after that he was so sure that they could take care of themselves, he let the poor things struggle with bugs and weeds till they were exhausted, and died a lingering death. So Tommy had to dig his farm over again, and plant peas. But they were late, the birds ate many, the bushes not being firmly planted blew down, and when the poor peas came at last no one cared for them, as their day was over. And spring-lam had grown into mutton. Tommy consoled himself with a charitable effort, for he transplanted all the thistles he could find, and tended them carefully for Toby, who was fond of the prickly delicacy, and had eaten all he could find on the place. The boys had great fun over Tommy's thistle-bed, but he insisted that it was better to care for poor Toby than for himself, and declared that he would devote his entire farm next year to thistles, worms, and snails, and that Demi's turtles and Nett's pet owl might have the food they loved, as well as the donkey. So, like shiftless, kind-hearted, happy-go-lucky Tommy. Demi had supplied his grandmother with lettuce all summer, and in the autumn sent his grandfather a basket of turnips, each one scrubbed up till it looked like a great white egg. His grandma was fond of salad, and one of his grandpa's favorite quotations was, Lusulus, whom frugality could charm, ate roasted turnips at the Sabine Farm. Therefore these vegetable offerings to the dear domestic God-in-Goddess were affectionate, appropriate, and classical. Daisy had nothing but flowers in her little plot, and it bloomed all summer long with a succession of gay or fragrant posies. She was very fond of her garden and delved away in it at all hours watching over her roses and pansies, sweet peas, and mignonnette, as faithfully and tenderly as she did over her dolls or her friends. Little nosegays were sent into town on all occasions, and certain vases about the house were her a special care. She had all sorts of pretty fancies about her flowers, and loved to tell the children the story of the pansy, and show them how the step-mother leaf sat up in her green chair in purple and gold, how the two own children in gay yellow had each its little seat, while the step-children in dull colors both sat on one small stool, and the poor little father in his red nightcap was kept out of sight in the middle of the flower. That a monk's dark face looked out of the monk's hood larkspur, that the flowers of the canary vine were so like dainty birds fluttering their yellow wings, that one almost expected to see them fly away, and the snap-dragons that went off like little pistol shots when you'd cracked them. Splendid dollies did she make out of scarlet and white poppies, with ruffled robes tied round the waist, with grass-blaged sashes and astonishing hats of choreopsis on their green heads. Peapod boats, with rose-leaf sails, received these flower people, and floated them about a placid pool in the most charming style. For finding there were no elves, Daisy made her own, and loved the fanciful little friends who played their parts in her summer life. Nan went in for herbs, and had a fine display of useful plants, which she tended with steadily increasing interest in care. Very busy was she in September cutting, drying, and tying up her sweet harvest, and writing down in a little book how the different herbs are to be used. She had tried several experiments, and made several mistakes. So she wished to be particular lest she should give little huzz another fit by administering wormwood instead of catnip. Dick, Dolly, and Rob each grubbed away on his small farm, and made more stir about it than all the rest put together. Parsnips and carrots were the crop of the two dees, and they longed for it to be late enough to pull up the precious vegetables. Dick did privately examine his carrots and plant them again, feeling that Silas was right in saying that it was too soon for them yet. Rob's crop was four small squashes, and one immense pumpkin. It really was a bouncer, as everyone said, and I assure you that two small persons could sit on it side by side. It seemed to have absorbed all the goodness of the little garden, and all the sunshine that shone down on it. And lay there a great round golden ball full of rich suggestions of pumpkin pies for weeks to come. Robby was so proud of his mammoth vegetable that he took everyone to see it, and when frosts began to nip covered it up each night with an old bed quilt, tucking it round as if the pumpkin was a well-beloved baby. The day it was gathered he would let no one touch it but himself, and nearly broke his back tugging it to the barn in his little wheelbarrow, with Dick and Dolly harnessed in front to give a heave up the path. His mother promised him that the Thanksgiving pie should be made from it, and hinted vaguely that she had a plant in her head which would cover the prize pumpkin and its owner with glory. Poor Billy had planted cucumbers, but unfortunately hold them up and left the pigweed. This mistake grieved him very much for ten minutes, then he forgot all about it and sowed a handful of bright buttons which he collected, evidently thinking in his feeble mind that they were money, and would come up and multiply so that he might make many quarters as Tommy did. No one disturbed him and he did what he liked with his plot, which soon looked as if a series of small earthquakes had stirred it up. When the general harvest day came he would have nothing but stones and weeds to show. If kind old Asia had not hung half a dozen oranges on the dead tree he stuck up in the middle. Billy was delighted with his crop and no one spoiled his pleasure in the little miracle which pity wrought for him by making withered branches bear strange fruit. Stuffy had various trials with his melons for being impatient to taste them. He had a solitary revel before they were ripe and made himself so ill that for a day or two it seemed doubtful if he would ever eat any more. But he pulled through and served up his first cantaloupe without tasting a mouthful himself. They were excellent melons for he had a warm slope for them and they ripened fast. The last and best were lingering on the vines and Stuffy had announced that he should sell them to a neighbor. This disappointed the boys who had hoped to eat the melons themselves and they expressed their displeasure in a new and striking manner. Going one morning to gaze upon the three fine watermelons which he had kept for the market Stuffy was horrified to find the word P-I-G cut in white letters on the green rind staring at him from every one. He was in a great rage and flew to Mrs. Joe for redress. She listened, condoled with him, and then said, If you want to turn the laugh I'll tell you how, but you must give up the melons. Well I will, for I can't thrash all the boys, but I'd like to give them something to remember the mean sneaks growled Stuffy still in a fume. Now Mrs. Joe was pretty sure who had done the trick, for she had seen three heads suspiciously near to one another in the sofa corner the evening before. And when these heads had knotted with chuckles and whispers, this experienced woman knew Mischief was afoot. A moonlit night, a rustling in the old cherry tree near E-mail's window, a cut on Tommy's finger, all helped confirm her suspicions. And having cooled Stuffy's wrath a little, she bade him bring his maltreated melons to her room, and say not a word to any one of what had happened. He did so, and the three wags were amazed to find their jokes so quietly taken. It spoiled the fun, and the entire disappearance of the melons made them uneasy. So did Stuffy's good nature, for he looked more placid and plump than ever, and surveyed them with an air of calm pity that perplexed them very much. At dinner-time they discovered why, for then Stuffy's vengeance fell upon them, and the laugh was turned against them, when the pudding was eaten and the fruit was put on. Marianne reappeared in a high state of giggle, bearing a large watermelon, Silas followed with another, and Dan brought up the rear with a third. One was placed before each of the three guilty lads, and they read on the smooth-green skins this addition to their own work. With the compliments of the pig. Everyone else read it also, and the whole table was in a roar, for the trick had been whispered about, so everyone understood the sequel. E-mail, Ned, and Tommy did not know where to look, and had not a word to say for themselves. So they wisely joined in the laugh, cut up the melons, and handed them round, saying, what all the rest agreed to, that Stuffy had taken a wise and merry way to return good for evil. Dan had no garden, for he was away or lame the greater part of the summer. So he had helped Silas wherever he could, chopped wood for Asia, and taken care of the lawn so well that Mrs. Joe always had smooth paths and nicely shaven turf before her door. When the others got in their crops he looked sorry that he had so little to show, but as autumn went on he bethought himself of a woodland harvest which no one would dispute with him, and which was peculiarly his own. Every Saturday he was away alone to the forests, fields, and hills, and always came back loaded with spoils. For he seemed to know the meadows where the best flag-root grew, the sicket where the sassafras was spiciest, the haunts where the squirrels went for nuts, the white oak whose bark was most valuable, and the little gold-thread vine that Nersi liked to cure the canker with. All sorts of splendid red and yellow leaves did Dan bring home for Mrs. Joe to dress her parlor with. Graceful seeded grasses, clematis tassels, downy soft yellow waxwork berries, and mosses red-brimmed, white or emerald green. I need not sigh for the woods now because Dan brings the woods to me, Mrs. Joe used to say, as she glorified the walls with yellow maple-bows and scarlet wood-bind wreaths, or filled her vases with russet ferns, hemlock sprays full of delicate cones, and hardy autumn flowers, for Dan's crops suited her well. The great garret was full of the children's little stores, and for a time was one of the sights of the house. Daisy's flower-seeds in neat little paper bags all labelled lay in a drawer of a three-legged table. Nann's herbs hung in bunches against the wall, filling the air with their aromatic breath. Tommy had a basket of thistle down with the tiny seeds attached, for he meant to plant them next year, if they did not all fly away before that time. E-mail had bunches of popcorn hanging there to dry, and Demi laid up acorns and different sorts of grain for the pets. But Dan's crop made the best show, for fully one half of the floor was covered with the nuts he brought. All kinds were there, for he ranged the woods for miles round, climbed the tallest trees, and forced his way into the thickest hedges for his plunder. Walnuts, chestnuts, hazelnuts, and beechnuts lay in separate compartments, getting brown and dry and sweet ready for winter revels. There was one butternut tree on the place, and Rob and Teddy called it theirs. It bore well this year, and the great dingy nuts came dropping down to hide among the dead leaves, where the busy squirrels found them better than the lazy bears. Their father had told them, the boys, not the squirrels, they should have the nuts if they would pick them up, but no one was to help. It was easy work, and Teddy liked it, only he soon got tired, and left his little basket half full for another day. But the other day was slow to arrive, and meantime the sliced squirrels were hard at work, scampering up and down the old elm trees, stowing the nuts away till their holes were full, then all about the crotches of the boughs to be removed at their leisure. Their funny little ways amused the boys till one day Silas said, Have you sold them nuts to the squirrels? No, answered Rob, wondering what Silas meant. While then, you'd better fly round or them spry little fellers won't leave you none. Oh, we can beat them when we begin, there are such lots of nuts, we shall have a plenty. There ain't many more to come down, and they have cleared the ground pretty well, see if they ain't. Robby ran to look, and was alarmed to find how few remained. He called Teddy, and they worked hard all one afternoon, while the squirrels sat on the fence and scolded. Now, Ted, we must keep watch, and pick up just as fast as they fall, or we shan't have more than a bushel, and everyone will laugh at us if we don't. The naughty Quillies, tart have them. I'll pick fast, and run and put them in the barn, twic, said Teddy, frowning at little Frisky, who chattered and whisked his tail indignantly. That night a high wind blew down hundreds of nuts. And when Mrs. Joe came to wake her little sons, she said briskly, Come, my laddies, the squirrels are hard at it, and you will have to work well today, or they will have every nut on the ground. No, they won't. And Robby tumbled up in a great hurry, gobbled his breakfast, and rushed out to save his property. Teddy went to, and worked like a little beaver, trotting to and fro with full and empty baskets. Another bushel was soon put away in the corn barn, and they were scrambling among the leaves for more nuts when the bell rang for school. Oh, Father, let me stay out and pick. Those horrid squirrels will have my nuts if you don't. I'll do my lessons by and by, cried Rob, running into the school room, fleshed and tousled by the fresh cold wind and his eager work. If you had been up early and done a little every morning there would be no hurry now. I told you that, Rob, and you never minded. I cannot have the lessons neglected as the work has been. The squirrels will get more than their share this year, and they deserve it, for they have worked best. You may go an hour earlier, but that is all. And Mr. Bear led Rob to his place, where the little man dashed at his books, as if bent on making sure of the precious hour promised him. It was almost maddening to sit still, and see the wind shaking down the last nuts, and the lively thieves flying about, pausing now and then to eat one in his face, and flick their tails as if they said, Saucilly, we'll have them in spite of you, lazy Rob. The only thing that sustained the poor child in this trying moment was the sight of Teddy working away all alone. It was really splendid, the pluck and perseverance of the little lad. He picked and picked till his back ached. He trudged to and fro till his small legs were tired, and he defied wind, weariness, and wicked quillies till his mother left her work and did the caring for him, full of admiration for the kind little fellow who tried to help his brother. When Rob was dismissed he found Teddy reposing in the bushel basket quite used up, but unwilling to quit the field, for he flapped his hat at the thieves with one grubby little hand, while he refreshed himself with the big apple held in the other. Rob fell to work, and the ground was cleared before two o'clock. The nuts safely in the corn barn loft and the weary workers exalted in their success. But Frisky and his wife were not to be vanquished so easily, and when Rob went up to look at his nuts a few days later he was amazed to see how many had vanished. None of the boys could have stolen them, because the door had been locked. The doves could not have eaten them, and there were no rats about. There was great lamentation among the young bears till Dick said, I saw Frisky on the roof of the corn barn, maybe he took them. I know he did. I'll have a trap and kill him dead, cried Rob, disgusted with Frisky's grasping nature. Perhaps if you watch you can find out where he puts them, and I may be able to get them back for you, said Dan, who was much amused by the fight between the boys and the squirrels. So Rob watched, and saw Mr. and Mrs. Frisky drop from the drooping elm-bows onto the roof of the corn barn, dodge in it one of the little doors, much to the disturbance of the doves, and come out with a nut in each mouth. So laden they could not get back the way they came, but ran down the low roof along the wall, and leaping off at a corner they vanished a minute and reappeared without their plunder. Rob ran to the place, and in a hollow under the leaves he found a heap of the stolen property, hidden away to be carried off to the holes by and by. Oh you little villains, I'll cheat you now, and not leave one, said Rob. So he cleared the corner and the corn barn, and put the contested nuts in the garret, making sure that no broken window-pane could anywhere let in the unprincipled squirrels. They seemed to feel that the contest was over, and retired to their whole, but now and then could not resist throwing down nut shells on Rob's head, and scolding violently as if they could not forgive him, nor forget that he had the best of the battle. Father and Mother Bear's crop was of a different sort, and not so easily described, but they were satisfied with it, felt that their summer work had prospered well, and by and by had a harvest that made them very happy. END OF CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 OF LITTLE MEN 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 Mary Anderson. LITTLE MEN Life at Plumfield with Joe's Boys by Louisa May Alcott. CHAPTER 19 John Brooke Wake up, Demi, dear, I want you. Why, I've just gone to bed. It can't be morning yet. And Demi blinked like a little owl as he waked from his first sound sleep. It's only ten, but your father is ill, and we must go to him. Oh, my little John, my poor little John! An Aunt Joe laid her head down on the pillow, with a sob, that scared sleep from Demi's eyes, and filled his heart with fear and wonder. For he dimly felt why Aunt Joe called him John, and wept over him as if some loss had come that left him poor. He clung to her without a word, and in a minute she was quite steady again, and said, with a tender kiss as she saw his troubled face, We are going to say good-bye to him, my darling, and there is no time to lose. So dress quickly and come to me in my room. I must go to Daisy. Yes, I will. And when Aunt Joe was gone, little Demi got up quietly, dressed as if in a dream, and leaving Tommy fast asleep went away through the silent house, feeling that something new and sorrowful was going to happen, something that set him apart from the other boys for a time, and made the world seem as dark and still and strange as those familiar rooms did in the night. A carriage sent by Mr. Laurie stood before the door. Daisy was soon ready, and the brother and sister held each other by the hand all the way into town. As they drove swiftly and silently with Aunt and Uncle through the shadowy roads to say good-bye to Father. None of the boys but France and E-mail knew what had happened, and when they came down next morning great was their wonderment and discomfort, for the house seemed forlorn without its master and mistress. Breakfast was a dismal meal with no cheery Mrs. Joe behind the teapots, and when school time came Father Bear's place was empty. They wandered about in a disconsolate kind of way for an hour, waiting for news and hoping it would be all right with Demi's father. For good John Brooke was much beloved by the boys. Ten o'clock came and no one arrived to relieve their anxiety. They did not feel like playing, yet the time dragged heavily, and they sat about listless and sober. All at once France got up and said in his most persuasive way, Look here, boys, let's go into school and do our lessons just as if Uncle was here. It will make the day go faster and would please him, I know. But who will hear us say them, asked Jack? I will. I don't know much more than you do, but I'm the oldest here, and I'll try to fill Uncle's place till he comes, if you don't mind. Something in the modest, serious way France said this, impressed the boys, for though the poor lad's eyes were red with quiet crying for Uncle John, in that long sad night, there was a new manliness about him, as if he had already begun to feel the cares and troubles of life, and tried to take them bravely. I will, for one, an email went to his seat, remembering that obedience to a superior officer is a seaman's first duty. The others followed. France took his Uncle's seat, and for an hour order reigned. Lessons were learned and said, and France made a patient, pleasant teacher, wisely omitting such lessons as he was not equal to, and keeping order more by the unconscious dignity that Sorrow gave him than by any words of his own. The little boys were reading when a step was heard in the hall, and everyone looked up to read the news in Mr. Bear's face as he came in. The kind face told them instantly that Demi had no father now, for it was worn and pale, and full of tender grief, which left no words with which to answer Rob as he ran to him saying reproachfully. What made you go and leave me in the night, Papa? The memory of the other father who had left his children in the night never to return made Mr. Bear hold his own boy close, and for a minute hide his face in Robby's curly hair. Email laid his head down on his arms, France went to put his hand on his Uncle's shoulder, his boyish face pale with sympathy and sorrow, and the others sat so still that the soft rustle of the falling leaves outside was distinctly heard. Rob did not clearly understand what had happened, but he hated to see Papa unhappy, so he lifted up the bent head and said in his chirpy little voice, Don't cry, my invader, we are all so good, we did our lessons without you, and France was the master. Mr. Bear looked up then, tried to smile and said in a grateful tone that made the lads feel like saints. I thank you very much, my boys. It was a beautiful way to help and comfort me. I shall not forget it, I assure you. France proposed it, and was a first-rate master, too, said Nat, and the others gave a murmur of assent most gratifying to the young Domini. Mr. Bear put Rob down, and standing up put his arm round his tall nephew's shoulder, as he said with the look of genuine pleasure. This makes my hard day easier, and gives me confidence in you all. I am needed there in town, and must leave you for some hours. I thought to give you a holiday, or send some of you home, but if you like to stay and go on as you have begun, I shall be glad and proud of my boys. We'll stay, we'd rather. France can see to us, cried several, delighted with the confidence shown in them. Isn't Marmar coming home, asked Rob wistfully? For home without Marmar was the world without the son to him. We shall both come to-night, but dear Aunt Meg needs mother more than you do now, and I know you like to lend her for a little while. Well, I will, but Teddy's been crying for her, and he slapped Mercy, and was dreadful naughty, Aunt Rob, as if the news might bring mother home. Where is my little man, asked Mr. Bear? Dan took him out to keep him quiet. He's all right now, said France, pointing to the window through which they could see Dan, drawing baby in his little wagon, with the dogs frolicking about him. I won't see him, it would only upset him again. But tell Dan I leave Teddy in his care. You older boys I trust to manage yourselves for a day. France will direct you, and Silas is here to oversee matters. So good-bye till to-night. Just tell me a word about Uncle John, said E-mail, detaining Mr. Bear, as he was about hurrying away again. He was only ill a few hours, and died as he lived, so cheerfully, so peacefully, that it seems a sin to mar the beauty of it with any violent or selfish grief. We were in time to say goodbye, and Daisy and Demi were in his arms, as he fell asleep on Aunt Meg's breast. No more now, I cannot bear it. And Mr. Bear went hastily away, quite bowed, with grief. For in John Brook he had lost both friend and brother, and there was no one left to take his place. All that day the house was very still. The small boys played quietly in the nursery, the others, feeling as if Sunday had come in the middle of the week, spent it in walking, sitting in the willow, or among their pets, all talking much of Uncle John, and feeling that something gentle, just and strong, had gone out of their little world, leaving a sense of loss that deepened every hour. At dusk Mr. and Mrs. Bear came home alone, for Demi and Daisy were their mother's best comfort now, and could not leave her. Poor Mrs. Joe seemed quite spent, and evidently needed the same sort of comfort for her first words as she came up the stairs were, Where is my baby? Here I is, answered a little voice, as Dan put Teddy into her arms, adding as she hugged him close. My Danny took care of me all day, and I was good. Mrs. Joe turned to thank the faithful nurse, but Dan was waving off the boys who had gathered in the hall to meet her, and was saying in a low voice, Keep back, she don't want to be bothered with us now. No, don't keep back, I want you all. Come in and see me, my boys, I've neglected you all day. And Mrs. Joe held out her hands to them as they gathered round, and escorted her into her own room, saying little, but expressing much by affectionate looks, and clumsy little efforts to show their sorrow and sympathy. I am so tired, I would lie here and cuddle Teddy, and you shall bring me in some tea, she said, trying to speak cheerfully for their sakes. A general stampede into the dining room followed, and the supper table would have been ravaged if Mr. Bear had not interfered. It was agreed that one squad should carry in the mother's tea, and another bring it out. The four nearest and dearest claimed the first honour, so Frans bore the teapot, e-mailed the bread, robbed the milk, and Teddy insisted on carrying the sugar-basin, which was lighter by several lumps when it arrived than when it started. Some women might have found it annoying at such a time to have boys creaking in and out, upsetting cups, and rattling spoons in violent efforts to be quiet and helpful. But it suited Mrs. Joe, because just then her heart was very tender, and remembering that many of her boys were fatherless or motherless, she yearned over them and found comfort in their blundering affection. It was the sort of food that did her more good than the very thick bread and butter they gave her, and the rough Commodore's broken whisper. Bear up, Auntie, it's a hard blow, but we'll weather it somehow. Cheered her more than the sloppy cup he brought her, full of tea, as bitter as if some salt-tear of his own had dropped into it on the way, when supper was over a second deputation removed the tray. And Dan said, holding out his arms for sleepy little teddy. Let me put him to bed, you're so tired, mother. Will you go with him, lovey, asked Mrs. Joe, a first small lord and master, who lay on her arm among the sofa pillows. Tours, I will, and he was proudly carried off by his faithful bearer. I wish I could do something, said Nat with a sigh, as friends leaned over the sofa and softly stroked Aunt Joe's hot forehead. You can, dear, go and get your violin, and play me the sweet little airs Uncle Teddy sent you last. Music will comfort me better than anything else tonight. Nat flew for his fiddle, and sitting just outside her door, played as he had never done before. For now his heart was in it, and seemed to magnetize his fingers. The other lads sat quietly upon the steps, keeping watch that no newcomers should disturb the house. Friends lingered at his post, and so soothed, served and guarded by her boys, poor Mrs. Joe slept at last, and forgot her sorrow for an hour. Two quiet days, and on the third Mr. Bear came in, just after school, with a note in his hand, looking both moved and pleased. I want to read you something, boys, he said, and as they stood round him he read this. Dear Brother Fritz, I hear that you do not mean to bring your flock to-day, thinking that I may not like it. Please do. The sight of his friends will help Demmy through the hard hour, and I want the boys to hear what Father says of my John. It will do them good, I know. If they would sing one of the sweet old hymns you have taught them so well, I should like it better than any other music, and feel that it was beautifully suited to the occasion. Please ask them with my love, Meg. Will you go? And Mr. Bear looked at the lads who were greatly touched by Mrs. Brooke's kind words and wishes. Yes, they answered, like one boy, and an hour later they went away with friends to bear their part in John Brooke's simple funeral. The little house looked as quiet, sunny, and home-like as when Meg entered it as a bride ten years ago. Only then it was early summer, and rows bloomed everywhere. Now it was early autumn, and dead leaves rustled softly down, leaving the branches bare. The bride was a widow now, but the same beautiful serenity shown in her face, and the sweet resignation of a truly pious soul made her presence a consolation to those who came to comfort her. Oh, Meg, how can you bear it so, whispered Joe, as she met them at the door with a smile of welcome, and no change in her gentle manner except more gentleness. Dear Joe, the love that has blessed me for ten happy years supports me still. It could not die. And John is more my own than ever, whispered Meg. And in her eyes the tender trust was so beautiful, and bright, that Joe believed her, and thanked God for the immortality of love like hers. They were all there, father and mother, Uncle Teddy and Aunt Amy, old Mr. Lawrence, white-haired and feeble now, Mr. and Mrs. Bear with their flock, and many friends, come to do honour to the dead. One would have said that modest John Brooke in his busy, quiet, humble life had had little time to make friends, but now they seemed to start up everywhere, old and young, rich and poor, high and low. For all unconsciously his influence had made itself widely felt, his virtues were remembered, and his hidden charities rose up to bless him. The group about his coffin was a far more eloquent eulogy than any Mr. March could utter. There were the rich men whom he had served faithfully for years, the poor old women whom he cherished with his little store, in memory of his mother, the wife to whom he had given such happiness that death could not mar it utterly, the brothers and sisters in whose hearts he had made a place for ever, the little son and his wife, the son and daughter who already felt the loss of his strong arm and tender voice, the young children sobbing for their kindest playmate and the tall lads watching with softened faces, a scene which they never could forget. A very simple service and very short, for the fatherly voice that had faltered in the marriage sacrament now failed entirely as Mr. March endeavored to pay his tribute of reverence and love to the son whom he most honoured. Nothing but the soft coup of baby Josie's voice upstairs broke the long hush that followed the last amen, till at a sign from Mr. Bear the well-trained, voyaged voices broke out in a hymn so full of lofty cheer that one by one all joined in it singing with full hearts and finding their troubled spirits lifted into peace on the wings of that brave sweet psalm. As Meg listened, she felt that she had done well, for not only did the moment comfort her with the assurance that John's last lullaby was sung by the young voices he loved so well, but in the faces of the boys she saw that they had caught a glimpse of the beauty of virtue in its most impressive form, and that the memory of the good man lying dead before them would live long and helpfully in their remembrance. Daisy's head lay in her lap, and Demi held her hand, looking often at her with eyes so like his father's, and a little gesture that seemed to say, don't be troubled, mother, I am here. And all about her were friends to lean upon and love. So patient, pious Meg put by her heavy grief, feeling that her best help would be to live for others as her John had done. That evening, as the plum-field boys sat on the steps as usual, in the mild September moonlight, they naturally felt a talking of the event of the day. Email began by breaking out in his impetuous way. Uncle Fritz is the wisest, and Uncle Laurie the jolliest, but Uncle John was the best, and I'd rather be like him than any man I ever saw. So would I. Did you hear what those gentlemen said to Grandpa today? I would like to have that said of me when I was dead. And friends felt with regret that he had not appreciated Uncle John enough. What did they say, asked Jack, who had been much impressed by the scenes of the day? Why, one of the partners of Mr. Lawrence, where Uncle John has been ever so long, was saying that he was conscientious almost to a fault as a businessman, and above reproach in all things. Another gentleman said no money could repay the fidelity and honesty with which Uncle John had served him. And then Grandpa told them the best of all. Uncle John once had a place in the office of a man who cheated, and when this man wanted Uncle to help him do it, Uncle wouldn't, though he was offered a big salary. The man was angry and said, You will never get on in business with such strict principles. And Uncle answered back, I never will try to get on without them, and left the place for a much harder and poorer one. Good, cried several of the boys warmly, for they were in the mood to understand and value the little story as never before. He wasn't rich, was he, asked Jack? No. He never did anything to make a stir in the world, did he? No. He was only good? That's all. And Franz found himself wishing that Uncle John had done something to boast of, for it was evident that Jack was disappointed by his replies. Only good. That is all and everything, said Mr. Bear, who had overheard the last few words and guessed what was going on in the minds of the lads. Let me tell you a little about John Brooke, and you will see why men honor him and why he was satisfied to be good, rather than rich or famous. He simply did his duty in all things, and did it so cheerfully, so faithfully, that it kept him patient and brave, and happy through poverty and loneliness and years of hard work. He was a good son, and gave up his own plans to stay and live with his mother while she needed him. He was a good friend, and taught Laurie much beside his Greek and Latin, did it unconsciously perhaps by showing him an example of an upright man. He was a faithful servant, and made himself so valuable to those who employed him that they will find it hard to fill his place. He was a good husband and father, so tender, wise, and thoughtful, that Laurie and I learned much of him, and only knew how well he loved his family when we discovered all he had done for them, unsuspected and unassisted. Mr. Bear stopped a minute, and the boys sat like statues in the moonlight until he went on again in a subdued but earnest voice. As he lay dying, I said to him, Have no care for Meg and the little ones, I will see that they never want. Then he smiled and pressed my hand, and answered in his cheerful way, No need of that, I have cared for them, and so he had. For when we looked among his papers, all was in order, not a debt remained, and safely put away was enough to keep Meg comfortable and independent. Then we knew why he had lived so plainly, denied himself so many pleasures, except that of charity, and worked so hard that I fear he shortened his good life. He never asked help for himself, though often for others, but bore his own burden and worked out his own task bravely and quietly. No one can say a word of complaint against him, so just and generous and kind was he. And now when he is gone, I'll find so much to love and praise and honour that I am proud to have been his friend, and would rather leave my children the legacy he leaves his than the largest fortune ever made. Yes, simple, generous goodness is the best capital to found the business of this life upon. It lasts when fame and money fail, and is the only riches we can take out of this world with us. Remember that, my boys, and if you want to earn respect and confidence and love, follow in the steps of John Brooke. When Demi returned to school after some weeks at home, he seemed to have recovered from his loss with the blessed elasticity of childhood. And so he had in a measure, but he did not forget, for his was a nature into which things sank deeply, to be pondered over and absorbed into the soil where the small virtues were growing fast. He played and studied, worked and sang, just as before, and few suspected any change. But there was one, and Aunt Joe saw it, for she watched over the boy with her whole heart, trying to fill John's place in her poor way. He seldom spoke of his loss, but Aunt Joe often heard a stifled sobbing in the little bed at night, and when she went to comfort him all his cry was, I want my father! Oh, I want my father! For the tie between the two had been a very tender one, and the child's heart bled when it was broken. But time was kind to him, and slowly he came to feel that father was not lost, only invisible for a while, and sure to be found again, well and strong and fond as ever, even though his little son should see the purple asters blossom on his grave many, many times before they met. To this belief Demi held fast, and in it found both help and comfort, because it led him unconsciously through a tender longing for the father whom he had seen, to a childlike trust in the father whom he had not seen. Both were in heaven, and he prayed to both, trying to be good for love of them. The outward change corresponded to the inward. For in those few weeks Demi seemed to have grown tall, and began to drop his childish plays, not as if ashamed of them as some boys do, but as if he had outgrown them, and wanted something manlier. He took to the hated arithmetic and held on so steadily that his uncle was charmed, though he could not understand the whim until Demi said, I am going to be a bookkeeper when I grow up like papa, and I must know about figures and things, else I can't have nice neat ledgers like his. At another time he came to his aunt with a very serious face and said, What can a small boy do to earn money? Why do you ask, my dearie? My father told me to take care of mother and the little girls, and I want to, but I don't know how to begin. He did not mean now, Demi, but buy and buy when you are large. But I wish to begin now if I can, because I think I ought to make some money to buy things for the family. I am ten, and other boys no bigger than I earn pennies sometimes. Well then, suppose you rake up all the dead leaves and cover the strawberry bed. I'll pay you a dollar for the job, said Aunt Joe. Isn't that a great deal? I could do it in one day. You must be fair and not pay me too much, because I want to truly earn it. My little John, I will be fair and not pay a penny too much. Don't work too hard, and when that is done I will have something else for you to do, said Mrs. Joe, much touched by his desire to help, and his sense of justice, so like his scrupulous father. When the leaves were done, many barrow loads of chips were wheeled from the wood to the shed, and another dollar earned. Then Demi helped cover the school books, working in the evenings under Franz's direction, tugging patiently away at each book, letting no one help, and receiving his wages was such satisfaction that the dingy bills became quite glorified in his sight. Now I have a dollar for each of them, and I should like to take my money to mother all myself, so she can see that I have minded my father. So Demi made a dubious pilgrimage to his mother, who received his little earnings as a treasure of great worth, and would have kept it untouched, if Demi had not begged her to buy some useful thing for herself, and the women children, whom he felt were left to his care. This made him very happy, and though he often forgot his responsibilities for a time, the desire to help was still there, strengthening with his years. He always uttered the words, my father was an heir of gentle pride, and often said, as if he claimed a title full of honor, don't call me Demi any more, I am John Brook now. So strengthened by a purpose and a hope, the little lad of ten bravely began the world, and entered into his inheritance the memory of a wise and tender father, the legacy of an honest name. End of chapter 19 Chapter 20 of Little Men 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 Sandra Martin Little Men Life at Plumfield with Joe's Boys by Louisa May Alcott Chapter 20 Round the Fire With the October frost came the cheery fires in the great fireplaces, and Demi's dry pinechips helped Dan's oak knots to blaze royally and go roaring up the chimney with a jolly sound. All were glad to gather round the hearth as the evenings grew longer to play games, read, or lay plans for the winter. But the favorite amusement was storytelling, and Mr. and Mrs. Bear were expected to have a store of lively tales always on hand. Their supply occasionally gave out, and then the boys were thrown upon their own resources, which were not always successful. Ghost parties were the rage at one time, for the fun of the thing consisted in putting out the lights, letting the fire die down, and then sitting in the dark and telling the most awful tales they could invent. As this resulted in scares of all sorts among the boys, Tommy's walking in his sleep on the shed-roof, and a general state of nervousness in the little ones, it was forbidden, and they fell back on more harmless amusements. One evening, when the small boys were snugly tucked in bed, and the older lads were lounging about the school room fire, trying to decide what they should do, Demi suggested a new way of settling the question. Seizing the hearth-brush, he marched up and down the room, saying, Row! Row! Row! And when the boys, laughing and pushing, had got into line, he said, Now! I'll give you two minutes to think of a play. Franz was writing an email reading the life of Lord Nelson, and neither joined the party, but the others thought hard, and when the time was up, were ready to reply. Now Tom and the poker softly wrapped him on the head. Blind man's buff! Jack! Commerce! A good round game, and have sense for the pool. Uncle Forbids are playing for money. Dan, what do you want? Let's have a battle between the Greeks and Romans. Stuffie! Roast apples, pop corn, and crack nuts! Good, good! cried Serval, and when the vote was taken, Stuffie's proposal carried the day. Some went to the cellar for apples, some to the garret for nuts, and others looked up the popper and the corn. Would better ask the girls to come in, hadn't we? said Demi, in a sudden fit of politeness. Daisy pricks chestnuts beautifully, put in Nat, who wanted his little friend to share the fun. Nan pops corn tip-top. We must have her, added Tommy. Bring in your sweethearts, then. We don't mind, said Jack, who laughed at the innocent regard the little people had for one another. You shan't call my sister a sweetheart. It is so silly, cried Demi, in a way that made Jack laugh. She is Nat's darling, isn't she, old chipper? Yes, if Demi don't mind, I can't help being fond of her. She is so good to me, answered Nat with bashful earnestness, for Jack's rough ways disturbed him. Nan is my sweetheart, and I shall marry her in about a year, so don't you get in the way any of you, said Tommy stoutly, for he and Nan had settled their future child fashion, and were to live in the willow, lower down a basket for food, and do other charmingly impossible things. Demi was quenched by the decision of bangs, who took him by the arm and walked him off to get the ladies. Nan and Daisy were sewing with Aunt Joe on certain small garments, for Mrs. Carney's newest baby. Please, ma'am, could you lend us the girls for a little while? We'll be very careful of them, said Tommy, winking one eye to express apples, snapping his fingers to signify popcorn, and gnashing his teeth to convey the idea of nutcracking. The girls understood this pantomime at once, and began to pull off their thimbles before Mrs. Joe could decide whether Tommy was going into convulsions or was brewing some unusual piece of mischief. Demi explained with elaboration, permission was readily granted, and the boys departed with their prize. Don't you speak to Jack, whispered Tommy, as he and Nan promenaded down the hall to get a fork to prick the apples. Why not? He laughs at me, and I don't wish you to have anything to do with him. Shall, if I like, said Nan, promptly resenting this premature assumption of authority on the part of her lord, then I won't have you for my sweetheart. I don't care. Why, Nan, I thought you were fond of me, and Tommy's voice was full of tender reproach. If you mind Jack's laughing, I don't care for you one bit. Then you may take back your old ring, I won't wear it any longer, and Tommy plucked off a horse-hair pledge of affection which Nan had given him in return for one made of a lobster's-feeler. I shall give it to Ned, was her cruel reply, for Ned liked Mrs. Giddy-Gaddy, and had turned her clothespins, boxes, and spools enough to set up housekeeping with. Tommy said, Thundered turtles! As the only vent equal to pin-up anguish of the moment, and dropping Nan's arm retired in high dungeon, leaving her to follow with a fork, a neglect which Naughty Nan punished by proceeding to prick his heart with jealousy as if it were another sort of apple. The hearth was swept, and the rosy bald ones put down to roast. A shovel was heated, and the chestnuts danced merrily upon it while the corn popped wildly in its wire prison. Dan cracked his best walnuts, and everyone chattered and laughed while the rain beat on the windowpane and the wind howled round the house. Why is Billy like this nut? asked Emel, who was frequently inspired with bad conundrums. Because he is cracked, answered Ned. That's not fair. You mustn't make fun of Billy, because he can't hit back. It's mean! cried Dan, smashing a nut wrathfully. To what family of insects does Blake belong? asked peacemaker friends, seeing that Emel looked ashamed and Dan lowering. Nats! answered Jack. Why is Daisy like a bee? cried Nat, who had been wrapped in thought for several minutes. Because she is queen of the hive, said Dan. No. Because she is sweet. Bees are not sweet. Give it up. Because she makes sweet things, is always busy and likes flowers, said Nat, piling up his boyish compliments till Daisy blushed like a rosy clover. Why is Nan like a hornet? demanded Tommy glowering at her and adding, without giving anyone time to answer. Because she isn't sweet, makes a great buzzing about nothing and stings like furry. Tommy's mad and I'm glad, cried Ned, as Nan tossed her head and answered quickly. What thing in the china closet is Tom like? A pepper pot. Answered Ned, giving Nan a nut meat with a tantalizing laugh that made Tommy feel as if he would like to bounce up like a hot chestnut and hit somebody. Seeing that ill humor was getting the better of the small supply of wood in the company, Franz cast himself into the breach again. Let's make a law that the first person who comes into the room shall tell us a story. No matter who it is, he must do it, and it will be fun to see who comes in first. The others agreed and did not have to wait long, for a heavy step soon came clumping through the hall and Silas appeared, bearing an armful of wood. He was greeted by a general shout and stood staring about him with a bewildered grin on his big red face till Franz explained the joke. Show! I can't tell a story, he said, putting down his load and preparing to leave the room. But the boys fell upon him, forced him into a seat, and held him there, laughing and clamoring for their story, till the good-natured giant was overpowered. I don't know, but just one story, and that's about a horse, he said, much flattered by the reception he received. Tell it, tell it, cried the boys. Wall began Silas tipping his chair back against the wall and putting his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. I jamed a cavalry regiment during the war and see a considerable amount of fighting. My worst major was a first-rate animal, and I was fond of him as if he had been a human critter. He weren't handsome, but he was the best-tempered, steadiest, lovin'est brute I ever see. I first battled we went into. He gave me a lesson that I didn't forget in a hurry, and I'll tell you how it was. It ain't no use trying to picture the noise and hurry and general hordeness of battle to you young fellers, for I ain't no words to do it in. But I'm free to confess that I got so sort of confused and upset at the fuss of it that I didn't know what I was about. We was ordered charge and went ahead like good ones, never stopping to pick up them that went down in the scrimmage. I got shot in the arm and was pitched out of the saddle, don't know how, but there I was left behind with two or three others, dead and wounded, for the rest went on, as I say. While I picked myself up and looked round for major, feelin' as if I'd had about enough for that spell, I didn't seem nowhere and was kinda walkin' back to camp when I heard Winnie that sounded natural. Looked round and there was major, stoppin' for me a long way off and lookin' as if he didn't understand why I was lording behind. I whistled, and he trotted up to me as I'd trained him to do. I mounted as well as I could with my left arm bleedin' and was goin' on to camp, for I declare I felt as sick and wimbly as a woman. Folks often do in their fuss battle, but no sir major was the bravest of the two and he wouldn't go, not a peg. He just rared up and danced and snorted, and acted as if the smell of powder on the noise had drove him half-wild. I'd done my best, but he wouldn't give in, so I did. And what do you think that plucky brute done? He will slap round and gallop back like a hurricane, right into the thickest of the scrimmage. Good for him, cried Dan excitedly, while the other boys forgot apples and nuts in their interest. I wish I may die if I weren't ashamed of myself, continued Silas, warming up at the recollection of that day. I was mad as a hornet, and I forgot my wound, and just pitched in, rampagein' round like furry, till there come a shell into the midst of us, and in bustin' knocked a lot of us flat. I didn't know nothin' for a spell, and when I come to, the fight was over just there, and I found myself land by a wall poor major, long side was wounded than I was. My leg was broke, and I had a ball in my shoulder, but he, poor old feller, was all tore in the side with a piece of that blasted shell. Oh Silas, what did you do? cried Dan, pressing close to him with a face full of eager sympathy and interest. I dragged myself nire, and tried to stop the bleedin' with such regs as I could tear off me with one hand, but it warn't no use, and he lay moanin' with hard pain, and lookin' at me with them lovin' eyes of his, till I thought I couldn't bear it. I gave him all the help I could, and when the sun got hotter and hotter, and he began to lap out his tongue, I tried to get to the brook that was a good place away, but I couldn't do it, bein' stiff and faint, so I give it up, and fanned him with my hat. Now you listen to this, and when you hear folks comin' down on the revs, you just remember what one of them did, and give him credit of it. I, poor fellerin' gray, laid not fur off, shot through the lungs, and dying fast. I'd offered him my handkerchief to keep the sun off his face, and he thanked me kindly for, in such times as that, men don't stop to think on which side they belong, but just buckle to, and help one another. When he see me moanin' over major, and tryin' to ease his pain, he looked up with his face all damp, and white was sufferin' and says he, there's water in my canteen, take it, for it can't help me. And he flung it to me. I couldn't have took it if I hadn't had a little brandy in a pocket-flast, and I made him drink it. It done him good, and I felt as much set up as if I had drunk it myself. It's surprising the good such little things do folks sometimes. And Silas paused as if he felt again the comfort of that moment when he and his enemy forgot their feud and helped one another like brothers. Tell about major, cried the boys, impatient for the catastrophe. I poured water over his poor pant-tongue, and if ever a dumb critter looked grateful, he did then. But it weren't of much use for the dreadful wound that kept on tormentin' him, till I couldn't bear it any longer. It was hard, but I'd done it in mercy, and I know he forgave me. What did you do? Asked Emil as Silas stopped abruptly with a loud and a look in his rough face that made Daisy go and stand by him with her little hand on his knee. I shot him. Quite a thrill went through the listeners, as Silas said that, for major seemed a hero in their eyes, and his tragic end roused all their sympathy. Yes, I shot him, and put him out of his misery. I patted him first and said, Goodbye, then I laid his head easy on the grass, give a last look into his loving eyes, and sent a bullet through his head. He hardly stirred, I am so true, but when I seen him quite still, with no more moaning and pain, I was glad. And yet, while I don't know as I need by ashamed on it, I just put my arms around his neck, and boo-hoo'd like a great baby, show. I didn't know I was such a fool, and Silas drew his sleeve across his eyes, as much touched by Daisy's sob, as by the memory of faithful major. No one spoke for a minute, because the boys were as quick to feel the pathos of the little story as tender-hearted Daisy, though they did not show it by crying. I'd like a horse like that, said Dan, half a lot. Did the rebel man die, too? Asked Nan anxiously. Not then. We laid there all day, and at night some of our fellers came to look after the missing ones. They naturally wanted to take me fuss, but I know I could wait. And the rebel had but one chance, maybe, so I made them carry him right off. He had just strength enough to hold out his hand to me, and say, Thank ye, comrade, and then was the last words he spoke for he died an hour after he got to the hospital tent. How glad you must have been that you were kind to him, said Demi, who was deeply impressed by the story. While I did take comfort thinking of it, as I laid there alone for a number of hours with my head on Major's neck, and see the moon come up, I'd like to have buried the poor beast decent, but it weren't possible, so I cut off a bit of his mane, and I've kept it ever since. Want to see it, sissy? Oh, yes, please, answered Daisy, wiping away her tears to look. Silas took out an old wallet, as he called his pocketbook, and produced from an inner fold a bit of brown paper in which was a rough lock of white horse hair. The children looked at it silently as it lay in the broad palm, and no one found anything to ridicule in the love Silas bore as good horse Major. That was a sweet story, and I like it, though it did make me cry. Thank you very much, Si. And Daisy helped him fold and put away his little relic, while Nan stuffed a handful of popcorn into his pocket, and the boys loudly expressed their flattering opinions of his story, filling that there had been two heroes in it. He departed quite overcome by his honors, and the little conspirators tucked the tail over while they waited on their next victim. It was Mrs. Joe who came in to measure Nan for some new pinafore she was making for. They let her get well in, and then pounced upon her, telling her the law and demanding the story. Mrs. Joe was very much amused at the new trap, and consented at once for the sound of happy voices had been coming across the hall so pleasantly that she quite longed to join them, and forget her own anxious thoughts of Sister Meg. Am I the first mouse you have caught you sly pussies in boots? She asked as she was conducted to the big chair supplied with refreshments and surrounded by a flock of merry-face listeners. They told her about Silas and his contribution, and she slapped her forehead into spare, for she was quite at her wits end being called upon so unexpectedly for a brand new tale. What shall I tell about, she said? Boys, was the general answer. Have a party in it, said Daisy. And something good to eat, added Stuffy. That reminds me of a story written years ago by a dear old lady. I used to be very fond of it, and I fancy you will like it, for it has both boys and something good to eat in it. What is it called, asked Demi, the suspected boy. Nat looked up from the nuts he was picking, and Mrs. Joe smiled at him, guessing what was in his mind. Miss Crane kept a school for boys in a quiet little town, and a very good school it was, of the old-fashioned sort. Six boys lived in her house, and four or five more came in from the town. Among those who lived with her was one named Louis White. Louis was not a bad boy, but rather timid, and now, then, he told a lie. One day a neighbor sent Miss Crane a basket of gooseberries. There were not enough to go round, so kind Miss Crane, who liked to please her boys, went to work, and made a dozen nice little gooseberry tarts. I'd like to try gooseberry tarts. I wonder if she made them as I do my raspberry ones, said Daisy, whose interest in cooking had lately revived. Hush, said Nat, tugging a plump popcorn into her mouth to silence her, for he felt a particular interest in this tale, and thought it opened well. When the tarts were done, Miss Crane put them away in the best parlor-closet, and said not a word about them, for she wanted to surprise the boys at tea-time. When the minute came, and all were seated at the table, she went to get her tarts, but came back looking much troubled. For what do you think had happened? Somebody had hooked them, cried Ned. No, there they were, but someone had stolen all of the fruit out of them by lifting up the upper crust, and then putting it down after the gooseberries had been scraped out. What a mean trick! And Nan looked at Tommy as if to imply that he would— When she told the boys her plan, and showed them the poor little patties all robbed of their sweetness, the boys were much grieved and disappointed, and all declared that they knew nothing about the matter. Perhaps the rats did it, said Lewis, who was among the loudest to deny any knowledge of the tarts. No, rats would have nibbled crust and all, and never lifted it up and scooped out the fruit. Hands did that, said Miss Crane, who was more troubled about the lie that someone must have told, than about her lost patties. Well, they had supper and went to bed, but in the night Miss Crane heard someone groaning, and going to see who it was she found Lewis in great pain. He had evidently eaten something that disagreed with them, and was so sick that Miss Crane was alarmed, and was going to send for the doctor when Lewis moaned out. It's the gooseberries I ate them, and I must tell before I die. For the thought of the doctor frightened him. If that is all, I'll give you an emetic, and you will soon get over it, said Miss Crane. So Lewis had a good dose, and by morning was quite comfortable. Oh, don't tell the boys they will laugh at me so, beg the invalid. Kind Miss Crane promised not to. But Sally, the girl, told the story, and poor Lewis had no peace for long time. His mates called him Old Gooseberry, and were never tired of asking him the price of tart. Served him right, said Emo. Badness always gets found out, said Demi Morley. No, it don't. Let her jack who is tending the apples with great devotion so that he might keep his back to the rest and account for his red face. Is that all? asked Dan. No. That is only the first part. The second part is more interesting. Some time after this a peddler came by one day and stopped to show his things to the boys, several of whom bought pocket-combs, juice-harps, and various trifles of that sort. Among the knives was a little white-handled pin-knife that Lewis wanted very much. But he had spent all his pocket money, and no one had any to lend him. He held the knife in his hand, admiring and longing for it, till the man packed up his goods to go. Then he reluctantly laid it down, and the man went on his way. The next day, however, the peddler returned to say that he could not find that very knife, and thought he must have left it at Miss Crane's. It was a very nice one with a pearl handle, and he could not afford to lose it. Everyone looked, and everyone declared they knew nothing about it. This young gentleman had it last and seemed to want it very much. Are you quite sure you put it back? Said the man to Lewis, who was much troubled at the loss, and vowed over and over again that he did return it. His denial seemed to do no good, however, for everyone was sure he had taken it, and after a stormy scene Miss Crane paid for it, and the man went grumbling away. Did Lewis have it? cried Nate, much excited. You will see. Now poor Lewis had another trial to bear, for the boys were constantly saying, lend me your pearl-handled knife, gooseberry, and things of that sort, till Lewis was so unhappy he begged to be sent home. Miss Crane did her best to keep the boys quiet, but it was hard work, for they would tease, and she could not be with them all the time. That was one of the hardest things to teach boys. They won't hit a fellow when he is down, as they say, but they will torment him in little ways, till he would thank them to fight it out all around. I know that, said Dan. Said who I? added Nat softly. Jack said nothing, but he quite agreed. For he knew that the elder boys despised him, and let him alone for that very reason. Do you go on about poor Lewis, Aunt Joe? I don't believe he took the knife, but I want to be sure. Said Daisy in great anxiety. Well, week after week went on, and the matter was not cleared up. The boys avoided Lewis, and he, poor fellow, was almost sick with the trouble he had brought upon himself. He resolved never to tell another lie, and tried so hard that Miss Crane pitied and helped him, and really came at last to believe that he did not take the knife. Two months after the peddler's first visit, he came again, and the first thing he said was, Well, Melm, I found that knife after all. It had slipped behind the lining of my police, and fell out the other day when I was putting in a new stock of goods. I thought I'd call and let you know as you paid for it, and maybe you would like it, so here it is. The boys had all gathered round, and at these words they felt much ashamed, and begged Lewis's pardon so heartily that he could not refuse to give it. Miss Crane presented the knife to him, and he kept it many years to remind him of the fault that had brought him so much trouble. I wonder why it is that things you eat on the sly hurt you, and don't when you eat them at the table, observed stuffy thoughtfully. Perhaps your conscience affects your stomach, said Mrs. Joe, smiling in his speech. He's thinking of the cucumbers, said Ned, and a gale of merriment followed the words for stuffy's last mishap had been a funny one. He ate two large cucumbers in private, felt very ill, and confided his anguish to Ned, imploring him to do something. Ned, good-natured, Lee recommended a mustard plaster and a hot flat iron to the feet. Only in applying these remedies he had reversed the order of things, and put the plaster on the feet, the flat iron on the stomach, and poor stuffy was found in the barn with blistered soles and a scorched jacket. Suppose you tell another story, that was such an interesting one, said Nat, as the laughter subsided. Before Mrs. Joe could refuse these insatiable Oliver twists, Rob walked into the room trailing his little bed cover after him, and wearing an expression of great sweetness, as he said, staring straight to his mother as a sure-haven of refuge. I heard a great noise, and I thought something dreadful might have happened, so I came to see. Did you think I would forget you, naughty boy? Asked his mother, trying to look stern. No, but I thought you'd feel better to see me right here. Responded the insinuating little party. I'd much rather see you in bed, so march straight up again, Robin. Everybody that comes in here has to tell a story, and you can't, so you'd better cut and run, said Emo. Yes, I can. I tell Teddy lots of ones, all about bears and moons, and little flies that say things when they buzz. Protested Rob, bound to stay at any price. Tell one now, then, right away, said Dan, preparing to shoulder and bear him off. Well, I will. Let me think a minute. And Rob climbed into his mother's lap where he was cuddled with remark. It is a family failing this getting out of bed at wrong times. Demi used to do it, and as for me, I was hopping in and out all night long. Meg used to think the house was on fire and send me down to sea, and I used to stay and enjoy myself, as you mean to, my bad son. I think now, observed Rob, quite a diseased and eager to win the entree into this delightful circle. Everyone looked and listened with faces full of suppressed merriment as Rob, perched on his mother's knee and wrapped in the gay coverlet, told the following brief but tragic tale with an earnestness that made it very funny. Once a lady had a million children and one nice little boy. She went upstairs and said, You mustn't go in the yard. But he went and fell into the pump and was drowned dead. Is that all? asked friends, as Rob paused out of breath with his startling beginning. Now there is another piece of it, and Rob knit his downy eyebrows in the effort to involve another inspiration. What did the lady do when he fell into the pump? asked his mother to help him out. Oh, she pumped him up and wrapped him in a newspaper and put him on a shelf to drive her seed. A general explosion of laughter greeted this surprising conclusion, and Mrs. Joe padded the curly head, as she said, solemnly. My son, you inherit your mother's gift of storytelling. Go where glory waits thee. Now I can stay, can't I? Wasn't it a good story? cried Rob, and in high feather it is superb success. You can stay till you've eaten those twelve popcorns, said his mother, expecting to see them vanish at one mouthful. But Rob was a shrewd little man, and got the better of her by eating them one by one, very slowly, and enjoying every minute with all his might. Hadn't you better tell the other story while you wait for him? said Demi, anxious that no time should be lost. I really have nothing but a little tale about a woodbox, said Mrs. Joe, seeing that Rob still had seven corns to eat. Is there a boy in it? It is all boy. Is it true? asked Demi. Every bit of it. Goodie, tell on, please. James Snow and his mother lived in a little house up in New Hampshire. They were poor, and James had to work to help his mother. But he loved books so well he hated work, and just wanted to sit and study all day long. How could he? I hate books, and I like work, said Dan, objecting to James at the very outset. It takes all sorts of people to make a world. Workers and students both are needed, and there is room for all. But I think the workers should study some, and the students should know how to work if necessary. Answered Mrs. Joe looking from Dan to Demi with a significant expression. I'm sure I do work, and Demi showed three small hard spots in his little palm with pride. And I'm sure I study, added Dan, nodding with a groan toward the blackboard full of neat figures. See what James did? He did not mean to be selfish, but his mother was proud of him and let him do as he liked, working by herself that he might have books and time to read them. One autumn James wanted to go to school, and went to the minister to see if he would help him about decent clothes and books. Now the minister had heard the gossip about James' idleness, and was not inclined to do much for him, thinking that a boy who neglected his mother and let her slave for him was not likely to do very well, even at school. But the good man felt more interested when he found how earnest James was, and being rather an odd man, he made this proposal to the boy to try how sincere he was. I will give you closing books on one condition, James. What is that, sir? And the boy brightened up at once. You are to keep your mother's woodbox full all winter long, and do it yourself. If you fail, school stops. James laughed at the queer condition and readily agreed to it, thinking it a very easy one. He began school, and for a time got on capitalally with the woodbox, for it was autumn, and chips and brushwood were plentiful. He ran out morning and evening and got a basket full, or chopped up the cat sticks for the little cooking stove, and as his mother was careful in saving the task was not hard. But in November the frost came, the days were dull and cold, and wood went fast. His mother bottled with her own earnings, but it seemed to melt away and was nearly gone before James remembered that he had to get the next. Mrs. Snow was feeble and lame with rheumatism and unable to work as she had done, so James had to put down the books and see what he could do. It was hard, for he was going on well, and so interested in his lessons that he hated to stop except for food and sleep. But he knew the minister would keep his word, and much against his will James said about earning money in his spare hours, lest the woodbox should get empty. He did all sorts of things, ran errands, took care of a neighbor's cow, helped the old sexton dust and warm the church on Sundays, and in these ways got enough to buy fuel in small quantities. But it was hard work, the days were short, the winter was bitterly cold, and precious time went fast, and the dear books were so fascinating that it was sad to leave them for dull duties that never seemed done. The minister watched him quietly and seeing that he was in earnest helped him without his knowledge. He met him, often driving the wood sleds from the forest where the men were chopping, and as James plotted beside the slow oxen he read or studied anxious to use every minute. The boy is worth helping, this lesson will do him good, and when he has learned it, I will give him an easier one. Said the minister to himself, and on Christmas Eve a splendid load of wood was quietly dropped at the door of the little house with a new saw and a bit of paper saying only, the Lord helps those who help themselves. Poor James expected nothing, but when he woke on that cold Christmas morning he found a pair of warm mittens knit by his mother with her stiff painful fingers. This gift pleased him very much, but her kiss and tender look as she called him her good son was better still. In trying to keep her warm he had warmed his own heart, you see, and in filling the wood box he had also filled those months with duties faithfully done. He began to see this to feel that there was something better than books and to try to learn the lessons God set him as well as those his schoolmaster gave. When he saw the great pile of oak and pine logs at his door and read the little paper he knew who sent it and understood the minister's plan, thanked him for it and fell to work with all his might. Other boys frolic that day, but James sawed wood and I think of all the lads in the town the happiest was the one in the new mittens who whistled like a blackbird as he filled his mother's wood box. That's a first raider, cried Dan, who enjoyed a simple matter-of-face story better than the finest fairytale. I like that fellow after all. I could saw wood for you, Aunt Joe, said Demi, filling as if new means of earning money for his mother was suggested by the story. Tell about a bad boy, I like them best, said Nan. You'd better tell about a naughty cross-patch of a girl, said Tommy whose evening had been spoiled by Nan's unkindness. It made his apple-taste bitter, his popcorn was insipid, his nuts were hard to crack, and the sight of Ned and Nan on one bench made him fill his life a burden. But there were no more stories for Miss Joe, for on looking down at Rob, he was discovered to be fast asleep with his last corn firmly clasped in his chubby hand. Bundling him up in his coverlet, his mother carried him away and tucked him up with no fear of his popping out again. Now let's see who will come next, said Eamol setting the door temptingly ajar. Mary Ann passed first, and he called out to her, but Silas had warned her, and she only laughed and hurried on in spite of their enticements. Presently a door opened, and a strong voice was heard humming in the hall. It's Uncle Fritz all laugh loud, and he was be sure to come in, said Eamol. A wild burst of laughter followed, and in came Uncle Fritz asking, What is the joke, my lads? Caught, caught, you can't go out till you've told a story, cried the boys, slamming the door. So that is the joke then? Well, I have no wish to go. It is so pleasant here, and I pay my forfeit at once, which he did by sitting down and beginning instantly. A long time ago, your grandfather, Demi, went to lecture in a great town, hoping to get some money for a home for little orphans that some good people were getting up. His lecture did well, and he put a considerable sum of money in his pocket, feeling very happy about it. As he was driving in a chase to another town, he came to a lonely bit of road, late in the afternoon, and was just thinking what a good place it was for robbers when he saw a bad-looking man come out of the woods in front of him and go slowly along as if waiting till he came up. The thought of the money-made grandfather rather anxious, and at first he had a mind to turn round and drive away. But the horse was tired, and then he did not like to suspect the man, so he kept on, and when he got near and saw how poor and sick and ragged the stranger looked, his heart reproached him and stopping, he asked in a kind voice, my friend, you look tired, let me give you a lift. The man seemed surprised, hesitated a minute, and then got in. He did not seem inclined to talk, but grandfather kept on in his wife's cheerful way, speaking of what a hard year had been, how much the poor had suffered and how difficult it was to get on sometimes. The man slowly softened a little, and one by the kind chat told his story, how he had been sick, could get no work, had a family of children, and was almost in despair. Grandfather was so full of pity that he forgot his fear, and asking the man his name, said he would try to get him work in the next town, as he had friends there. Wishing to get at pencil and paper to write down the address, grandfather took out his plump pocketbook, and the minute he did so, the man's eye was on it. Then grandfather remembered what was in it, and trembled for his money, but said quietly, yes, I have a little sum here for some poor orphans, I wish it was my own, I would so gladly give you some of it. I am not rich, but I know many of the trails of the poor. This five dollars is mine, and I want to give it to you for your children. The hard, hungry look in the man's eyes changed to a grateful one as he took the small sum, freely given, and left the orphans money in touch. He rode on with grandfather till they approached the town, then he asked to be set down. Grandpa shook hands with him and was about to drive on when the man said, as if something made him. I was desperate when we met, and I meant to rob you, but you were so kind I couldn't do it. God bless you, sir, for keeping me from it. Did grandpa ever see him again? Asked Daisy eagerly. No, but I believed the man found work and did not try robbery any more. That was a curious way to treat him. I had knocked him down, said Dan. Kindness is always better than force. Try it and see, answered Mr. Bayer, rising. Tell another, please, cried Daisy. You must, Aunt Joe did, added Demi. Then I certainly won't, but keep my others for next time. Too many tales are as bad as too many bonbons. I've paid my forfeit and I go. And Mr. Bayer ran for his life with the whole flock in full pursuit. He had the start, however, and escaped safely into a steady, leaving the boys to go rioting back again. They were so stirred up by the race that they could not settle to their former quiet and a lively game of blind man's buff followed in which Tommy showed that he'd taken the moral of the last story to heart. For, when he caught Nanny, whispered in her ear, I'm sorry I called you a cross-patch. Nan was not to be outdone in kindness, so when they played button-button, who's got the button, and it was her turn to go round, she said, Hold fast, all I give you. It was such a friendly smile at Tommy that he was not surprised to find the horse-hair ring in his hand, instead of the button. He only smiled back at her then, but when they were going to bed he offered Nan the best bite of his last apple. She saw the ring on his stumpy little finger, accepted the bite, and peace was declared. Both were ashamed of their temporary coldness, neither was ashamed to say, I was wrong, forgive me. So the childish friendship remained unbroken, and the home in the willow lasted long, a pleasant little castle in the air. End of Chapter 20